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

of the hurricane

The car ride was, to say the very least, uncomfortable.

Din would have liked to imagine it was because of his armour, he wasn't used to wearing it anymore. But that wasn't it. No, it was the silence. Even with the drone of the engine, the wheels across the road, traffic passing by, the silence was suffocating.

He sat in the back seat. Not because he didn't want to be next to Christopher, but because it was easier to hide. In hindsight, he probably should have packed his armour into a bag and put it all on before entering this facility. But it was too late now, and he couldn't be arsed taking it all off. He doubted he even could, strapped in as he was.

Christopher has his gaze firmly planted on the road ahead. As he should, he was driving, after all. But it was still somehow unnerving. The level of concentration, both hands tightly clenching the wheel. Anger? Fear? So hard to tell, with that poker expression. He was so emotive before, what changed...?

It wasn't a terribly long drive. He knew it wasn't, the clock in his HUD - which, admittedly, he had only recently gotten around to adjusting - told him it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, by the time they arrived. But every moment spent in that suffocating, deafening silence... it felt like hours.

The car pulled into a driveway. Din recognised the house, but yet it felt so different. Perhaps it was due to a change in circumstance; or perhaps it was simply due to seeing it in the warm daylight, instead of in the cold early evening. Looking at it now, it was easier to make out the details. Run down, in desperate need of repair. Even from the outside the house looked fragile. He tried to recall what it looked like before, but all memory was replaced by the adrenaline and anger fuelled by his need to save his brother.

Christopher opened the car door and pushed it open with his foot. He practically leapt from the seat, slamming the door behind him. Din found himself reluctant to get out until the front door was opened and he could rush in, but with the way Christopher was walking like he were about to faint at any given moment, he thought it might be a good idea to get out and ensure the man wouldn't fall backward down the stairs leading to the front door.

Catching up to him, he found him fumbling with a small set of keys. Hands shaking, trembling, as he sorted through the keys. He picked one after a few moments and moved to shove it in the door, but with his hand trembling so bad it didn't go in. So he tried again, with more force, only for the keys to fall straight out of his hand and onto the concrete. He slammed his closed fist into the door with a loud

"FUCKER!"

before bending down to grab the keys again, using the door he just punched to stop himself from simply keeling over.

Standing again, he finally got the key into the door and turned it. It unlocked with a click and the door swung open.

A long hallway. This he remembered vividly. Too wide, too long, with doors on each side. Christopher led him into a room off to the right, and another short corridor, before winding a corner and finding themselves in a large room he could only imagine tripled as study, lounge, and bedroom. A couch in one left corner and three mattresses lined up against the far right wall. Behind them, a desk with a cheap-looking laptop.

"This layout is strange," Din said, speaking for the first time since they departed.

"I know," came the quiet response. "It's old and supposedly haunted. Which is why we can afford to pay rent."

"...haunted?"

"It's not."

This was not a comfort. Din didn't believe in ghosts, much the same way he didn't believe in any gods, but the tone in Chris' voice was enough to make him second guess.