Archive of Our Own

Grogu lets out an annoyed sigh. The leaves are pretty, olive green and clustered in groups of three, their edges reddish orange and serrated in an interesting pattern. Maybe he’ll find a way to touch them later.

The path twists and turns as they descend lower into the valley. Grogu watches the plants and rocks as they walk, sniffing deeply as they pass a plant of shiny, spiky dark green needles, or a plant of pale long leaves and purple-pink flowers. He settles into the man’s arms, his eyes growing heavy with the rhythm of the footsteps.

Grogu yawns, opening his eyes and stretching his arms upward. It’s getting dark now. His ears swivel, picking up sounds of bugs chirruping, birds calling hoodu, hoodu, a trickling sound. He smells water.

The footsteps stop and the man lowers him to the ground. “Stay close, buddy. I’m gonna check and see if this stream has fish for dinner.” Grogu scrubs his eyes with his fists, blinking, and hurries to keep up with the man. His feet sink into mud and he giggles, feeling the squishy sensation between his toes. This might be a good place for --

His ears twitch. Little sounds, familiar sounds, skitter along the water’s edge. Grogu’s stomach rumbles. He reaches out through the Force, feels a little creature hiding in the mud, feels its heartbeat -- he pounces!

The frog squirms in his hands, wet and slippery and smelling delicious. He shoves it into his mouth, and the man finally notices him. “Hey! What have I told you about --” The man sighs. “Oh, go ahead.”

Grogu swallows his prize, grinning. He will never understand why the man doesn’t seem to like frogs, the best food in the galaxy.

The man turns back to him, holding up a fish squirming on the end of the cord that comes out of his wrist sometimes. “Come on. We’ll have some real food, too.”

Grogu scowls. Frogs are real food.

The man cooks the fish over a little fire. It does smell good, though. Grogu sits close to the man’s boot, leaning against it. He likes dinnertime with him. The man always gives him tasty things to eat, and he likes to talk some while Grogu eats.

Sometimes the man is so quiet, and Grogu can only get little flashes of him through the Force, focus and duty and… and fear, sometimes. Grogu knows that one. But he never feels fear when the man sits with him in these moments, around the fire.

“Hey, look here, kid,” says the man, stepping away from the small flames. He beckons to Grogu, and he follows curiously. The man crouches beside a bush. It smells good, crisp and herbal. It’s one of the pale bushes that he saw on the path, instead of the one with the pretty red-edged leaves. “This bush is okay for you to touch. It’s called whiteleaf. We can cook the fish with it.”

Grogu reaches out, stripping a few leaves from the plant. He crushes them against his palms, smells the clean herbal scent, and grins up at the man. He plucks a few more, then carefully holds them out for the man to take.

“Thank you,” he says. He takes the leaves and adds them to the fish. The smell is rich and Grogu licks his lips. He holds up his hands, grasping for the food.

“It’s hot,” the man warns, putting a portion of fish into a small dish and handing it to Grogu. “Let it cool for a minute.”

Grogu sits down with his treasure, balancing the dish on his knees. He blows on it to cool it down, and glances up at the man, who is taking the rest of the fish.

“We’ll rest up tonight,” says the man. He lifts his helmet slightly to take a bite of food. Grogu watches intently. He had known right away the man was not a droid -- he could feel the man through the Force, hear his heartbeat pounding -- but it had taken some time to realize that his silver skin, his armor, could be adjusted or removed. He looks at the man’s chin, watching as he eats the fish. He senses contentment, ease.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Grogu startles at the man’s question, then takes a bite of his fish. The whiteleaf tastes rich and earthy under the delicious fishy flavor. He hums a cheerful sound, then leans against the man’s boot again, giving him a gentle nudge.

“There you go,” the man says. “It’s pretty good. We used to eat a lot of fish here. River trout’s the best, but greengill are all right, too.”

Grogu finishes up his fish, his eyes getting heavy. A content feeling of fullness spreads through him, and he sighs, leaning harder against the man’s leg.

“Getting sleepy, pal?” he asks. “It’s been a long day. C’mon.” He picks Grogu up, cradling him in his lap, and Grogu curls up against him. Up above Grogu can see the stars, swinging bright and glittery in the darkness. The insect chorus gets louder, and Grogu senses them, tiny pinpricks of light in the Force all around them. It makes him feel relaxed. He remembers the Jedi temple, feeling others around him all the time, safe and content in their home.

“I think we’ll make it to the covert tomorrow,” the man says quietly. “If they’re there, maybe they can lead us to a Jedi for you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Grogu frowns. The Force contracts around the man, his normally bright signature darkening. Fear. Dread. Sadness. Grogu doesn’t understand. Usually the man’s words match the way he feels, strong and strong, sad and sad, angry and angry. But when the man brings up Jedi, the words and the feelings never match.

Grogu grips the man’s hand with his own, closing his eyes and holding on tightly. He tries to send an image of the two of them by the fire in the cool evening breeze, the sound of insects buzzing in the dark, good fish in their bellies, and he tries to send happy, safe, now.

But the man just pulls him a little closer, hand brushing over Grogu’s ears, and says, “We’ll find that place where you belong.”

Grogu shifts in his soft blue blanket, a gift from the nice lady on the planet of trees and krill and frogs. He misses the children he used to play with there, Winta and Soris and Nibs. He wonders if he will see them again, but no visions come to him, no future sight showing the children delighted to see his return. He pushes his blanket aside.

The dawnlight is bright and fierce, and he squints against it. He gets to his feet, standing up tall and looking over the man, who still seems to be asleep beneath his own blanket on the rocky ground.

Maybe he can find something for breakfast while the man sleeps. Another frog, maybe, or even a fish! Wouldn’t the man like that? He carefully walks to the stream edge, watching the water sparkle beneath the sunlight. He glances to his side and sees the pretty red-edged leaves, fluttering in the breeze. Fire-nettle. But maybe the man is wrong, maybe he’s mistaken --

Grogu grabs the pretty leaves. For a moment he feels excited, seeing the way the green and red looks against his hands. And then he realizes --

He can’t help it. He closes his eyes and lets go of the leaves and wails.

The man is there, flinging his blanket aside and rushing to the stream’s edge. “What is it, kid? What happened? Are you okay?”

Grogu holds out his hands, quivering. They burn! His skin prickles and sears, and he whimpers, stumbling towards his protector.

The man carefully takes his hands in his own, examining them. “Did you -- oh, no, the fire-nettle,” he groans. “Come here, come here, quick.” He plunges Grogu’s hands into the cool stream-water, and the burn lessens. He holds Grogu’s hands deep in the water, and Grogu trembles.

“I told you,” says the man, but his voice is gentle. “You have to be careful, okay? Don’t scare me like that. How are your hands?”

Grogu shakes his head back and forth, wincing. They still hurt. It isn’t fair! The leaves were so pretty.

The man sits him on his knee, holding him there with one hand while he rummages in his belt for something with the other. He pulls out a little packet of ointment and squeezes it into Grogu’s palms, then rubs his hands together. Cooling relief spreads over his hands, and Grogu sighs gratefully.

“Feeling better?” the man asks. He rubs Grogu’s back with one hand, cradling Grogu’s sore hands in the other one. He is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks again, Grogu feels it coming from him, that warmth, that gentleness.

“I learned this the hard way too,” he admits. “I was young when I lived here, and it was only for a few months. We had to move a lot to stay safe. I heard some of the older fighters talking about fire-nettle, about getting it on their armor and their hands. I thought --” He chuckles. “I thought they were being too cautious.”

His knee bounces slightly, Grogu bouncing with it. He smiles a little at the bouncing as the man continues. “One of them dared me to hold some. I took off my gloves and… Well, it has that name for a reason, kid. Which you now know. My hands didn’t stop burning for a week.” He shakes his head. “But this ointment should take care of you. You let me know if you need more, all right?”

Grogu nods, looking up at him. He’s so bright in the sun, bright enough it hurts his eyes, but Grogu keeps looking at him anyway. He loves the way he shines.

They travel through the morning. Sometimes Grogu walks at his side where the path is relatively flat, and he enjoys the feeling of silty, sandy soil under his toes. He smells the plants as they walk through scrubby hills and valleys, and though he stays far away from fire-nettle now, the man teaches him names of some of the other things they see. Whiteleaf and bitterbush, good for cooking. Shivertree: the man lifts Grogu’s hand and rests it on the smooth reddish bark. It’s cold! Much colder than the warm outside air. It makes Grogu’s mouth drop open in surprise.

They pass short trees the man calls buckleberry, golden bushy plants he names shimmershrubs. The coarse grass waving on the hillside he says is red cheatgrass, and the white flowers like soft bright stars he says are snow weeds. Grogu looks at all of them, and he marvels that the man knows so many names.

Sometimes there are animals. In the distance they sometimes see the baj’uliik, but there are nicer things, too; the man points out wild bantha, flower beetles, no-no birds and grub worms. (Grogu eats three before the man notices and scolds him.)

Lunch is a hill hare the man shoots with a blaster and roasts over open flame, flavored with bitterbush that Grogu helps him collect. The meat is rich and juicy, savory and tender. The man cooks well. Grogu belches broadly as he finishes his meal, and the man laughs, a sound that rings out metallic and true. Happy and happy. There is no talk of Jedi.

The evening sun slants low over the canyon. There are small buildings below them, a little group of them clustered together. Plants grow on the roofs, mostly hiding their forms, but with the sun hitting them Grogu can see streaks of gold and red in windows and on the edges of the walls. He looks up at the man curiously.

“That’s the covert,” the man says, his voice rough. “It may still be in use by others of my kind.”

Grogu thinks of the strange word the man keeps thinking, feeling, when he says things like that. Mandalorian. He talked of it a lot on the planet of ash and lava, when the Ugnaught and the droid tried to help them; others say it, too. He wishes he understood. He knows it’s important. Is it like Jedi?

The man carries him close on the path down into the canyon. Grogu catches determination and something complicated that he doesn’t have the words for. It’s like hope and fear combined. The man’s footsteps are careful and measured, and Grogu scans the environment as they walk, looking for signs of other people.

He casts his awareness out into the Force. He has grown used to the lonely feeling of never feeling anything reaching to him, but there is still a part of him that hopes something will touch back.

It doesn’t, this time. He closes his eyes, reaching, reaching, and finds only tiny creatures among the walls, beings even smaller than himself. Little grass mice, scurrying in the empty buildings. He reaches up to the man, his claws tapping against the metal armor, but the man just nods at him, absently patting the back of his head. “We’ll be there soon, kid.”

Grogu sinks back against him, letting out a long breath. The man will find out soon enough.

The man sits quietly on a stone bench in a solitary courtyard, secluded and hidden by the canyon walls. The last rays of the day’s sun line the edges of the walls in gold, leaving the rest in deep blue shadow. Grogu walks through the gritty soil, bending down periodically to poke at a glittery green beetle or play with a patch of blue-flowered grass. He tries to distract himself, but the man’s feelings buzz in the back of his mind, louder than they ever have before. The more the man protects him and keeps him safe, the easier it is to feel him, all the time.

The man sits very still and calm on the outside. But confusing memories flicker through him, snatches of sound and image that Grogu can only catch little pieces of. He remembers far-away lessons in the Temple, Master Yoda teaching him about people who could use the Force the way they do, and people who could not. He remembers Master Yoda saying the Force is in all living things, that even if a person cannot use the Force, the Force still surrounds them. Grogu concentrates and he sees --

The young man in the silver helmet, training hard in the courtyard, taking blows that make his head rattle and his teeth ache, but he has to -- has to prove he’s worthy --

The burn of fire-nettle on his hands, slipping gloves back over the skin despite the throb, the laughter of the other young people --

A language Grogu doesn’t recognize, but its words mean home and family --

Hurrying to gather his things, the voices of the others urgent and metallic, fleeing through the canyon paths --

The dark tunnels beneath the town, the man sinking to his knees, loss rolling off of him in waves --

The shining woman in gold and red, metal sparking under her hands, speaking words of clan and quest --

Grogu walks back to the man, his hand held tight around the stem of a bluegrass flower. His palm feels smooth and whole again, the burning of the fire-nettle a distant memory.

He tugs at the man’s leg, holding up his flower when the man’s shining head tilts to look at him. The man sighs, a long, shivering sound. “For me?” He reaches out and Grogu presses the flower into his hand. “Thanks, buddy.” He lifts Grogu onto his lap, stroking one of his ears gently between his fingertips, and in his other hand, he carefully holds the flower.

“I wish we could have found them,” the man says. “I thought I could help you here.” Disappointment, loneliness, relief. Grogu shakes his head, confused. He reaches to the man’s arm, tugs on his sleeve.

“I never thought I’d see this place again,” he says, gazing down at Grogu. “We were safe here, for a time.” He looks around at the courtyard, the light vanishing into darkness. “Come on, kid. Let’s get some rest. It’s too late to hike back tonight.”

He carries Grogu through the halls, switching a light on his helmet that shines bright in the dark. The hallways are lined with bunches of cheatgrass or climbing vines, and Grogu can hear the grass mice scampering on the floors as they pass.

“There’s the public quarters,” the man says mechanically. “If your meal and training and work were done, you could spend time here. Talk to people. I didn’t do it often.” Grogu nods. That seems right.

“Here’s the mess. We’d prepare food here, take shifts serving. We ate alone except for family groups. Easier, that way. It’s where I learned about some of the food on this world.” He waves at the empty hall, and dust shifts as they move onward.

“There’s the weapons lockers. We each had one for our own weapons. The whole room was cleaned three times a day to keep the dust out.” But the dust is thicker here than anywhere else.

“And here’s my quarters,” he says suddenly, stopping in front of a narrow doorway. He jimmies the door open, since it doesn’t light up, and they slip inside. There’s a small bed inside, barely bigger than the one back on the man’s ship, and a cramped refresher unit wedged into the back. A narrow metal cabinet leans against the wall, its drawers open and empty. The man shoves the drawers back in and settles on the sleeping surface, and Grogu coughs in the dust.

“Sorry,” the man says, fanning the air rapidly to try and move the dust away from him. “I guess it’s been a while.” He wipes away as much dust as he can from the bed and stretches out on it, holding Grogu carefully against his chest. Grogu holds himself up on his forearms, looking curiously at the man.

“What is it, kid? What do you need?”

Grogu sits back down against the man’s armor, huffing. He doesn’t need anything. He just wants. That’s different. He looks around at the little room and he wonders if it was like the temple, long ago. He tries to see inside the man’s mind, but it’s gotten muddled again, and Grogu gives up, frustrated.

“Well, you tell me if it’s something major,” says the man. “Vacc tube probably still works. And I have more of that bacta ointment, if your hands are bothering you. You let me know, okay?” He pauses, then realizes. “You need a story?”

Grogu babbles, climbing up so that he can rest against the little spot of softness between the man’s face and the metal on his shoulder. The man rubs his back, holding him close.

“Hm,” the man begins. Grogu has noticed it always takes him a little while to come up with a story. He doesn’t know any of the Jedi stories, the tales of heroes of the past, the ones they used to tell him in his old home. But sometimes the man tells stories of his own people, and sometimes he tells stories with Grogu in them, too. Grogu loves them all.

“I learned a lot here,” the man says thoughtfully. “I had just sworn the Creed, and there was much I still needed to learn. I practiced with weapons and the Rising Phoenix. I know -- I told you the baj’uliik didn’t like the Rising Phoenix -- well, we used to use them for target practice. One of us would practice our flying. The other one would practice their aim. Sometimes there were some close calls.” He chuckles. “One day the baj’uliik came flying right toward me. I tried to fly away, but I couldn’t shake it. It took a bite out of me.”

Grogu’s mouth falls open. He grabs the man’s cloak, holds onto it tightly.

“I was fine!” he says hastily, patting Grogu. “But I lost my training Phoenix. The baj’uliik swallowed it, I fell about twenty feet straight down and broke my leg, and my partner was so surprised she let it get away. For all I know, it’s still flying somewhere out there, just a little bit heavier than all its friends. That’s why I didn’t have a Phoenix until our last trip to Nevarro.”

Grogu turns around, looking at the man’s leg. Is this why the armor on his legs is not the same, why one leg is heavier, why it’s nicer to hug the leg wrapped in leather instead of the leg clad in metal?

“Yeah,” the man says, bending the right leg and tapping it below the knee with his knuckles. Metal clinks on metal. “This helps keep it steady. It never healed quite right. But it still works fine, kid, don’t worry.”

Grogu swallows his worry. He feels mild embarrassment coming from the man, but nothing like pain, nothing like fear. Grogu relaxes, letting out a sound of curiosity.

“Tomorrow we’ll keep an eye out for the baj’uliik,” the man says. He leans back against the dusty bed, considering. “It was an opponent worthy of respect. Even if it tried to eat me.” He chuckles again. “Especially since it tried to eat me.”

Grogu isn’t sure if it’s his favorite bedtime story the man has told him -- it’s a little too scary -- but it seems to make the man happy, and the happy feeling soothes him. He curls up against the man and the warmth inside him, and the weight of the man’s hand on his back helps him fall asleep.

The man wakes him up far too early, and Grogu is grouchy as the man works through their morning routine -- using the vacc tube, a quick bath for Grogu and a hasty breakfast of ration bars. Grogu’s not too fond of them, but he munches his bar as the man carries him out of the lonely compound and up the steep hill.

He falls asleep halfway up the canyon and doesn’t wake up for some time. When he does, he realizes the man’s footsteps are quick and long, nearly a run. Like there’s nothing left to see here. It makes Grogu feel sad, though he isn’t sure why. He holds the man’s hand as they journey, and he watches the paths for creatures.

The long day stretches on, and the sun begins to swing low once more. The man’s faster stride and their early start mean they will reach the ship before night falls. He wishes they could stay and hunt frogs instead.

They reach a narrow canyon and look down. To Grogu’s surprise there’s the ship! They had reached it even faster than he had thought. He looks up at the man, resting a hand against his chest. The man is tired, he feels. “All right, kid. We’ll have one more dinner here before we head out. I could use a break anyway.”

He sets Grogu down on a flat stretch of land, the cheatgrass tickling his toes. Grogu sniffs, rotates his ears. He senses another hare, and he looks meaningfully up at the man, then waves a hand in the hare’s direction. The man nods, and it’s just a few moments later that the man has a cleaned hare over the fire while Grogu hunts for bitterbush and whiteleaf.

He finds a small whiteleaf plant a little ways away, and he sits beside it, carefully pulling a few leaves from the bush. It smells so clean! He hums to himself, pleased, then shivers at a ululating cry, carried on the breeze.

He stares up at the sky and he sees it -- a baj’uliik flying overhead, its leathery wings shimmering in rippling gold and green and scarlet, its long feathered tail streaming behind it, glittering in the fading sun. He watches it fly away, each wingbeat slow and methodical and so, so beautiful. He is sad that one hurt the man, but happy that it got away.

He lifts one hand and waves as it goes.

“They’re something else, aren’t they?” the man asks him. He kneels beside Grogu, carefully taking the whiteleaf leaves from him. He watches the creature fly, head tilting to one side, then shakes himself into action. “Come on, kid. Dinnertime.”

They eat the hare together, Grogu making a mess of his meal and thoroughly enjoying every bite. The man just laughs and helps to clean him up.

They sit quietly together as the sun vanishes and the moons begin to rise. Grogu leans against the man’s thigh, full and glad. He knows the man did not find what he came here for, but there is the cool evening air, the cry of the baj’uliik far away, the scent of whiteleaf.

The man clambers to his feet, lifting Grogu into his arms. “Come here a minute, kid,” he says. He carries him back to the whiteleaf plant, its leaves glimmering beneath the moonlight. He crouches down and sets Grogu down beside him, then begins digging with his hands. Grogu watches curiously.

“There’s a little UV light on the Crest,” the man says to Grogu. “Helps me keep a schedule for day and night, when I want. But… we could use it to help grow a plant, too.”

Grogu claps his hands together. He senses from the man hope, longing, things hard for Grogu to understand. But they are good things, he thinks, and he likes it when the man feels good. The man lifts the plant from the ground, its roots tangled up in a ball of soil, and he gently sets it in Grogu’s arms.

“Keep hold of that til we get back to the ship,” the man says. He picks Grogu up again. “I know you’ll keep it safe.” He cradles Grogu carefully so that Grogu can keep good hold of the plant. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Grogu nods. The fresh scent of whiteleaf flares with every step the man takes toward the ship. They reach the Crest and it lights up with their approach, the door opening as the man adjusts something on his arm. Grogu curls a sweet-smelling leaf between his fingertips, feeling warm and safe; and in the Force, he feels the man is happy, proud, home.