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

before the storm

11th April, 2020

It was noon. Probably. He hadn't been checking the clock, but the sun was high in the sky. And everything felt... fine. In fact, everything had felt good, so- he'd been expecting it, in a way.

Things were too good. Edgar and Butterscotch sleeping on the same chair. Winta drawing on some spare paper, Omera and Din talking quietly amongst themselves on the couch and Pershing reading a book at the dining table.

It was peaceful. Too damn peaceful. So Pedro wasn't surprised by the knocking on the front door. Slow. Weak. Omera ushered Winta upstairs in hushed whispers, Din jumped to his feet, and everyone stared in wait as Pedro pulled the door open. They all knew.

Dark, blue eyes stared down at him. Ones he recognised, a bit too well, but he could hardly recognise the face they belonged to. Rugged, beads of sweat coating his forehead. Matted hair had grown thicker, patchy stubble lining his jaw. Deep bags accentuating puffy red-rimmed eyes. A thick jacket, but it did nothing to hide the ugly yellow and blue bruises creeping onto his hands, his neck, nor how sickly thin he was.

"They took her."

He trembled as he spoke. A frightful rasp in his voice, barely above a whisper.

"They took both of them."

Pedro's clutch on the door tightened.

He wanted to slam it in his face. Wanted to leave him outside in the freezing cold. Wanted to let him beg, and give nothing in return. He almost did. Some horrible part in him almost shoved that door closed and locked it.

"I'll make soup." He left the door open. Made a beeline for the kitchen, almost ran head-on into Pershing along the way, who was wide-eyed and red in the face.

Pedro didn't turn around, not even when he heard a sharp slap and a heavy thud. Nor when he heard yelling followed by soft crying. He simply poured the canned soup into a bowl and shoved it into the microwave.

By the time it finished everything had fallen silent, except for the ragged muted sobs that escaped Christopher.

He waited for the soup to cool before grabbing it and turning around. Truthfully he didn't entirely know how long he'd simply stood there, no thoughts crossing in mind, almost a meditative state. It would've been peaceful.

He took a moment to take in the scene before him. Christopher on the floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the front door with his left hand raised to his cheek. Peri stood over him, shaking, in a mixture of anger and shock. Din sat thoughtfully on the couch and Omera was nowhere to be seen.

"Chris," Pedro said. "Get up. You need to eat."

Christopher looked up, his hand still firmly pressed against his cheek, a violent red mark peeking through it.

"Get up," Pedro repeated firmly.

Another few seconds passed. Pershing stood back, his eyes fixed on the floor. Finally, Chris began to move, slowly. He stood on two shaky legs, using the wall to keep himself upright. His hand dropped to his side revealing the hand-shaped mark underneath, accompanied by a thin bleeding cut where one of Pershing's nails had made contact.

Chris stumbled toward the couch. Barely made it in time before he fell, collapsing onto the cushions. Weak, unsteady. Pedro leaned over to hand him the soup and he took it with a trembling right hand, then picked up the spoon with his left.

Left-handed.

Hadn't noticed.

"Eat," Pedro said. "You look like a corpse."