Archive of Our Own

Only in the dark are you brave enough to ask the question that’s been lingering in your mind for weeks now, speaking the words into the hull’s empty void as Din breathes beside you.

“Do Mandalorians have weddings?”

So maybe that’s not exactly what you meant, but it’s what comes out of your mouth. What you really want to know is if Mandalorians marry in the first place, but something about asking Din this more directly seems entirely too serious. Too heavy. Couple that with the fact that you lie here naked and drunk on sex and wine, and you find yourself glad that you asked him the way you did.

“No,” Din says, palm warm on your back, “at least not the way people most people do.”

You let his words sink in for a moment, pondering what sort of marriage customs Mandalorians could have. Where you’re from, weddings are huge affairs, the celebration of two families joining together made complete with eating and drinking and music. It is a day devoted to dressing impractically and marveling at all the future holds, a day where two people become a unit, their whole lives spread out before them. You know that every culture isn’t like yours, obviously, but you wonder what else could be done for such an occasion. Every wedding you’ve ever been to, regardless of setting or context, has always involved merrymaking and splendor, or as much as could be afforded. Even this evening, all the way out in the Tatooine desert, Cobb Vanth and his husband and all their friends in Mos Pelgo managed to scrape together quite the little party. There was wine and food, and everyone danced until they couldn’t go anymore. If marriage isn’t a celebration to Mandalorians, then what else could it be?

“Do they— Do you just say you’re married? Is there an officiant?”

Din lets out a sigh, but it’s by no means an exasperated one. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was trying to steady himself, his bare arm flexing around your waist.

“No,” he answers, “there’s no officiant. When two Mandalorians get married, they exchange vows in mando’a, and then they look at each other.”

“They take off—”

“Their helmets,” Din finishes for you, “yes. They say their vows, and then they see each other’s faces for the first time. That’s why it’s done in private— no guests, no one to oversee things.”

“And then after you see each other, you’re married?”

Din nods, affirmative, and the weight of all he’s said presses down on your mind. Two Mandalorians, that was his exact wording, but is that really what he meant? Is there no other option? There has to be another option…

“Can Mandalorians marry other people? Or is that not allowed?”

It takes everything you have to ask this question, anxiety churning in your stomach until… until you realize that Din’s already sleeping, the rise and fall of his chest even and measured against your cheek. The feeling that comes over you is equal parts relief and horror, an odd reaction to the fact that he didn’t hear you, but you decide agonizing over all of this isn’t important right now, not tonight. You’re half-drunk, exhausted, and emotional aroused— hardly the right state to be in when you’re talking about something so serious as this. And so you simply pull the blankets up around you and Din, trying in vain to fall asleep like he did.

---

Thirty-six hours later, the Crest is back in hyperspace, you, Din, and the baby off to chase down a quarry on some distance planet. It’s going to be a long ride, a fact that you’re dreading. Since you watched the Marshal and his husband say their vows and exchange a kiss as husbands, your head’s been filled with images of marriage and weddings and wifehood. The conversation you had with Din the other night plays in your mind on loop, the one unanswered question bothering you to the point of distraction.

Can Mandalorians marry other people?

(Can you marry me?)

You try to keep busy, cleaning and doing laundry, cooking an elaborate dinner, but nothing helps. Even as you play with the baby and tuck him in the for the night, you’re bombarded by anxiety and feelings of unresolved tension. The most frustrating part of it all is that it’s completely one-sided— Din wouldn’t know what the hell you’re talking about, even if you told him, because he wasn’t fucking awake. Din Djarin, a man who never rests, fell asleep in the middle of talking to you about his people and their customs. You truly never thought you’d see the day, and now that you have, you pray it never happens again. You’re not sure you can take this, this limbo. You have to know.

With the Child asleep, you’re officially out of things to occupy your time. You’ve scrubbed every floor and every surface of the Crest, cleaned out the pantry and changed the beds, washed and folded all the clothes. And so you decide it’s time to fuck up your life, climbing up to the cockpit to talk to Din like you have a hundred times before with a rock in your stomach. Never in your life have you professed to be brave, and you nearly chicken out the minute your eyes land on the glinting beskar, on the curve of his helmet. In that moment, you realize that this is it, this really could be the end of it all…

And yet somehow, you’re not afraid anymore.

“Hey,” Din says softly, reaching out to you. The visor remains fixed on the holograms in front of him even as you come over, but his arm is tight around your waist, grounding. “Kid’s asleep?”

“Yeah.” You pause, enjoying the weight of his embrace. “Din?”

He hums in acknowledgement, still focused whatever he’s studying on the holo display. You’re undeterred.

“Do you— Do you remember what we were talking about the other night? After Cobb’s wedding?”

Din’s still half distracted, fixed on an image of two alien beings in what appears to be a hangar bay. “Yeah, Mandalorian weddings. You wanted to know what it’s like when we marry.”

You study him for a moment, gather up all your courage. “Mmhm. And you said that that was the custom for two Mandalorians— vows and then you look. But— But—”

“But what?” Din cuts, still not looking at you.

“Does it… Does it have to be two Mandalorians, or can it be a Mandalorian and someone else?”

Your question hangs in the air for one long, silent moment, and then it would seem that you finally have Din’s full attention.

He turns to you slowly, letting the holograms flicker into nothingness as the pilot’s chair creaks in your direction. You think you might actually pass out right there, petrified to face him in the wake of this question. The both of you are long past all the uncertainty of the early days, far away from the time when you didn’t know what you meant to one another. But this is no insignificant matter, and Din’s not a stupid man. You aren’t asking, but you certainly aren’t not asking either.

For a second there, you think he’s going to prod for more information, make you say what you mean out loud. Din’s good at that, at making you talk when you don’t want to, but he usually resolves it for more playful situations, times when what he’s making you say outright doesn’t matter as much. But mercifully, he skips the games, reaching for you with one gloved hand.

“Come here, mesh’la,” Din murmurs, maneuvering you into his lap like he has a hundreds of times before. It’s all muscle memory at this point, and you settle on the width of his thighs without even thinking about it. Still, though he’s being gentle, though you’re filled with hope, you wait to hear news that will break you.

… It never comes.

---

If someone asked you to make a list of all the things you thought you’d do in your lifetime, visiting a Mandalorian covert wouldn’t even make the top fifty. But here you are on some distant planet in the Outer Rim, snaking through a tunnel system on your way to meet with someone that Din only refers to as “the Armorer.” Apparently, she used to lead his old covert on Nevarro, and now it would seem that another group of Mandalorians has banded together under her leadership. You don’t know what to think of this person, but Din seems to have great respect for her, and that only makes you more nervous.

When Din asked you to sit on his lap, you were sure that he was about to tell you that you and he could never be more than what you already are. In that moment, you had to ask yourself some hard questions. Were you comfortable with that? Could you live with never seeing Din’s face? Was marriage something you needed, or was it something you wanted? But it turned out that all this introspection was pointless, because Din told you flat out that he can marry whoever he wants… So long as he has the Armorer’s permission.

“It’s just because you’re not a Mandalorian,” he told you, trying to soothe you fears as you became more and more worked up about the whole thing. “It’s purely a formality.”

You were unconvinced. “If it’s just a formality, then why do we have to do it? What if she says no?”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge if we have to, but I doubt she’ll turn us down.”

All of this was said under the cover of darkness, of course, you and Din naked and sprawled out under the blankets. He’d made love to you for hours after you asked him if the two of you could get married, saying over and over again that he loved you and that he couldn’t believe you wanted to be his wife. The attention made you breathless, but in the aftermath of it all, you still asked Din three separate times if he was serious, if he really wanted to have you. You couldn’t bear it if he called the whole thing off at the last minute, and you certainly didn’t want him to agree to something so serious just because you’d expressed interest in the idea. But Din was insistent, promising time and time again that he’d made up his mind. You should have known better than to question the conviction of a Mandalorian, especially one as devout and loyal as Din— they don’t make their choices lightly. All of it felt so fast, but also so right, and you’d fallen asleep that night awash in the glow of your engagement. Now that it’s time to face the Armorer, though, you’re anxious and petrified.

All eyes are on you as you and Din make your way down a cavernous, dimly lit corridor, the blackness of many visors tracking your every movement. Even two children stop to stare at your, their helmeted heads shining dully as you pass.

The sound of metal on metal fills the air as you approach what appears to be a chamber within the tunnel system, the noise growing louder and louder with every step you take. Your first impulse is to turn tail and run, but you force yourself to remain steady, counting your steps and standing tall even as a feeling of all-consuming anxiety overwhelms you.

“Hey,” Din says, reaching for your hand just before the two of you enter the room. “Okay?”

You squeeze his palm, lying through your teeth. “Yeah, I’m good.”

And then you’re walking into the chamber side by side, ready to face the woman that will determine the path of your lives.

The Armor is a tall, broad person, helmeted and sheathed in armor like all the other Mandalorians you’ve seen. She pauses her work the minute you and Din walk into the room, a heavy tool made of beskar held aloft in one hand. To be watched by her is intimidating to say the least, her air of importance only heightened by the fact that she stands three feet off the ground on a dais. Din sits down before her without saying a word, and you follow his lead, unsure of what to do with your hands or face.

“Brother,” she declares, dropping her gaze back to her workspace, “it is good to see you. If you have come for repairs, I am afraid you’ll have to wait some time. We have just combined forces with another covert, and I have had much to do as a result.”

The Armorer glances up.

“Where is the Child?”

It takes you three whole seconds to realize that she’s speaking to you instead of Din, and you rush to answer her. “He’s with friends,” you explain, “people we trust on Nevarro.”

“’We,’” the Armorer intones, picking apart your words. You can’t decide what she means by this.

Two clangs of beskar on beskar, and Din finally speaks.

“I haven’t come for repairs,” he says, voice even and strong, “I’ve come to speak to you about an important matter.”

The Armorer does not so much as look up. “I assume it has something to do with the girl, yes?”

“Yes,” Din affirms. “I want her to be my wife, and I seek your permission for a vow exchange.”

It is a long time before the Armorer speaks again, her demeanor never changing once as she continues to work on the piece before her. She pounds away at the metal, laying it over the jets of flame before her, setting her tools aside carefully.

“You want to marry this Mandalorian?”

Her words are like ice water down your back, but you force yourself to be brave.

“Yes,” you say, feigning confidence. It’s hard to maintain eye contact, though you do it anyway, hellbent on showing respect to this woman who has survived no less than two massacres.

“Come here, child. Let me look at you.”

Standing on shaky legs, you walk closer and closer to the dais, stepping up when prompted by your observer. You refuse to come too close to her workstation, afraid of causing offense. Beskar is a precious thing, and you’d never want to taint her tools and materials with the oil if your unworthy, unindoctrinated hands.

“How long have you known my brother?”

The Armorer begins to pace long, measured circles around you, studying your body, letting her gaze linger on your face.

“Over a year.”

“Do you travel with him much?”

“We live together on the Crest,” you explain. “We’re always together, unless he goes out to look for a quarry.”

The Armorer nods, seemingly pleased.

“And what do you think of the Child? Do you care for him?”

You picture the baby’s face, his little green hands, his big black eyes, and your heart is filled with affection for him. “I don’t know what he is, but I don’t care, either. I love him like he came from my own body. Din’s done me a favor by letting me know the baby at all.”

And for the first since you came to stand before the Armorer do you turn to look at Din. He doesn’t say anything to you in that moment, but you see it, the way his posture softens just the slightest bit. The Armorer must notice it too because she turns her gaze on him as well.

“She is the Child’s mother?”

“Yes,” Din says at once. If the two of you were alone, if you still weren’t so afraid of being rejected, you think you might cry at that.

The Armorer nods once again, statuesque as she comes to a stand in front of you.

“If you were to bear my brother children, would you raise warriors? Or would you have them shy away from such a life?”

This is an important question, you know, one that will make or break the Armorers decision. You take your time to consider you answer, choosing the right words, stringing them together with care.

“My children will be free to do as they please,” you begin, looking the Armorer dead in her visor. “I know that you don’t just become a Mandalorian. It’s something you choose for yourself. You have to swear the Creed and take on the burden of never showing your face— that’s not something I could force on my babies, even if I wanted to. When the time comes, I’ll support whatever path they choose in life, so long as it makes them happy. I love their father as he is now, and I’ll love my children if they choose to follow in his footsteps.”

The room fall silent as you finish your little speech, Din and the Armorer not speaking a word through their modulators as they take in your words. The Armorer herself is especially still, staring you down, testing your will. You think she’s waiting for a “but,” an “if” or an “except” that will ruin everything you’ve just told her. But you don’t flinch, locked in her gaze and firm in your choices.

“You have chosen well, brother. This woman will be an excellent wife. We welcome her openly.”

And though Din told you that she would say yes, hearing the words come out of the Armorer’s own mouth has you awash in all-consuming relief. You think you should say something, perhaps “thank you” or “I welcome you as well,” but you don’t get the chance. The Armorer goes back to her work the minute her pronouncement is made, picking up her tools and going back to her craft like she never stopped in the first place.

“Go now,” she says, but it’s not a harsh command. “I have much to do.”

Her helmet peeks up, trained on Din.

“If she falls pregnant, I want you to return so that we may celebrate the child. It has been too long since we have known the joy of a new life.”

All Din does is nod, offering you his arm when you step off the dais in a daze. The two of you leave together in silence, weaving your way back through the tunnels that brought you here as everyone watches you closely. Somehow, though, their stares feel less judgmental this time, less suspicious. It might be a figment of your imagination, a byproduct of your relief, but it’s like they know. The whole thing is sort of eerie, and you’re glad when you and Din come back out into the daylight.

---

It’s just the two of you alone on the ship, the Child safe on Nevarro with Greef and Cara. You and Din decide to take advantage of this, cutting the lights and crawling in bed the minute the Crest kicks into hyperspace.

You let Din have you on your stomach this time, breathless as he fucks you into the mats and blankets. Even as he pushes into you without mercy, Din is so sweet with you, kissing your back, running his hands down your sides. He murmurs your name like a prayer, moaning brokenly when you tell him that you love him.

After all is said and done, the two of you end up snuggled together as you so often are, safe and warm in a nest of blankets on the floor of this ship you love so much. Panting for breath as you try to calm down, it hits you that this might be one of the last times, might be the last time Din fucks you like this, with everything dark and quiet. Something about that excites you, and yet you feel driven to savor the moment, a strange sense of loss settling in your stomach.

Finally, though, you speak: “When should we do it?”

Din snuggles his face against your chest, letting out a contented breath when you wind your fingers in his hair.

“Soon,” he tells you, “but not here.”

That makes you pause. “If we don’t get married here, then—?”

“I know of a better place, cyar’ika,” Din soothes, rubbing your back, and you can’t help but trust him. “A much better place.”