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

Much appreciated.

5th March 2020

A week flew by, and... despite it all, Din was as insufferable as he'd always been.

Pedro thought that, maybe, he would start trying. To better himself. After everything. But... well.

It was the stress. The stress was getting to him. The stress was getting to everyone.

Everyone was filming their last-minute scenes at the studio, so Pedro had a lot of work to do. Pershing was staying up all night and all-day negotiating with Christopher and doing whatever-the-hell else he did at three in the morning, and Din... Din was distant. Like how he was on the day of the convention, but worse.

He wasn't eating. Or sleeping. He spent the majority of the day either holed up in his room or staring blankly at the TV whether it was on or not. When he talked it was to make a snarky remark, only for a million apologies to immediately roll off his tongue like he was scared of what would happen if he didn't.

The apologising was good, at least. It was an improvement, it meant Din was aware of what he was doing, and he knew it wasn't okay anymore, he knew he needed to change. But that didn't stop the next remark, and the next, and the next. And the next.

The scars on Pedro's arm were a reminder. A reminder that would never fade. He's just going to get worse. You know he will.

"...tried to convince Christopher, but he insists that he should come here, instead..."

Oh. Pershing had been talking. "What?"

"I said, I know you're uneasy about this, so I tried to convince Christopher to allow us to go to him, instead. But he insists." The doctor sighed and shook his head. "He's scared you'll expose the hideout."

Pedro glanced over at Din. He was laying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

"Christopher doesn't scare me," Pedro lied. "I'm just worried that Din will throw a fit."

The man in question stood abruptly from the couch. He didn't look at either of them as he stormed past the dining table and up the stairs.

"I think he heard you," Pershing said wearily.

"No fucking shit." Pedro pushed himself off of his seat. Without saying anything else he leapt up the staircase, stopping abruptly in front of Din's room.

"Din?"

No response.

"Can I come in?"

Still nothing.

"You're insufferable."

"You think I don't know that already?" came a muffled reply.

Pedro twisted the doorknob and swung the door open. There, on the bed, was Din, legs neatly crossed and his notebook in his lap. The jacket he'd been previously wearing was discarded on the back of a chair, and anyone could see just how skinny he'd become.

"When was the last time you ate?" Pedro asked.

Din shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Does it-? Of course it fucking matters."

"I'm fine."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true."

Pedro huffed. His eyes wandered to the wall, where Din's armour was resting in a neat pile. He could see everything, except... for the helmet. Now that he thought about it... when's the last time he wore his helmet?

It was before they left, wasn't it?

"Where's your helmet?" he asked absentmindedly.

Din didn't respond. When Pedro turned to look he saw the man hunched over the notebook, scribbling meaningless lines all over the page he'd just been working on.