the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin [The Mandalorian]

I regret teaching you how to work the TV.

"Everyone on this planet is human."

Pedro looked up from his cereal. Din sat across the table from him, still wearing a helmet, not even having touched the toast Pedro had prepared. They had been sitting in silence up until that point. It occurred to him that the Mandalorian had probably watched him eat the entire time.

"I'd hope so."

"Why?"

Pedro cleared his throat. How could he phrase this? "Well. We haven't exactly got space travel yet. I mean, we've gone to the moon. And we're working on going to Mars. But..." he shrugged. "No aliens."

"Surely other planets in the galaxy have space travel."

"If they do, they haven't bothered to share it with us. Some people doubt aliens even exist, which is stupid, because the Universe is huge. It's infinite. There's gonna be other lifeforms out there..." he gestured to Din. "You're living proof. But you're from another dimension so- so maybe it doesn't count." Talking about it so casually felt strange.

Just yesterday, Pedro had been living a normal actor's life, conducting interviews and meeting fans, but now... he was sitting at his dining table eating breakfast with the character he fucking plays.

He pinched himself for the tenth time that morning (the first pinch was before he entered Din's room, the second was when he saw the bastard fast asleep on the bed without a helmet, and the third was after he'd left).

"This planet is Earth."

"Yes."

"Incredibly creative."

Was that sarcasm? It must've been. "Don't blame me," Pedro chuckled. They quickly delved into silence once more. Now though, he was beginning to feel self-conscious, so he picked up his bowl and emptied its contents into the sink before loading it into the dish-washer.

"You should eat," Pedro gestured to the toast. "I'm going out. I have- uh, I have work."

"Yes. You're an actor," Din said, repeating what he'd stated the day before.

"Yes, so I'll only be back by dinner time probably, or even later... so don't kill yourself while I'm gone. You remember how to use the TV?"

Din glanced over at the remote. Pedro had spent five minutes to teach him how to use it, how to switch channels, so he wouldn't get bored while he was away. It's not like he could go outside. That was a bad idea. "Yes," he said confidently. But Pedro could tell that, even with the helmet on, that Din wasn't so sure.

"Okay," he said anyway. "Well, I'll be off then."

He paused at the doorway, taking a moment to glance back at the Mandalorian, *still staring at the remote.

He would deny it later, but at that moment, he smiled.

It was pitch black by the time Pedro got back to his apartment. The light was on, so either Din was still awake or he forgot to turn the light off. Or maybe he couldn't remember how.

He juggled through his assortment of keys, but *paused when he heard muffled talking on the other side. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was.

Shit, he rushed through the keys, desperately trying to find the right one, shit shit shit!

He jammed the key into the *lock, and in one swift movement, unlocked it and threw the door wide open.

Din sat on the sofa, helmet-less. He was curled up into a tight ball, unblinking. The TV played out a scene Pedro recognised all too well. Of course, Pedro sighed. I should have fucking known . He'd left Disney+ open the day before, for the premiere of chapter eight... Din must've turned on the TV and that would of bloody course be the first thing he saw.

"Din?"

No response. Just a blank stare.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you about it. I just didn't know how well you'd take it."

Slowly, Din turned his head, still unblinking. Pedro, to his utter despair, could see the tears in the Mandalorian's eyes.

"I experienced this," he croaked, then seemed to recoil at how strained his voice sounded. "Just yesterday. I experienced this." He finally blinked, then blinked three more times. He was trying to blink the tears away. He was not used to showing emotion in front of people, it seemed. It didn't matter much if he cried with the helmet; if he was silent, no one would see it.

Pedro nodded solemnly. In that moment the Din on TV was thrown into the air by an explosion. "I should've told you about it."

"What is it?" real-life Din turned his attention back to the screen. "I don't understand how this exists."

"It's... it's a show. For entertainment. It has writers and directors. Actors. People pay to watch it."

TV-Din was dragged back into the imperial bar by Cara.

"Entertainment."

"Yes, it's-"

"My life is a living hell for the purpose of entertainment?"

Pedro shut his mouth tight. The two stared at each other. "They think you're fictional."

"Is everything I've been through because of the will of a few story writers?"

Oh, god, was it?

He hadn't thought about it before. When a new story was created, and written, did it create a new dimension? A new universe? Every decision. Were writers actually gods, without even knowing it?

"I don't know," Pedro eventually settled on. "I don't know how this whole thing works."

"The one who visited last night. Was he a writer?"

"He's a director. He- he tells us, the actors, what to do. How to do it. But he is also a writer. He does a few things, he even played a character..."

"You say character like we're not real people," Din snapped.

Pedro paused. This wasn't going well. He thought he would wait until explaining this all to him, but he's gone and discovered it for himself. "Um. Um, yeah. Sorry. I'll try not to say that anymore, just... a force of habit..."

But this time the Mandalorian didn't respond. Instead, to Pedro's surprise, he buried his head between his knees.

It was a very vulnerable and sad position. He wouldn't have expected to see someone like Din Djarin sitting like that.

On the TV, they'd just found the remains of the Mandalorian massacre. Pedro moved to grab the remote.

"Leave it on," came Din's muffled voice.

"I didn't think you would want to relive this."

"It's fine."

There was an audible sniff.

Pedro stood back awkwardly. He couldn't help but stare. He'd always portrayed the Mandalorian as this emotionally stunted badass single-dad, but now he realised, there was so much more he hadn't seen. So many moments that the writers wouldn't even dream of. This was a real human being. With a real life.

It was... in a way, almost mesmerising; imagining the life that Din leads, day to day, doing normal human things. He was a person. He was stressed. He felt sadness and fear and anger.

Now he was curled up into a ball, hugging his knees, and crying on Pedro's couch.

It made him wonder; when was the last time the Mandalorian even had a chance to cry?