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He doesn't remember where he got the ship he's flying. Maybe he paid for it. Maybe he stole it. It wouldn't be like him, stealing a ship, but after everything that happened because he took on Moff Gideon for the sake of his child, he isn't going to assume anything.
If he's being honest with himself – which he isn't – everything from the fight with the dark trooper until now has been a blur with a single moment of clarity: seeing his son's face with his own eyes for the first and last time.
This, he thought, was why the Creed demanded they keep their helmets on in front of others.
Eyes told too damned much, and nobody should see how deeply they're loved by someone about to leave like that.
Something was wrong with him.
Was he in pain? Maybe. He didn't think so, though; pain was something he could shove aside. Save for the time he was willing to let himself die of a brain injury, there hadn't been a source of pain he wasn't able to walk off.
He hurt, though.
Hurt was new.
He didn't know what planet he'd left on this new-to-him, maybe-stolen ship. He didn't know what planet he was headed to. He had, presumably, been the one to input the coordinates. He was alone on the ship. He knew that much. He'd checked. He'd probably checked multiple times.
He'd slept, he thought. At least, he'd found himself coming back to consciousness a few times.
According to the ship's navigation, he still had two days until he got wherever he was going.
–
Migs Mayfeld was a man who'd spit on death only to have death back off three times in his life.
The first time was during Operation Cinder. He'd watched so many of his brothers-in-arms die without taking them with him. If he was quiet for too long, he'd start hearing their screams again.
The second was when Mando decided to lock him in a cell instead of kill him outright for the betrayal he'd been okay with committing despite not knowing the guy.
The third was after shooting the bastard who spearheaded Operation Cinder dead in the mess hall of a secret Imperial base while Mando sat next to him, dumbfound for a moment before leaping into action like he was made to kill every damned person in the room.
He left Migs alive then, too.
Then the Marshal let him go and neither of them shot him in the back. He didn't know why he thought they'd do that to him; they were both far too honorable people to do something like that if they didn't have to.
He'd laid as low as he could. He had yet to talk his way off the planet, but he had found work and nobody had asked him his name. Almost ironically, everyone who called him anything called him Green Eyes.
He only used the modifier almost because he didn't actually know what ironic meant and he was too damned old to ask.
And so, when he'd gone to the local bar at the end of the workweek to drink until he forgot his own name, he hadn't expected to find that damned Mando at the bar already, sans helmet and sans armor, clearly already past the point where any decent bartender would have cut him off.
Lucky for Mando there were no decent bartenders around here.
Unlucky for the both of them there was an acute shortage of decent people – in general but specifically in this general area. Migs couldn't blame them. They'd had their planet's primary exportable resource stolen by people with superior fire power and only got their planet back because Migs took the shot when he had the chance.
Not that anyone knew it was him.
Was he here to kill Migs like he could have twice already? Was he here to collect Migs because the Marshal changed her mind and the Marshal couldn't be bothered to come track him down?
The man was a bounty hunter, and what little time Migs had spent around him was all he'd needed to know Mando was a hunter. The fact he hunted in exchange for bounties was almost coincidental.
Now, though, Mando was a mess. Not only was he probably what other Mandalorians would call naked, he was properly drunk in a strange area.
If Migs was a decent person, he'd pull Mando out of the bar, get him back to whatever ship he'd flown in on, and call it a night. If he was a good person, he might even make sure Mando had some water or something he could drink in the morning to fight whatever magnitude of hangover he had.
Migs wasn't a decent person, though, and he was by no means a good person, so he flagged down the bartender and ordered his first drink.
He could feel Mando staring at him. The weight of it burned like cheap alcohol and definitely didn't leave Migs with the buzz he was here to feel. He spared a periodic glance up and over at Mando – never for long and not directly if he could help it.
He had, over the course of a few drinks, been able to tell that Mando was here alone, which told him he hadn't gotten his kid back yet but also those who had sworn him aid had abandoned him.
He wondered if Mando's allies had a habit of turning out to be pieces of shit.
If Mando was used to having no more than his own wits and strength to survive.
That was a dangerous line of wondering, so Migs cut it off with a shot of the cheapest clear alcohol the bartender kept. It made his stomach churn and his throat feel like he'd swallowed a knife, but it emptied his head.
He coughed once, the burn in his throat demanding it, and in leveling the sound and force of it off he made what may have amounted to the biggest mistake of his life.
He made direct eye contact with Mando.
The man had been broken by something in a way he hadn't been broken the afternoon Migs blew up the base.
And if he was here alone...
“Damnit,” Migs muttered under his breath.
Why tonight's drinks had to turn him into a decent person was beyond him, but he was on his feet and dragging Mando out the door before he could answer that question for himself, a handful of credits deposited to cover for the both of them and a few extra he hoped were taken as a Don't ask.
Mando didn't protest. Migs couldn't tell if Mando recognized him or was so drunk and so broken that he didn't care what happened to him.
Migs didn't see that shitty little Razor Crest anywhere, so, with some reluctance, he dragged Mando to the shitty little box of an apartment he'd been living in. Mando was quiet the entire way. Migs didn't exactly expect Mando to turn into a chatterbox even with alcohol in his system, but it was too damned quiet the whole way there.
He knew his apartment by heart, so he avoided turning on the lights as he made his way to his couch to deposit Mando. He'd pulled the thing out of somebody else's trash. It was threadbare and if you weren't careful the frame was sharp in places, but he'd get Mando to sleep on the floor or something after he got him some water.
Mando was asleep before Migs could even fill the glass.
“Great,” Migs said aloud to the darkness.
–
Din awoke slowly at first. His head was pounding and even with his eyes closed the room was too bright.
He was missing his helmet and armor, though, which meant he was to be on his ship.
Except his ship was destroyed.
The final stages of waking up happened all at once, the realization that he wasn't anywhere he called his terrifying him.
He wasn't on the new ship, either. He was on his feet and almost in a panic.
He needed to leave.
The door didn't open as he approached. He scrambled to find the control panel, checking all the obvious places first and then moving on to the less obvious places.
“Goddamn, Mando, are you trying to wake all the fucking neighbors?” a voice he knew asked.
He froze.
“Migs?” he didn't turn around to look.
“You don't remember last night at all, do you?” Migs asked.
Din shook his head no.
“Well,” Migs sighed, “you were at the bar I picked months ago to get piss drunk at at the end of every workweek, and I'm not about to pick another bar.”
“How'd I end up here?” Din turned around slowly to look in Migs' general direction.
“I brought you here,” Migs told him.
“Why?” Din couldn't stop himself from asking.
“Because we accidentally made eye contact and I couldn't deal with how damned sad you looked in a bar full of people who'd take advantage of that,” Migs sounded like he was telling the truth, “I didn't see your Razor Crest, so I brought you here.”
“It blew up,” Din told him.
“What?” Migs blanched.
Din meant to take a deep breath to buy some time before he responded, but he wound up sighing and telling Migs everything instead.
–
“Holy shit, Mando,” was all Migs could say when Mando was done telling his story, “but why here?”
“I don't know,” Din – his name was Din – wouldn't look at Migs, “The last several days are a blur.”
Migs could understand that.
“It hurts in a way I didn't know anyone could hurt,” Din kept talking.
“So you go to one of the most violent planets in the outer rim and get piss drunk in your blacks?” Migs asked.
“I think,” Din managed to look away even further, “I was hoping to replace it with a different hurt.”
“With a different-” Migs started saying before his head caught up with his mouth, “Shit, Mando, you can't just go looking for a hurt like that.”
“Why not?” Din was looking at him all the sudden, a spark of defiance behind the cloud of sadness.
“Do you know what men like those do to people who want to hurt?” Migs felt like he might start yelling.
“I think the plan was to find out,” Din sounded much less sure of himself.
“They wouldn't have just hurt you,” Migs tried to explain, “They would have harmed you. If you're going to be sure someone's just going to hurt, you gotta-you gotta talk about it, gotta ask someone and-”
“Would you?” Din cut him off, “If I asked, would you hurt me?”
–
Din's head was still pounding from the hangover, but now it was spinning, too.
Migs had so many rules for how he was willing to hurt him; the code seemed more strict than the Guild code or, hell, even the unspoken rules he'd known when he'd worked with Ran the first time.
If Din was being honest with himself, he didn't care about the rules Migs had for this. They seemed to be rules for Migs, anyways. Migs had been able to put what Din was looking for – to feel out of control in a way he could control, to feel physical pain to chase him out of his own head, to try to genuinely forget what had happened for a moment – into words and Din would have been able to tell himself it was terrifying how much Migs was making him feel Known.
Din wasn't in a place to be honest with himself.
The rules for Din were easy. Green for all-good, yellow for a pause, and if Din said red, Migs would stop.
If Din said stop or no or tried to fight Migs, Migs wouldn't stop. Nor would Migs stop if Din screamed, but he might ask Din's color if there was screaming.
Din understood this.
–
Migs hadn't done this to someone since he was still in the military.
One of the other sharpshooters had introduced him to the idea not too long before he first heard of Operation Cinder. The idea was simple: you sublimated the horrors you witnessed and were powerless to stop into something that felt equally violent and out of control with the knowledge you could stop it should it get to be too much for you to handle.
At first Migs had thought it was bullshit, but a few days later he saw the guy standing next to him get his head shot clean off.
Migs had spent that night on his knees being used as a fucktoy and he'd almost managed to forget why he was doing that.
Maybe a week later the same man asked him if he would do the same to him and, well, habits were easy to form.
So, yeah, it had been a while, but he was sure he remembered the how of it.
And here Mando – sure, his name was Din but he'd probably always be Mando first and Din second to Migs – had heard everything it entailed and hadn't backed down or altered anything.
Migs wasn't blind. Mando was easy on the eyes, fit, and usually had a spark to him that marked him as capable of being dangerous beyond readon and-
-okay, looking back, maybe Migs had a type.
“So,” Migs rolled his shoulders and felt them pop more times than he'd like, “Do you want to start easy, or hard?”
“Won't it be hard for you either way?” Din asked and it took Migs a second to realize it was a play on words, but when he did he laughed and grabbed Din by the back of the neck and hauled him back to his bed.
Din was nearly ragdoll limp in his grip, legs barely moving more than they had to to prevent Migs from dragging him entirely.
Migs threw Din onto the bed and Din landed face-down.
Migs was on him in a heartbeat. He flipped Din onto his back and growled.
“This how it's gonna be?” Migs asked, “Just gonna roll over for me and let me take you?”
Din said nothing.
“Quiet as ever,” Migs couldn't help the little laugh that escaped, “Alright Brown Eyes, let's see how your stoic quiet holds up.”
Migs reached down between Din's legs and started palming his cock. He squeezed Din's crotch and Din yelped.
“There we go,” Migs had found something that got a response.
He shoved Din's legs apart and settled himself between them.
“Look at you,” Migs was staring and he knew it, “eager.”
It was almost easy without Din fighting him.
Migs was hard. His pants weren't meant to be this fucking hard in.
He started opening Din's blacks when Din grabbed his wrist.
He slapped Din across the face.
“Told you,” Migs grinned, “Ain't stopping if that's how you're asking.”
Without a word, Din started to fight Migs. Migs could tell Din wasn't used to fighting without his armor, though. Din's blows were all over the place while Migs kept his concentrated where the armor would normally shield him.
The fight went from the bed to the floor to both of them on their feet. By the time he had Din pinned face-first against one of the walls, Migs was pretty sure he was bleeding from his eyebrow. Din would have an impressive scattering of bruises in a few hours.
Din had one of Migs' wrists in his hands and Din's other wrist pinned between Din and the wall.
“Color?” Migs hissed in Din's ear.
“Green,” Din said the world like he was trying to swallow it.
Migs managed to all but literally rip Din's blacks open. He shoved the damned thing off Din's arms and let gravity do the work from there.
Din made a noise that was near-equal parts frustration and fear.
“Now,” Migs whirled around and threw Din back at the bed. Din's blacks acted like a hobble and Din damn near tripped over himself before Migs could grab him by the base of the neck again and finish throwing him on the bed.
Din landed on his knees this time, but there was just enough room for Migs to force him to straddle his legs so Migs could get between them again.
Migs shoved Din forward once, twice, a third time before he stopped counting. He was finally able to reach forward to grab the lube he kept on his nightstand and start to work Din open.
“Fucking tight,” he started talking again as he inserted a finger in Din's asshole, “Shit, Mando, you'd almost think nobody's done this to you before.”
Din whimpered and tried to move away as Migs started wiggling his finger around and it occurred to him what maybe Din hadn't done this before.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that, so he shut it away to be processed later.
Migs worked a second finger in sooner than he should have. He knew he was rushing but he was still so fucking hard. Din was, too, or at least he had been when Migs had thrown him on the bed the second time.
He worked a third finger in with a little extra lube and truly worked Din open to a chorus of mixed pain-pleasure-fear sounds.
“There we go,” Migs took his fingers out, opened his pants just enough to get his dick out, and started entering Din with no ceremony behind the motions.
He didn't take his time bottoming out inside of Din. He had Din's hips in a vice grip.
“Color?” Migs asked before he started pulling out.
“Green,” Din's voice was strangled.
Migs set a ruthless pace and Din started crying out at every thrust.
“Fucking hell,” Migs was dimly aware he was babbling, “so fucking tight but so fucking pliant. Like you were made to be fucked.”
He kept up the stream of compliments interjected with things like little slut and knew you wouldn't be able to keep fighting me off.
Migs was close, so close, he knew he'd come in Din if he wasn't careful and-
-and Din sobbed so suddenly Migs' world came to a halt.
“Hey,” Migs tried to make his voice sound gentle as he pulled out, “Din, what's going on?”
Din didn't – or maybe couldn't – answer, so Migs took his shirt off, wiped down his dick, and laid on his side next to Din. It took some coaxing, but Din laid out flat on his stomach and let Migs effectively pet him while he calmed down.
“I'm sorry,” Din whispered, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry,” he repeated until he seemed to run out of sorrys.
“No need to be sorry,” Migs tried to assure him.
“I fucked up,” Din's face was pointed away from Migs.
“You didn't,” Migs meant it.
“I didn't even say red,” Din didn't sound like he actually wanted to be in the wrong but still sounded like he believed he should be in the wrong.
“I'm not going to fuck you through an active breakdown,” Migs didn't know better words for it, but they must have been the right ones because Din turned his head to look at him. His eyes were red and the hurt was so very there and Migs managed to keep the feelings of failing Din to himself.
“Thanks,” Din was almost back to whispering again.
Migs put an arm over Din's shoulders and Din took it as come closer. The next thing Migs knew, Din was snuggled against him, face buried in Mig's chest.
Migs bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet while he waited for Din to settle.
Once Din seemed like he was done shifting, Migs stroked Din's hair and told him things like there we go and I've got you.
Migs scared himself with how much he believed those things.
–
Migs wasn't sure how long they laid there like that.
When Din pulled his head back just enough to almost look at Migs, he figured it was time to start asking himself What now?
“Thanks,” Din was quiet but nowhere near whispering this time.
“Of course,” Migs wasn't quiet sure what he meant but it felt like the thing he needed to say.
“Now what?” Din asked.
“Haven't gotten that far,” Migs opted for honesty.
“What do I do?” Din seemed so full of questions while Migs wasn't sure how many answers he had in him, “If I need to get hurt again, I mean.”
“you find someone who knows how to hold you,” Migs at least had that answer.
“And if I can't?” Din looked down again.
“You know where I live,” Migs said it so effortlessly it surprised the both of them.
–
Din had stayed in Migs' bed almost the entire day. He'd drifted to sleep a few times, and each time he woke up he had one of Migs' wrists in a vice grip. The first time it happened, he asked and Migs told him he'd grabbed it when Migs tried to get up.
Din assumed that was what kept happening.
He hadn't expected Migs to be so damned accommodating. It was almost like there was some sort or wrong of loss much further in Migs' past than the two of them overlapped that Migs was trying to get right now.
At one point Migs had disappeared for a few minutes and came back with food and drink for the both of them.
At different points, they both stripped down entirely. Din knew he wouldn't have considered doing this voluntarily even the day before.
The fact Migs felt safe was tripping him up.
He'd deal with it later.
–
Migs expected Din to leave the next morning. He was awake, moving around, and back in his flight suit before sunrise.
“Where you headed?” Migs asked.
“No idea,” Din told him, “I just. I need to keep moving.”
It made sense. Hunters were constantly on the move, after all.
“What will you do?” Din asked him.
“What I've been doing,” Migs shrugged, “Work when they tell me to. Drink and sleep when I'm not working. Keep my head down.”
“Is it the life you want?” Din's words were suddenly clipped, almost rushed.
“Uh,” Migs wasn't prepared for a question like that, “It's the only life I've got left.”
“Why did you help me?” Din was still so full of questions, “I'm not complaining. I don't regret anything. I'm just. Not used to being helped for free.”
“You're the only good man I've met in my life,” Migs opted with the truth.
Din went very, very still and Migs held his breath.
Finally, a “Did you want to get off this planet?” came from Din.
It wasn't a question. Migs understood this.
It was an invitation.
“Yeah,” Migs only took a moment to answer because he was remembering how to breathe.
–
They left before the sun had finished rising.