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

Woohoo.

You were the song that I'd always sing
You were the light that the fire would bring
But I can't shake this feeling that I was only
Pushing the spear into your side again

TRIGGER WARNING: ASTERISKS ARE PLACED BEFORE AND AFTER POTENTIALLY UPSETTING SCENES OR DIALOGUE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Pedro is a person. He should be treated like a person. This story is set in an alternate reality - aka, not our Pedro. I'd just like to make that very clear moving forward.

I should be held fully accountable for any and all discomfort you experience in this and upcoming chapters.

There was something on his forehead.

Cloth. Cold. Wet. A wet cloth.

There was a wet cloth on his forehead.

He opened his eyes and there was darkness.

Just darkness. He could feel the bed. It was comfortable. It was warm.

He turned his head. Could see the floor. There was a bucket. A towel.

His head struggled with the movement. It was too much. Everything hurt.

Nausea.

He felt sick.

He felt so sick.

He felt so so sick.

*

It hit him all at once. Like a wave. He fell out of the bed, landing on the floor with a deafening thud. Was barely able to lean over the bucket before the nausea got the best of him and he threw up. His throat felt like relit ember.

He heaved a second time, but nothing happened. He coughed, gagged, then coughed again.

"Fuck," he winced. "Fuck. Fucking fuck."

Fuck, how long had it been? How long was he passed out? He couldn't remember... couldn't remember...

What happened?

There was... there was cold, the tiles, dread. Screaming. He screamed.

Fuck.

"Fuck."

What's wrong with my voice?

"Din?"

Din spat saliva into the bucket. His mouth tasted of vomit.

*

"Din?"

He let the silence stretch on. Stared at the mess in the bucket. Gross.

"Din?"

He sighed. Pushed down another wave of nausea.

This is what I get.

"Answer me. Please."

Din landed a shaky hand on the side of the bed. He used it to push himself up off the ground. Swayed, for a moment.

He turned to face Pedro.

"......home," he croaked.

His throat burned.

"I'm never going home," he repeated.

Pedro only stared. Din couldn't make out his facial expression in the darkness.

"I'm sorry."

But he could tell from the voice that he'd been crying.

"How long......been asleep?"