Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had been 11 and Din had been 7 when they first met (though he hadn’t found that out until months later), that fateful stormy night, years ago on the lost planet Mandalore. Paz had been awoken to the news that his father had returned from his mission and had managed to return with some foundlings, although one seemed more feral than the rest, as he had managed to injure one of the infantry men.

Paz’s imagination had run wild with unbound curiosity. What kind of foundling could injure a Mandalorian? It was unheard of, even if the foundling was of non-human origin. He wanted to go and see what creature had caused such commotion and looked up at his mother, his grey eyes silently pleading with her.

She sighed and Paz was certain that if she were unhelmed, he’d see her rolling her eyes. He did this every time foundlings were found, or his father had been gone for a while. Without word, she wrapped up a loaf of bread and handed it to him.

“The foundlings will be hungry.” She told him and then handed him his own helm. He took both the bread and the helm gratefully, smiling up at her. “Find your father, and don’t be gone for too long.”

“Thank you, Buir.” He replied, putting on his helm and tucking the loaf under his arm.

He wandered down the corridors of the Covert, wondering what kind of species the alien child could possibly be. No infantry man would let himself get bested by a child, unless the child had some kind of venomous skin. He looked around at the adults around him, wondering if they were all born to Mandalore, like him, or if they had been foundlings, and underneath their helms they were different to him. Mandalorians in Creed but different all the same. He had thought about it before, but not often. A Mandalorian was a Mandalorian, their origin was of no difference. He never thought himself better for having been born to Mandalore.  

Head lost in thought, he walked straight first into his father, who was just leaving the barracks that they typically left the foundlings in, when they first arrived at the Covert. They needed to be checked over for injuries or disease; you never could be too sure what they came from and whether they would need to be quarantined before being integrated into society, into clan. They would be healed and looked after. “Foundlings are the future,” he remembered his mother saying, “This is the Way.” He had replied.

His father looked down at him. “Paz, what are you doing here? You should be asleep.” His modulated voice sounded tired, drained almost. Paz wondered if it had been him that had been injured but shook the thought out of his head as soon as it entered. The wounded were in the infirmary and his father was there, in front of him. Safe. He let out a breath he didn’t even know that he had been holding.

“I heard you were back,” he replied and then held up the loaf. “I brought bread for the foundlings, Buir said they might be hungry.”

His father’s body seemed to relax, and Paz was sure that he was smiling under the helm. It wasn’t unusual for Paz to seek out his father, especially when he had been away. His clan was large but there was nothing like the bond of father and son. It also wasn’t unusual for Paz to nosey at the new foundlings, his natural kindness seeking to welcome, his curiosity longing to know more.

“I’m not sure the bread is a good idea, ad’ika,” his father started, Paz felt his face frown.

“Buir, they’re hungry,” he said, as if he could feel it himself. He thought of how he would feel, if he had been on a long journey, with soldiers for company. He felt his own stomach grumble. His father chuckled. “Foundlings are the future.” Paz added, and tried to manoeuvre around his father, like he wasn’t a young trainee, and his father wasn’t mandokar.

His father let him pass and then reached for his shoulder. “One day, ad’ika, you will be a fine verd, but that day is not today. If you go in there, Paz, please be careful, the foundling has already wounded one. I could not bear it if you were injured too.”

Paz gulped and then forced his covered face into a grin. “Buir, I’ll be fine. The foundling will be hungry, that’s all. You probably forgot to feed him.”

His father said no more and turned to walk back to their clan’s quarters. Paz watched him go and then tucked the loaf back under his arm and pushed the door open. He quickly glanced around the room and saw two sleeping foundlings, curled up in a shared cot together. He figured they must have come from the same planet, to allow themselves to be that close. Their faces were peaceful, and he found himself not wishing to wake them as he passed.

His attention was turned to the further end of the room, where two medical Mandolarians were trying to grab the final foundling. He tilted his head in confusion as to why they couldn’t apprehend the foundling before them and walked closer. One of the medical Mandos stepped back just as the foundling swung a blade at him and Paz dodged to avoid being tripped over.

The medical mando looked at him. “Maker, Vizsla! What are you doing here?” He demanded. Paz held up the bread in offering.

“Figured they might be hungry.”

The medical mando sighed. “You need to get out of here, it isn’t safe. This one is wild.” He said as he gestured at the child.

Paz looked at the foundling in question finally and gasped. The child was human, holding a blade as if it were his only lifeline and swinging with reckless abandon, in a warning. The message clear, do not come close.

“Where did he come from?” He asked as he stayed well back and watched the remaining medical mando try for the blade again.

The medical mandos still had beskar armour, but nowhere near as much as infantry, which left many body parts open and vulnerable. Paz realised that they couldn’t just grab the child without fear of being harmed themselves. He thought absently that maybe the blade was laced with poison, but dismissed the notion. This child was no killer. Just frightened.

“Some dead planet now, it was attacked by droids. There was nothing left.”

And then Paz looked at the child, properly looked at him, who when crouched in the corner looked like a feral draagax. The child was panting, and his eyes were wide in fear, tears collecting in the corners of them. Then he looked at the medical mandos, in their helms, with their body in armour and looked at himself, covered head to toe in beskar.

“He thinks we’re droids.” He stated, quietly. It would make sense, the metal and the autonomy of their helms and armour. This child, rescued from his planet as it died, not being able to differentiate friend from foe; to him, they all looked alike, they were all enemies. The medical mandos said hummed in some vague agreement but even if he were right, there would nothing they could do to prove otherwise without breaking the Creed. But there was something Paz could do.

He set the loaf down on the cot next to him and raised his hands to his helm. Slowly, he lifted it off his head and placed it next to the loaf, then he took off his gloves. He pointed to himself, “Friend.”

The child looked at him and held the blade in front of him. Paz could see the dried blood where he must’ve nicked the infantryman. He crouched down, trying to get eye level with the child, who was a few years younger than himself. “Friend.” He repeated as he once again pointed to himself. He crawled slightly closer, and then the child swung quickly again, nicking Paz’s face from ear to chin, and he gasped. Paz’s hand went to his face and felt the warm blood ooze from the wound. His eyes welled with tears and he grimaced to blink them back. The other child dropped the blade, his hands shaking and his brown eyes even wider than before. He held up his shaking hands in defeat.

Paz tried to smile, but the pain made it look like a wince. He held up his hands, mirroring the child in front of him, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re frightened but you’re safe! I promise!” Seeing the child dropping the blade as a sign of calming down. “My name is Paz, what’s yours?”

The brown eyed child just looked at him and blinked, his lips parting but no sound coming out. Paz placed a hand on his chest again, “Friend.” He repeated insistently, trying to get the child to understand. “Friend.”

And with that, the child wrapped his arms around himself, and started to cry. Paz felt his own heart breaking for the strange foundling, but then the medical mando swept the child up in his arms and sedated him. “He needs to be checked over. I’ll take him to the infirmary; you check over the Vizsla kid, that cut looks pretty nasty.”

The medical mando by Paz sighed, and looked at Paz. “You did good kid, but your Buir isn’t going to like that cut on your face. I’ll get some bacta spray,” he stated as he headed for the cupboards. Then he turned and looked at Paz again, curiously this time. “What on earth made you think we look like droids?”

Paz shrugged, it was a leap he knew, Mandalorians were nothing like droids, entirely too human, and too feeling to be anything but organic life but the child hadn’t known that. Probably hadn’t realised they were safe. He was in danger and that was all he knew. “He was scared, and in battle everyone is an enemy until proven otherwise.”

The medical mando nodded and came back with the spray. “Close your eyes, this might sting but should prevent any major scarring.” He ordered. Paz closed his eyes obediently, wincing when he felt the bacta spray land on his skin and instantly relaxing when he felt the cooling sensation against the burning cut.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and opened his eyes. “Will the foundling be okay?”

“He should be, scrappy little thing like that. He’s a fighter.”

Paz hummed his agreement and went to fetch his helm, placing it on his head. Then he picked up the blade the child had been holding and slipped it into his empty sheath. It didn’t fit right but he told himself he was saving it for the foundling. It was his and Paz was looking after it. Then he turned and grabbed the loaf. “Give the foundlings the bread when they awake, please, after all, foundlings are the future.”

“This is the Way.” The medical mando replied, taking the bread off Paz and watching him walk out of the barracks.

Paz walked back to his clan’s quarters, thinking about all that had happened, proud of his quick thinking, especially when the other trainees thought him stupidly because of his taller size. His father, nor mother, he thought would be best pleased about the wound to his face, they would probably think him stupid for removing his helm in the first place. But, he reasoned, he had not yet sworn the creed, so he hadn’t broken any rules. And the poor foundling had seem so defeated, once he saw Paz’s bright red blood. Paz couldn’t be mad.

He opened the doors to his quarters, surprised to find them empty, which was rare in and of itself, normally being a few cousins or aunts or uncles in the living quarters at any one time. He sighed, thinking fondly that he was happy to belong to a clan, to not be a foundling, to not lose everything he had ever known.

Foundling were the future, he repeated to himself as he made his way too his room, but it sure was a sad existence to be rescued from all you had ever known. As Paz once again took off his helm, and stripped of his armour, he thought of the child, the wide brown eyes, terrified and broken. He took the knife out of the sheath and looked at it. He would ask his buir in the morning to take him to the infirmary to return to the foundling. And then he felt his face again and fell asleep wondering if other Mandolarians had scars on their faces, hidden beneath their helms, he wondered if they had, had they broken the Creed or gotten them when they were younglings.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since Din had arrived at the Covert, weeks since he had injured the solider, weeks since he met Paz. Weeks since he last spoke. He’d been released from the infirmary after a few days, they deemed that he was fit and healthy, with no disease or visable injuries. It’s a shame they couldn’t see the damage done to his heart, he thought.

Paz had called him friend, had visited him the very next day and returned his knife, with a sheath that definitely wasn’t his. He blinked at the knife and then at Paz. He didn’t know how to put into words the relief at having his father’s knife back in his hands. He held it tightly, keeping it sheathed, not missing the older Mandalorian beside Paz stiffen as he’d been looking between the knife and Paz. As if he would attack again. As if he was feral.

Maybe he was.

But that had been weeks ago. He was in training now, learning to fight, learning to survive. The teacher said they were fighters, would be warriors. Foundlings were the future. Din felt futureless. He was a survivor by all meanings, but he was lost and empty. Going through the motions for the people who had deemed him worthy to live. Going for the motions for Paz, who had called himself a friend.

For Paz, who, whenever he had visited him in the first few weeks, made sure to visit gloveless and helmless. A reminder that he was human too. Showing that he was a friend and not an enemy. Din appreciated it. The gesture grounded him, helped ease the anxiety he felt was drowning him.

Paz talked. Din always listened and tried to reply, honest to the Maker, he tried to talk back. But he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form in his throat, wouldn’t make it past his lips if they did. If Paz noticed, he never mentioned it to him, just mused out loud maybe his vocal cords had been injured in the attack to his home plant. Din couldn’t even tell him how wrong he was, it wasn’t his vocal cords damaged, just his heart.

He watched how animated Paz was, admiring him for the effortless way he told stories of his clan. Told him stories of Mandalore, his new home Paz had told him proudly. Din felt his face slip into a sneer. This was not his home: his home had burned. And then Din felt the pang of guilt, that while this wasn’t his home, these people had saved him, fed him and tended to him. It wasn’t home, but it was all he had now. And as much as he wanted to hate Paz, hate this planet and his people for taking him away from his parents, from his dying planet - he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

So he hated himself for it instead.

He dedicated himself to the training, hoping that it helped ease the anger that had tucked itself away in his heart. Hoped that one day he would break something or to be broken himself. The training instructor praised him warmly when he showed progress. It did nothing to help the anger, did nothing to ease the anxiety that he didn’t belong here. Because he didn’t belong here, he belonged on the dying planet, dying with his parents, why was he allowed to live when they weren’t? Why hadn’t these people arrived moments earlier, to save them as well? Why was it just him?

He went through the motions of the drill the instructor had given, lashing out at the practice dummy, as if that were the being that held all the answers and refused to give them. And then he pulled out his knife, his father’s knife and started stabbing it, like he was back in the barracks all those weeks ago, angry and feral. Because that was who he was wasn’t it? A feral foundling with no home, no family and at this point, no name.

The instructor noticed his distress, and pulled him away from the dummy, somehow managing to not get nicked with the blade he was still swinging. He hadn’t noticed when he’d started screaming but he had. Paz was beside his side moments later, gloves and helm off, a concerned look on his face and Din swore to himself that if Paz said anything, he’d slash the other side of his face. Paz just held his hands up, in surrender as though he knew that an attack was imminent. The other trainees stared on in curiosity or horror. Din didn’t care.

He stopped swinging the knife and stopped screaming.

“Go and cool off, Foundling.” It was an order. Din wanted to protest, he was fine and could continue but he knew from the tone there was no use arguing. He shrugged the hand off his shoulder and put the knife back in the sheath. He headed back to his new quarters, another barracks for orphans or unwanted foundlings, he supposed. He didn’t care.

Paz followed behind him, like he always did in instances like this. He didn’t speak, just followed, as if he were just walking him home after class, as if Din hadn’t just tried to murder a lifeless dummy. Din sighed, resigned to Paz’s presence.

He sat down on his cot and threw his helm across the room, he took the knife out of the sheath and placed it beside his cot, on the small table for his personal belongings. The knife was his only possession. He didn’t care. He sat at the edge of the cot silently, hands between his knees.

“Draagax,” Paz whispered, a pet name that had stuck somewhere along the way, when Din had refused to give up his name, “Are you alright?”

Din frowned and stared at Paz. No, he wasn’t okay, but he was alive, and he was here, and they called him a survivor and apparently that was enough for them. He looked down from Paz’s gaze and looked down at his trembling hands. No, he wasn’t alright, he hadn’t been since the droids landed, and he had been chosen to survive while his parents had been doomed to die. But how to say the words when they died before they were even formed, before they could ever be spoken.

He shook his head.

“You put on quite the display, verd.” Paz said quiety, placing his helm and gloves on an empty cot. He then stalked down the room until he found Din’s helmet, picked up and and gave it a quick wipe with his undershirt and placed it beside the knife on Din’s cot.

Din shrugged helplessly. The anger resided back in his heart once again and he was left with the overwhelming sadness and anxiety he had had since he arrived on this planet.

“You’ll make a great Mandalorian, you know, with the way you fight; I’ve never seen a foundling like you.”

Din didn’t know what to say, wouldn’t know what to say. He assumed it was a compliment, to be Mandalorian, to become one of them but he didn’t belong here, he was not one of them. They called him foundling with an awe of reverence but all he heard was everything that had been lost to him. He was no Mandalorian. He was Din. He was lost.

“You’re a bit wild, aren’t you Draagax?” Paz continued, Din’s silence not deterring him from his mission. Din huddled further up the cot, further away from Paz and his calm words, this praise, whatever it was. He wrapped his arms around himself. Paz looked up at him.

“I don’t know what happened to you before you got here, but you know that you’re safe now don’t you? We’re friends, we aren’t going to hurt you,” He whispered, reaching out for the smaller boy on the bed. “I’m your friend.”

Din should hate Paz, he reminded himself.

“My name is Din.” He whispered, or croaked out, his voice harsh with misuse. Paz dropped his hand and looked up at him. His grey eyes wide in shock.

“You…you spoke to me!” He all but shouted to the empty room. “You said words! And all this time I thought your cords were busted!” Paz’s excitement was evident, his features animated with a pure, wholesome joy. Din couldn’t bring himself to share in the celebrations, he just nodded. “Oh Maker! They aren’t going to believe me! They all think that you’re a mute!” His laugh was booming.

Paz kept on talking, but soon realised that just because Din had spoken the once, that he was ready to continue the conversation. But Paz was used to that and filled in the silence once again with tales of Mandalore, trying to teach Din some basic Mando’a and left shortly after. His excitement never dying down but occasionally giving Din a sad look. Din couldn’t interpret it.

“See you later, Din!” He had called as he left, trying out the name on his tongue for the first time. Din had smiled weakly at the retreating form.

Din couldn’t hate Paz, but it was okay, he could hate himself instead. He was okay with that.

Chapter Text

When Paz was 13, and Din 9, Paz had begun to decipher the mystery foundling. He found himself being able to understand the youngling without Din ever really needing to speak, even though he was talking more these days. He had come a long way from a frightened foundling into a frightening fighter. 

Shortly after Din’s 8th birth year, from what Paz had been able to understand, he had been taken in by the Covert’s beroya but not adopted into his clan. By Paz’s understanding in his younger years, Din should have been adopted, he deserved to be adopted but Din said relatively little on the subject and Paz knew better than to press the subject. If the beroya was feeding him and training him, and just keeping him alive, it was good enough for Paz. 

Suddenly, Paz was flat on his back and winded. Din stood over him, with a hand on his hip and what Paz was certain would be an eye roll under his helm. He grinned from his position on the floor. Din was fierce and frightening, but underneath it all, Paz never forgot that he could be positively feral, taking advantage of an opponent’s hesitation and distraction. And Paz had not being paying attention to their spar. 

“Di’kut.” Din growled as he held his hand out to offer Paz assistance. He could feel Din’s eyes rolling at him from under the helm. Under his own he grinned, grabbed Don’s hand and wrist and pulled him down the ground with him. 

Din growled as he landed on top of Paz and his fingers ghosted over his knife. Paz laughed. “Now who’s the idiot?” 

Din punched the side of his helm angrily. Paz covered his face and rolled, still laughing all the while. “You’re an excellent fighter, Draagax, but you’re still a youngling.” 

Din rolled further out of Paz’s reach, but Paz reached out and grabbed his wrist. He flinched in pain and stopped moving. Paz was still laughing, not noticing the wince or how Din had stilled himself.

“Calm down, Maker!” He gasped as he caught his breath. “We’re sparring! I’m not trying to kill you! I’m your friend.” 

Din forced his body to relax, forced his fingers to move away from the knife strapped to his thigh. Paz was a friend, they were sparring, he was safe. He let out a deep breath as Paz let go of his wrist and took off his helm.

“N'eparavu takisit.” Din forced himself to say. He turned his head away from Paz and took off his own helm. He didn’t even need to turn to see that Paz would be smiling at him. Paz considered this progress, Din knew, once Din had taken to regularly wearing his helm as if he had already sworn the Creed. As if he was a Mandalorian and not a coward who used the helm to hide.  

Paz was fond of Din’s grasp of Mando’a and how fluently he could speak it after a year, even with his selective mutism. He rarely spoke around the beroya, Paz knew, not that the bounty hunter minded. “You’re really good at speaking Mando’a,” he praised, while he smiled, grey eyes crinkling at the corners. Din rolled his eyes again, pulling his body out of Paz’s reach and setting down his helmet. 

“It isn’t a hard language to speak.” 

“Buir says that it easier to pick up languages while you’re young.” Paz said matter of factly. Din shrugged, and Paz watched him as he went through his grounding exercises the Armourer had given him after he broke a trainee’s nose and another trainee’s collar bone while they were sparring. 

He took off his glove and held his hand out to his friend. Din touched it lightly and nodded. “I’m okay, Paz, I’m calm.” 

Paz sighed and leaned back on his hands, sitting in a comfortable silence, letting Din ground himself, calm his body before he continued to talk. Many people thought Paz stupid, that because his body was big, tall and muscular, even for his young age, his brain must be small, and he must be slow to compensate for his brute strength. But it hadn’t taken him long to realise how important this grounding was to Din; all it took was a couple of times of having Din’s knife held to his throat after a spar and seeing the pure panic and anger in Din’s eyes.

He waited a few moments more before he looked over at Din. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had seemed to calm down, his knife still in the sheath strapped to his thigh. He smiled. “Your buir has been teaching you some new moves.” He said kindly, going through their spar in his mind.

Din growled. “He is not my buir.” He spat at Paz as if the very notion were an insult to him. Paz sighed, they had had this conversation often in the year since Din had been taken in. Unlike the other foundlings, who integrated into society easily and accepted their clans, Din outright refused to let go of his past.

“He’s taken you in, Draagax, that means he’s your buir.” He told him simply, as he had many times over the last year. Din’s shoulders stiffened, he knew that Paz was right, by Mandalorian culture, the beroya was his parents now.

Din sighed, he didn’t know why he had such a hard time accepting that this was his life now, he had someone to fend for him, to provide for him. He had Paz as his friend. The beroya certainly valued him, taught him new fighting skills and promised to take him along on some of his bounties soon, praised him when he caught wind that he was doing well in his classes, but he wasn’t his father.

“Yes, he’s taught me some new things. Says he wants to take me on one of his bounties soon.” Din replied after a few silent minutes, avoiding the argument that normally spawned when he rejected this aspect of Mandalorian culture. It wasn’t worth the bother anymore. He was resigned to this fate.

Paz smiled at him again. Din just looked back at him blankly. “You’re doing good, Din.” He said simply, trying to convey that he was doing good, his grounding exercises were working, he was calming down quicker after sparring, he was being looked after and he was excelling in his training. They didn’t see each other much during training these days, with Paz being enrolled early into military battle tactics and Din being taken under the wing of bounty hunting.

“Yeah, I guess.” Din replied, his voice once again sounding far off and distant. Paz scooted closer to him and placed his hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I mean it, Din.”

Din looked up at him and nodded, trying to smile weakly. “I know you do.” And he did, in his way, knew that where he was all sharp edges and anger, Paz was soft words and kindness; Paz wouldn’t say something if he didn’t mean it. Din was the type to lash out, where Paz would calmly wait. They couldn’t be more different.

Paz stood up, reaching his hand out for Din. “Come on, burc’ya. Your buir will kill me if I keep you out too late and mine most certainly won’t be happy if I miss dinner.”

Din pulled himself up with Paz’s hand but rolled his eyes as he did so. They picked up their helms, Din placing his over his head, slowly retreating back into his personal sanctuary and Paz tucking his comfortably under his arm. “I’ll walk you home.” He promised as he wrapped his free arm around Din’s slimmer shoulders. Din let the arm rest there for a moment before shrugging it off.

The rest of the walk was unremarkable, Paz filling the silence with a story about something that had happened in training and Din remaining silent until they reached his quarters. They stopped outside and stood facing each other, silence drawing around them. Slowly, Paz brought their foreheads together, “Goodnight Din.” He whispered and then turned around and started his way back to his own quarters, leaving Din blushing slightly in the darkness.