Din Djarin/Mando/The Mandalorian: One Shots, Imagines, etc.

Nothing And Everything

A/N: requested by sadstrarwarsfan14 <3

Warnings: suicidal thoughts, depression, antidepressant use, eating disorders, swearing, self harm, death, gorey descriptions, idk i had writers block so this isn't very good,

Word count: 853

You curl up under the covers. You're exhausted; you can't bring yourself to drag your body out of bed - your mind is tired, full of fake emotions that overflow in a tide of fatigue into your muscles. Your eyes are raw, dry from useless crying, and you feel lifeless, limp, like a whisp of a soul in a dead body. You've lost the will, you haven't gotten out from beneath the covers, and maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's better to just waste away on this mattress until even the weak thrum of your heartbeat stops. No one would miss you.

Almost no one.

But he hasn't checked in on you for ages. Maybe he's given up on you, or maybe time even time has given up on you, maybe even time has frozen. Maybe you should stop bothering to hide the blood on your mattress with the blanket, maybe you should stop bothering to conceal the crimson stained razor under the pillow. You feel nothing; you thought maybe the sharp metal would slice through the numb fog dispersed thickly through your body, but there's nothing. Nothing at all.

The door slides open, and you don't turn your head to see who it is. Hopefully, it's Death, come to claim your tattered soul, or maybe even she will desert you, deeming you as not worth her time. With a hiss, the door shuts, and a silver helmet appears in your blurry vision. Sighing, you turn your face away when he offers you a bowl of soup, not finding it in you to speak.

'How are you feeling?' He asks, and from somewhere inside you, you register the worry in his voice.
You shrug. 'I feel nothing.' A crazed smile cracks your face. 'Not even the razor.'
He freezes. 'What?'
Suddenly, it's all terribly funny. 'Not even the fucking razor, Mando. I could cut myself to pieces, I could have the fucking Empire shoot me full of their electric torture, and I wouldn't feel it. Isn't that funny?'

Grabbing the edge of the blanket, Mando slowly peels it back, leaving you plenty of time to stop him, but you don't, just giggling to yourself, lost in a world of nothing. Removing his gloves, he presses the back of his hand to your forehead. It feels normal, but he suspects that you're half hallucinating, your brain shutting down due to lack of food. Grasping your wrist, he turns your arm so he can see your forearm, and his stomach drops in terror.

Criss crossed over your skin are old and new cuts, abandoned and neglected, crusted with old and new blood. He's never seen it this bad, never seen you not bandage up the cuts you've made, and it makes him wonder if you left them because you wanted them to get worse.

'Stay here,' he gasps. 'Stay.'

Hands shaking, he rushes to the 'fresher, seizing the med kit and almost tripping over himself to get back to your side. A terrifying thought occurs to him, and he wrenches open the compartment beside your bed. The bottle which holds your antidepressants isn't full, but that doesn't stop his suspicion; instead, he checks under the bed, where sure enough, the little white pills shelter in the small gap between the bottom of your mattress and the floor.

'No,' he whispers. 'Please, no - '

Mando cuts himself off. He can't panic right now, he needs to look after you. Gently taking your wrists in his hands, he wipes off the old blood, wincing when you squint up at him, somehow unfeeling to the antibacterial wipes he runs over your wounded skin. He glances over to the bowl of soup to the side, now lukewarm, and he picks it up. How had he not noticed how much you'd been neglecting yourself? How could he have assumed you'd be alright during his hunt?

'Hey, cyar'ika,' he says, forcing the shake from his voice. 'Lift your head up for me.'

You obey, still staring at him with that dull smile, and he retrieves the razor from beneath your pillow. Taking your wrists in his hands again, he smooths bacta over your cuts and bandages your arms, hoping that the gauze will deter you from hurting yourself again. He straightens, perching on the edge of the bed and smoothing your hair from your forehead.

'Please,' he says. 'I need you to drink this soup, and I need you to take your antidepressants. You're my - my everything.'
You accept the bowl of soup. 'I'm not your everything, Mando.'
He looks you straight in the eyes. 'You are my everything.'

Insistent, you shake your head. In a split second, he makes his decision, and before his brain takes over, before you can object, he tugs his helmet off, taking your chin in between his finger and thumb and tilting your head up. You gaze into his brown eyes, unable to look away from his face, his strong brow and jaw, his sharp nose, his soft, tousled chesnut curls.

'You are my everything,' he whispers. 'My everything, you hear me?'

This time, you nod.

im sorry this hasnt been updated in years school has been full on whooping my ass