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Even if the wound had healed, as IG-11 had said it would, the Mandalorian needed to clean the blood off. It clung to his head—his hair—and his face, along with ash, making him feel grimier than he already does. He can feel it thick as mud.
His armor has seen better days, but they all have. He's left the child upstairs. The little thing is teething at the amulet with gusto. He stands now in the cargo bay, leaning against the ladder, facing a mirror. He had brought it out for this endeavor alone—stars know why he still has a mirror.
Living with a helmet staved off his vanity. The only time he takes off his helmet at all is to eat and even then that is rare. But...things have changed. Though, he supposes that nothing has, not really. He hasn't broken the creed; IG-11 was right when he said that he wasn't a living being. He was just a droid and nothing more. A fair loophole that undermined a custom of a thousand years.
Fair it might've been, but it holds no comfort to him now.
He stares at the mirror for a very long time. The ship could make its jump in the amount of time he stands there, but it doesn't. He's set it long enough to give him a chance to tend to his wounds.
The Mandalorian puts a hand on the rim of his helmet but stops. Looks around. It is a routine he's practiced many times over. When the coast is clear, he lifts the helmet and sets it down on the floor.
He scoffs at the sight of himself. How the hell are you still alive? He almost says out loud.
His face is marred, smeared with ash and blood. He wipes off what he can with the back of his glove. It only makes it worse. He holds back a tired sigh from rising and grabs a cloth. He gets to work. The cloth soon is stained black and red as he cleans his face carefully. He hisses as he brushes a still fresh wound across the bridge of his nose.
Din Djarin pauses and stares at himself. Really stares. He observes the way he's changed from his foundling years. The messy tangle he calls hair, grown out and cut hastily by his own hand when it got too long. A nose that has been broken more than once. A bit of facial hair he's quite proud of. Adds to the ruggedness. More than enough scars to tell a few good tales. It's been a long time—a decade or two—since he's seen himself. What had he looked like when he had no wrinkles under his eyes, when he had been just a little younger than he was now? He'd never know.
This is the way, he reminds himself.
The concussion had left an incessant ringing in his ear, but it now faded to a soft buzz. He touches the back of his neck tenderly and finds a patch of crusted blood. Din pats around until he finds the wound, now a knotted scar, almost as big as a bar of beskar. He cleans the blood from his hair and yearns for a good shower. It takes no longer than a minute and already he feels much lighter.
He wrings the cloth out. He watches the murky water disappear into the drain. Din runs a hand through his hair. It's a sensation that's unfamiliar to him. He recalls the day he became a foundling; his mother and father carding their war-torn and ash covered hands through his hair, how young he had been, because they knew it was a goodbye.
He does it again, just to feel it.
Then, he pulls on his helmet. The world is once again dimmed by the visor. The breath that comes out is modulated. He goes to store the mirror, but he catches the little one behind him in the reflection. He turns and stares down at the creature. It was one thing with the telekinesis, but the sudden appearing and disappearing? Mando isn't sure what that is about.
The child looks back up at him with large marble black eyes, flicking his larger than life ears. The amulet is tucked safely into his wrappings. He coos up at the Mando with his arms raised. Mando had learned this meant the little one wanted to be carried.
Mando stoops down and picks the child up, much to the little one's delight. A giggle bubbles out of the thing. Mando starts to move about the bay, cradling the foundling in his arms, rocking the child side to side. He doesn't know why he knows how to do this. He just feels that it's what he's supposed to do. He startles out of the daze when a tiny hand knocks the back of his helmet. He looks down and sees worry in the bulbous eyes of his foundling.
"I was hurt," he explains, hoping the child can understand. "If you remember. I'm okay. Don't worry about me, young one. I've been through worse."
The little one only tips his head, blinks, then rests against Mando's chestplate. The bounty hunter sighs.
"We're a clan of two now," Mando continues, now facing the ladder. "It'll be you and me until either you come of age or we find this order, what was it called...the Jedi. And I let you go."
He stops pacing at the thought. The child giggles again. What is so funny? Mando shakes his head. The child had caused him so much trouble and yet...he never wanted to let the little one go. As the Armourer had said, they are a clan in and of themselves but it isn't until this moment that Mando realizes the child won't stay with him forever.
That terrifies him, but he doesn't show it. He's good at that sort of thing. He can't go back to the life before the baby, to that life where he played prized piglet bounty hunter for Greef. Where will he be when the child leaves? Old and grizzled, with countless years on his tally or as he is now?
He brushes the top of the child's fuzzy head. He looks up at the bounty hunter. Mando returns to his slow rocking. His worries die down a small bit.
"I can't keep calling you a child forever," Mando hummed. "But I can't think of a name. We don't really...do names in my clan. Unless you have a name."
The child coos. Mando spares him a breath of a laugh. "Is that your name?" He plays along. "Okay. I can roll with that. My name is..."
He hesitates. His name, like his face, isn't usually put on display. Then again, Cara, Greef, and a fleet of Imps already know his name, thanks to Moff's grand gesture.
"My name is Din, little one," he says, the name as fragile as an artifact. "Din Djarin. I don't go by it. I haven't, not in a good long while."
Why is he confessing his life to a child, Mando wonders. But he isn't just a child anymore. Small, but not defenseless. He's seen more than he should for his age. The baby was fifty years old, at least by his kind's calendar. Mando found it funny that the child—his son—was older than him. Why shouldn't he trust the little one? He'd never take off the helmet for him, but a name is just a name. At the end of the day, his own son has to know him by something.
The little one mews and gurgles like a newborn. It'll be a long time yet before he learns to speak. A first word. What will he say? It's a delightful mystery. Mando rubs the rim of the little one's ear. He had learned he liked that when he was watching Greef and Cara say goodbye.
"We'll think of a name for you."
He continues rocking the child, moving about the ship in slow circles. Eventually, the little one is asleep, evident by his snores. It isn't the first time he's seen him asleep, but it brings him a certain feeling of awe now.
It's the amazement that after everything they've been through together—Moff, a kidnapping, his near death experience, to name a few—the little one could rest easy. Not only amazement—hope. That despite his newfound scars, the less than stellar quality of his armor and the ship, the friends he left behind, and the fact that they were playing blind he, too, could find peace one day.
Before the child, it had been day in, day out. Every day was the same. Get up, bounty pucks, collect the coin, repeat. His only family had been the convent but even then he had felt alone in their ranks. The Armourer was the closest thing to a mother he ever had. He never even learned her name. Years of solitude convinced him he needed no one. Mando let himself be needed by others but he never wanted to need anyone.
He doesn't know what that feeling is. But he can describe it.
It's needing Cara to promise to protect the child, no matter what. It had been his dying wish.
It's the thought of leaving his friends—even Greef—behind. Friends. It's nice not to have a knife pressed against his neck by the people around him for once.
It's the need to protect.
...and it feels good.
He puts the child to bed. Tucks him nice and cozy in his wrappings. He takes a seat at the helm and leans back. It'll be a little while yet until they reach deep space. The bright geometry of hyperdrive replaces the stars.
He watches the little one sleep. When he slept, he really did sleep. Mando envied him. The bounty hunter watches the flickering bells and whistles of his ship and forces himself not to drift off.
Just a few hours ago, he had thought he was going to lose not only his life but his family. That it was all going to end. He had been afraid, yes, but serene at the same time. It would be okay. They would escape.
The foundling would be alright. Mando had made his peace with that and was ready to die. But there he is, dead tired and slumped in a less than comfortable chair, thanks to the efforts of the bravest goddamn droid he had ever met.
He takes the moment of respite in gratitude and considers their next move. Whatever happens, Mando swears he will protect the child with his life. He had doubted it when the Armourer deemed him the creature's father, but now the instinct was so strong he knew it couldn't be wrong.
It wouldn't be easy but at least he isn't alone anymore.
Mando breathes a soft sigh. What was just one hour of rest? He leans his head back, puts his hands on his lap, and closes his eyes. The only way you can tell if the Mando is truly asleep is if his shoulders are slumped. They are now, the weight of the world gone.