Chapter Text
Afternoon found the three of them marching back into the lobby of the Guild Outpost, slightly grungier than when they left. The bouncer raised an eyebrow at the dust touching their clothes; Din ignored him, simply flashing one of the temporary badges Adan had issued them yesterday without breaking stride. Migs, ever cheeky, flashed his own temporary badge and a lothcat that got the canary grin.
Din marched up to the terminal in the corner, typing in his Guild code and beginning to browse through the list of bounties available. A mild bonus to being closer to the Core and working out of a more wealthy Outpost like this; while it was less anonymous, unlike in the Rim, it was far more common to have bounty terminals like this to distribute jobs rather than a Senior Agent or Guildmaster sitting around in a third party venue handing out jobs manually. In a scummy backwater bar, such terminals were liable to get trashed or hacked; here, in safe, purpose-built Outposts, Guildmasters had better things to do than sit around sipping watered down drinks and play favorites or try to swindle their beroya’se to make their bottom line reports look better to the Guild.
Buir had never quite been able to trust the Guild would remain neutral, so had never been able to trust he wouldn’t one day be turned in to the Empire if he had his buy’ce caught on the camera in one of the terminals. So in the Rim they had stayed, dealing with people like Greef Karga. People who might not exactly be trustworthy, but were considered unreliable in just the right kind of way to give a little bit of comfort for those trying to stay hidden. Din took a moment to be thankful he didn’t have the Empire as a problem anymore.
Migs looked over his shoulder, examining the options with him. Din couldn’t feel his body heat through his beskar or anything like that, but it was distracting anyway.
Abruptly, Migs’ arm came up, hand pointing at a text box. “What about that one?”
Din examined the job details, noting with interest the number of zeros. A pair of photos, cropped to the head and shoulders, showed a dark purple male Twi’lek and a brunette human woman, Izzak Solensan and Katty Asimov, wanted by the Hutt Crime Syndicate for... murder and grand theft of Red Eye. And a lot of it; that explained the zeros. Lead was nice and out of the way.
Din nodded. “Looks good.” He hit the buttons to accept the job, a tracking fob fell out of a chute for him to collect, and they were heading to the hangar where the Mudhorn awaited.
The fob led them to a dusty, sparsely settled planetoid, barely a pit stop on the hyperlane. A casual inquiry around led them to a bar on the outskirts of a settlement called New Tijjian, but on the threshold it became obvious they were one step behind their quarry.
Migs whistled lowly, stepping inside and surveying the damage more closely. The entire bar was wrecked, furniture and windows broken, shattered glassware scattered on the floor, blastershots scarring the walls and multiple dead bodies strewn about the room. “These two are not worried at all about laying low, huh?” He sat at the ruined bar, reaching over the splintered wood to grab one of the few intact bottles left in the establishment from under the bar and inspect the label. Apparently not quite liking what he read, he gave the bottle a cautious, testing sip, then shrugged and took a deeper drink.
Grogu made a little noise, reaching up from under the flap of his birikad. “Don’t even think about it,” Migs growled warningly, his grip tightening on the bottle.
Big brown eyes turned to Din, who shrugged. “Kaysh serim.” He did offer Grogu a piece of dried jerky, a small treat, from his belt pouch instead though, his ad’ika taking the compromise with a grumble and disappearing into his birikad again with his spoils.
“You’re gonna spoil him,” Migs chuckled, tone making it clear he didn’t really disapprove. Din shrugged and Migs rolled his eyes and returned to the task at hand. “So, what’s the game plan? Any ideas?”
Din hummed thoughtfully to give himself time to reply, inspecting the damage and bodies a bit more closely. His head tilted as he studied the wounds on what may have once been the bartender of the establishment. “We should ask around some more.”
“That didn’t exactly pan out well before, Mando.”
Din stood to his full height again, compulsively checking his weapons as he answered. “We weren’t asking the right questions before. Don’t bother with the holos anymore; ask if anyone’s noticed some new drifters in town tweaked out on Red Eye.”
Migs swore. “ Please tell me you don’t think they’re using that sh*t?”
Din nodded towards the bodies. “These people were defending themselves with blasters but died from hand-to-hand wounds. That one has his head turned around.” Migs made a vaguely disgusted ‘yeesh’ sound. “Red Eye can easily give anyone the ability and recklessness to do something like this.”
Migs sighed wearily, setting down the bottle. “When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Oh!”
“Oof!”
Migs automatically reached out to steady the short, pretty, pregnant brunette woman he had run into turning the corner, her hands grabbing onto his forearms in return at the cost of dropping her tote of what looked like a variety of snacks from the venmat just down the hall. Disarmingly doe-like violet eyes blinked up at him when she regained her footing, and Migs pasted on his best charming goof half-smile for Katty Asimov.
“My bad, I’m sorry Mix! Are you ok?”
Grogu popped out of his carrier right on cue with a curious coo, making Katty blink then smile wistfully. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Here let me help you-”
“Oh I’m fine, really-”
They easily exchanged the usual half-hearted rebuffs and polite pleasantries such an accidental encounter usually prompted as they both ignored the other and knelt to the ground, picking up scattered individual serving packages and dumping them back into the tote.
Katty frowned, looking around. “That’s funny, I could have sworn-” her eyes locked onto a space next to Migs, cutting herself off, and Migs looked. Grogu blinked up at both of them, casually chewing on an opened snack bread.
“Oh for the love of- I can pay for that,” Migs sighed with a sheepish wince, rubbing the back of his head.
Katty smiled and shook her head no, that touch of wistfulness still about her eyes. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. They’re cute, how old are they?”
“Old enough to know better,” Migs laughed, scooping Grogu up as he stood and tucking him back into the carrier. Kiddo secured, he turned and offered Katty a hand up that she took. Once she was steady on her feet, he reached for the bag. “Here, let me take that at least.”
“If you insist,” she shrugged, releasing the tote with the ease of someone used to having help offered without strings and accepting that help. “Who’s the little one?”
“My nephew,” Migs easily lied, keeping up his affable goof facade. “Took him off my stepbrother’s hands for the weekend, give him and the wife a night alone so they can make the next one, you know?” She laughed softly, and Migs smiled a little wider. Operation Little Green Guy was working like a charm. “If I may ask, how far along are you?”
The wistfulness in her eyes took on a bitter tinge, but she lightly stroked her distended belly as they walked. “It won’t be long now.”
“That’s a bit vague.”
She shrugged. “Hybrids, you know. Makes everything a guessing game.”
Migs nodded. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She paused in front of a door. “This is me,” she announced as she unlocked it, turning to take the bag from Migs.
From the depths of the hotel room came a harsh male voice. “Kat? That you? Is someone with you?!”
Smile disappearing, Katty snatched the bag from Migs and shut the door with a hurriedly muttered “Thanks” and final glance at Grogu.
Migs shrugged and continued on his way, whistling.
“Do you think she noticed the tracker?” Din’s voice asked in his ear.
Migs scoffed. “Between Green Bean’s moon eyes and Messer Aggro? Not a chance.”
No, that little tracker he had subtly dropped into her pocket when they collided would be just fine. Now to set the rest of the trap.
The small, unexpectedly stylish two-seater ship settled into a self-serve refueling bay, Katty Asimov carefully climbing out and beginning to refuel.
“Hey, stranger.”
She looked up, surprised, but relaxing into a small smile as she recognized Migs leaning against the side of the Mudhorn, a refueling hose plugged in beside him. “Oh, hello again.” She looked around. “Where’s your nephew?”
Migs jerked a thumb back at the Mudhorn’s ramp. “Inside. It’s naptime.”
She slumped infinitesimally, disappointed, but kept her smile, leaning back against her ship in an echo of Migs’ pose. “Oh. Fancy meeting you again so soon.”
Migs laughed lightly. “Yeah, crazy.” He looked around, feigning awkwardness, before tossing out, “You live here? Or just passing through?”
“Passing through,” she shrugged. “My boyfriend has business here.”
“Ohhh. Where to after business is done?” Migs asked, co*cking his head curiously to the side.
Her smile turned tender and wistful, hands coming up to rest on her distended belly, stroking. “Then it’s on to Marro. To settle. Raise our baby.”
A pang shot though his belly. Marro. Baston had- And Jules-
“Marro, huh?” Migs hummed, nodding, like he wasn’t shoving the pang into a pit. He had to stay focused. “I’ve been to that neck of the woods before. It’s nice. Spendy, but nice. Good place to raise a family.”
She nodded in agreement. “That’s what I’ve heard. Never been there before, but I’ve always wanted to go. After our business is done, we’ll have plenty of money to go there.”
“Right, after you sell all the Red Eye.”
Katty froze, the young woman's face paling from a warm cinnamon to pale fawn in a moment. For a second, all was still.
Abruptly, her gaze, hard and sharp as an amethyst now, speared in Migs’ direction, one hand cradling and body curling protectively around her gravid belly. The other hand went to her coat pocket, pulling out a blaster and leveling it directly at Migs' face.
“You're a bounty hunter,” she spat.
Migs' own smile dissipated. “Got it in one. You going to come quietly or try something?”
Katty opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a sound out, something over Migs' shoulder caught her eye, and her eyes went wide.
Hands, big and hard, closed around Migs' neck and clamped down brutally. Immediately, Migs gagged. He swung an elbow backwards, connecting with a stomach, and scrabbled at the hard fingers, but it did nothing.
“Izzak that's enough! Stop it!-” Katty cried out, panic beginning to creep into her big violet eyes as Migs' vision began to swim-
PEW PEW PEW
“This is a fun change of pace, eh Mando?”
Din snorted softly, but didn’t pause in carefully scanning the entire refueling center for any sign of either of their bounties as he answered. “Yes, for once I’m not the one putting in all the work.”
“Piss off,” Migs laughed, taking the joke as it was intended. “I’ll have you know that goblin of yours is a full time job.”
“He is a Mando’ad,” Din agreed, ruefully proud.
“You must have been a hellion yourself, eh Mando?”
“No more than average,” he hummed. A movement alert on his HUD interrupted the flow of conversation, making Din shift into Beroya. “Heads up, someone incoming.”
Below, to all appearances only casually refueling the Mudhorn, Migs glanced at the sky then went back to scuffing his boot on the duracrete. “I think that’s the ship.”
“Lek,” Din grunted, lifting up his blaster rifle and loosely training the sights on the refueling space next to Migs. The ship landed, and Din swung the sights to train on it; Katty Asimov stepped out, as expected. But where was Solensan? No matter, probably hiding out in their hotel room still. Migs would extract the information from Asimov when she was subdued.
Asimov and Migs talked for a minute or so, mindless pleasantries, Din keeping his rifle trained on Asimov. When Migs revealed himself and Katty pulled the blaster, Din flicked the safety off.
A choking noise in his ear made Din rapidly refocus on Migs. Solensan was behind Migs, hands wrapped around his throat, holding completely steady even as Migs thrashed, eyes and grin huge with maniacal glee. Obviously hopped up, probably unaware of anything but the effects of the drugs in his veins and what he meant to do.
Din barely took the time to process what he was seeing before he aimed. Two bolts to the chest, one to the head. He waited half a beat, then sent a fourth just in front of the stunned Asimov’s face.
Din kept his rifle trained on her, so couldn't see Migs, but he could hear him breathing again, fast and ragged.
“You ok?” Din asked.
“Peachy,” Migs croaked under his breath.
“Tell her to surrender or I'm putting a bolt in her head too.”
Migs coughed and hacked, getting his voice back somewhat before relaying the message. “Alright, fun’s over. Put the blaster down or my partner sends you to wherever your boyfriend just went.”
In the sights, Din watched her arm slowly drift down. Her mouth moved, and Migs hacked a cackle.
“Lady, we know you're not pregnant. You don't move right at all. My partner thinks you've got some kinda holdout in there, but I'm pretty sure it's just a disguise.”
Her head hung, and mouth moved again.
This time, Migs’ tone was more regretful. “Nope.”
Fast, too fast, her hand holding the blaster moved. Migs cried out in his ear. Din pulled his trigger.
And missed.
Din watched his bolt once again fly past her face, as her head rocked backwards from her own blaster bolt aimed at the roof of her mouth. Her body, lifeless before it even fell, collapsed backwards to slump against her ship, curled around her bulging belly.
Din carefully scanned the area, verifying their two bounties were dead and no backup was incoming, before quickly slinging his rifle over his shoulder and heading down the nearby flight of stairs that lead into the refueling station.
As he approached, Din took in the scene. The calm after the commotion had drawn Grogu from inside the ship to the top of the ramp, peering curiously out with frog doll in hand, but unable to see anything from the bay door. “Ne’nari,” Din shortly instructed him without breaking his stride, rounding the ramp a moment later.
Migs had moved from where he had fallen after Solensan dropped him, now crouched beside the body of Asimov, back to Din. Concerned, Din moved to his partner’s side and crouched beside him, examining Migs’ neck. Handprints were dark against pale skin, but his breathing appeared unimpeded. Unthinkingly, Din reached out to gently probe the bruise.
Migs flinched hard when Din made contact, nearly throwing a fist back, making the Mandalorian retract his hand quickly with a soft, “Sorry.”
Migs relaxed as he registered Din’s presence, blinking and shaking his head slightly, refocusing. “Sorry, sorry. You’re fine. I’m fine, a little rub I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” His voice was still croaking, but other than that his voice sounded normal enough, if unsettled. Shrugging whatever unease had settled over him away, Migs stood with a disgruntled frown at Asimov’s corpse. “Not sure how we’re gonna find those drugs now.”
“They’re probably in the hotel room,” Din offered, rising with him. “The drugs being recovered was only 15% of the bounty anyway. Let’s get the corpses on board and into the freezer.”
Migs nodded and grabbed one of Asimov's arms, Din taking the other, and the two of them began to drag her to the Mudhorn. As her lifeless body shifted, her belly dragged against the ground, and both men froze at a ripping noise.
Migs frowned and dropped the arm he held, dropping down to a crouch and investigating.
“We were right, she's wearing a fake. The straps holding it on just ripped,” he reported dispassionately. “Lemme just grab it... huh?” He stood again, now holding a fake belly and frowning at it as his fingers explored a seam in the side of it.
Din frowned. “It has a compartment?”
Migs nodded as he opened it. “Looks like you were right, she had a hold... out...” Migs trailed off as he stuck his hand inside. His brow furrowed in confusion, then eyes went wide in surprise, and he withdrew his hand to show a slender vial.
The Red Eye.
“Is all of it there?” Din asked, leaning forward to look closer. “Clever.”
Migs stared at the vial for an uncomfortably long moment, eyes unfocused.
Cautiously, Din called, “Migs?”
Migs just started to laugh.
It wasn’t necessary to freeze the bodies, but not wanting to have to smell them, Din did anyway. Normally this was a task he shared with Migs, but after he found the drugs, the sniper had become useless. At first he had laughed, hysterical and humorless, the sound making Din’s blood run cold. After the laughter stopped, he shifted into staring blankly ahead, stumbling to sit on the Mudhorn’s ramp. Concerned enough to ignore Din’s previous command, Grogu had toddled down the ramp, big eyes teary as he crawled into Migs’ lap, cuddling into his midsection. Migs barely seemed to register him, absently patting Grogu’s back through his poncho.
Recognizing a man that was in no state to help, Din finished the task of loading their bounties alone, then carefully collected his ad and partner. While he was still disturbingly blank, Migs was at least responsive to commands, standing and shuffling into the ship when Din told him to. He also strapped himself into the co*ckpit without having to be told, which was reassuring, but once he was strapped in he went still and silent again, staring blankly out of the viewport.
Din got them into space, but settled into orbit around an asteroid on the outskirts of the system rather than hopping into the hyperlane.
There would be time and plenty to get the bounties to the Guild. Neither were going anywhere. First, he needed to tend to his partner.
He released Grogu from his restraints, his ad’ika scrambling down from the chair and making a direct flight path for Migs, clambering up into his lap again with an inquisitive, concerned coo, standing up on Migs’ thighs and staring up into his face. Migs absently put his arms around Grogu, hugging him to his chest, chin resting on top of Grogu’s little head. Grogu snuggled obligingly into his neck in return.
Cautiously, Din crouched beside Migs, noting carefully his partner’s expression and body language- or lack thereof. There was none of the former Imperial’s usual relaxed yet twitchy air, silence where usually there was noise, stillness instead of movement. Closer to dead than alive.
Din had seen similar before. Mando’ade, resilient verde, who returned alive yet dead from the fury of battle, some part of their minds sacrificed on the altar of battle. Gradually, they could return, but it took time, skill and empathy to bring a verd back from that brink. And always after, that cliff would remain close, waiting for days like today to drag the verd back to the edge.
Starting soft and gentle, Din spoke as quietly as the vocoder of his buy’ce would allow. “Hey. Migs.”
Migs blinked, his hands twitching.
“Migs, come back to me.” Gingerly, Din reached out and touched Mig’s upper arm. Migs startled, blinking again, then relaxed into stillness again. Taking that as permission, Din loosely curled his hand around that lean bicep, squeezing lightly. “Look at me, hotshot.”
Migs blinked again, but this time his face turned towards Din, focusing blearily on his buy’ce. His stare was unblinking.
The shadows of his past danced in his eyes. Din needed to bring him back to the now .
Still as soft as he could be, Din spoke again. “Hey. I need you to take deep breaths for me. In for three, hold for three, out for three. Can you do that? Do it with me.” Exaggerated, Din inhaled, held his breath, and then exhaled, counting, “Sol, t’ad, ehn; sol, t’ad, ehn; sol, t’ad, ehn...”
Gradually, as he watched, Migs’ breathing synced up with his own, becoming deep and steady.
“Good,” Din praised. “Now I want you to feel your toes. Wiggle them. Then your feet...”
Din walked Migs through acknowledging and flexing the various muscles of his body, from feet to legs to buttocks to belly to pectorals, then shoulders, neck, biceps, forearms, hands, finally fingers; grounding his awareness in breath and heartbeat and flesh. Reminding him his body still lived. Eventually, Migs reached out a hand, clutching at Din’s bicep in return, hard and desperate, though his hold of Grogu was still careful and eyes still unfocused.
“That’s good,” Din breathed, his own belly beginning to unclench. “Now I need you to find five things you can see.”
Migs blinked, his eyes finally starting to focus. “Dark,” he croaked, then blinked again. “Helmet.” His gaze roved around the cabin. “Console. Stars.” He looked back to Din. “You.”
Technically he had listed Din twice, but Din decided to let it go. “Four things you can touch.”
“Grogu,” he answered immediately. His hand flexed on Din’s arm. “You. Chair. Um... restraints.”
“Three things you can hear?”
“...engines. Your voice. My heartbeat.”
“Two things you can smell.”
His brows furrowed, eyes focusing a little more as he concentrated. “... blaster oil. Synthleather.”
Din nodded in approval. “One thing you can taste.”
Migs’ jaw worked for a moment, and eventually, he offered, “Blood.”
Din startled, concerned for a moment Migs meant metaphorical blood, but Migs licked his lip, and Din saw a flash of red that meant he was being quite literal. A different concern took hold.
Letting go of Migs’ bicep, he lightly touched Migs’ chin instead. “Alright?” he asked.
Migs grunted but nodded, his eyes finally focused on Din’s. “Pain is good.”
Din’s frown deepened and he tsked softly, but let it go. “What do you need?”
The shadows crept back into Migs’ eyes a little, and he looked back to the stars again, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, after a long moment of silence, he whispered, “I need to sit with the ghosts for a while.”
Frustration surged through Din, but he kept himself in check. This was about Migs, not him. So he nodded, stood, sat back down in his own chair, and they sat there together in the dim co*ckpit, watching the still, cold, white stars.
Migs looked up when he heard the quiet tap of boots hitting the deck. Din turned away from the ladder and toward his chair, the Mandalorian slipping into the seat and beginning the sequence that would guide them into hyperspace. Migs watched dispassionately, feeling his throat throb and worrying Grogu’s froggy in his hands. The kiddo had insisted he take it when Din whisked him away for bed, in his childish, wordless way, pushing the toy into Migs’ hands with a grumble.
Sweet kid. Stars knew where he came by it with that long life of his.
Din slid a lever slowly backward, and the stars blurred into white streaks, softly lighting the co*ckpit alongside the barely there light of the various buttons in the control panels. The co*ckpit had lights, but honestly, Migs couldn’t recall a single time Din ever turned them on.
It was fine. The dark was good. Soothing. It made Migs think of those first days together, traveling to Tatooine, and a cold desert night. A space for secrets to be whispered, and people to become known.
Finally, Din swiveled his chair to obliquely face Migs. Migs swallowed thickly; time to face the firing squad.
When the Mandalorian spoke, it was simple, without judgment. Almost gentle.
“What happened?”
Asimov made me think of Jules and his sister , he thought.
He took a deep breath. Two. Opened his mouth to speak. Croaked instead.
Din watched impassively. Patiently.
Finally, after an age of silence, Din offered again, “Talk about the good times.”
Good times. The good times felt... very far away right now, and dwarfed under the weight of might-have-beens and never-will-bes.
Abruptly, words spilled from him, and they weren't a direct answer to either prompt.
“Operation Cinder was hell,” he finally managed to rasp out.
Din’s helmet tilted ever so slightly to the side. Polite curiosity? Surprise? Confusion? Migs had no idea and it didn't matter now, the dam in his throat broken.
“We were... no one was sure what was going on anymore. Supply lines had been fragmented or outright broken for months. There were rumors the Emperor was dead, Vader was dead, Coruscant had fallen to the Rebels, all sorts of osik that sounded crazy at the time. But the locals believed them, and they were getting restless.”
He refocused his gaze from Din to the stars, detaching from the words as he spoke them, and they began to flow easier.
“We had been stationed on planet for nearly a year by that point. Gotten to know the locals a bit, or at least recognize them. That was, that was Baston's problem. He was so taken in by all that united, peaceful, glorious Empire banthafodder that he always wanted to learn about the places we got stationed, no matter how ass backward the backwater or sh*tty the mining hole. So he got to know the bartenders, the shop girls, the miners, the kids. Got invested in them. Preached the propaganda. And some of them bought it.”
The doll twisted in his hands.
“Jules was... was one of the ones that bought into it. Tiny scrap of a thing. Maybe eight? Orphanage kid, like me. Had a sister, but I never caught her name. They bought it, hook line and sinker. He said he wanted to join up because of Baston and me and the rest. He wanted to be like us. And settle down someday on Marro, when he earned his retirement. I shouldn't have, but I... I told him he would someday.”
Din made a soft noise of realization. But he didn’t realize, not yet, so Migs plowed on.
“Baston was good at that. Picking up strays, building little communities. Tricking them into thinking the Empire was just as good as him. Best at unit cohesion in the entire Army, I swear to the gods.”
His vision began to blur. Migs stubbornly refused to blink, and dropped his head into his hands.
“The locals had been rioting for days when I was ordered to report to the Sagittarius . Special assignment, the orders said. At the time I assumed the brass had picked out some emergent leader in the unrest and wanted me to take him out but didn't want to broadcast the orders, it was common enough for me to get pulled to the ship for special need to know orders. I think my squad was the only one left on the entire planet that was even able to fake a smiling goodbye. They were all on edge, but they... they still managed to say ‘Come back in one piece.’”
Silence yawned between them. “What happened to them?” Din prompted. Gentle but firm. He knew, Migs knew he knew, but apparently Din wanted him to say it.
“I don't know ,” he breathed, voice barely audible, throat closing. “I don’t know who died in the riots and who burned.”
That was the real reason Operation Cinder haunted him, he knew. He didn't know . He could never know , and somehow, that was worse.
He heard Din shift, and Migs braced himself; for derision, for ever-grating sympathy , Migs wasn’t sure-
A gloved hand came down on his shoulder. Heavy, but a comforting heavy, not a punishing heavy. He looked up. Din squeezed lightly, his head bowed, and it didn’t feel pitying, or sympathetic. It felt... like solidarity, and Migs was suddenly reminded Din had dead of his own, people he had left behind to die.
“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,” Din murmured, mournful even through the flatness of the vocorder. Migs didn’t bother to ask him what it meant, just accepting the condolences.
They sat in silence for another good long stretch. Migs didn’t know how long, but he supposed it really didn’t matter. He wondered vaguely if Din’s arm was starting to get tired from holding its position. Not that he was going to end it before Din did.
Eventually, Din looked up, but didn’t drop his arm, and asked another question. “Why Marro?”
It was said with less gravity, probably meant to be an innocent, lighter inquiry. Din couldn’t know that it was just as heavy as his previous questions, weighing down Migs’ stomach.
Reflexively, Migs leaned away from his hand, slouching down into his seat and putting his boots up on the console in his customary pose, looking away from his companion. Trying for as casual of a tone as he could manage right now, he answered, “It’s where Baston was from.”
He practically heard Din frown, but retracted his hand without comment and asked instead, “You've said that name a few times now. Baston. Who were they?”
Nothing, in the eyes of the law, or the eyes of history. But really everything.
“Baston Harmichael. TK-593. Everyone called him Green Eyes. He was a member of my squad,” Migs stated as neutrally as possible.
“A friend?” Din guessed.
Migs smiled wanly, and it felt like his face was stretched too tightly over his skull. “More than that.”
Sounding a little more sure now, Din said, “Ah. A brother.”
Migs couldn’t help a soft snicker. “No.”
“No?” Migs could see him, out of the corner of his eye, craving his head to peer curiously at Migs. Migs just slouched more, staring at Grogu’s frog doll dangling between his knees, unwilling to say more. He wasn’t sure how, but Din fairly radiated curiosity and consideration.
Finally, the Mando asked, “Exactly why did you kill Hess?”
The answer tore from his chest before he could even think about it, a thin hiss. “Because he betrayed them all.”
Migs even blinked at the vehemence in his own voice, but it didn’t stop him. “Baston a-and LT ‘67 and ‘43 and ‘89 and Jules and- they all trusted Hess was going to end the violence, not- not-” he choked to a stop.
Din nodded shallowly in acknowledgement. “Then why did you shoot the tanker?”
Migs paused. The excuse he’d given before, ‘just getting some stuff off my chest’, was on the tip of his tongue, but... they were on a sharing roll.
“Because he burned everything I loved on Burnin Konn,” he whispered. “So I burned everything he had left.”
Din sat up, apparently startled by that answer, and making Migs’ eyebrows raise despite himself.
“Oh,” Din breathed, sounding like he had just had a revelation. “You are echoy’riddur.”
Migs blinked and croaked out, “I’m what?”
Din hesitated, like he usually did when Migs asked him about something Mandalorian, but offered, “A widow.”
Migs’ brain stuttered to a halt, tripping over the entirely unexpected label. After a second, he fell back on his clutch move and huffed a flat little half-laugh, forcing out in a strained tone that was trying for joking and failing miserably, “We- we weren’t married.”
Din shrugged. “You knew him, and I bet he knew you. You shared all you had, squadmates always do. You honored him, and honor him still. You killed the man you held responsible for his death in cold blood and leveled a military installation in his name. You might not have exchanged vows, but sounds to me like in all ways that mattered, you were married.”
Migs stared out into hyperspace, turning Din’s words over in his mind. His hands folded together around the frog doll, elbows propping up on his knees, and his folded hands pressing the frog doll against his mouth in a thoughtful pseudo-praying pose. Or a subtle request for quiet. Din seemed to realize he needed space and went silent.
Maybe... maybe they had been. He hadn’t really leveled the base for Baston, more for himself, and yeah, maybe blowing up the refinery at least in part in revenge for Hess doing the same thing at Burnin Konn made him the worst kind of hypocrite, but...
“... I’d do it again,” he confessed softly into his hands, realizing in a detached way that it was absolutely true. “If it could bring him back, I would do it every day.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Din look at him, considering, unreadable behind his helmet, before turning back to stare out the viewport again. He didn’t say anything, but Migs didn’t need him to. There was nothing to say. He already knew how kriffed up it sounded.
Together, they sat in the heavy silence and watched the stars stream by. Migs didn’t see a thing.
Din resisted the urge to clear his throat and cross his legs.
It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise to feel a rush of appreciation, feel his body respond , in the wake of Migs’ nearly whispered confession. He already had a fondness for the memory, sharp and clear with the adrenaline that had been in his veins at the time, of Migs dropping to a knee and demonstrating just how he earned his Sharpshooter title. Din was hardly an unaccomplished sniper himself, but to hit a tiny target from over a league away with only the bare minimum of targeting assistance, only his own arm acting as a tripod, from a rapidly moving vehicle, with turbulence?
It was impressive.
That alone would have been enough to pique his interest had he been in a better state of mind at the time, and certainly had every time he revisited the memory since, his own predilection for steady hands and good aim definitely working in Migs’ favor. But now, knowing the act was not done from petty spite or some vague sense of personal offense, but was instead a holy act of vengeance, taken in the name of his vode and cabuor’ade and riddur, Migs’ Taab'echaaj'la'e -
He had not expected Migs Mayfeld to turn out to be so... copyc.
Or to turn out to be carrying so much grief. Din willed his cheeks to cool, even though he knew it was futile, self-reproach tempering his sudden surge of desire. While he may find the notion attractive, it was clear Migs very much did not, and the man deserved better than to have his obvious loss objectified like that.
Instead, he focused on Migs’ earlier confessions. Baston Harmichael. Source of the nickname, the TK number, that Migs had given to him , as a knee-jerk reaction. Apparently Migs’ previous riduur.
I’d do it again.
Din felt himself loose the battle with his flush and his face heat more. Quietly, shyly, he wondered if maybe someday Migs might level a military installation in his name.
He could love such a man.
