Chapter Text
“…How do you think she got here?”
“Maybe she’s another Jedi?”
“She doesn’t look like a Jedi.”
“When was the last time you even saw a Jedi to know what they looked like?”
“One literally just walked out of here two minutes ago.”
The first thought that comes to mind when you open your eyes is that you’ve woken up in an Oscar-worthy live action role play.
It’s a reasonable enough explanation. The neighbors have a copy of your key for emergencies, and they just returned from Comic Con. It's not out of the question that the faces peering down at you are in your kitchen and not the TV, all aiming their respective weapons of choice straight at your head. The authenticity is amazing, too -- costumes, makeup, props, everything. Even Din Djarin’s earnest attempt at facial hair.
You groggily squeeze your eyes back shut. God, your chest hurts.
This is the worst asthma attack you’d had in ages, all thanks to your screwed-up priorities and running for the oven instead of your inhaler when the smoke started. (It was your last box of brownies, damn it. Of course you were going to try and save them.) But now either the oxygen deprivation is playing tricks with your eyes, or it's time to change the locks.
Probably the former, you decide. There had been a lot of smoke.
Pleased with your own very sensible logic, you drag your eyes open again.
Same five faces, except now the Mandalorian is helmeted. Fennec Shand -- who is exponentially more menacing in person, although the fact you’re staring down the business end of her rifle doesn’t help -- speaks first.
“Who are you?” she demands.
You swallow nervously and go to sit up, and try not to gag when a coppery taste washes down the back of your throat.
Why is my nose bleeding?
Once again, your frazzled mind arrives at another perfectly plausible explanation: You have a vague memory of tripping over a grocery bag on your mad dash to the oven. You probably landed face-flat when you fell.
But as your senses continue to sharpen, the harder it is to rationalize the other details you’re beginning to notice. Every wheezed breath fills your lungs with flat, antiseptic air, not the smell of burnt chocolate. The flashing red LEDs on the ceiling aren't from the smoke alarm; it's a monitoring device on the bridge of an Imperial star cruiser, and if you look close enough, you can count the worn-away scuffs on Cara Dune’s boots and the feathers painted on Bo Katan’s helmet.
Something's wrong. Your dreams are never this vivid, not even the time your margarita was spiked and the walls started singing 'Hello, City' by Barenaked Ladies.
“Who are you?” Fennec barks again.
You flinch, but you refuse to answer this question to anyone aiming a gun at your head.
"Eleanor Shellstrop," you blurt out, sourcing the name from the last show you had binge-watched.
She’s not buying it. “And how’d you get here, Eleanor Shellstrop?”
“I don’t know,” you reluctantly admit. The novelty of whatever is going on is fading fast, and your voice sounds small, still raspy from coughing. “I’m just...here.”
Dubious sidelong glances are exchanged. The general consensus seems to be you are harmless.
Cara lowers her rifle a few inches, looking you over. "Okay, let’s try this one instead,” she says after a moment. “Where are you from?”
You clumsily prop yourself up on an elbow and try to think. You're a terrible liar, but from your audience's perspective, the truth is probably more outlandish than any story you could come up with.
“Earth,” you finally answer.
Everyone plays another round of side-eye.
“Anyone ever heard of...?”
“Past the Outer Rim, maybe?”
You leave the them to it and start awkwardly trying to wipe your face on your shoulder. The blood on your face already feels sticky, and you want it gone before it has any more time to dry.
You are on your third unsuccessful attempt when a resigned sigh comes from somewhere high above your head. There is the sensation of someone kneeling at your side, and a gloved hand holding the end of a tattered cloak appears. Its owner takes a few swipes at your face, mopping you up.
Yeah, it’s him. So much for dazzling first impressions.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
The Mandalorian slides an arm under your shoulders and helps you sit up.
“Are you a Jedi?” he asks, crouching back down beside you. His voice is low and resonant, filtered through the vocoder in his helmet.
You blankly look down at your clothes. You’re wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, battered Converse, and a button-down.
You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “No, I’m a – ”
The cloak suddenly comes at your face again. You've been keeping your gaze averted (for fear of gawking at everybody like an idiot), but your eyes fly up to his visor in shock as he proceeds to pinch your nose and hold fast.
What. The. Hell. Din-fucking-Djarin was honking your nose?
“It’s bleeding again,” he explains, seeing your slack-jawed astonishment.
“What do we do with her?”
Mando's hand follows you as you glance up to tune back into Cara Dune and Fennec Shand’s conversation, but before they can continue addressing the matter of the inconvenience that is you, the other two Mandalorians step forward.
“We’ll leave that problem in your capable hands,” Bo-Katan crisply declares. Her haughty voice matches the regal lift of her chin as she adds a mocking, “May the Force be with you.”
She and her fellow warrior place their helmets back on their heads and make their departure without further comment, deliberately stepping over Moff Gideon on their way to the door. Tense silence accompanies their footsteps, the shattered aftermath of birthright and divided loyalties.
“Thank you,” Mando says quietly as they pass by.
Bo-Katan’s boots slow to a stop. After a long moment, her helmet dips in a sharp nod.
“This Is the Way,” she acknowledges, visor still aimed directly ahead.
Two long strides later and they’re gone. Mando’s gaze briefly lingers on the door after it slides closed before returning his attention to you.
“I’m okay,” you mumble as the visor sits level with your eyes once more.
“It was a lot of blood.”
And now probably microscopic remnants of blue macaron baby vomit, you glumly think to yourself.
Mando cautiously draws his arm back but keeps his hand at the ready. Your face grows progressively warmer the longer you are under his inspection, until he briskly nods his head and says, “I think you’re okay.” He produces a canteen seemingly out of nowhere and hands it to you, then rises to his feet to join the discussion.
You sit huddled on the floor, clutching the canteen, mind racing as you try to take stock of the bizarre circumstances you’ve found yourself in. You quickly realize that before you can even attempt to plan next steps, you have to make a choice:
Invest all your time and energy in dithering on about whether you’re actually in a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Exhaust yourself searching for proof (or lack thereof) that the impossible, improbable, inconceivable laws separating fact from fiction no longer apply.
Or, bet the house and go all in. Embrace what you’re seeing at face value, puzzle out how much this new reality aligns with the fandom you know, and go from there. Wherever ‘there’ is. Either it’s a dream, or it’s not, and if it’s neither, then you have a different heap of problems to worry about.
What’ll it be, ‘Eleanor?’
Dumb question.
So.
“What’s taking so long?”
You startle; Boba Fett’s voice crackles from Fennec’s belt, and all discussion stops as she unclips the comm link to reply.
“We’ve got a…” She pauses and looks at you uncertainly.
Prisoner? Stowaway? Traitor? Spy? Fuck all if you know.
“…Another foundling," Moff Gideon smoothly supplies.
Everyone’s eyes turn to the disgraced imperial still seated half-prone on the steps, apparently lying in wait all this time. Handcuffs encircle his wrists, but he has other means of crushing the man armored everywhere but his heart.
The ominous click of Mando disengaging the safety on his blaster sucks the warmth out of the room, and Gideon's smirk broadens into a leering smile.
No one breathes. Time drags -- seconds, minutes, years. On screen, the scene unfolding before you would be nothing more than Mando issuing a silent warning to a bounty: Shut your mouth, or have it shut for you. You’ve seen him do that move countless times.
In person?
Din Djarin is a live grenade, and Gideon holds the pin. You can hear Mando breathing hard through clenched teeth, see the faint tremor in his hands, and the unsteady rise and fall of his chest as he fights the Imp’s attempt to manipulate him.
He means more to me than you will ever know.
Somewhere along the way, the fight for Grogu had gotten personal. If he couldn’t have the child, then Gideon would settle for watching the Mandalorian breach the dividing line between hired killer and murderer, even at the cost of his own life.
“Too soon?” Gideon innocently inquires.
"Douche canoe," you observe, unimpressed.
Five faces whip around to look at you in shock.
Shit!
You clap a hand over your mouth, mortified; you had forgotten that you aren't at home in your living room.
Visor still locked on you, Mando slowly thumbs the safety and slides his finger from the trigger. A long pause, a baffled tilt of the helmet, and the spell is broken. The Mandalorian retains his integrity, and Moff Gideon is nothing more than a face in a long line of overdressed imperial officers.
Mando's gaze lingers on you as cleanup begins in the background, Fennec confirming next steps with Boba Fett, and Cara Dune roughly hauling Gideon up by the arm -- taking care to smack him against every available surface in the process. You use the time to tie your hair back and try not to think about the misery that awaits you the next time you have access to a comb.
The thoughtful scrutiny is growing awkward when he unexpectedly leans down and offers you his hand.
“This ship is headed somewhere you probably don’t want to end up,” he informs you, “and they’re not going to be welcome to stowaways. Unless you’ve got another ride, I recommend you come with us. We can get you as far as Tatooine.”
Mandalore, you think. The ship must be going to Mandalore.
“Eleanor?”
You glance up. He's waiting patiently, gloved hand still extended.
Oh. You’re Eleanor.
You numbly reach out to let him help you up. His hand encloses around yours, and the cold tile you are sitting on lifts away he brings you back on your feet.
“Thanks...” You squint, voice trailing off in confusion. Why is he looking at you from the end of a long, dark tunnel?
The dizzy wave hits a moment later, giving you your answer. Mando catches you as you stumble into him, large hands swiftly coming around your upper arms to support you.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” you faintly reply, words muffled from speaking into his chest, “but I’m pretty good at faking it, so let’s just go with that.”
A snort of modulated laughter eclipses the roaring in your ears.
“It’s my fault. Shouldn’t have pulled you up so fast.”
Buddy, there are so many ‘shouldn’ts’ going on right now that you shouldn’t even try to count.
The beskar’s solidity against your brow helps slow the spinning in your head, and you shift to rest your cheek on its cool, glassy surface. Ordinarily you wouldn’t dream of making such an invasion of space, but between the asthma attack, the nosebleed, and this science fiction clusterfuck, any semblance of sanity is long gone.
The realization his posture has gone rigid, and you’ve all but tucked your head under his chin rapidly clears the cobwebs. You twist out of his grip, blurting out an apology as you hastily step back to a safe arm’s length away. Of all the strangers in the galaxy to cuddle up to, you pick a Mandalorian?
A bellowed, “Mando!” from across the room spares you from further embarrassment.
You glance up in time to see Cara Dune jut her head towards the elevator. Fennec is already inside, glaring daggers.
"Coming or going?” Cara demands.
Mando quizzically looks over to you, but you despise being an imposition, regardless of whether you are actively hallucinating.
Correctly sensing that you are on the verge of declining his invitation on the grounds of not wanting to inconvenience anyone, he solves the matter and makes the decision for you.
"Great," he says, motioning for you to follow. “I’ll take a look at the nav charts once we’re in hyperspace,” he adds as you trail behind him. “Try to get you home.”
You force a smile and keep walking.
Home.
The thought of never making it back already hurts.