#a quick blub while i refuse to acknowledge reality

[whirlybirbs]

[ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] with our husband, our lovely husband, din djarin

✶  ———  REUNION  ;   d.d.

summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart

pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, friends-to-lovers

warnings: bro i made myself emotional with this, fluff and comfort, a little angst, and a rlly fun make-out with din

a/n: it's like 2019, i am back writing for din again like a starved woman — enjoy some mechanic!reader content that i've alluded to in the past, but with a dash of OH HI YOU'RE BACK. the beautiful gif is by @hayden-christensen from this stunning set that made me sit at my desk and like the lisa simpson meme. you know the one.

"There's someone you'll probably want to see."

Fennec looks cunning when she says it, and she goes so far as to toss him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters down towards the lower level of the Palace.

Din's footfalls falter momentarily.

Before he can even twist his frown away and grit out a follow-up question, he hears your voice.

Your voice.

Fennec can't see Din Djarin's eyes, but she can interpret the look. The well-kept expression behind the mask of beskar? That's surprise. The tension in his shoulders tells her enough. It's apprehensiveness that slows his steps. It's yearning that twitches in his fingers.

"I thought you said you were the best mechanic in the Rebellion—" comes a voice, far off in the deep cistern of a hangar.

"One," comes your voice, anointed with a grunt of disproval, "I never said that. Two, that's a hell of a lot of mouth coming from the kid who asked for my help—"

At your jest, there's a quiet clamor of laughter.

Fennec watches Din as the two hunters circle around the Slave I; her warm eyes are crinkled at the corners. It's a sense of satisfaction that's settled across her face. The soft, tender promise of this reunion... A non-promise in a swirling void of chaos. Fennec's gloved hand skims the bow in the ship's hull as she follows — and she waits in the wings when Din finally lays his eyes on you.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And you're here.

In truth, you'd never left.

You're under a... scooter? A colorful little speeder sits neatly on jacks, and you're on your back — rag and wrench in hand. He can see the bare skin of your arms, smeared with grease, and thick gloves that crawl up your wrist. Your boots scuffle a bit as you roll father back and let you a little curse.

"Seriously, what did you think would happen?" you huff haughtily, "The propulsion vents on this model aren't built for finer grit dune sand—"

You're lecturing a gaggle of teens. Scrappy, amused teens that are hanging on your every word — even when you raise a hand and waggle your wrench in frustration. They laugh a little, and Din feels gutted with a deep pang of longing. The same sort he's been wrestling with for the last year. But, this time, you're right here.

He's hardly put together that he's been standing there, a few meters from you, for a few seconds. Not until one of the teens, one with warm skin and a cyberized orbital implant, coughs.

"We have a guest," Fennec projects, spurring you to pause.

Easily, you wheel yourself out.

Sitting up is the easy part. Wrangling your goggles off your face, and smearing the sweat from your cheek isn't as easy, but it's habit by now. Days and days spent doing just this — not that you can complain. Fixing helps. Keeps you busy. Has you feeling useful. Hell, even that is an easy realization to come to.

All that is certainly easier than the jarring actualization that Din Djarin is standing right in front of you.

Din.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.

In the same glittering, beautiful beskar — and you can see your breath robbed from your lungs in the reflection. Your wrench meets the pavement of the hangar, and you forget about any attempt at grace.

Scrambling up, his name is like a petal on your tongue. Its springtime in his heart and Din is moving before he can remind himself to slow down. Din is half-ready for the planetary impact brought about by your orbit colliding with his — in a dizzying spell of limbs and gravity. The collision is as gentle as a year of longing can be — not nearly as brutal as the nights spent alone, not nearly as hollow as the ache of forgetting the sound of someone's voice.

"Din."

He knows — deep in his heart — he's never heard his name said sweeter. Maybe it's the horrible, lonely circumstance. Or, maybe it's the fact you've wound your arms around his neck and you're proving him wrong, that he hadn't lost you when he left this planet on the promise of duty-owed. When he left you.

You can feel his gloves wind themselves tightly into the back of your mechanic's jumpsuit. You nearly trip as you push yourself up onto the tips of your boots and cling — hardly the reaction you'd rehearse in your head a thousand times. No, no you promised yourself you'd be tangibly cool, perfectly calm.

Truth be told, you're far from it.

You pull back, gloved finding the curved sides of his helm as you settle back down and look him over. An inspection, a breathless one, that's halted with the deliberate press of his helmet to your forehead. It's cool. Smooth. And his hands, you realize, have moved to hold your shoulders steady. To follow the curve of your arms, and to settle along your jaw.

It's a quiet reunion.

One that's watched by an audience, you remember, when Skad pointedly clears his throat and delivers a good-natured jab.

"I take it you two 'ave met, then?"

Din wishes you wouldn't pull away — not until he's finished the thankful prayer on his tongue. His hands fall to yours, and you squeeze them tightly when you turn your cheek. The entire time, he's watching you. Assessing the change. You've started wearing your hair in a new way. There's a wrinkle, between your brow, he doesn't remember being there before. He notes a new scar along the curve of your clavicle.

The entire time he's welcomed by the great Daimyo and his enclave of collected followers, his attention remains on the one person he's been unable to push from his thoughts. Fennec supposes there's something rather romantic about that — and even though she can't be sure that T-visor is trained on you the entire time, she knows well enough.

Din notes a litter of new scars along your knuckles.

During dinner, you try to keep your tender-mouthed yearning quiet. You have a hundred questions for him — but bide your time picking out the best parts of the prepared meal to bring to his quarters after. You plate fruit and meat and little bits of love carved right from your rib. You sit there, flicking up your gaze to find his attending look each time. It makes your heart feel heavy, and so you pile on more sweetsalt berries to his plate.

Laughter comes and goes as do the questions about his armor, conversations about the current politics, and full-bellied lull of a Tatooine evening. Somewhere, a balcony curtain billows — and the three moons hang warm and pink in the sky.

"I trust you can show our guest his living arrangements."

Boba's eyes are kind.

When you stand, gathered plate in hand, there are few questions — just heavy, tender looks from the Daimyo and his Master Assassin. Just a strong hand planted warmly on Din's shoulder in passing. A smile, even, from Fennec to you.

Din is quiet as he follows. The quiet tinker of beskar and the cool breeze of the evening air is all there is — even when you nudge open the door to his quarters. It's one of larger rooms, with a balcony and a rotunda and a bed big enough for a Hutt. It's not entirely dissimilar from your own arrangements.

As you set Din's dinner down on the table near the balcony, he speaks. The door slides shut with a hiss, and you steal a berry to tide over your yearning.

"I thought you'd be angry with me."

You flick your eyes to him. He's stopped in the center of the room. The sunset has settled into the glimmering curves of his armor, and you can't help but feel your heart tighten at the words.

"I was."

Din inhales.

Your expression is solid — but not cruel.

"For a while," you continue, "But, I'm not anymore."

"Why?" he asks in a quiet breath. It sounds far away through the helmet's vocalizer. Like a glacial rift tearing itself apart.

You frown — and almost immediately Din wishes he could take the question back. He watches you reach for another berry, and then you drift away from the balcony. Back to the center of the room, back towards him. You step around him for a second, like a star in orbit. Somehow, you find his eyes beneath the visor. He's always been struck dumb by your uncanny ability to do it. He's not sure if you know, but you've done it. The eye contact he so dreads, until it's you.

And then he feels home.

Like he never left.

You push the berry past your lips and shrug. You drop his gaze, and you turn your cheek towards the rising moons.

"Did you find them?"

"Yes," you're deflecting — and Din can play the game just as well, "I thought you said you were going to go home."

Suddenly, you look panicked.

How do you tell him he was home all along?

Your mouth goes dry, and you shrug away the burn of anxiousness.

You promised yourself you'd be honest with him if you ever saw him again — you promised yourself you'd ask him to never leave again, to let you stay by his side no matter the risk. No matter the circumstance. You promised yourself night after night that someday you'd see Din Djarin again and tell him exactly how you felt.

Your eyes are wide. The wrinkle he noticed before is back. He realizes it's one born out of worry.

"I..." your words slip away. You blink, then shake your head, "I was going to. Then, I realized some things."

Din wishes someone would take the dark saber and carve his heart out. It's the tension, the fear of admitting what you both know — and the edge of fear that perhaps it's not shared.

His voice is raspy. He takes a leap.

Quietly, he steps forward with his confession. "I should have never left."

You shake your head. "We both know you had to."

"They exiled me," he says, then, as he stands over you in the moonlight; Din's words are heavy and they sink into your heart, "And I had no one. All I did was think of you, every night I was gone."

"Exile," you breathe; you don't like the sound. You try to distract yourself with it, and not the crushing cosmos of feelings swirling in your chest at his pretty admittances.

"And then, I thought I'd come back here," Din says with an edge of fear, "And you'd be gone. And I'd never see you again."

You can feel the lump in your throat. You wish you had more of the spotcha at dinner. It would have given you enough of an edge to compose yourself, and not bow into Din the moment he touched you. Your cheek meets the smooth plate of his chest piece when he touches your hand, and you bend into an embrace that surmises a year's worth of unspoken feelings.

"I missed you," he says as his arms wrap themselves tightly around your shoulders, "I'm sorry I ever left you."

"I'm sorry I agreed to it, to part ways," you laugh shakily as you settle your chin on the lip of the beskar, "It was the worst mistake I ever made—"

His gloves hands are cool against your cheeks.

Again, with fluttering lashes, you find his eyes beneath the visor.

There are a lot of things being said between the words, and Din feels himself settling into them. You've relaxed — gone nearly pliable in his hands as you touch his knuckles with your own calloused fingers.

"Exile?" you ask mournfully after a moment of content quiet as you rub the curve of his thumb.

Din's gaze falters. "For showing my face."

Hurt flicks across your face. You know he could have lied. He could have told the Clan that no, he hadn't. But, Din Djarin is a good man — and in his truth, he'd bore the brunt of his punishment.

"But," he says after a moment, "I find myself... bargaining."

"Bargaining?" you ask with a wry look, one half-etched with confusion and half with amusement.

"I'd bear the weight of a thousand exiles if it meant I could kiss you."

Oh.

Oh.

There he goes again, robbing you of breath — this time with words so soft and honest that you can hardly find the right reaction; and it worsens, when a gloved hand moves to tip the lip of his helmet back and the beskar bends the light. Blues and pinks and orange flicker along the rotunda, and you watch greedily as the warm skin of throat, of chin, of lips appear.

He's slow — tentative. The gap is closed with steady hesitancy that meets in an exceedingly gentle press of the lips. Your nose slots next to his, chin tilting, and you can't help the way you slip into bliss at the dreamed touch.

You hardly notice that the beskar falls to the floor when he really kisses you — you hardly hear the bell-like sound that rings in a year worth of want. Can anyone blame you? When a Mandalorian bends his creed to kiss you, soften his war-hardened hands to cradle you? You swear you'll never be able to love again, at this moment, and the Mand'alor holds not only the dark saber in his hand but your heart.

When he draws himself, slowly, away from your kiss, you keep your eyes shut firmly. The sort of thing you'd always negotiated when you'd first started feeling these things for him, back when you'd only been an impromptu live-in mechanic for the Razor Crest.

You can feel his smile tickle your cheek after a moment of quiet. Your own smile is big. Din, sans his helmet, huffs a little laugh from his nose. It's a nasally sound, a warm one. You know he's smiling now.

"I can save you exile," your lashes kiss your cheeks as you keep your eyes firmly shut, "I promise, I'm good at not looking."

You had, after all, spent nearly a year and a half aboard that small freighter playing this exact game — in tight living quarters with a Mandalorian meant snapping eyes shut at a moment's notice.

Then, a gloved hand cradles your face as he presses a series of kisses to your cheek. Over and over. Each is punctuated with a little bit more force than the next. And on the last, he keeps his nose to your cheek as he muffles a laugh. His voice is warm against your ear.

"Just open your eyes," he says lowly, "Before I offer marriage as an alternative."

You laugh and swat at his chest. But, it has you cracking one eye open.

And there's Din Djarin.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.