#noncardiogenic pulmonary edema is the diagnosis if anyone is wondering

[fanfoolishness]

Fulminating (The Mandalorian)

(Din suffers a complication after nearly drowning on Trask. He and the Child recover together. Maybe it's enough. 5000 words, canon-compliant, angst, medical whump, hurt/comfort, sign language. Set during Chapter 11: The Heiress. Don't say I didn't warn you about the whump - but the comfort's there, too.)

Thank you to @lastwordbeforetheend, @art3mys and @honestlyhufflepuff for helping talk me through this! You can also find this story on AO3 if you prefer.

***

The air streams past him, tugging at the free edge of his cloak as he descends. He tilts his head upward, watching Bo-Katan and her cruiser climb to the edge of the atmosphere. They’ll take the ship, and he’ll take the Jedi’s name.

It’s not the deal he wanted -- hell, they aren’t the Mandalorians he wanted -- but she gave him what he needed in the end, and he’ll respect that.

He coughs, chest feeling heavy, and lowers his head as the air rushes past. That’s better.

He aches as the rush of the fight leaves him. He’s not getting any younger, and while firefights are what he’s built himself for, taking an entire cruiser hadn’t been on his agenda. Especially coming off the disastrous crash landing on the ice planet with the kid and the passenger; he’d hit his head pretty badly in the landing, beskar helmet or no, and he still feels a nagging headache now that the action’s over. He scowls under the helmet.

The Rising Phoenix burns clean as the docks rise up before him, and he lands clumsily, staggering. He’s got to work on that. In all the traveling lately, his training has slipped. Koska in particular has given him some ideas for how to better utilize the Phoenix in combat, and he’ll have to consider incorporating the techniques into his own fighting style.

Din pulls a deep breath as he straightens up, slightly winded by the landing. Time to collect the kid and get going.

Leaving would be a good idea, if not for the fact half the port is still quiet. He glances around, realizing it’s still early in the morning and the Mon Calamari he paid to tend to the Crest is nowhere in sight. Fine. Maybe he and the kid will grab some sleep in the inn. How long has it been since they got any rest?

His feet fall heavy on the wooden docks, his boots scuffing. Yeah. A room might do them good.

***

It takes him a good twenty minutes to make his way through the narrow alleys to the Frogs’ home. He’s a little slower than usual, though he’s got good reason to be weary. The door slides open at his knock and the happy couple greets him, gesturing to a water-filled dish on their table. A tadpole splashes back and forth, and Din’s foundling stares at it with wide eyes and half-opened mouth, barely noticing that Din has come for him.

Din almost hates to pull the kid away. He’s downright enchanted by the tadpole (the kid better have minded his manners!), curious and fascinated and protesting as Din scoops him up. He congratulates the couple on their child and heads out into the alley, the kid chattering away unintelligibly. He’s been using that little voice of his much more lately, and though Din hasn’t picked out any words he understands, it’s a comforting sound. He chuckles a bit at the kid’s chatter, the laugh slipping into a brief cough that he swallows down. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could understand what the kid has to say.

The kid’s voice burbles cheerfully in his ears. Probably telling him all about his exciting night, staying with the Frog family. Maybe he’s asking where Din has been, or wondering where they’re going next. Din hasn’t a clue. He tries to pay attention, but finds it strangely difficult to concentrate and walk at the same time.

It’s not far to the inn. Half a klick at most. He’s walking at a normal pace, not running, not sprinting.

So why, then, is he breathing so hard?

He pauses against the wall of a small fishery shop, leaning against it slightly in a way that would look casual to a passing observer. He takes a deep breath, then coughs wetly, chest rattling.

You’re fine, he tells himself firmly, but his chest rises and falls like he’s been running.

His helmet swivels left, right. Quarren, Mon Calamari, humans, they scurry past Din and the child, but more than a few turn to stare at the two of them. This is too open. He needs to get back under cover until he can figure out what’s going on. You are both predator and prey, intones the Armorer, and oh, he knows it. His gut clenches a warning.

The Phoenix roars on his back, carrying them the rest of the way. He holds on to the kid with both arms and the kid giggles, enjoying the ride, but Din just focuses on breathing.

***

The innkeeper stares at him. “One night, then?” he grunts.

Din reaches into his hip pouch, pulls a stack of credits out, more than what’s needed. He forces himself to slow his breathing, though his chest hurts with the effort. He swallows. Modulates his voice to sound gruff and intimidating. “One night. And no questions.”

The innkeeper nods, holding his hands out in an appeasing gesture. “Whatever you say, Mando.” He tosses Din a fob to unlock the room. “Up the stairs, third door on the left. Food sent up to the room’s extra.”

Din merely nods. The kid, nestled in the crook of his arm, looks up at him, frowning. His ears sag down to his collar, and he wraps one hand over Din’s wrist.

Din makes his way to the stairs, shoving past a few Quarren there for their breakfast. They grumble, but they get out of his way; news travels fast about what a Mandalorian can do when pressed. They clear a path for him as he approaches the narrow stairs. With his back to the barroom, no one able to see him directly, he allows himself the luxury of a few deep breaths before he begins. He needs every one.

The flight of stairs isn’t long. Fifteen steps, maybe. But he has to grab the handrail with his free hand, gripping it tightly. His head swims, and the inside of his chest sears, burns, aches. He sucks air through an open mouth, shivering.

“Dank farrik,” he hisses, and regrets the extra breath expended on the curse. He has to rest halfway up the stairs, slumping against the wall with his head spinning.

He makes it up the rest of the flight, through the hallway, to the third door on the left. It slides open and he stumbles through the doorway, barely noticing the door sliding closed behind him as he staggers to the lumpy four-poster bed. He sets the kid down carefully before he sinks onto the bed with a thump. He struggles to remove the Rising Phoenix. He manages to rest it on the floor at his feet, and stays leaning forward, curled up over himself.

What’s wrong with me?

He desperately tries to run the possibilities. Poison? No, no, nothing’s broken his skin, he hasn’t eaten since he left the ship.… He shivers again. Is he sick? This doesn’t feel like any sickness he’s ever known before, coming on so fast like this, hitting so hard…

He sits huddled on the edge of the bed, panting. His helmet’s sensors chime at him. Normally vital signs are measured in the background, but he forces himself to focus on the corner of the display through his visor, where it flashes a warning: Blood oxygen level below 90%.

Oxygen… lungs… going under the water after the kid, struggling as the seal on his helmet slipped, as the seawater rushed up over his face, into his mouth and nose --

But I was fine, he tries to tell himself. He tries to remember if he inhaled the water or if he spat it back out, but all he remembers is frantic choking, flailing, a confusing jumble of cold and weight and struggle. I was fine --

He coughs again, the action bowing him over himself, and he gags on fluid in the back of his throat. He retches, gulps, tastes something metallic. Blood.

Fuck. Fuck.

His mind races. Battlefield first aid is taught to all Mandalorians, but he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do here. What here even is. His mind blanks for a second, or an eternity.

He suddenly remembers a function of his helmet he’s rarely used. He toggles it on with a jerky swipe over his vambrace. He can’t carry an entire tank of oxygen with him, since it’d be a clear explosion hazard in his line of work, but the helmet does have emergency oxygen concentrator ability. Enough to double the atmospheric content for low-O2 planets. He breathes deeply of the fortified air, and for a moment he feels a little calmer. This’ll fix things. Just need a little more air, a little rest, I’ll be fine --

It’s not enough.

The display in his helmet says it’s concentrating the oxygen at maximal levels, but damn it, it’s not enough. He wheezes, straining.

The display says a lot of things now. It’s going fucking haywire, streaming readings for his heart rate, his oxygen, spiking or crashing in ways he’s never seen. He forces himself to focus on the room beyond him instead of the screeching vitals, tries to focus on fishnets lining the dingy walls, a cramped closet refresher, a little wooden table to sit at, a round window letting in muted daylight.

It’s not working. Din drags in breath after frantic breath, coughs again, feels something frothy in the back of this throat. He tastes metal. He’s -- he’s suffocating --

No. No. This is just a sickness, I just have to get through the worst of it, just breathe -- just breathe --

But he wants to tear his helmet off, he’s so hungry for air, he wants -- he needs --

Firm pressure on his lap, movement, something besides the flail of his chest. It’s the kid. He’s almost forgotten about him in his struggle, and seeing the kid calms him slightly. Just slightly.

He manages to lower his head, though it makes him dizzy. The kid’s dark eyes stare up at him, his little face scrunched up and worried.

“I’m fine,” Din gasps, though clammy sweat clings to him inside his suit, though his heart still races. Does the kid understand him? He coughs, the sound harsh and wracking. “I just need to -- rest --”

Rest. Yeah. Yeah, that should help. Maybe he’ll be better off laying down in a different position. Holding the kid against him, he tries to ease himself down on the rumpled bedding. But as soon he’s down, he realizes it’s wrong -- on his back, he feels his armor crushing him -- smothering him --

He jerks upright, clawing at his chest, undoing the catches of his armor. His cuirass loosens and falls to the bed beside him. He leaves it. The pressure eases, barely.

The kid in his lap lets out a wail, and Din realizes that the kid knows.

What if I don’t -- what if he’s alone -- if this gets worse -- His heart rate jumps at the unfinished thought, pounding until he can feel the veins in his neck throbbing, the pulse thready. He slumps against the post at the end of the bed, wrapping a hand protectively around the kid. No. I’ll be fine.

He has to be fine. For both of them. He wishes he could tell the kid --

***

Grogu feels, sees, senses ripples in the Force, just as he senses ripples in the water where a frog might be near. Most of the time, it comforts him, feeling its swirls and eddies.

It isn’t comforting now. It’s scary. The Force is disturbed, the ripples churning waves. His protector, his person clings to him, and Grogu feels fear panic wrong.

Grogu flinches, his stomach hurting. He doesn’t know what’s happened to the man, but there’s something in the man’s chest that isn’t right, something that shouldn’t be there, something that makes it not work the way it’s supposed to. Grogu tilts his head up and rests one hand against the man’s armor, whimpering.

The man is shaking. His voice catches. “It’s -- it’s all right,” he chokes, but Grogu can feel how hard he’s working to breathe, how his voice sounds different. It sounds wet.

Grogu whimpers again, tries to reach out in the Force. He has to help him! The man flickers in the Force in a way Grogu remembers once from a misty dream, the day he sent the fire back; he was so sleepy after the flames ran away. But the man feels like he did then, faint and far away, and this time, Grogu understands what it means. Faint and far away and fading.

Grogu tries to talk to the man. Tries to tell him that he can help. He makes his voice loud, but the man’s breathing is louder. It’s not working.

He gets to his feet in the man’s lap, hurriedly bracing his hands against the man’s laboring chest. This close he can hear the wrongness inside him even without the Force, his ears catching terrible crackles over the man’s pounding heart. It shouldn’t sound like that. He knows it in a way he doesn't have the words for.

The man is soft without the armor, but the cloth and leather he wears are still thick and hard to get through, under Grogu’s hands. Grogu tries to reach, tries to make the Force inside the man move and change. He’s done it before, he has to try now, has to try to help him --

But it’s hard to shift the Force inside the man. He’s still wrapped in most of his armor, no skin to touch. Maybe one of the Masters from long ago could fix the man without touching him, without pressing skin to skin, but Grogu doesn’t know how. He wraps his claws around the heavy vest the man wears under the armor, and he cries at him, trying to make him understand.

“Please --” the man rasps. “It’s -- don’t be afraid --” He coughs again, thin reddish fluid beading at the bottom of his helmet. Flickering -- far away --

Grogu sinks into the man’s lap, breathing hard himself. The man’s fear is overwhelming, making it hard for Grogu to think. He’s felt it before from him when things got scary, but always the man’s bravery was bigger, more powerful, so much brighter in the Force than his fear.

But it’s all that Grogu can feel from him now.

He has to do something. The man still flickers. He looks around wildly, sees the man’s hand, limply resting against the bottom of Grogu’s robe.

“Hey, buddy,” the man wheezes. “You’ll be -- okay --”

Grogu is already pulling at the man’s wrist. He’s seen a little flash of skin here before, where the glove meets the armor. He fumbles with it, but it’s on too tight for him to budge.

“What --”

Grogu pulls hard at the glove, and the man helps weakly with his other hand, his fingers clumsy. The glove slips down at the wrist, exposing light brown skin, a thumb. The man crumples against the post at the end of the bed, the line of him all wrong, head rolled to his shoulder. He’s so faint.

Grogu curls one hand around the man’s thumb, presses the other hand against his palm. The man’s skin is cool and sweaty and calloused. Grogu holds his hand as hard as he can, and he closes his eyes, and he reaches.

He can't make sense of what he feels through the Force. Water, but there shouldn’t be water here. Breathing, but the air doesn’t help. Grogu concentrates, but it’s hard. It’s not like when that other man’s arm was hurt in the dark by the creatures, when Grogu could reach out and feel the way the poison wasn’t supposed to be there, the way the arm wanted to be normal again. The Force flowed to the hurt part, and it made it like it was before.

But now he’s confused, the fear so loud and painful, making it harder for Grogu to understand the problem with the water and the air and the lungs. He clutches the man’s skin, claws digging into his strong hand. He tries to do what he can, tries to tell the man’s chest to be normal, to work, to help.

The Force shimmers. It flows, and something goes out of him, into the man.

But it’s not like before. The other man’s arm got better so quickly, the poison disappearing, the flesh coming back to itself. It doesn’t feel that way now; he’s not sure what it feels like. It feels… like something slow, like something calm and quiet, like something gentle.

Grogu lets go of the man’s hand, his mouth twisting. He knows he didn’t understand enough, didn’t get it quite right. He lets out a soft wail, sinking down into the man’s lap and staring dejectedly at his hands.

He hears a quiet, tired voice. Feels the man shift, feels his hand with the rolled-up glove brush against his cheek. Grogu looks up through sleepy eyes and sees the man’s helmet upright again, looking steadily at him.

“Kid?” A long, ragged breath. A hoarse voice. His shoulders rise and fall with big breaths, but not as fast as before.

The man pulls him closer, and Grogu’s ears swivel. The crackles are getting softer. Going away.

“Thanks, kid,” the man whispers.

Grogu gazes up at the man, and he manages a tired little smile. The man is getting brighter in the Force. No more flickering. And underneath the man’s fear, Grogu senses brave again.

***

Din isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, leaning against the post at the end of the bed, holding the sleeping kid in his lap. He only knows he’s been working, and it is work, at breathing.

In, and out.

In, and out.

His helmet display flashes numbers at him. They aren’t normal. Oxygen, heart rate, respirations. But hell, they’re so much better than they were.

He doesn’t know what the kid did. The bare skin of his hand tingles in the cool air, and he’s almost afraid to cover it up again, in case it reverses what the child did to him.

For him.

All he really remembers -- things are hazy, even though it was at most only a few hours back -- is the panic, darkness at the edges of his sight, a terrible, unending hunger for air.

And then something quiet and soft, gently washing over him. It was enough.

He coughs again, but it’s easier than before. The rattle’s faint, thin, clearing. He’s not a medical droid, but he’s sure of it anyway: he’s going to make it.

The kid yawns beside him, half-wrapped in Din’s ragged cloak. He squints up at Din, his expression wary. Worried.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, his throat raw. “Are you okay?”

The kid whines a little, his ears swinging low at the way Din’s voice sounds so rough. Din feels an ache that has nothing to do with his lungs and everything to do with the kid’s anxious face.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna be fine,” Din manages. “You helped me. Saved me.” The words are hard to force out, but he knows they’re important. Hell. What the kid must have seen -- what he must have thought was going to happen -- He freezes, remembering a dark cellar, explosions, a day of red robes in the smoke.

No. That’s not gonna happen. Not to him.

Din cradles the kid into a hug, his ears brushing against Din’s chest and shoulder. The kid hugs him back as hard as he can with his small arms, and he can feel the child trembling.

“Hey, hey,” Din murmurs, though he’s getting winded with all the talking. “I’m sorry I --” He huffs, keeps going even though it’s difficult. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

The kid reaches up to rest one clawed hand against the cheek of the helmet. Din blinks, startled at the closeness, but the kid keeps his hand against the beskar. Din mirrors the gesture, resting the knuckles of one hand against the child’s soft cheek.

“We’ll be okay. You and me, pal. Understand?” he asks gently.

The kid blinks those large, dark eyes, and Din wonders if he’s failed to reach him. Then the child lowers his hands, letting out a cheerful babble with a tilt of his head, and the tension in Din’s chest and gut falls away.

Yeah. He’ll be okay.

The kid chirrups again, voice rising in a question. Din thinks he recognizes what the kid is asking. “You hungry?”

Food. He dimly remembers a few ration bars, tucked in at the back of his belt, swiped from the Crest before they’d left. He sets the kid down beside him, then pulls out two bars and unwraps them both for the kid. Din’s thirsty, after everything, but the idea of food holds no interest yet.

“Here,” Din rasps. “Eat.” He carefully straightens up, taking a moment to slowly swing his legs over the edge of the bed. What normally takes a second leaves him breathless.

He gets to his feet, using the bedpost for support. He’s still wearing boots, his armor aside from the cuirass. It’s all so much heavier than it should be. He lets out a hiss between his teeth and crosses the room to the refresher, one step at a time. Water.

Once inside the refresher he sinks down onto the seat, removing his helmet and setting it into his lap. He glances up and sees his face in the cracked, streaky mirror, the skin blotchy and pale, hair a matted tangle, eyes swollen. There’s residue on his face, dried pinkish red around his mouth and nose. The sight makes him run cold.

It had been so close.

He flicks the water on, strips off his gloves and sets them into his upturned helmet. He cups his hands together beneath the faucet, the cold water spilling over the edges of his palms.

He drinks, and it’s enough.

***

The ship awaits them. Unfortunately, it's barely better off than it was when they left it. The Razor Crest drips with Mon Calamari detritus, rope rigging and tangles of seaweed crisscrossing the ship's hold. Din shakes his head, stepping aboard with the kid in his arms. It’s not great. It’ll do to limp along to something better.

He allows himself a faint chuckle, putting himself in the same category.

He’s mostly recovered. He can still feel it, the way his lungs don’t fully expand the way they should, the way he gets a little winded when he’s up and walking around. But he’s so much better than he was, and getting better every day. Thanks to the kid, and his powers.

He glances down at him; he seems fascinated by the Crest’s new decorations. Din brushes a hand over the back of the kid’s head and the little one coos, reaching out to bat at a clump of seaweed.

“You like this, huh?” he asks. “Don’t get used to it.” Soon as I’m up to it, this stuff’s getting spaced.

The kid giggles at the slimy seaweed in his hands, and Din softens. Maybe he’ll leave it up for a little bit, anyway.

He carefully takes the ladder up into the cockpit, only huffing a little. He’s grateful for the way he takes oxygen in, the way it sustains. He finally turned off the oxygen concentration function of his helmet this morning, and he hasn’t missed it. It’s a good feeling, one that’s been growing as he’s gotten closer to recovery.

He doesn’t remember much of the past few days. He remembers the Quarren innkeeper hollering outside about their time being up, until Din lurched to his feet and shoved a pile of credits at him through the crack in the door. He remembers the innkeeper, mollified, bringing up bowls of steaming soup and leaving them out in the hall for Din to slowly bring inside, one at a time. He remembers how good it tasted, rich and briny and hot, hot, hot. He remembers sighing so loudly the kid’s ears twitched, and the kid let out the longest, tiniest, happiest sigh Din had ever heard.

***

He remembers a realization.

He had found it hard to talk on the second day, between the lingering heaviness in his chest and the bone-deep exhaustion. The kid, though, had seemed to bounce right back after using his powers, and had taken to relentlessly exploring the room for things to do.

Din watched him roam, crawling under the bed, playing with the empty drawers of the dinged-up dresser, trying to climb up the wall to see out the window. The kid was gonna hurt himself if he wasn’t careful, and Din couldn’t afford another scare. He reached out and planted the kid on his lap the next time his circuit around the room brought him close.

Inspiration struck. So it was hard to speak. So what? He had options.

He held up a finger. The kid watched keenly.

Look here, he signed in Tusken, fingers splitting and then rising up to his visor. The kid tilted his head, focusing.

We can talk like this. A wide sweep, a hand raised up near the mouth, palms spreading wide. Din waited. The kid had seen him use Tusken before, but for some reason, Din had never tried it with the kid. He’d always seemed to understand Basic well enough for how young he seemed to be, but he’d never spoken a word of it that Din could make out. He wondered why he hadn’t tried this earlier.

Do you understand? Din asked, hands flattening, circling, ending with a soft point of the index finger. He asked it a few times, varying the speed and size of the question, trying to see if the child understood.

The kid’s ears quivered, as if trying to catch something far in the distance. He held out his small three-fingered hands, and tried a clumsy sign for you.

Din leaned forward, hitching a sharp breath at the effort. Do you understand me?

The kid signed you again. Tried it a few times, the word smoothing out the more he tried, getting clearer.

Good job. It was hard to say if the kid really got it, or if he thought it was just a game. But it was promising to see his ears perking up, his dark eyes wide and interested, his mouth in a toothy, tiny grin.

Din smiled beneath his helmet. If this worked, they might be able to understand each other a lot better. The kid could ask him for help. Din could make it clear what was off limits and not to be bothered with. It was heartening as hell, a bright spot glimmering in the midst of some of the shittiest days he’d had in years.

And then a name swam into his head, causing his hands to drop, slowly, back into his lap.

Ahsoka Tano.

It wasn’t going to matter soon if the kid learned Tusken or Basic. He’d be back with the Jedi.

And Din would be alone, again.

His hands, trembling, spoke for him. Fingers flashed much too quickly for a beginner to learn; phrases scaffolded in front of him, words in motion, hands unfolding with meaning he knew the kid couldn’t hope to guess. The little one gazed up at him.

Thank you for saving my life --

I promise I’ll help you, no matter what --

I’m really going to miss you, kid --

Din’s eyes stung. He blinked once, twice, and stilled his hands. He’d said too much. The kid reached out and held onto his palms, his hands weighing almost nothing at all against Din’s own.

Din swallowed, looking into those trusting eyes. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

***

Din shakes the memory off. He knows what he has been quested to do, that Mandalorians keep their word. He’s promised to find the place the kid belongs, and he would rather die -- nearly did -- than leave that promise unfulfilled.

The door to the cockpit slides open, and Din groans. The Mon Calamari’s handiwork is even more ridiculous here than in the rest of the ship. A dangling fishnet slaps him in the helmet, and he shoves it aside irritably as he buckles the kid into his favorite seat. Even through the helmet, the whole place stinks of brine.

“Mon Calarami,” he grumbles. “Unbelievable.”

He powers up the ship, starts easing it into the atmosphere. The ship shakes beneath him, clearly wounded. He can tell by the feel and the instrumentation that the ship should hold together for travel… barely.

A strange noise catches his attention, and he reaches out, grabbing some kind of sea creature that looks like it was about to pounce on the kid. The child burbles with delight and Din shakes his head. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He squeezes until he’s sure the creature’s dead, then hands it to the kid for a snack. It’s not as hideous as some of the things he’s seen him eat, anyway.

“I finally know where I’m taking you,” Din tells him. “But it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

The starfield opens up before them. He takes a deep breath -- hold together, now -- and punches it to hyperspace. The stars ribbon past them, and Din leans back in his seat, relieved. It’ll be enough to get somewhere safe. Before they find the Jedi.

The ship vibrates around them, and Din makes a running list in his head of things he needs to check, wiring that needs to be redone, processes to recalibrate, repairs that need to be made, Mon Calamari detritus that needs to be jettisoned. He could start work on it now. Get it done. It'd be the efficient thing to do.

Instead, Din turns to the kid. “Hey. You wanna practice what we learned?” His hands flash before him as he speaks, tracing out the sentence structure in Tusken. “You can do it.”

He knows he doesn’t need to bother. He can speak again without losing his breath, and what’s more, he knows the kid will leave him soon. He knows it’s not enough time to teach proficiency, that it probably won’t make a difference for the kid in the long run.

But the kid likes it, and Din does, too. Maybe that’s enough.

The kid stares at him intently, moves his small hands in little circles, makes a fist. He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Din laughs, hands shifting in affirmation, echoing the kid’s words. “That’s right, kid.”

The kid’s hands sign again, repeating the phrase Din had gone on to teach him, the signs clumsy but clear.

You. And me.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu djarin #grogu #clan mudhorn #the mandalorian fanfiction #noromo mando #whump #noncardiogenic pulmonary edema is the diagnosis if anyone is wondering #and treatment is basically... oxygen and sedation #it ain't fun! #my Mando fic