Chapter Text
The first twinge of hesitation Mando noticed was when he found himself constantly checking on the child currently passed out in the cradle beside him. Every other minute he looked to see if the little chest rose and fell, relief flooding through him when he confirmed the kid was still alive. Even throughout the night and morning while Kuiil and he repaired the Razor Crest, he paused and stepped aside to peer into the cradle.
Surely this was because he did not want the asset damaged so he got the full reward. That had to be the reason he panicked when the child collapsed after…whatever happened with the mudhorn. Events were still jumbled in his mind in a way he could not form into words. Maybe due to the heavy beating he still had not recovered from. If the infant was this powerful at his “young” age, how much would the powers grow into adulthood?
Who am I kidding? The Imps are gonna kill him.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, sounding even lower through the mask. Kuiil glanced up, Mando ended his vocalization in a cough to hide it and abruptly stood and returned to the finishing touches of repairs on his ship. After he went to hyperspace he should tend in closer detail to his injuries, they had to be causing his abrupt reactions.
Within a few more hours the repairs were done and farewells made and he lifted off to return to the client, still baffled at his rash response to the asset’s fate after he should not worry about it. One of the worst sins he could do to the guild.
That was why he forced himself to remain stoic when he caught movement in his periphery from the cot.
I should not worry about it, he repeated to himself. Which became easier to do as the child proceeded to try and dismantle various parts of the console and put them in his mouth.
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The second time he doubted his own intentions began the moment the stormtrooper yanked the cot with much more force than necessary.
He bristled. “Easy with that.”
“You ‘take it easy!’” retorted the trooper, still keeping a tight grip on the carrier.
Mando bit his lip. At least ten other troopers patrolled somewhere in the bowels of the Empire base, he should show restraint, get the reward, and leave. Stormtroopers were notoriously trigger-happy and his armor was in almost disrepair.
Why was he even running scenarios of a fight through his head? Within three minutes he should be out of there with a good amount of beskar, as easy a turn-in as his carbonite bounties. No questions, minimal dialogue, and he would be good to go.
He broke that promise to himself in less than three minutes.
As the scientist moved to the other door in the room, Mando felt the child’s eyes on him, and met his gaze. The infant’s ears drooped, his face crumpled up and he let out the first legitimate crying the Mandalorian had heard from the small being since their time together. In response to the sound his back stiffened, a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The uncomfortable feeling continued after the door slid shut, almost nauseating.
“What are your plans for it?” The question came before he could stop it.
He did not need to listen to the client’s response, the show of force from them as more stormtroopers entered the room was answer enough. Hand clasped around the safe of beskar, he stormed out of the bunker. On his walk to the covert his thoughts constantly reverted back to the child. Nothing could get his mind off of it, not even when Paz Vizsla tried to rip off his helmet. Their quarrel actually made him feel more guilt for his choice.
When inquired about his sigil, he tried to distance himself from the child by referring to it as an enemy—a flimsy lie to himself.
As he donned his new armor, the armorer’s words repeated in his head. “Foundlings are the future.” Over and over again with each step he took to the cantina the statement reverberated, louder and louder as he passed the alleyway that led to the Empire remnant hideout. His steps faltered for a moment at the entrance to the alleyway.
He needed to get off this planet as fast and as far as possible before he did something stupid.
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The third and final time he doubted his own decisions, he finally made up his mind. The Mandalorian Code overrode the Guild Code, and he broke it the moment he surrendered the Foundling who needed him, needed his clan. Needed a family.
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When he handed the knob to the child for him to play with, Mando noticed his hand was trembling. Had he just rampaged through an Imperial hideout all for the sake of the tiny green being now slobbering over a part of his ship? Did he just lose his primary source of income in a moment of self-righteousness?
From near his leg heard a coo. The baby had paused his play and stared up at Mando, ears pricked and eyes wide with a depth of understanding, like he understood the turmoil in the ex-bounty hunter’s soul.
Where would they go with having likely the highest bounty currently in the galaxy? Laying low would be near impossible. Every pit stop they would make would require the highest amount of caution with the littlest thing.
Undecided, he entered the coordinates for a general area of the Western edges of the Outer Rim, remote enough and the hyperspace route would give him time to narrow down his decision on exactly where to go. And get some much needed rest and recovery.
When he made a move to get up, his body reminded him how much he neglected his injuries. Standing was more of a struggle than it should be, bruises on his chest and cracks in two of his ribs painfully reminding him of their existence. Managing to finally stand, he looked down to see the child had fallen asleep, makeshift ball in hand as he leaned against the console.
Steps as soft as if he stalked a nexu, he crept to the ladder behind the cockpit doors and went down to his cramped living quarters, actions made slower by the aches and pains. Everything had been moved around by the Jawa’s ransack of his ship, so it took longer than it should have to find his spare emergency blanket.
Blanket in hand he returned to the cockpit and used it to form a makeshift bedding in the copilot chair for the kid. Looked more like a messy nest than a bed, but it would have to do. Gently he lifted the child—who thankfully did not stir—and placed him in the bedding, wrapping the excess blanket around him.
The child remained in slumber as he went back down the ladder to his meager supplies. He locked the door to the cockpit, worried the child would try to wander the ship at some point when he was busy tending to his wounds and fall down the drop to his quarters.
Child-proofing the Razor Crest was not something he never thought would cross his mind in the entirety of his life.
Now able to focus fully on himself, the Mandalorian began the process of removing his armor. First came the boots, greaves, gloves, and gauntlets, followed by his cuirass and finally the helmet. Next he took off his undershirt, not surprised at the pattern of bruises and scrapes that bloomed across his torso. The deep scrape on his left bicep was inflamed, definitely needed extra bacta for that one. Likely a few cracked ribs and a knot on the side and back of his head as well.
Before he tended to those, he went into the shower and washed all the grime, mud, and blood from the past couple of days. The kid would need a bath too at some point. And more clothes than the robe becoming more tattered by the day. The fact this entered his mind at all startled him as he quickly rinsed off and let the fresher’s warm air dry him off.
With his meager on board medkit he set about tending to his injuries, mainly the infected scrape on his arm and contusions on his head. Such wounds led to a wounded mind. That was the excuse he used to give for his brash decision to take back the child, but he knew it was something more. Something deeper.
The last bandage applications were a struggle because he kept dozing off midway. Finally finished and as patched up as he could hope to do on his own, he slowly rose, put on a shirt and pants and collapsed into his cot, not bothering to cover himself with the blanket.
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BANG! BANG!
He stared up at the basement doors, not daring to breathe. Blaster fire echoed in the background as his pursuer tore at the metal and forced the doors open. Petrified, he stared down the arm cannon the metallic terror pointed at him, a scream caught in his throat--
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His scream did not escape his mouth. Instead, a pathetic wail from another echoed throughout the ship. The yell faded into tiny sobs that catapulted him out of his cot and up the ladder. The doors to the cockpit opened painfully slow; he burst in the room to see the child bolt upright in the chair, the plaintive cries of distress tearing at him.
“Hey, hey...” he approached the chair and reached out for the child, “It’s...”
He faded off when the child recoiled from his hands, the kid’s dark brown eyes wide with fear and filled to the brim with tears. The infant’s gaze darted around the Mandalorian as if looking at him for the first time, like it did not recognize--
The Mandalorian froze.
Of course the child looked at him as a stranger without his helmet. His blood ran cold while he returned the kid’s equally horrified stare for a different reason.
This was the first person to see his face since he chose to follow The Way. The first person to see him, to know who he was. A teary-eyed green baby with floppy ears was all it took to violate his Code. The very Code that compelled him to sever lucrative financial ties for this being. An inescapable logic loop.
Frantic sobs he never heard from the child ripped him from his crisis. “Calm down.” He tried to lose the gruff tone in his voice, keeping it soft. “It’s me, kid.”
The child’s crying faded to tiny hiccups and sobs, head tilted as he assessed the Mandalorian with more scrutiny beyond his years. Or worthy of his half-century of life.
The Mandalorian slowly reached out again with one hand. Like when they met, the toddler reached out and coiled a tiny fist around his pointer finger. Mando leaned forward and lifted the upset child into his arms, the baby keeping one hand secure on his finger. A tiny fist curled into the collar of his undershirt.
Surely this was an exception for his clan. This was a Foundling, something they treasured as much as beskar steel. One’s family within the clan could know the face, know the true name. It would be impossible to live and function as a household without that exclusion.
Family…
Was that what this child was? Was this his ad'ika? His life was meant to wander the galaxy, bring honor and resources home to his clan. Becoming caretaker to a child of an unknown species with unknown powers was not what he was meant to do.
He had no idea what he was doing.
Brooding, he paced the cockpit and slowly rocked the child back and forth in his arms, jumbled thoughts causing him to lose track of time. By instinct the fingers of one of his hands traced small patters on the petite back. Eventually the ear trembling that bothered the Mandalorian stilled. Before he knew it, the child’s breathing evened out in slumber.
Exhaustion washed over him again. He walked to the copilot’s chair and lowered the child into it.
Or tried.
Despite being so small, the infant’s grip on his shirt was strong. Injuries still paining him, the Mandalorian slowly crouched to place the child into his makeshift bed and detach. It was in vain, and only made the kid grip on harder, a tiny whine escaping the tiny being.
Sighing, he said, “Okay,” gathered up the spare blanket, and exited the cockpit. The whimpers changed to coos as he descended the ladder to his cramped quarters. Nothing down here could double for a crib, but the ad’ika did not give him much choice.
The Mandalorian shook his head. Ad’ika,,,what am I thinking?
The cot creaked as he sat on it, lifting his legs to lay on his side. He placed the ad’ika down beside him and scooted back. Most of the mattress was taken up by the kid due to the innate terror he had of rolling over on top of the small, fragile body in his sleep. His back was pressed against the wall.
No matter how much room he gave the toddler, he would shuffle closer. With no more room to give, Mando surrendered as his ad’ika again grabbed a fist-full of his shirt, buried his head into his chest and tucked under his right arm. Within seconds the little being was asleep again.
The solace lulled him into the depths of slumber as well, hand coming to cradle the back of his ad’ika’s head.
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The clank of metal against the floor jerked him awake. It took him a few seconds to contemplate his situation, coming to realize the tiny bundle of warmth that nestled beside him hours ago was absent. Bolting upright, he sat up, eyes darting around the room to settle on his helmet.
Which was on the floor. Moving.
His eyes adjusted to the night light settings of his ship and he focused on the helm. Two tiny legs shuffled underneath, towards him. Gleeful coos garbled by the vocoder in the helmet pulled his mouth into a taut smile, warmth spreading from the core of his body as the ad’ika toddled to stand at his feet, drawing himself up to an almost salute aimed at Mando.
He made no move to remove it as he stood up, fighting the urge to smile too much to encourage rebellious behavior. “If you want one, we will get you one, ad’ika.”
The infant giggled but playfully ran off as Mando bent over to grab the helmet. He sighed and started to pull his armor off the shelf he stored it away on when he showered and treated his injuries. “Alright, you can play with it til I get the rest of my armor on, then you have to give it back.”
All he got in response was an affirmative babble, but it was enough.
While he put on his beskar armor, the Mandalorian came up clueless to how his ad’ika managed to steal his helmet from such a high shelf. He shook his head.
Foundlings. Always up to something.