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

"I'm hungry."

13tb April 2020

He woke up in a room he didn't recognise.

In most circumstances, perhaps he would have panicked. But he was warm, comfortable, in a soft bed with a soft pillow and heavy blankets. The walls a pale brown with little pink flowers painted all over, the ceiling a light cream, and on it sat an old-fashioned light that illuminated a warm yellow glow.

Next to him, however, to his left, in a leather armchair with his face buried into a thick pillow, rested Christopher, his chest slowly rising and falling with each deep breath. Fast asleep.

He used the bedside table to leverage himself into an upright position, biting his tongue to hold back a cry as screaming pain shot through his left arm like electricity.

He glared down at it and saw that it was in a sling.

Great. Just what he'd needed, after all he went through. It had been set properly, at least, but by who?

Slowly he manoeuvred himself off of the bed. He no longer wore his armour, it sat on top of a chest of drawers on the opposite side of the little confined room, along with his helmet. Nor was he wearing his usual underclothes, but an oversized, silky purple shirt and baggy sweatpants. The mere thought of someone undressing him and changing him into new clothes while he was unconscious was more than just 'uncomfortable', but... he wouldn't complain. They had given him a bed, reset his broken bone. Whoever 'they' were.

His bare feet met the soft carpet. For a long moment he considered allowing Christopher to sleep. He probably needed it in any case, but... sighing to himself, he leaned forward and tapped his shoulder.

Nothing. He tried again, rougher this time, but still he didn't stir. Din shifted himself forward, only narrowly balancing off the edge of the bed, and gave Christopher's shoulder a shake. His eyes snapped open and he jumped in his seat, slapping Din's hand away with a yelp.

"Oh," he breathed, "Fuck. You're awake?"

"How long was I out?"

Christopher rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeves, a cream-coloured woollen sweater. "I dunno. What time is it...?"

"I'm asking you," Din sighed.

Grumbling to himself, Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flip-phone similar to Peri's. He read off the time with squinted eyes.

"Six? Six something? Fuck, I think I need glasses."

"AM or PM?"

"AM. I think... it was around midnight when, when you escaped."

Din stared over at his armour, polished and shiny as though nothing had ever happened to it. Like everything he'd just been through was a fever dream.

He wished it had been.

He wished it had never happened at all, that he'd made the right fucking decision and stayed home.

But then, if he had, what would have happened to Sam? Perhaps she would have met the same fate as Cole.

Cole. So young, too young, oh gods, I'm so sorry, Cole. He'd left, and Cole had screamed, cried, so afraid, so afraid. There was nothing we could do.

And then running, and yelling, being launched forward onto the cold, hard concrete. An explosion, a raging flame, a splintering crack. Stupid useless bones.

Chris was staring at him. Waiting, for something. Something Din couldn't discern.

"Where am I?" Din asked.