Chapter Text
They’ve settled into a routine, he thinks, and it’s almost calming. He’s learned that the kid is content and quiet as long as he has something to occupy himself with, so the Razor Crest is missing a few small parts that aren’t so necessary so the kid can play with them.
They co-exist, in a way.
Childproofing his ship was never something he thought he’d have to do. He kept certain things locked away, of course, in the case of bounties who decided to wander and poke around at what they shouldn’t. It’d been the case with his last bounties--before the kid, that was. But having the Child now meant going further, removing anything sharp he could hurt himself with and covering up the damaged parts that sometimes sparked.
From below comes a clatter of metal, and his hands freeze up on the controls. He flicks on autopilot and turns, standing from his chair, and steps towards the ladder. “Ad’ika?” he calls, and he strains to hear a responding coo but nothing returns. His chest feels tight.
He turns and slides down the ladder, boots hitting the metal floor with a thud. “ Ad’ika!” he repeats, looking around. There is no response this time either, and his heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. He turns and sprints towards the bay doors, looking around the corner at the little alcove there, and immediately freezes in place.
The little space is only just lit up by floor lights, and the child’s figure is a darkened silhouette with one light at his back. His hand is raised, eyes shut in concentration, as in front of him three small objects are spinning in the air in a circle--all the toys they’ve made out of ship parts. They glint in the light, almost a show, and the child opens his eyes to look up at Dyn. The objects fall, all at the same time, to produce the same clatter he heard a minute ago.
His expression is almost invisible, but he’s grinning, letting out a coo as he lifts his arms up in that universal pleading of children.
But Dyn just stares. He’s never seen anything like this before. It’s completely foreign and confusing, and it’s just adding on top of the stresses of learning to caretake by trial and error. He doesn’t usually concern himself with those sorts of things. It doesn’t involve him. But he’s not completely ignorant. This is what happened with the Mudhorn.
“Is this why they want you?” he murmurs. “These powers?”
The ad’ika lets out a whimper, straining upwards to be picked up. Dyn finally crouches down and scoops it up, holding it against his beskar by his shoulder, and feels the little thing try to burrow its face in his neck. He holds it there and, his heart beginning to calm again, listens to its happy little coos as he takes it all in.
“Okay,” he says. Not particularly to the kid. Or anyone. “Okay.” He brings his other hand up and awkwardly pats his back. “Kai’tome?”
The kid looks up at him but has a quizzical expression. “Food,” he clarifies, because in his efforts to teach Mando’a he forgets which words they’ve actually worked on. Though the kid barely speaks, he seems to understand a decent amount for a baby and has been able to parrot some back at him. “Are you hungry?” he asks again, tapping a finger against the kid’s belly to make the point.
“Ah!” the kid shrieks, then nods and grabs Dyn’s finger, drawing it into his mouth to bite. It doesn’t hurt but he pulls his fingers back anyway.
“No,” he says in a firm voice, and the ears droop. Is he teething? he thinks, because he’s vaguely heard of that in children, but lately it’s been hitting him more and more that he knows almost nothing of childcare.
You’ve got a lot to learn about raising a little one.
At the time, he’d wanted to shoot back that he was doing just fine. But he is no buir, that is certain, and the decision to take on this creature as a foundling had been rash. Not a regretful sort of rash, but still made with little thought to how he was going to handle this.
“Alright,” he says, and he walks across the space to the compartment where the child’s makeshift bed is. He gently sets the creature down. “Stay right here, and I’ll make us dinner in a second. Okay?”
The child looks sad, one hand reaching out towards him, and he lets out another pathetic whimper. “Stay,” Dyn repeats, and then he turns and climbs up the ladder to the cockpit.
They’re floating through space with no destination, because he still has to find a new planet for them to go to. They’ll need fuel soon, so he has to find somewhere; his ship still isn’t in the best shape, so he’ll need a mechanic, too. But the kid is a beacon to hunters and they won’t be able to stay anywhere likely until he’s taken out all of them and then some.
His mind turns towards Sorgan and his shoulders deflate.
The kid had been in a miserable state when they left and now was just starting to bounce back. Dyn isn’t quite so fast. Just last night he’d dreamed of soft hands holding his own, a gentle voice murmuring to him, and kind eyes that stared into his own even though she couldn’t see past the visor. He thought of krill dinners and simple farming and being able to relax—
A short wail draws him out of his thoughts and he shakes his head, adjusting the controls. Better to preserve fuel. He turns down the temperature moderator, turns off the engine, makes sure life support is holding steady. They’re drifting now, with no planet for parsecs around them. Then there’s another wail, and he lets out a sigh before he stands and once again walks to the ladder. The wail is a new thing the kid has started, having learned that any sound of distress will bring the Mandalorian running.
It’s a different wail. No real danger. So he takes his time climbing down the ladder and when he reaches the bottom, the ad’ika is standing at the edge of his compartment, staring at Dyn with big eyes. He holds his arms out.
He ignores it. Don’t reward the undesired behavior. He instead walks to his kitchen, which is really just a microwave and ice box and food storage shoved into a panel’s worth of wall. He has some reusable utensils and three plates all stored to take up as little space as possible. He leans down and opens the ice box, rummaging through what food he has left—
He pulls out the last of their krill. It was a parting gift from the villagers and it’s better than the freeze-dried fruits, tasteless preserved meats and the dry food packs he eats from. He puts it on a plate, sticks it in the microwave and hits a button. As it begins heating, he turns and lifts his helmet, setting it on the counter. Behind him, the baby coos, and he turns around to look.
It’s odd to reveal his face to anyone. Mandalorian code states that it is permissible to show your face to family—and as his ad’ika, the child is allowed to know his face. He makes a low coo whenever he sees Dyn’s face, as though it’s a solemn acknowledgement of the privilege. He walks over and picks the child up, letting him rest in the crook of his elbow. “Ready to eat, you little womp rat?” he says.
The kid lets out a giggle. Dyn can’t help a small smile as he turns and walks back to the microwave, leaning against the wall. Again, the kid tries to climb up his chestplate and bury itself in the fabric covering his neck. He lets out a soft chuckle, “ Copikla,” and lets his eyes fall shut. “You’re cuddly today.”
The kid lets out a yawn in response. His own internal clock is screwed about by his travels, and his Mandalorian training has taught him to sleep in bursts when he can so his energy is saved--and to go periods of time without any. So lately, the kid has been his clock, and he’s starting to feel fatigued himself.
“Dinner and bed,” he says.
Their food is done soon. He sets the steaming krill on the plate, and as it cools, takes a packet of stored potato mash and opens it. He scoops half of it into a cooking container and sticks in the microwave. In half the time of the krill, it comes out steaming, and he dumps it onto the plate. He adjusts the kid in his arm and walks to the table. He tries to lower him into his makeshift cradle, but clawed hands grip his neck guard.
“Hey,” he says. “You gotta sit to eat.”
The kid makes a soft coo that reeks of stubbornness and he frowns. “Come on,” he says, a little more firm. “You don’t sit, you don’t eat.”
The child whimpers. His grip seems to tighten. Dyn reaches up and begins to pry off the kid’s fingers, but all he gets is a shrill shriek straight into his ear. “Haar’chak!” he hisses, letting go. “Why are you acting so clingy?”
He gets no response.
“Fine,” he says. He pulls the plate closer and with a fork, cuts through the krill. He manages to shape it into a smaller bit without use of a knife and stabs through it, lifting it to the kid’s mouth. The kid leans in and takes the bite, making a happy chirp as it swallows.
Dinner becomes a slower process than normal, as the kid won’t feed himself like usual and has decided to glue to his guardian. He doesn’t usually cook more than one thing at a time, either, to save his rations, but he learned from Omera that it’s better to try to give kids more than one food at meals. Something about variety on the plate. His rations are packed with nutrients but something tells him that babies care more about the food than the calories.
So they work through the food together slowly, until it’s gone and both are full. He’s used to not eating much, and the baby looks at the empty plate and just buries his face in his neck guard again without whines for more. It’s a relief, because he knows if the kid asks for more he’ll give in. Stupid big eyes.
“Alright,” he says. “Bed.”
He stands and walks to the compartment-turned-nursery and this time manages to pry the kid off without anymore deafening shrieks and he instead wraps him up in his blanket, laying him down to sleep. “Night, ad’ika,” he murmurs, before he closes the panel and turns around. He walks to his own cot, beginning to de-armor.
His armor has so many bits and pieces that it takes him a decent amount of time to take it all off. He stores it in a pile by the cot’s end for when he wakes and slumps into bed, feeling colder in just his bodysuit. He drags a blanket up over half his body, staring up at the ceiling as thoughts run through his head.
This is your life now, he thinks. Better not screw it up for the kid.
Then he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.
Sleep comes easy in this environment, when all he can hear is the hum of his ship and the lights are dim. He lulls his head to the side and slips into the darkness.
But his eyes soon open and the first thought is that not much time has passed. The second thought is that something is moving at his side, and it feels as though his skin recoils to get away from the unknown threat. He jerks away, reaching for his blaster, when a soft little coo reaches his ears and he freezes.
“Ad’ika?” he says, and lifts the blanket. The child turns and lets out a whimper, staring up at him with wet eyes, and he holds his arms out with another short whine escaping. Dyn’s heart seems to tighten in his chest and he scoops the child into his arms. “Nightmare?”
The child grabs onto his arm.
Just this time, he thinks, as he turns and adjusts himself to lay down again. He lets the kid tuck into his side, and once again he closes his eyes.
And opens them again, because the kid has squirmed up higher and is pushing himself right beneath Dyn’s arm, almost trying to bury himself in his armpit, and he stares at the kid. “What are you—“ he starts.
Then sees the kid give a violent shiver. Oh. Oh. His mind flashes back to turning the temperature down and suddenly the kid doesn’t seem as cuddly as he is cold. Guilt threatens to stab its way through him. “You’re cold?” he murmurs, then picks up the kid again. “Whoa. Hey. Here.”
They need to save fuel, and the heater will burn through too much of it. He grabs his blanket with one hand, then pauses. Wait. There’s a better idea than more blankets, but it’s like a memory buried in the back of his mind. He tries to think of the frozen wastelands of planets he’s visited, tries to remember what he’s seen.
It was a village he stayed in while looking for a target, if he’s remembering right. With enough credits, he’d been given lodging, and a young woman had tended to him. She had an infant. He asked how they all kept warm when it was too cold to expose skin to the air, when the wind could send you stumbling. How they were able to even take their children outside.
And she’d showed him how. Showed him by bringing her son along and letting him see that she kept him curled up beneath her layers, pressed against her bare chest as he slept, her body’s heat keeping him warm and the layers just insulation.
He looks down at the child in his own arms who gives another shiver, a pitiful whimper escaping, and Dyn sighs. Well. It’s not like there’s anyone around to see.
So, reluctantly, he sets the child in his lap and unties the front of his bodysuit, just loosening the top to expose his collarbone and an inch or so lower. Then he lifts the kid and holds him by the exposed skin, and the reaction is instant, as if the kid could sense the heat, and blunt claws are dug into his skin and the little creature is pressing as hard against him as possible. Shocked at the results, he slowly ties up his bodysuit again, this time loose enough to be snug around the kid. The happy cooing has returned and he stares up at the ceiling.
It’s oddly comfortable.
It seems it was the right choice. The kid soon squirms closer to his chest than neck, his ears resting by his collarbone as he lies flat against his breastbone, and his breathing has evened out. Dyn takes a deep breath and drags a blanket up over both of them, smoothing it over the lump that is the kid, and considers the choices that led to this.
He wouldn’t change anything.
The next time, he has changed something. He’s isolated the power and heating to the compartment and now it is controlled outside of the main ship, letting the space remain warm even as the rest of the Crest is cold. It’s still burning some fuel but not as much as he would otherwise.
After they’ve eaten--and this time, they eat separately--he carries the kid to the compartment and settles him down. “You’ll be warm here,” he says. “I fixed it. Okay?”
The kid stares up at him with big eyes. He raises a hand and lets out a soft coo.
Dyn presses the button and the door shuts.
When his armor is removed, he lays in his cot, his arms folded beneath his head, and he lets himself simply relax. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath.
Then there’s soft whimpering and the scrabbling of claws. He turns his head and lets out a sigh as a green head pops up over the side of the cot and the baby coos at him, pulling himself up onto the frame. Then he crawls over and onto Dyn’s thigh, making his way over his hip and up to his chest. He promptly plops himself there, the same spot as before.
Dyn lets out a grumble. “That was a one time thing,” he says. “Don’t--no, no, don’t stare at me like that. I’m not that gullible.”
The baby lets out a gurgle, then a soft whine, before he lets out a shiver. He stares at Dyn again with those big eyes. When a moment passes, there’s another little shiver, and the kid looks at him again.
The little con! he thinks, narrowing his eyes at the kid, before he sits up. He lets out a sigh, then grumbles and begins to unlace his top. He opens it a little more, then brings the kid up to lay down.
Once again, the baby snuggles down against his chest, resting his cheek by his collarbone, and the suit is brought together again and laced. The blankets are returned. The lights are dim, he’s surrounded by warmth, and sleep pulls at him.
But he resists.
After it feels as though an hour has passed, he looks down. The kid is drooling against his chest and is thoroughly out cold. Even though his body has been lulled towards sleep, he brings himself to sit up. He keeps the child firm against his chest, swings his legs around, and is careful as he walks towards the compartment. The kid never stirs. He stops before the door and slowly lifts him out of his bodysuit, instead laying him down in his bedding.
The compartment is dim, near dark, and warm air is gently blown in through the vents. Dyn looks down at the sleeping child, his hand hovering beside the button panel.
“Goodnight, cyar’ika,” he says, before he shuts the door.
He waits there for a moment, waiting to hear any noise, any heart wrenching wails when the baby wakes and finds himself alone. But nothing comes, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he steps away from the door.
Instead of going to bed, he finds himself at the workbench.
He’s no artist, but he makes a barebones drawing of the craft he intends to make. He’s got all the parts but his concern is comfort. He saw such things on Sargon for the smaller children and he can build a harness that switches from back to front if he makes the straps right. It should be comfortable for the kid, lined with something soft, and perhaps a lid on it to hide him if needed.
He has no programmed bassinet anymore, and he can’t always hold the kid.
Beside him, a screen is lit as he runs a search through a database. How to make a child sleep in their own bed.
He glances over at the results. Sleep training, huh? he thinks.
