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

Of course you should get him a phone.

Pedro approached Jon the next day during break.

"Din wants to come to the set."

"Oh god," Jon scrunched up his face, "he does want to replace you."

Pedro rolled his eyes. "He's bored. He's really bored. He's never been in one place for so long, he said it himself."

"Do you think it's a good idea to let him? Especially with..." he gestured to the now inanimate baby Yoda.

"I don't know..." One part of him wanted to let Din see everything. Let him explore every nook and cranny. The other part knew it would only upset him. "He's sensitive."

Jon gave him a weird look.

"I'm serious. He's... really emotional. I wasn't expecting it at all."

"I guess it makes sense." Jon averted his gaze to the floor. "After everything he's been through."

"I think he has PTSD, too. And some sort of, um, mild depression?"

"What, seriously?"

"Yeah. He's also pretty fucking peeved that his life was at the mercy of writers."

"Oh." He sighed.

"Should I get him a phone-?"

Jon blinked. "Are you serious? Din Djarin with social media? It's a shitstorm waiting to happen. Of course you should get him a phone."

Pedro laughed. It was probably the first time he'd laughed in a couple of weeks. "You're completely right. Maybe he should stay away from twitter for a while, though."

.~.-.~.

He... was fine. He was fine.

That's what he would tell himself at least.

Pedro would leave for work every morning, and come back when it's pitch black. They would have dinner and then sleep, and the process repeats.

Or, at least, Pedro would sleep. Din... he would try, really. He would. But even as he lay there for hours, unmoving, eyes shut tight, and fucking exhausted, he couldn't sleep.

Maybe he'd drift off, but then he'd wake in a cold sweat less than an hour later.

He never had to deal with nightmares before. He'd always been busy, distracted, by either a job or the kid. But now all he had were his own thoughts. It drove him fucking crazy.

He didn't tell Pedro about it. He knew he should, but sharing emotions had never been his forte. It made him uncomfortable. Made him feel weak.

So he kept it to himself and kept the helmet on. So that Pedro couldn't see the bags under his eyes.

Every day he stared at himself in the mirror, and every day he looked just a little bit more like a pile of shit. He was so pale he was translucent. The pink scars littered across his face and the dark shadows around his eyes only stood out more. And after crying, lines stained his cheeks. His hair stuck to his forehead. All of Pedro's clothes hugged him way too tightly and, during a time when he was particularly... not okay, he felt like they were choking him.

And then he'd talk to Pedro over dinner like nothing was wrong.

The process repeated.

When was the last time he'd allowed himself to feel so much pain? He must've been no older than ten. Now look at him, after three decades of repressing his emotions they were all crashing into him like a tidal wave. This was why he didn't take breaks.

He couldn't express in words how much pain he felt. Over losing the kid. His kid. His son.

He didn't know if the kid was safe, or if he'd been captured, or if he was wandering the streets looking for his father. Either way, being separated from him made him want to cry. 

And he did. 

More than he'd care to admit.

The knowledge that he might be out there, afraid, alone, injured. It made his skin crawl.

What was he supposed to do?

How was he supposed to live?

His only remaining family had been ripped from him.

At least after his parents died he had the Mandalorians. At least after they were massacred, he had his son.

Now he had nothing. Nothing but a goofier version of himself who pretended to be him for the purpose of entertaining other people.

It was sickening.

When he found it, the show, he was sickened. That people had been watching him. His every move. 

And then they saw his face. All of them. Dimension-hopping be damned, he couldn't still be a Mandalorian after all of this. Thousands - or even millions have people have seen his face.

Pedro assured him that it didn't really contradict The Way at all. But there was still an indescribable feeling in his gut that made him want to vomit.

It had been approximately five weeks. A month and then some. That's too long to be holed up in an apartment smaller than his ship.

But, as much as he hated to admit it, Pedro was right. He couldn't just leave. People would ask questions. And he had to be comfortable not wearing the helmet in public, which was definitely not the case.

And maybe it wasn't a good idea to go to the "set" after all. If the writers would be there, he would have to fight the powerful urge to punch them all in the face and break their arms so that they might never write again.

And then he'd be arrested for assault, as Pedro put it.

At least, he thought, Pedro said he'd get him a phone. He would have all the information he needed at his fingertips. If he could truly search for anything, as Pedro said... maybe he'd at least be able to learn a little about this planet - this dimension - he'd found himself on. It was the least he could do for the time being.

He compiled a list using Pedro's pen and notepad of things he wanted to search for.

- Politics
- Holidays/customs (like Christmas)
- Species
- The TV show
- Pedro Pascal
- Actors for the TV show
- Space travel
- Scientists
- Currency
- Job opportunities

It was a good list. And he was sure to add more to it eventually. In the meantime, hopefully, his handwriting would improve.

He clicked the pen. He liked clicking it. It was satisfying and it was something to do. And really it was just genius contraption, and wished his dimension had clickable writing utensils; even if it was just so he could continuously click them.

Pedro didn't seem to like it though. He actually requested he stop clicking while he was around because it was 'distracting'. But the clicking had provided a sense of comfort, and it was hard to stop once he got started.

A week went by of this pen clicking thing and one day Pedro came back with an assortment of squishy toys. "They're stress balls," he said when Din gave him A Look. "When you're stressed and tense you squeeze it."

They helped, a bit. But he still preferred the pen.