Work Text:
Grogu starts talking on a Thursday.
Din remembers the exact moment because it hits him like a blaster bolt he never saw coming.
It isn’t a word he expects. Not “dad,” not “drink,” not even something simple like “no” or “more.”
It’s just… Grogu sitting on the floor of their little home, holding one of his toys, staring very intently at it like he’s been thinking about it for a long time.
Then, very carefully, like he’s testing the shape of language itself:
“…hi.”
Din had been standing in the doorway. He actually stops walking.
“Did you just—”
Grogu looks up at him, as if to confirm the achievement, then says it again, brighter this time.
“Hi!”
Something in Din’s chest just… gives.
He walks over slowly, like sudden movement might break the moment, and crouches down.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Grogu beams.
And from that point on, it’s over.
Because Grogu is a sponge. He picks up everything around him suddenly.
He’s copying everything.
It’s wonderful to see his little brain work, to teach him nice, happy words.
It’s also a weapon that can be used against Din.
To test the limits of his patience.
____
Din Djarin had learned a lot of things in his life.
How to move without sound in a hallway full of armed guards.
How to survive a blaster shot that should’ve killed him.
How to read a room in half a second and decide whether he was walking into a trap or a negotiation.
He had never learned how to survive Grogu saying “fuck.”
It happens on a Tuesday.
A completely normal Tuesday, if there even is such a thing anymore.
Din is halfway through repairing a stubborn hydraulic line on the Razor Crest’s successor—because of course something else is leaking again—when he hears it.
From the open hatch behind him, in a small, proud, experimenting voice:
“…fuck.”
Din freezes so hard he nearly drops the wrench.
There is a long silence.
Then a second, slightly more confident:
“fuck.”
Din slowly sets the wrench down like it might explode.
Behind him, Grogu is sitting cross-legged on a crate, looking very pleased with himself. His little ears are perked up, like he’s waiting for applause.
Din turns his head.
“Grogu.”
Grogu blinks innocently.
“Say… ‘dank farrik,’ buddy. Say that one instead.”
Grogu tilts his head, considers it, then very clearly goes:
“fuck.”
Din closes his eyes.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
He turns around fully now. “Where did you hear that word.”
Grogu just points.
To the ramp.
Where Mayfeld is leaning against the frame like he’s witnessing art.
Mayfeld, immediately grinning: “What? Don’t look at me like that. Kid’s got a good ear.”
Din’s voice drops dangerously low. “Migs.”
“What? I didn’t teach him anything bad. I just expanded his vocabulary.”
Grogu repeats it again, softer this time, almost thoughtful:
“fuck…”
Like he’s tasting it.
Like it’s a new snack.
Din physically pinches the bridge of his nose under his helmet.
“You’re banned from language.”
Mayfeld throws his hands up. “Oh come on, man, he was gonna learn it eventually. You can’t raise a kid in the galaxy and expect him to come out saying ‘thank you for your service’ all the time.”
Din turns back to Grogu immediately, softer now. “Grogu. Listen to me.”
Grogu looks up.
Very attentive. Very serious.
Din points at him slowly, enunciating like he’s negotiating with a bomb.
“That word is not for you. That is a grown up word. Only for grown ups. Not for kids. Do you understand?”
Grogu pauses.
Then, very deliberately, very quietly:
“…fuck?”
Din makes a sound that is halfway between a sigh and a prayer.
Mayfeld is openly laughing now.
Din spins on him. “If he says it again, I’m throwing you into space.”
Mayfeld wipes a tear from his eye. “Worth it.”
Grogu, meanwhile, is clearly delighted by the reaction. He bounces once on the crate.
“fuck!”
Din gives up for exactly three seconds.
Then he scoops Grogu up, firm but careful, turning him away from Mayfeld like he is physically removing him from temptation.
“New rule,” Din says flatly. “No Uncle Migs.”
From behind them, Mayfeld calls out: “You can’t ban me from the galaxy, Djarin!”
Din, walking away with Grogu tucked against his shoulder: “Watch me.”
Grogu, over Din’s shoulder, gives one last cheerful:
“…fuck!”
And Din, walking faster now, mutters:
“I am going to strangle him.”