#even when i wrote a lot it never saw tumblie here

[jaegerjackoff]

The Doctor | Part 1 | The Mandalorian

> Part 2

summary: When the Child falls ill, the Mandalorian seeks a familiar doctor.

pairing: eventual Din Djarin x OC afab!reader (no physical descriptions; reader has relatives, a surname, and backstory/personality)

word count: +1.3k

a/n: I actually pulled myself out of a seven-year fic hiatus to do this. My writing is rusty™, so please be kind! And title suggestions would be stellar. 🥴 That one detail aside, I have a lot of backstory in mind, honestly to the point that "reader" is really just an OC who I'm writing in second-person. Debating third tbh. I'd love for any feedback (esp on Mando) and I hope to have a writing masterlist & another installment up in the near future! eta: thanks to local-fanfic-addict for the name suggestion!

warnings: rated T, minor descriptions of illness, referenced character death

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A petulant cough from Din Djarin’s side cuts through the hiss of the gangplank rising behind him, a smoked visor tilting downward to regard the small lump in his knapsack. It hides the grimace upon his lips, the crease in his brow, at how miserable the Child seemed.

“Hang in there, kid. Not much longer,” Din murmurs, more to himself than the feverish body at his side – to steel his normally calm nerves – orange-tipped gloves passing in comforting strokes across roughened duraweave.

When he accepted a job on the last planet, the Child seemed fine, with a sniffle that could have been written off to the perpetual cold both aboard the Razor Crest and the planet they were on. Nearing the mission’s end, however, the Child was sweltering and had a deep, wet cough that obviously racked his tiny body.

First, panic. 

Din hadn’t the slightest idea as to how to care for a sick child. He hardly cared for himself properly and was only getting a feel for this bizarre parenthood. Of course, he was unprepared – utterly helpless to soothe the Child’s fitful crying. Din couldn’t help but shout while digging through the storage compartments at the paltry medical supplies upon the ‘Crest, which included a few tiny bacta pads and untouched nausea medicine (which, if he were honest with himself, had probably been aboard since the ship was manufactured).

Then, a realization.

Upon a moon several hours away by hyperspace was an old acquaintance. One who had saved his hide many years before, who would be safe for the Mandalorian and his foundling.

With much haste, Din concluded the mission – handed over a quarry (whose horror was suspended in carbonite), accepted payment, and quickly departed the frigid planet. Where he touched down was quite its contrary; verdant and temperate, known most predominantly for its abundant botanicals and as a picturesque, if underdeveloped, retreat. Warm air rushes beneath Din’s helmet as he treks through the streets of the quaint port town.

It had changed since his last visit, years ago, but remained relative enough that his memory could guide his measured footfall. He didn’t allow himself a chance to reminisce, carrying onward through the central marketplace to the edge of town, where sat a modest building labelled simply in Aurebesh:

doctor  apothecary open

Beneath the sign, the door is set open, voices carrying faintly from within. Two feminine and the grate of a masculine-programmed droid.

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Days on Chaira were slow – simple. (Save for the occasional excitement from its residents, most often the arboriculture and logging industry nestled in the nearby mountains.) Once living there full-time, you’d quickly learnt why your father decided to settle down on this moon, of all in the galaxy.

Following the morning’s appointments, you slipped into the minutiae of managing the small clinic, bottling or compounding common medicines, writing up orders for a future supply run, and preparing files for appointments in the coming days. All the while, your resident 2-1B unit went about sanitizing surfaces and tools and tidying up.

Settling in for a late lunch at the front desk (just to be safe), you called your mother via holopad, through which you updated one another daily. You detailed your morning thus far and – for the systematic difference – your mother her entire day.

“Is 2-1B around?” Your mother’s query causes your eyes to flit upward in time to see the droid round the corner. Just how she always managed to ask of him right as he entered each time was beyond you.

“Yeah, right here,” you hum around a mouthful of peppery herb salad, pushing the puck transmitter closer to his side of the desk so he can wave an appendage to your mother. Meanwhile, you shovel another forkful of salad into your mouth.

“Salutations, Sola. I hope you are well. Isn’t it,” 2-1B pauses thoughtfully. “A bit late on Yavin 4?”

“Oh, please, 2-1B,” grouses your mother, and you can see the smile in her projection. “I’ll go to bed soon; I just had to check in with you two.”

Your eyes wander while they chit-chat, gazing out the door for several moments before you notice the head of a shadow pause just within view. You crane your neck and lean forward on your elbows to get a better idea of who (or what) is lingering outside, which 2-1B catches on to and turns as well.

“Mom, I think we might have a walk-in,” you share quietly, pushing your bowl off to one side.

“Alright, my loves. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, mom; talk to you tomorrow,” you reply gently, and 2-1B pipes up in a farewell of his own. Just before the gracious image of your mother’s expression blinks away, the stranger finally crosses over the threshold (a wall of metal – beskar), commanding your attention, and your jaw falls momentarily slack.

Mandalorian.

But not in the mottled hues of flaking paint and common metal you so distantly recall. Instead, the portion of armor you can see from the drape of his cape is brilliant silver.

As you slowly rise to a stand behind the desk, you stuff down your awe, a spume of trepidation releasing in your chest.

(You can’t help wondering if this is the same one–)

“Pardon the interruption, but I need to see Doctor Vancil. Urgently.”

“I–” It takes everything in you not to crinkle your nose and press your lips thin at the assertion, at the underlying desperation that still finds its way through his vocoder. This wasn’t a spiel you’d had to deliver in some time. Allowing your eyes to close, you draw a deep breath before regarding the collected but imposing figure in your lobby.

“My father, Doctor Vancil, is one with the Force,” you answer, noting how the shiny helmet rears back slightly. “In his stead, my– his droid and I have been continuing his practice. 2-1B can check you out, and I’ll see to it that you get any medications you may need.”

You swear you catch the quietest, clipped end of a curse from the man before you, whose helmet slowly turns toward 2-1B. A slight, terrible cough followed by a coo emanates from somewhere at his hip level, causing your eyes to widen. 

A child? 

In a bag?

“I’ll accept your help – but no droids.”

Along with his dry declaration, the Mandalorian idly gestures two orange-tipped fingers toward your companion, and you nearly feel offended on his behalf. Yet the temperate droid, having gleaned much of his personality from your father, with whom he had been partnered almost all of his existence, understood your capability and responded with a “very well then” before toddling down the hallway at his back.

“Very well,” you parrot with an inkling of uncertainty. You collect your datapad as you round the desk to the same side as the Mandalorian stands, a small sweep of your arm beckoning him to join you, “We’re going into an exam room two doors down on the left. No droid.”

A modulated hum is nearly drowned out by the heavy trod of the Mandalorian’s boots as you shut the door gently behind the two of you and go to wash your hands at the small counter basin. He occupies the space almost uncomfortably, T visor sweeping its primitive decor of jars of cotton buds and tongue depressors, and a hanging plant with cascading purple leaves.

“So, what brings you in?” You glance over your shoulder and draw from your usual repertoire of starters, unsure how to address the child noise at his hip – which was now a soft babble.

“My foundling,” he clarifies, brushing aside the weathered cape to reveal a knapsack at his hip. From within it, he produces a wrinkly, green-skinned creature with large eyes and ears unlike anything you’d ever laid eyes on. “He started getting sick two days ago, and I’m not sure what to do.”

You nod slowly, contemplatively, trying to school your expression into professional impassivity. Although not a species you’d helped yet, it was a baby. (Probably.)

“Okay, I should absolutely be able to help. I just have a few questions to begin.”

> Part 2

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