#7daynosmutchallenge

[heavenseed76]

Contentment

Rating:G

Fandom: The Walking Dead

Summary: Daryl saves Paul from certain death and some truths are revealed

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, canon-typical violence

When mothers lift cars off their children it is not because their love or fear make them super strong. It is because adrenaline will make a person immune to the sensation of pain. Their muscles and tendons are often irreparably damaged. Human beings will tear themselves apart for the people they love. Daryl Dixon was no different.

He couldn’t recall how he was able to get to Michonne’s horse, nor how he hauled the limp form of his friend onto the horse with him. He was vaguely aware that he could hear Dog whimpering somewhere behind him, punctuating the sound of another horse beside him. In his arms, Paul Rovia, wrapped in a saddle blanket, armor long forgotten, slumped forward. Every few minutes Daryl could feel the man tense beneath his arm, locked as if it was welded across Paul’s chest. The man in his arms was in pain, barely breathing, but thankfully alive. Daryl couldn’t think beyond getting Paul back to Hilltop, to Enid, to safety.

Riding in the fog made a trip that would have taken eons stretch even further. There was no sense of distance, nothing to mark the passing of the miles. The trip, longer still holding his friend’s life in his hands, seemed like a dream: the ubiquitous nightmare where you try to reach someone at the end of a long path and the faster you run, the further away they become. With each gallop, Daryl could feel Paul’s life spilling out onto his chest, his arms, soaking the blanket he was wrapped in. He could feel the labored breath, deep pulls of air that went nowhere. At first Paul held on to Daryl’s arm as they rode, though they eventually fell away, too weak to hold on.

Through the fog, Daryl heard Aaron yelling for the sentries to open the gate at Hilltop before Daryl even saw the walls. Aaron kicked his horse into a sprint and easily passed Daryl’s horse. Seeing the end in sight, Daryl pressed his own heels into the flanks of the beast on which he rode and urged the animal to go faster. He followed Aaron straight to the medical trailer, where Enid and Alden were already helping him off his horse.

“No!” Aaron kept the wiggly bundle in his arms from slipping and motioned to Enid and Alden to help Daryl. “Get Jesus!” Without waiting for them to acknowledge him, Aaron rushed into the medical trailer.

Daryl brought his horse up short next to Aarons, and then there were too many hands, too many faces below him, pushing and pulling at Paul. At Enid’s insistence, her eyes full of dread and sympathy, Daryl broke the iron grip he had around Paul and let him slip gently into the waiting arms of Alden and Siddiq, who wasted no time making room for Henry and Kal to help carry his pale body into the trailer. He dismounted Michonne’s horse, letting someone with gentle hands take the reigns from him. He stood staring at the door, behind which two of the people he cared for most in the world could be dying, or worse, turning… Along with his beloved Dog.

He felt familiar hands on his arms, attempting to turn him aware from the trailer, and distantly heard soft words filter through the fog filling his mind, urging him to come away. Hot, angry tears spilled over and silently marked his blood-stained face and suddenly he was unable to catch his breath. He wanted to rush in and pull Paul back into his arms and never let go. If he died… If Paul turned… he needed to be there for that. But Aaron was in there, and he wanted to keep his friend from suffering that end alone.

“Daryl, come get cleaned up.” Carol’s voice was a solid mass he could anchor himself to, as his grief threatened to let him float away like ashes. He started to let her lead him into Barrington House, when Aaron came through the trailer door.

Eyes red, brows pulled in to etch lines of worry into his forehead, Aaron quickly made his way to Daryl.

“Dog’s gonna be OK. Paul…” Aaron’s voice wavered, but he swallowed and carried on. “Paul’s fighting. His lung collapsed and he lost a lot of blood.” Without warning Daryl pulled his friend into his arms, and with a sob he had been holding in the entire journey, Aaron hugged him back, fingers fisting in the worn leather of his vest. Watching them, the lump in Carol’s throat grew, and she had to cover her mouth with both hands to keep her cry from tearing a hole in the comforting bubble the men had made.

***

The sun burned away the fog that had settled over Hilltop, and the morning promised a beautiful day ahead. At a picnic table near the medical trailer, Aaron and Daryl sat vigil, their backs against the edge of the table top. Aaron absently cleaned his prosthetic arm with a rusty can of WD40 and a ragged bandana he kept for the express purpose. Like the Tin Man. Daryl thought. They were both clean, in clothes that didn’t smell like gore. Carol had not been able to coax either man into eating or trying to sleep.

“We’ve wasted so much time.” Aaron sighed and set the rag he’d been using aside. “This is a big damned wake-up call.” He was used to companionable silence with Daryl, used to holding up both ends of a conversation, so when Daryl didn’t respond, he just kept talking. “We’ve been lucky. To make it this long. But this world is still just as dangerous as it ever was. I feel so stupid…”

Daryl chewed his bottom lip, listening. He had been there when Aaron dove head first into being a father to Gracie, burying Eric’s death deep beneath the needs of a tiny, new being. It occupied his mind, it gave him an outlet for his affection and focused his energy. It did not, however, fill the gaping love-shaped void left when Eric’s corpse walked off into the woods. It was one of the many ways Daryl felt he had failed everyone in his life; it was one of the many reasons he walked off into the woods That Day, and didn’t look back. The seams holding his family together tore open That Day, and try as he might, he alone didn’t have the strength to stitch it back together. Neither did anyone else, apparently.

“I did it for you, you know.” Daryl said, his voice gravel in his throat.

Aaron turned his expressive blue eyes to Daryl’s, not having expected a two-way conversation. “Did what?”

Daryl looked away, unsure of himself. “Saved him. I know you two… I know he means a lot to you. I saw Dog attack that walker, and heard you yell, and I just, I don’t know man, I just couldn’t let him die…” Meeting Aaron’s eyes he said, “I didn’t want you to hurt no more.”

Something sparked in Aaron’s chest. Affection, love, gratitude… he didn’t know what or how many of those things he was feeling. He stared at Daryl for a long moment. There was only one thing he could think to say. “Thank you.” Aaron pressed infinitesimally closer into Daryl’s warm shoulder with his own.

Daryl nodded, glad he could make his friend smile, even if things didn’t turn out as well as they hoped. It had been hours, and except for Alden leaving to give Enid and Siddiq room to work, and getting Alex to come in to better assist, there had been little news of Paul’s welfare.

“I know you’ve been coming here to see him.” Daryl shifted nervously. “He make you happy?”

A man of few words, Daryl could say so much with so little effort. It took Aaron a moment to understand what Daryl was asking, and when the implication of the question hit him, he felt like he had been slapped. He scooted away from Daryl on the bench of the picnic table, so he could fully turn to face Daryl.

“You do know we’re just friends, right?” Aaron’s frown returned, and Daryl didn’t know how to respond. “We’re not… we’ve never… Jesus and I are good friends, that’s all.” Aaron watched confusion slide over the hunter’s face. If Paul weren’t dying behind the door of the medical trailer, Aaron may have laughed. “You know Jesus is… he’s in love with you!”

“No.” Daryl sat up taller, and Aaron could nearly see the walls being built around the other man.

“Yeah. He’s been in love with you since he brought you home from the Sanctuary! Daryl, how could you not know?”

The hunter stood, defiantly staring his friend down. “He don’t.” He tried to turn away, but Aaron was right there.

“He does. That’s what I meant! We all have to stop wasting time we might not have, Daryl!” Aaron grabbed Daryl’s bicep and swung around to face the stoic man. “I know you. I know you both. And if there’s anything I’m sure of, its that you two belong together. Even if I was interested, that man’s heart belongs to you!”

It was if the last brick fit into place in the fortress of Daryl’s heart. The realization that not only did Aaron see how he felt for Paul, but that Paul felt the same for him, and had made it a known fact. Overwhelmed with the severity of this revelation, Daryl’s dread swelled, and he felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the world. The truth Aaron spoke filled his eyes with hot tears, of shame and joy and sickening worry. Seeing all this take shape in his friend, Aaron pulled him in for an awkward hug.

The harsh slap of the trailer door snapping closed brought the men up for air. Standing on the steps to the trailer was an exhausted Enid, covered in blood. Neither could move, holding their breath.

A smile bloomed on the woman’s face as she said simply, “He’ll be OK.”

***

In his own bed inside Barrington House, Paul Rovia looked smaller than Tara had ever seen him. The trip up the stairs and into the bed had worn him out, and he fell asleep almost immediately. He didn’t even flinch as she started a new IV in his hand. She watched him, his breath shallow and lips twisted in a pained expression. He was pale, his eyes sunken. Laying in his bed with only a bandage across his chest, his strong body laid bare and vulnerable, Tara took stock of all the things they would have lost if the man in front of her hadn’t made it home. Despite his reluctance, Paul was a good leader, and she tried every day to convince him of it. People loved and respected him because he was willing to go outside the walls and risk it all to strengthen them.

“How is he?” Daryl’s low rasp shook Tara from her reverie.

“Exhausted. He’s got some pain killers, so he’s comfortable enough to sleep.” Tara covered Paul in a thin blanket. “Come in. Sit. I’ll be back in a bit to check on him.” Sheepishly, Daryl entered the room, letting Tara give his arm and affectionate squeeze as she went past.

It had been several days since the cemetery, and Daryl had barely slept. Seeing Paul gravely injured had shifted something inside him, something Aaron had nudged to hang just the right way.

“Gonna keep watch on me?” Paul’s voice was just a whisper on his lips. He turned his palm up on the bed, an invitation.

Daryl sat on the edge of the bed, slipping his big hand into Paul’s smaller one. “Feelin OK?” He let his thumb caress the top of Paul’s hand.

Paul nodded, then winced, which Daryl caught even though he tried to hide it. “As long as I don’t move. Or breathe.” He gave a Daryl a thin smile. “You’re too far away.”

Daryl slipped off his boots and lay down beside Paul, mindful of the bandage across his chest. “This OK?”

Paul hummed affirmatively. His limbs were heavy, though he positioned himself close enough to lay he head on Daryl’s shoulder. He laced his fingers together with Daryl’s between their bodies. He could feel the other man relax against him, and if he hadn’t been so exhausted, Paul may have quipped at Daryl to make him blush.

“I’m sorry.” Daryl placed a firm, confident kiss on Paul’s forehead. “Wasted too many years. We have a chance now and I ain’t gonna fuck it up.” He reached over and felt the smooth skin of Paul’s temple with the back of his hand, reveling in the new-found ability to show his affection.

Paul took his hand, kissing the palm and then holding it to his chest, just above his bandage. “You better not. I love you, Daryl Dixon, but you know I will kick your ass.” Paul’s lips quirked up on one side and he peered at Daryl through heavy eyelids.

Daryl huffed a laugh and kissed Paul’s head again, snuggling into the warmth of the other man’s presence. They fell asleep, Paul holding Daryl’s hand to himself, so the hunter could feel every beat of his heart. That is where Dog found them, limping on a bandaged leg, letting Aaron help him into the bed to curl up at their feet, content.

[fictitious-little-stitious]

Sandstone Skyline

Writer Wednesday 07-21-2021

Thank you @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape for making Writer Wednesdays work so well!

Characters: Maxwell and Alistair Lord.

Summary: Following the events of Washington, D.C., Maxwell Lord has been trying to do better and be better for his son. Over the course of their cross country road trip, he comes to realize the impacts of his business ventures on the natural world and his son. A scheduled detour reiterates his realizations, possibly emboldening him to commit to a better way.

Word Count: ~900

Rating: G

Warnings: ”artistic” license with sorta ignoring WW84 and taking liberties with the tourism business. I will update if I missed anything.

A/N 1: I am a white, cis writer. The prompt photo is of Monument Valley on the Navajo Nation (in parts of Arizona and Utah). Its Navajo name is Tse’Bii’Ndzisgaii. I want to acknowledge that this area is the traditional territory of the Navajo/Diné peoples. My story takes place in this area. To learn more about Monument Valley, visit the Navajo Nation Parks website. I go into more details about my perspective in A/N 2 at the end of the story.

Seeing this photo also reminded me of an interesting video from Vox about how Monument Valley became the go-to setting for cowboy/western movies and imagery.

~≈~≈~

Maxwell pretended not to notice the oil rigs that dotted the horizon and spread closer to the highway on their drive along Route 66. The rhythmic pumping was as monotonous as their presence. If his actions in Washington, D.C. weren’t enough of a wake up call, seeing those structures marr the landscape and the deep earth below was. He winced at the thought of Alistair counting them all, thankful that his son was eager to track license plates and car colors to pass the time. Alistair accounted for every color tenfold by the time they reached Oklahoma and only needed four more states. A day’s, maybe two days’, drive to Los Angeles still laid ahead of them.

They had supper the previous night in Albuquerque, followed by a late drive to Flagstaff. With a sleeping Alistair over his shoulder, Maxwell paid too much money for a room too poor that he would get too little sleep in. An early morning departure for Monument Valley meant they needed all the rest they could get. Maxwell was counting on this trail ride to work out, considering Alistair had mostly experienced Route 66 watching small towns and roadside attractions fade out of sight.

…..

He pulled the cheap rental car up to the ranch where a man stood in front of a corral full of saddled horses and a handful of wranglers. Several cars and a tour bus littered the dirt lot, their contents spilling out towards the corral. The man thoughtfully paired new riders to experienced horses, demonstrating his sense for disposition and matches that would relatively complement each other. Wranglers made quick work of boosting tourists into saddles and adjusting stirrups and cinches.

“But I want to ride the yellow horse! Why can’t I ride the yellow horse?”

“Will we see the Grand Canyon from here?”

“Giddy up! Giddy UP!”

The wranglers weren’t so much for the horses as they were for the tourists.

Once most of the visitors were situated, the man waved Maxwell and Alistair over towards a pair of dark brown geldings, one about a hand taller than the other. The young boy stared wide eyed at the sight. Horses were much taller than they appeared on screen. Maxwell gave him a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder and Alistair gave him an eager, albeit nervous, grin in return. He lifted Alistair onto the smaller horse, then walked to the left side of his mount. Much to his relief, a stool was placed beside the horse for him to step onto.

“Wherever you go, he’ll follow,” the man commented offhandedly while Maxwell swung into the saddle.

“Excuse me?” Maxwell asked, perplexed. But the man had already walked off to mount his own horse.

A wrangler stepped between Maxwell and Alistair. “These two are a reliable pair. We’ve had them in this string for years. Just sit back and they’ll take good care of you.”

Maxwell nodded at the wrangler, but kept his eyes trained on the back of the man. He ruminated on his words as the group rolled out.

…..

Forty odd minutes and one stop for photo opportunities later, the horseback group was atop a small butte overlooking the valley. The clouds did little to shield the group from the steady heat of the sun. But, in all fairness, their rental would not have been much cooler. Not that that made any difference to Alistair. He was engaged in a lively conversation with one of the wranglers, both of them ping ponging questions and answers back and forth. Seeing his son so excited reinvigorated Maxwell’s spirit more than any amount of sleep or financial success. He found himself hanging onto every word too, learning about the Navajo people and the wildlife that make this region their home.

There was a time, in the not so distant past, Maxwell would have given an investment pitch to anyone within earshot, particularly if he sensed desperation or naivety. And there was a host of naivety in this group for certain. He would have inquired about developments, landowners willing to make a deal, and contracts up for negotiation all in the game of big business.

But now, overlooking the rich earth and the mighty, towering sandstones, Maxwell was overcome with insignificance. A humbling insignificance that bloomed from awe, rather than aimless, useless guilt. For all of the wide open expanse before him, there was no room for guilt.

He didn’t think about how quick and convenient this trip would have been in a helicopter or how money could afford them an exclusive view from above. He didn’t compare and contrast the sandstone before him to the immense skyscrapers he had been to. But what he did think about was this valley that was so much more than a Western backdrop he had seen in cowboy movies on television. Its people were not relics of the past or “the bad guys”. The Navajo people they had met lived in a living, breathing place full of history and would endure through to the future, outlasting Maxwell and everyone else on the tour. Then he thought about the oil rigs. Some functioning, some abandoned, and some ready to be built.

So as he sat there, atop a horse with his son by his side, Maxwell committed himself to looking those oil rigs head on on their return trip. Acknowledgment was only the beginning of making peace so he could move on to doing better, being better.

And Alistair would follow.

~≈~

A/N 2: I gave this several read-throughs in an attempt to keep out any over-romanticism or stereotypical mysticism of this region and its people. My intention was to have Maxwell already having realized his impacts on the natural world and this visit to Monument Valley further confirms his newfound thoughts, rather than stereotyping this place as a transformative retreat for new visitors seeking enlightenment. I understand my white perspective is very limited, even with research and good intentions, so I will absolutely edit or delete this work if there’s critical feedback to do so or I come across new information.

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[heavenseed76]

Rabid

Summary: A hunt goes wrong and proves that walkers aren't the only danger in this new, cruel world.

Fandom: The Walking Dead, Desus

Warnings: Death, Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, character death

Snow was beginning to fall. They could hear the dry, icy flakes against the unfallen leaves in the forest around them. The sun was getting ready to set, and the trees stood out stark against the sky like sentinels. How ironic, Daryl thought. He would have laughed, except that his companion next to him was tense with fear. He lay in a copse of fallen trees, his head heavy against Paul’s legs. Paul took stock of their surroundings: the trail of undead that lay still in their wake, the drops of bright red blood slowly being devoured by the snow. He was thankful for that, as the blood trail led directly to where Daryl lay, blood pooling around him. The tufts of grey fur waving in the light breeze registered briefly, but he couldn’t focus.

“I’m sorry.” Daryl said softly. He looked up into Paul’s eyes. Paul’s hard look crumbled as he choked back a sob. “Hey, now.” Daryl pulled his lover’s head down toward his own, but Paul pulled back.

“You have no reason to be sorry. Fuck!” Jesus stood and began pacing. “If I’d had your back- seen it coming…” He put both hands on a nearby tree to steady himself.

“Paul, there’s nothing you could have done! Fighting walkers -you never know what’s coming up on your blindside.” Daryl winced in pain, as he struggled to turn where he sat to face Paul. His face twisted in pain and paled.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” Daryl barely heard the words, but they drifted down to him on the snow.

“How was it gonna happen? Walker bite? Starve to death? Gunshot?” Daryl snorted a laugh, “How’s a guy supposed to die in this world, Paul?” He sucked in a breath and exhaled raggedly.

“Fuck, Daryl, I don’t know. Christ…” Paul weakly punched the thick tree in front of him. “Fuck!” In a rage, he put his full force into his fists, pummeling the bark with no effect.

“Stop!” Daryl yelled. “Come here.”

Paul finally turned to face him, his sea glass eyes brimming with tears. He pressed the palms of his stinging hands into his eyes before returning to sit in the snow next to Daryl. They faced opposite directions, Daryl propped against a log, Paul kneeling in the snow next to him.

“Look at me, Paul” Paul watched Daryl’s lips as he spoke; they were red with his efforts to catch his breath. “We know I’m not making it out of this forest. Even if you could get me back to the car, that wolf was rabid. That’s the only way an animal would attack with walkers everywhere. The chances of Saddiq –“

“I know.” Paul cut him off, his voice hard, but his hand coming up to gently move the hair out of Daryl’s eyes. His fingers trailed down to Daryl’s chin, where he paused. Daryl subtly leaned in to the touch, and the men regarded one another. The cold cloud of their breath mingling.

“Kiss me?” Daryl tugged on Paul’s coat and pulled him down into a kiss. Paul let himself be pulled in, taking Daryl’s face in his hands. It was sweet at first, a kiss they may have shared any other day. They had long ago become accustomed to asking the other before moving in to kiss; what had at first been a way to honor Daryl’s aversion to public displays of affection turned into an endearing ritual. Daryl held Paul to him, one hand going to the back of his neck. He tried to deepen the kiss, desperate to forget where they were and why.

But as they kissed, it occurred to Paul that this would likely be their last kiss. The last time Daryl would run his hands through his hair. It was the last time he would feel the scratch of his beard against his own. Tonight he would be going back to their little house, alone. And the “never agains” and “last times” shot through him, and he broke their kiss with a sob, pulling Daryl into him. Daryl let himself be cradled against Paul’s strong chest.

“I don’t wanna die.” Daryl sobbed. “I’m so fuckin scared.”

“I know. I know. I’m not going anywhere, love.” Paul kissed the top of Daryl’s head. “I’m gonna be right here with you.”

With every sob, fresh red blood flowed more heavily from the inside of Daryl’s thigh. His pants were torn to shreds there, and a deep bite gushed with every heartbeat. The hastily fashioned tourniquet only slowed the inevitable.

“You have to go on.” Daryl stated simply. His voice was muffled against Paul’s leather coat “Don’t spend time on me.”

“How can you say that?” Paul started, but Daryl gripped him tighter.

“I never felt needed until the world went to shit, Paul. Now I have everything. Everything I didn’t know I wanted.” Daryl pulled back to look at Paul. His lover’s face was streaked with tears, lips trembling with unvoiced sobs. “I aint never loved anything or anyone til I met you. I never thought I could. And now… now I can’t do shit about dyin. Except I’m asking you to live. Just, live, OK?”

Paul looked up into the quickly fading light of the sky and took several deep breaths.

“I don’t know how to do this without you Daryl. I don’t. I thought I had lived a good life, I thought I finally had....” Jesus looked down at Daryl, and couldn't finish. Daryl’s face was beaded with sweat, his breath heavy and skin pale.

“You take my vest – Rick will know what to do with it. You leave me here. Under the stars. I’m right where I need to be if I can’t be with you.”

Jesus’ resolve cracked and kissed Daryl between tears. He kissed Daryl’s forehead and eyelids and the corner of his mouth and his bearded chin, whispering “I love you.” Over and over again. It took what was left of Daryl’s strength to pull himself up and further into Paul’s lap.

“I ain’t gonna last much longer, love.” The cold was beginning to creep further up Daryl’s body and it was harder and harder to catch his breath. Paul held his as close as he could, fist gripping Daryl’s jacket, where he could feel the desperate slowing of his heart.

As Daryl’s vision began to fade, Paul’s came into sharp focus. The crystalized clouds of his breath, the snow falling faster now and the sky burnished with red and gold through the clouds.

Daryl clumsily pawed at Paul’s face, so that the other man would look at him. “I’m still gonna be loving you. Don’t forget.” His deep blue eyes held Paul’s for as long as he had the strength to keep his eyes open. Paul simply smiled down at him, lovingly, letting his smiling face be the last thing Daryl saw.

As Daryl’s eyes closed, Paul began to sing softly.

“Fare thee well my bright star,  I watched your taillights blaze into nothingness, But you were long gone before I ever got to you, Before you blazed past this address…”

As he felt Daryl’s heartbeat begin to falter, the man in his arms trembled like a scared bird, he reached back gently and pulled the knot out of the tourniquet.

“And now I think of having loved and having lost' But never know what it feels like to never love' Who can say what's better when my heart's become the cost; A mere token of a brighter jewel sent from above…”

And then there was no more. The trembling ceased and no heartbeat followed the last. The sound that came from deep within Paul’s chest was the pained, strangled cry of a broken man. His keen echoed through the uncaring forest. When he finally had enough control of himself to stand, he laid Daryl back down in the snow. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and full dark would soon be upon him. Absentmindedly, he continued the song as he unsnapped one of his knives from his belt. He smoothed down his archer’s hair to frame his handsome face, which looked so peaceful and relaxed.

“Fare thee well my bright star; The vanity of youth, the color of your eyes And maybe if I'd fanned the blazing fire of your day-to-day; Or if I'd been older I'd been wise…”

Paul leaned over and pressed the tip of the knife behind Daryl’s ear and leaned down to kiss his cold forehead. Fresh tears spilled over as the knife broke through.

He let go of the knife, the thought of putting it back on his belt turning his stomach. With a deep, shaky breath, he rose to his feet.

Gingerly, he rolled Daryl and removed the man’s vest. He held it to his face and inhaled the musky smell before stashing it in his pack. He unsnapped Daryl’s own knife and took his gun from his hip. Steeling himself, he found the crossbow nearly completely covered with snow. From the quiver, he took one of Daryl’s perfect, handmade arrows, fletched with owl feathers, and tucked it inside his duster. He placed the crossbow on Daryl’s chest and regarded his partner one last time.

Snowflakes were sticking to their eyelashes, though they lay heavy and whole on Daryl’s, melting into fresh tears on Paul’s. The urge to lay beside him and let the cold take him was strong. But Daryl had asked so little of him, he couldn’t give up and let go. He arranged Daryl’s strong hands over the crossbow and stood.

Walking slowly through the dark forest, alone, leaving his love in the snow, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

[heavenseed76]

Arco Iris

Summary: Everyone in the Andromeda Galaxy viewed the world in shades of grey. Until they met their soulmate. The Mandalorian's quest completed, he is without purpose. Finding his soulmate might be the push he needs or it might just be another thing to run away from.

Rating: PG13 (for now)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of violence

A/N: This is not a new idea, for sure, but one I've never explored before. There will be much angst, and rating will go up as it goes along. Slow burn.

Chapter 1: Aimless

Aimless. That was the word that came to mind when Din Djarin sought to define how he felt. Aimless. No covert to provide for. No desire to fulfill his appointed destiny as ruler of Mandalore. No real drive to find a new ship and return to bounty hunting. All of those things would require effort on his part. He had the means to buy whatever ship he wanted. He had a lucrative job with Boba on Tatooine if he chose. He could be king of a whole fucking planet; the key to Mandalore lay at the bottom of a trunk in Cara Dune’s spare room. None of it mattered. Whenever he thought of doing any of these things, there was a hole there, it’s shape distinct and fathomless. Finding the rest of his people felt like the most viable option. He’d found the kid’s people, now he should find his. But that would require effort. Effort to forget, effort to step past that gaping hole that sought to swallow him. A swirling, sucking black hole, it was, seeking to pull him in and in and in until it crushed him. He hovered outside its gravity, not caring if he tipped over the edge, though not bothering to leap in either. Aimless.

That’s where he found himself, roaming the streets of Nevarro, an hour to kill before he had to pick up a cart of supplies for the magistrate from the landing pad outside the town. The day was bright and clear, cloudless as far as the eye could see. The market was just opening, fresh faces setting up for the day, smiling and calling out greetings to one another as they placed tables and baskets on the packed clay earth. They paid him no mind; he was a familiar sight these days, the Mandalorian from Nevarro. He was neither feared nor hated. He just was.

His feet had taken him to a familiar market stall, where an old man was being sat down in a rickety chair just outside his dwelling. A young woman in light grey robes easing the aged figure into the seat with practiced and loving hands. The man held a staff, it’s top third wrapped in leather, his face a rictus of pain, deepening the sulci of his wrinkled and time-work skin. Din came to stand in front of the man, casting a long shadow over him. The man smiled warmly and held out a withered hand.

“Mando! To what do I owe the pleasure! It’s been a long time my son!”

“Ezekiel. It has been awhile. I’ve been away on business.” Din offered, taking the man’s hand in both of his.

The woman who had helped Ezekiel to sit was raising the dwelling’s awning behind him, providing more shade.

“Business, of course. I received that Krayt skin you sent from Tatooine. Gorgeous, just beautiful! Now perhaps you’ll tell me the real story.” Ezekiel leaned in to Din with a conspiratorial edge to his voice. His milky, blind eyes crinkled with mirth.

Din’s shoulders shook with a snicker that didn’t quite make it through the vocoder in his helmet. “My message told the whole story Zeke. Killed it from the inside out, I swear!” Din patted the old man’s hand affectionately.

Ezekiel snatched his hand away, affronted. “Now you can’t lie to old Ezekiel!” He pointed an accusing finger at Din. “And if that’s the story, there’s no way I’m letting you give me this treasure. It ain’t every day a man gets swallowed by a Krayt Dragon and lives to tell the tale, now.” Ezekiel sat back in his chair. “Now, what can I do you for, Mando?”

Din smiled beneath the helmet, but outwardly he just shook his head in amusement. Ezekiel was likely the oldest resident of Nevarro, a leather-smith by trade who made his living by making the finest gloves, holsters, bandoliers and other leather goods outside of Naboo. His weathered and arthritic hands were a testament to how hard he worked, refusing to resort to droids and machines to do the intricate sewing and forming and sculpting animal hides into usable items.

“I lost my ship some months ago. I need to replace my secondary gear. All I have is what I have on me.” Din said quietly.

Ezekiel shook his head in sympathy, tutting. “Ain’t that something. Sorry to hear it, son.” Ezekiel scratched under his lip. “You have a list?”

“I do.” Din pulled out a piece of flimsi. It was worn, having been folded and refolded, written on and crossed out over and over again.

Ezekiel motioned for the woman who had assisted him to sit, who was now standing by the open door to their home, watching the exchange. “Have you met my granddaughter?” Ezekiel smiled up at Mando as the woman approached, pride and affection radiating off the elderly man. “Sera, this is Mando. Mando, this is my Serafim.”

For a moment, Din couldn’t move. The woman in the light grey cloak appeared to be a void, her skin was so dark. Her hair was only slightly lighter than her skin, hanging in dreadlocks adorned with silver bands, shells and beads. Only the pouty bow of her mouth and her impossibly light grey eyes cut through the coal black of her skin. While her expression was not unkind, it was hard as she held out her hand for the list Din held.

“Hello. Serafim.” Din replied with a start. He handed the list over, letting it slip through his fingers. He watched as she took it, her own hand a dichotomy of dark and light, her palm several shades lighter than the skin of wrist and arm. The contrast of the silver cuff she wore even more stark as it glinted in the sun.

“Mando.” Serafim’s smile was thin and didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m getting old and I’ll be moving on soon. Sera will take over here when I’m gone.” Ezekiel spoke as if he would be going on an extended vacation, rather than his impending death from old age. “Oh! I almost forgot!” Ezekiel made to rise. “I have your last order in the back. Rancor leather, pair of gloves. Been gatherin dust.”

Serafim put a hand on Ezekiel’s shoulder. “I’ll get them, Papa.” She helped Ezekiel ease back into the seat once again and disappeared into the house without a glance back to the Mandalorian.

“I’ll be sure to get on that list. Sera will be my apprentice, if that’s alright.” Ezekiel smiled.

“That will be fine.” Din agreed in his signature stoic manner.

Around Ezekiel’s stall, more of the market was coming to life, banners waving in the wind, all shades and textures advertising food, electronics, weapons and household items. Some of the higher-end shops boasted their wears with neon signs that shone even in the day, offsetting their message with brightness against the dull grey of their tinted windows, the transperisteel a darker shade to give it contrast.

“Here you are Papa.” Serafim held out a small package to Ezekiel who simply gestured to the Mandalorian.

“Well, have him try them on.” he said.

Serafim held the paper-wrapped bundle out to Din. He took it from her hand and laid it on the table between them, unwrapping it. Mid-grey leather gloves lay folded in the paper, the scent of the curing lotion wafting up and permeating the air even through the filters in his helmet. Din pulled off his own gloves and set them aside, pulling on the new gloves. He wriggled his hand in them, the leather feeling stiff. “Seems small.” He mumbled.

“They need to be worked in. Sera, help the man out.” Ezekiel instructed.

Sera huffed through her nose, displeased, but reached over the table nonetheless. Din held out his arm to her. Sera pulled off the glove and turned it almost inside out before reaching over and clasping her hand around Din’s wrist.

It was a punch to the gut that knocked the wind out of both of them. Blazing white light burst behind their eyes and then the world was flooded with color. The banners blowing in the breeze, the rich clay of the earth, Din’s orange gloves, Sera’s deep soil-dark skin and impossibly blue eyes. Sera was touching a live wire and couldn’t let go. Neon green bakery signs and red banners, purple baskets and colors neither had a name for flooded their senses until Din took a step back and Sera let go of his wrist.

Gasping for air, both Sera and Din heaved in lungfuls of precious oxygen, gripping the table between them.

“What did you do?” Din choked out.

“Color? Is this... color?” Sera asked.

Beside them, Ezekiel had taken in the brief exchange with curiosity. Now, he understood. A smile crept over his face as Din and Sera regained their equilibrium. “Well, I’ll be damned.”