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On Tattooine, they start calling him Fett’s pet Mandalorian. Mostly, Din doesn’t let this bother him.
It is the most he’s stayed in one place for a long time. He knows he’s recognizable. Shiny beskar, mudhorn insignia, jetpack. He’s used to that. Not so used to carrying Fett’s reputation with him just by working for him. When people talk about Fett, now they’ll talk about Din too. When Din walks into a room, they see Fett walking in too.
Working for Boba Fett is not so bad. It’s work. Din doesn’t have it in him to chase bounties anymore, and he’s grown to trust Fett enough that he’ll let Fett use him to cut through the writhing chaos of Tattooine. Fett needs a warrior, and maybe it’s been a long time since Din has wanted to prove himself to someone.
But that’s not why he’s stayed.
Some nights he stares at the ceiling of his quarters and reminds himself that this arrangement is only temporary. Fett is fair, if ruthless to his enemies. Din wants to earn enough to buy his own ship. Fett has offered to loan Din one of his own ships. Din refused the offer so adamantly, he was worried that Fett would take it as an offense. But Fett had not brought it up again.
A man made a warlord is not to be trusted easily. Din has watched Fett carefully as he began amassing power, bit by bit, often with Din's help. He’s waiting for the moment that code of honor that he respects so much in Fett withers under the corruption of power.
It’s been two months. Din is still waiting.
He stands in the shadows and watches Fett hold court. Din isn’t needed for this — guarding the transaction of goods and credits isn’t something that Fett has ever asked of him. But he has business with Fett after this, and anyway, he wants to see how Fett will handle this latest development.
Boba Fett has been betrayed.
The leader of a settlement south of here took help from Fett in wiping out the desert bandits who made life a living hell for the people there. Din himself was one of the fighters tasked with cleaning out the bandit camp. The fight had been brutal and wearying, but at the end of it, Din could see that there was something to be salvaged there, people whose lives could return to normalcy after months of constant fear.
In return, Fett asked for a discount in shipments from the moisture farms there. A fair trade with generous terms. Instead of honoring that deal, the leader of the settlement colluded with the opposing warlord, Fett’s enemy, supplying them with weapons.
They bring in the traitor. He looks no different from anyone else here on Tattooine, sand scrubbed skin, cold flinty eyes that have seen too much sun and not enough rain. The man gathers moisture to his mouth, and he spits at Fett’s feet.
“I make no deals with clones,” the man says. “Why should I give you what I own? You don’t even own your own fucking blood, do you?”
The court was quiet before, but now it grows so unnaturally silent that, with the hearing aids in his helmet, Din can hear the sound of breathing. The court waits for Fett to pass judgment.
Fett always wears his helmet when he’s on the throne. Now, he removes it, sets it on the arm of the throne. Din wonders if he means to humanize himself, or to show the court that he is unashamed of his heritage, of the face he wears. He leans forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks down at the traitor.
“Who or what I am doesn’t matter two bantha shits,” Fett says. His voice is reasonable, even casual. At the same time, it sounds dangerous enough that Din finds his fingers twitching restlessly towards his holster. “When I make a deal, and I uphold my end of it, I expect the same respect in return. You broke that trust, and you disrespected me.”
The traitor says nothing, but Din can see that his legs have begun to shake. Fett must notice this too. He grins, suddenly, or rather bares all of his teeth in a warrior’s grimace. The traitor pales visibly.
“Tell me,” Fett says conversationally, “how are your people doing ever since we rid them of the scourge of those bandits? Or is your memory so short?”
Here, the traitor raises his chin in a challenge. “They’re tired of being bought and sold. At least before the bandits left, they could say they were under no one’s yoke. And now they’re to call a clone their master?”
Fett’s expression changes. For the first time during this conversation, he looks truly angry. “I am no one’s master,” he growls. “If you thought to look past your pride, you would know this. Go back to your people. If they know what it is you’ve done, then perhaps they will caution you to take the reasonable approach. In a week, I expect to have my shipments delivered.”
Under his helmet, Din blinks in surprise. He truly expected Fett to strike this man down. He would have been within his rights to do so. But instead, he’s dismissing him. The traitor seems surprised at first too, but it doesn’t take him long to find his feet and take his leave of the palace.
Fett’s court disperses soon after that. Din waits for the room to clear, and watches Fett from across the room. He’s speaking to Fennec in low tones, their heads bent together. Din looks away, watches the crowd instead, trying to gauge their reaction to Fett’s decision. He can tell that some of them, like Din, seem confused by the sudden deescalation.
“Mandalorian,” Fett calls, when he is done speaking with Fennec. Din goes to him.
Fett looks him over as he approaches. It’s been a while since they’ve been face to face like this. Maybe two weeks since they’ve spoken. Din has had his own work to occupy himself with, and Fett has been busy with negotiating alliances.
“Good to see you’re still in one piece,” Fett says, finishing his appraisal of him.
Not a minute into this conversation and Fett already has Din unbalanced. “I needed to talk to you about our arrangement,” Din says.
“Of course,” Fett says. “Hope you don’t mind if I do this over a meal. I’ve had nothing to eat all day. You’re welcome to join me, of course.”
Din shifts from foot to foot. He’d really hoped to get this over quickly, but that’s not how Fett handles things. He takes care of his people. He also likes to check in with them more than Din expected. In the first few weeks Din was here, Fett seemed to take a special interest in him. Din assumed it was because Fett was worried Din would betray him, so he put up with it.
“All right,” Din says. It’s not like he has much of a choice.
Fett seems to realize this, because he looks amused. He gestures for Din to follow, and leads him further into the palace, into the warren of corridors behind the throne room that Fett keeps for his personal use. Din goes easily. He’s been to this part of the palace many times before.
They enter a side room, where there’s already a meal waiting for them. Enough for two. Din raises an eyebrow. It’s hidden by his helmet, but Fett seems to sense Din’s mood anyway because his eyes twinkle with the smallest glimmer of mischief.
“Always good to plan for company in advance,” Fett says.
“Right,” Din says, and then he takes off his helmet.
It still prickles at him, to do this. It still tightens his chest, makes him feel like he has disappeared from his body. But he is an oathbreaker, after all. The shame of what he has done means that he doesn’t have a right to wear the helmet anymore.
Fett’s gaze on his face brings Din back to his own body. He tries not to scowl. Fett always seems to be able to read too much. Din is learning, slowly, how to hide that, but it isn’t easy to unlearn a lifetime of habits.
“Good,” Fett says. Din keeps himself from reminding Fett that he hasn’t actually done anything worthy of praise. “Let’s eat.”
They sit across from each other. Fett immediately digs in, clearly ravenous. Din supposes that he hasn’t had much time to eat in between holding court. Din is prepared not to eat anything — he had a few furtive bites earlier — but then the smell of the food hits him and his stomach betrays him with a gurgle.
Fett gives him a look, wolfish and amused without really being a smile, and Din sighs and begins to eat.
“I saw you in the main hall earlier,” Fett says, after they have eaten in silence for a while. “What did you think?”
He wishes Fett had asked him this before Din took off his helmet. Din’s face betrays him without him meaning it to.
Fett never seems to find offense in Din’s honest reactions — strangely he almost seems to find pleasure in them. “You disagree with my approach, then?” Fett says.
Din shrugs. “It’s not my place. I don’t sit where you sit.”
“That’s true,” Fett says. “Doesn’t mean you can’t give your opinion when I ask it.”
Din bows his head, hearing the reprimand. “I would have done it differently,” Din says, carefully. “You’ve given that man enough time that he could muster the resources to build a resistance against you.”
“He might do that,” Fett says, sounding entirely unbothered by this. He licks his fingers, and Din tracks the movement before he remembers that Fett can see his eyes. “But if I exact my fury on him, how many more settlements will decide that I’m too merciless to allow to fester? I will lose more allies than I gain, make myself a common threat. Right now, I have reasonable good will, but that could disappear in the blink of an eye.”
Din says nothing to this, although he is skeptical. He’s heard what the settlements say about Fett. They know what he knows — Fett is no ordinary warlord. He wants to build something in Tattooine, a place infamous for burying all such endeavors in the sand. Fett inspires loyalty in others.
“Enough about that,” Fett says. “We have accounts to settle.”
“Yes,” Din says, straightening.
Fett pulls out the tablet containing his ledgers and activates the display, reading it over.
“When you first got here, you looked like you’d be out on the next ship. But it seems you’re settling in nicely.”
“I almost have enough to buy my ship,” Din says.
Fett snorts. “Yes, you do, even though you keep haggling down my price when I try to pay you. Stubborn kid.” He says this last part in Mando’a. Din has heard the phrase enough times from Fett to know without looking that he smiles when he says it.
“I know what I’m worth,” Din says uncomfortably. This is an old argument between Fett and himself, one that Fett still returns to.
Fett gives him a look, long and piercing. Under those eyes, Din feels like he’s not wearing any beskar at all. “Do you?” Fett says.
What is that supposed to mean, Din thinks. But Fett turns back to the ledgers, like he got his answer from Din’s silence alone.
“Tell me, Djarin, what do you mean to do after you have your ship? Quest-seeking with Bo-Katan Kryze? Or something more mercenary?”
Din frowns. “What does it matter?”
“Call it curiosity between friends.”
Friends. Over the years, Din has had many people try to use that word on him when they wanted to gain something from him. Somehow when Fett uses it, it sounds more believable.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Din answers. It’s the truth. He wants his own ship. The absence of his own space, the loss of his home no matter how small it was — it has affected him more deeply than he expected it to. He’s tired of feeling displaced, even if, as a Mandalorian, it is his birthright.
And besides, he wants the clarity of solitude again. He’s stayed here much too long. Things at Fett’s palace have become too… confusing for him, lately. But he can’t think of that now, not while Fett can still see his face.
Fett seems to accept this answer, because he nods. “Well, at the rate you’re going, you only need to hunt for me a few more times before you could buy any ship you set your eyes on in Mos Eisley.”
“I assume you’ll have work for me soon, then?” Din asks.
“I will. So don’t get too comfortable.”
Din just gives Fett a look rather than reply to that. Fett seems to find this funny, judging by the low snort he gives. He stands up and takes up his helmet, fitting it once more over his face. Din does the same.
“I’ll call on you when I need you, then,” Fett says.
“I’ll be there,” Din says.
It’s nothing like an oath. But it’s the closest he has right now.
Din isn’t the only hunter under Fett’s employ, but he’s gotten a reputation for being the fastest, the most efficient. He knows that there are those who resent him for it, resent that Fett gives him first pick on hunts. Din knows that it’s made worse by the fact that he keeps mostly to himself, even when he’s at the palace. Doesn’t share drinks with the other warriors, or swap stories of his hunts.
He knows what they say of him. Mandalorian dog. Sitting at Boba Fett’s feet and begging for scraps. By now, Din is well-practiced in letting such remarks roll off of him.
He sometimes wonders if Fett favors Din just to rile up the rest of his hunters. A little competition between hunters is always good for getting the work done faster. It’s why the Bounty Hunters’ Guild would sometimes put multiple hunters on the same hunt. If sometimes a hunter killed another hunter instead of the bounty, well, it was still profitable for the Guild.
Part of Din doesn’t want to believe that Fett would do that. But then he has to remind himself that Fett is a ruthless warrior, no matter how much he seems to take an interest in Din.
When the call comes, Fett summons Din to the throne room instead of his quarters. Din walks in under the gaze of all the other hunters, and stands at attention.
“You have something for me to hunt?” Din asks Fett.
On the throne, in full armor, Boba Fett is implacable, uncompromising. Din knows what beskar makes a person look like — inhuman, a force of nature rather than a being. Seeing Fett like this, it’s easy to forget that he’s the same man who Din has shared meals with, has trained with.
“I do,” Boba Fett says. “The Tuskens attacked a band of slavers that made the mistake of getting too close to their camp. They chased the slavers onto our lands, and are up in arms because they think we’re giving them refuge. Obviously, we’re not.”
Din nods. He knows that Fett doesn’t make deals with slavers. Not anymore.
“You want me to hunt the slavers down?” Din asks.
“Yes. Shouldn’t be too far from here.” Fett pauses. “The Tuskens will want proof.”
Under his helmet, Din grimaces. For Tuskens, proof of a kill means bringing them a head. Din doesn’t usually take trophies. If a client wants proof of the hunt, he prefers to bring the bounty in carbonite rather than make a mess. But it’s smart to do what the Tuskens want. It’ll build good favor with them, and making a gory display of slavers will surely build support among many of the settlements here on Tattooine.
So that’s what it is. Fett wants to make a spectacle of this.
“I can do that,” Din says.
“Good,” Fett says. It makes Din stand up just a little straighter. A whisper goes through the room.
“Is that it?” Din asks. It’s been long enough since Fett sent him out on a hunt that he’s impatient for it, looking forward to the chase. He wonders when it is he started enjoying his work again.
“That’s it,” Fett says, something indulgent in the way he says it, like he knows that Din is eager to leave. In Mando’a, Fett adds, “Don’t die out there.”
Din almost stumbles. “I won’t,” he replies in Mando’a, hoping that his surprise will be hidden by the filters in his helmet.
He leaves quickly, the eyes of the court on him. He can feel Fett’s gaze in particular burning at his back.
The slavers have taken over a small canyon not far from the palace. It’s a weakness in Fett’s stronghold — the dense labyrinth of tunnels and caves makes it difficult to lay down sightlines. Even Fennec, the best sniper Din knows on this side of the Outer Rim, says this place is nothing but blind spots. The only way to find anyone hiding in it is to do it by foot.
Din leaves his speeder behind a sand dune, where hopefully it won’t be taken. It’s not a long walk back, but he’d rather not have to make that journey.
The back of his neck prickles as he steps into the canyon. Din knows how easy it would be to set an ambush here. Most likely, he’s walking into a trap. But his best shot at drawing the slavers out of their cover is to make himself a target, draw their fire. Briefly, he knocks his knuckles on his breastplate, drawing strength from the ringing of his beskar.
He makes his way through the canyon, skirting along the rock walls. He purposefully steps a little louder than he normally would, and keeps his senses alert for any movement.
There. A shadow along the far wall. Din leaps over the gap, carefully skirting the loose rocks, and steps around the bend of the canyon.
He’s immediately under fire. Six slavers that he can count. They have the advantage of high ground right now, but he has his beskar. He dives to find cover, a small outcropping of rock, and from there it’s just a matter of picking them off one at a time, moving up through the canyon so he can flank their position.
Din doesn’t see the seventh slaver until it’s too late. They’ve been biding their time, waiting for Din to move up far enough to get in range of their weapon. It’s a harpoon gun, the kind that the Tuskens use to spear krayt dragons. It’s pointed right at him.
Din tries to dodge, or at least maneuver himself so that it will hit his breastplate and hopefully won’t knock him backwards into the canyon. But he’s caught unprepared. The harpoon gun fires with an explosive sound that echoes through the canyon, and it punches into Din’s side, knocking him backwards into a wall and spearing him to it.
Din’s entire vision turns white. He can’t hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears. The pain is indescribable, the harpoon going in through his side and out through his back. It hit him with enough force to pierce the rock wall at his back and pin him there.
The angle of the blow lifted him off his feet. He hangs there, suspended, the weight of his own body opening his wound even further. He clutches at the blade of the harpoon, tries to grip the rock wall and take some of the weight off, and even just that small jarring motion is painful enough that he has to bite back a scream.
For a moment, it’s all he can do to stay conscious, focusing on the pain as a way to keep himself in his own body. He makes himself breathe, even though every breath is agony, and he looks down.
Fuck. Fuck. Din is well and truly impaled, the front of his clothing quickly darkening with blood. He has to get himself off of this wall, but there’s no time for that. The last remaining slaver is descending from their perch in the canyon, blaster in hand, coming to finish the job.
Luckily, Din still has his blaster. He takes it out of his holster and raises his arm, his vision swimming in and out of focus. When the slaver comes into view, Din fires. He misses the first two times. The slaver shoots back, getting Din on his helmet, on his breastplate.
Din’s third shot lands. The slaver falls.
Din drops his arm and lets out a loud groan. For a moment, he just hangs there, motionless, mustering up his courage. And then he begins to push. It takes an excruciating effort to dislodge the spear point from the rock. By the time he finally slides off the wall and back onto the ground, the rock is slick with his blood.
He can’t make it back to his speeder like this. The harpoon juts out of him, long and jagged and barbed, too sturdy for him to snap off. And if he pulls it out completely, he’ll lose too much blood. He has to somehow cut it shorter so that he can walk.
The darksaber. Din takes it off his belt, activating it. He uses it to cut the harpoon, his hands shaking so much he’s worried that he’ll slip and cut into something he doesn’t want to. As soon as the sheared off portion of the harpoon clatters to the ground, he lets out a small sigh of relief as some of the pressure on his wound lets up.
He has to get himself back to Fett’s palace before he loses too much blood. But first things first. Din limps over to the slaver’s body, the one who shot him with the harpoon. Darksaber in hand, Din cuts off their head.
Fett’s court has long dispersed by the time Din gets back, but Fett is still in the throne room. His helmet is off, and he’s conversing with some of his people.
Fett stops talking when he sees Din. Din has moved his cloak so that it hangs over his wound, concealing most of it, but he’s aware that he’s still covered in blood, limping heavily.
“What happened?” Fett says.
“I did what you asked,” Din says. He reaches into the bag at his hip, wincing when the movement pulls at his wound, and he grasps the head by its hair, throwing it at Fett’s feet. It hits the ground with a sickening wet thud, and rolls to a stop. Fett looks down at it, then looks back up at Din.
“You’re wounded,” Fett says. It’s impossible for Din to read anything in Fett’s face or in his voice. He’s barely keeping himself upright as it is. All he wants is for Fett to dismiss him so that Din can find some bacta, limp back to his quarters, and take care of his wound.
But instead, Fett strides forward until he’s standing so close that they’re almost chest to chest. Din barely keeps himself from swaying forward into him.
Fett peels away Din’s cloak and looks at the wound. “What did this?” he says. His voice is a low growl.
“Tusken harpoon gun.”
Fett sucks in a breath. “Why didn’t you call for back-up when you were injured?”
Din blinks. It hadn’t occurred to him. “It — was fine,” he says, hoping that Fett doesn’t take offense.
Fett doesn’t seem angry with him. The look he gives Din is more incredulous than anything else, though there’s another emotion there that Din can’t parse. Things are slipping further into the haze for him.
Din can hear his own wheezing breath rattling in his helmet. Fett can probably hear it too. The shame of it makes him want to crawl into a small dark place, so he can be unseen for a while. He thinks wistfully of his old berth on the Razor Crest.
If Din tries to stay standing for any longer, he’s going to collapse. “I need to—”
“Come with me,” Fett says, taking Din’s arm. If Din wasn’t feeling the blood loss, he’d offer more resistance to being so manhandled, but as it is he barely keeps his balance from the sudden change in direction, swaying dangerously when Fett tries to guide him.
He hears Fett swear in Mando’a under his breath. He catches the word for “stubborn”, and then something else that Din’s limited vocabulary can’t translate. Fett readjusts Din, wrapping an arm around him and taking his weight.
“I can walk,” Din protests.
“Sure you can,” Fett says.
Instead of taking the stairs up to Din’s quarters, Fett takes him behind the throne room, to his own quarters. Din is grateful — he’s not sure he can manage stairs right now.
Fett brings him to a room that Din has never been in before. There’s a bed here, weapons and gear laid out along the walls. This is where Fett must sleep.
Fett sets him down on the bed, takes out a hefty looking case filled with bacta and other supplies. He eyes Din’s injury.
“I’m going to have to take that out of you first.”
Din grits his teeth. “Do it.”
Fett doesn’t give Din time to take back his words. He braces one hand on Din’s shoulder, and with his other hand, he yanks the harpoon blade out of Din in one swift movement.
Din must scream. When he comes back to himself, his throat is sore, and he’s leaned forward into Fett, his forehead resting against his shoulder. Din breathes him in, taking in the smell of Fett’s beskar, different than his own. It feels like his thoughts are muffled by cloth, so it takes him longer than it should to notice that Fett is unbuckling Din’s breastplate.
Panic bubbles up in Din’s chest, cutting through the dark haze. He sits up and pushes Fett away. It’s not too hard of a push, but Fett immediately pulls away.
“What are you doing,” Din says. The words slur together.
“That has to come off if you want to close your wound,” Fett says, nodding to Din’s breastplate.
Din blinks slowly at him, his mind sluggishly registering the words. He can’t focus, he can’t think. But a part of him knows he can trust Fett.
He nods. Fett leans forward again, and his hands make quick work of the straps of Din’s armor. He takes off Din’s breastplate and pauldrons, and then hesitates at Din’s helmet.
Din makes the decision for him. He reaches up, gritting his teeth through the pain, and removes his helmet. His hair is getting long enough that it falls into his eyes. He sets the helmet down, carefully breathing through the pain.
Fett watches this happen in silence. Din no longer tries to look at Fett’s face, afraid of what he’ll find there.
Fett cuts away Din’s clothing, exposing the wound. He begins to apply bacta. As soon as Fett touches Din, Din tenses up, his hand coming up to grip Fett’s arm.
“Easy,” Fett says, in a low rumble.
Din makes a face at being spoken to like a spooked bantha, but he forces himself to untense, loosening his grip on Fett’s arm.
“Good,” Fett says, and Din has to close his eyes against that, against the dizzying rush it brings him, too heady to be explained away by blood loss.
“Did you never let your fellow warriors patch you up in your clan?” Fett says quietly.
“I was a hunter,” Din says, instead of saying I was alone.
Fett hums, like he’s considering this. His hands don’t linger, spreading bacta on the front and back of the wound. Din can already feel the bacta working, his skin crawling with the sensation of it closing his wound. He becomes aware that he’s not wearing much in the way of clothing, bare to his waist. Meanwhile, Fett is still mostly in full armor. Din shivers.
Fett frowns at him as he wipes his hands free of bacta. “Did you injure yourself anywhere else?”
The stern note in Fett’s voice almost reminds him of the nursery minders in his covert growing up. It’s a funny thought, comparing them in his head. Din finds himself grinning at Fett, unable to stop.
“Djarin,” Fett says, sounding concerned now. Din drops his head, trying his best to regain his composure.
“Uh, I think I — hit my head. When I got thrown into the wall.”
“Could’ve told you that myself,” he hears Fett mutter. Din has to bite back another manic grin. Kriff, he has to go to sleep.
“Doesn’t look like you’re bleeding from there. I’ll look at it after you sleep.” Fett stands up, begins to tidy away the bacta kit. Din makes to stand as well, but Fett just snorts and pushes him back onto the bed. He doesn’t have to push very hard.
“Stay there, Djarin,” Fett says, sounding exasperated now.
There’s enough of a command in it that Djarin doesn’t protest, just tips himself sideways onto the bed. He’s out before he can register Fett laying a heavy blanket across his shoulders.
When he wakes up a few hours later, his head is much clearer. The bacta has done its work, closing up the wound. He prods it carefully, hissing when it stings. He’ll need to limit his movements in the next few days so that it doesn’t open back up.
He gets dressed slowly in the tattered remains of his shirt, wincing a little when the fabric sticks to the bacta still smeared over his wound. He stands up, gathers up his beskar, and steps into the next room.
Din stiffens when he sees that there is another person there, but he relaxes once he realizes that it’s Fett. He’s removed his armor, is sitting at a work table with his beskar laid out, cleaning it, oiling it. Din watches him for a moment, and then steps forward.
“Uh,” Din says, clearing his throat. “Thanks. For that.”
Fett looks up at him, tilting his head. “Don’t mention it,” he says, gruff. “Let me check your wound.” He clears a space on the chair next to him, gesturing for Din to sit.
Din hesitates, and Fett snorts, probably reading Din’s discomfort in his face easily.
“I’m not asking you to sit in my lap and sing me a song, Djarin,” Fett says. “Just hold still for a bit and let me make sure you won’t die on me.”
Unbidden, Din’s eyes fall to Fett’s lap before coming back up. Din can feel his face heating. Kriff, he’s blushing.
It’s too much to ask that Fett doesn’t notice his reaction. Something in his expression softens, goes a little too knowing. To avoid looking at it, Din folds into the chair that Fett pulled out for him. He pulls up his shirt, and allows Fett to examine his wound.
“It’s healing well," Fett says, after a while. "Make sure to reapply your bacta after this wears off.”
“I know,” Din says, putting his shirt back down.
Fett’s voice goes low, steely. “You walked back into my court with a barbed Tusken harpoon still sticking out of you, instead of calling for back-up. Act like a fresh rookie and I’ll talk to you like a fresh rookie.”
Din scowls, but doesn’t argue.
“That’s what I thought,” Fett says, sounding amused. Din looks up, sees the turn in Fett’s lips, looks back down.
Next, Fett’s fingers probe his scalp, searching for bumps. The shock of having Fett touch his hair quiets his thoughts with one fell swoop, making him pliant. He closes his eyes.
“Your hearing without your helmet is not very good, is it?” Fett asks, after what feels like an impossibly long time.
Din stiffens. “It’s fine.”
“Easy,” Fett rumbles. A hand goes to the back of Din’s neck and squeezes, and Din lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “It’s no judgment. Just want to make sure of what I’m working with here.”
“Can’t hear from the left ear so well. Right one is all right.” Without the hearing aids of his helmet, everything Din hears is overlaid with a loud ringing noise, consequences of being hit in the helmet with blaster shots so many times. His eyesight isn’t that good either, but he’s pretty sure he inherited that from his biological parents, whoever they were.
“Is that why you still wear your helmet in front of the others?” Fett asks. There’s a light curiosity to his question. Din’s instinct is to not answer it, but he thinks about the last few hours. Fett took care of him when he didn’t have to. If in return he wants to ask Din some strangely personal questions, then that's within his rights.
Din takes in a breath, releases it. “I don’t know what I am without my beskar,” he says, quietly. “I don’t know what I’m worth.”
Even as he says it, he realizes he knows the answer. “The most important oath I ever made, I broke,” he says, hollow. “Maybe that is what I am worth.”
“If you think the most important oath you’ve ever made was to your beskar, then I have misjudged you as a man,” Fett says, quietly, but with enough fire in it that Din feels a thrill go up his spine, the kind he feels before he goes into a fight.
Din doesn’t say anything. After a while, seemingly satisfied with his examination, Fett squeezes Din's neck again, and then lets his hands fall away. Din can’t help but sway after him, chasing his touch.
He catches himself before can drift too far, and opens his eyes to see Fett giving him a long considering look, a dangerous glimmer of heat in his eyes. Just like that, need hits him like a blaster shot to the chest, so powerful that Din barely keeps himself from reaching towards Fett. He wants — he wants. Wants Fett’s hands back in his hair, wants him to grip him tightly and keep him in place, make it hurt. Images turn over in his head, and it takes every ounce of strength left in him to stifle them, bury them deep, where no one can see them.
Din slides his helmet back on. Fett’s expression doesn’t change. If he saw anything in Din’s face just now, he’s not giving it away. Din envies that control.
“I should go,” Din says.
Fett nods. “We’ll talk after you’ve recovered. You did good today, Djarin. Even if you were a reckless fool about it.”
Taking this as a dismissal, Din escapes the room, the rest of his beskar in his arms. Luckily he doesn’t run into anyone in the hallways. He realizes that he has no idea what time it is.
When Din reaches his own room, he lets out a sigh of relief. He takes off the rest of his armor, exchanges his blood stained clothing for clean clothes. Exhausted by this, Din lies in his bed, hoping that sleep will find him quickly.
But despite his best efforts, memories of what just happened filter slowly into his thoughts. He remembers the surprising warmth in Fett’s eyes, the smell of him, both familiar and thrillingly foreign.
He’s getting hard under his clothes.
No , Din thinks with rising horror. Not now.
It’s not the first time Din’s want has betrayed him like this when it comes to Boba Fett. But it’s the first time he’s had such… firsthand experience. He closes his eyes, and all he can remember is the way Fett touched him.
Din snarls, disgusted by his own weakness, and shoves down his pants, begins to stroke himself to full hardness, hoping to just get this over with. He can’t free himself of this desire, this shameful need. He can only give into it, thinking of Fett’s hands on him, the way they had felt touching him, the easy way Fett had guided Din where he wanted him. Fett could have easily pushed him back into his bed, forced open his legs, and—
Din is so surprised by his own thoughts that he can’t help but gasp, caught in whatever horrible dream his mind has conjured. He finds his hand slowing, drawing out the pleasure, making it last.
Din’s fingers find his mouth. He licks them wet, and then reaches down with them. It has been a long time since he’s done this, since he’s wanted to do this. But Fett would not be gentle with him. Fett would take what he wanted of Din's body, would lead him where he wanted him to go. Din works two fingers into himself, whimpering a little at the stretch, the pain singing through him.
In the part of his mind that Din doesn’t like to think of often, the pain transmutes to pleasure.
His climax arrives with a violent force. His hips lift from the mattress as he fucks into his own fist, making a mess of his belly, his hips, spurts of it landing on his chest.
Din feels unmade. Distantly he wonders if he’ll even recognize himself on the other side of this. Even more distantly, he wonders if that would be such a bad thing.
He’s so tired, his arms feel like they’re weighted with lead, but he makes himself grab his torn up shirt, using it to wipe himself off, careful to avoid the bacta.
Curling in on himself, Din sleeps.
When his wound heals, Fett pays Din for the job. It’s more than the rate they’ve negotiated, but this time Din doesn’t argue it. He has enough to buy a ship now. It’s time for him to leave.
He spends a week in Mos Eisley, unwilling to buy a ship he’s not certain will serve him well. After a long search, he finds something close to what he needs. She's not the Razor Crest, but she’s almost as fast, and a little more spacious. More than enough room for if the kid ever—
But Din usually doesn’t let himself finish those kinds of thoughts.
He finds Fett after he’s done holding court. He’s still wearing his helmet, sitting on the throne. Din stands at the step below, and tells Fett that he means to leave.
“You decide where you’re going yet?” Fett asks.
“Going to go see Cara Dune, see if she has work for me. If not,” Din shrugs, “I’ll find somewhere to be.” The galaxy has a way of guiding him where he needs to go. Din’s stopped questioning it at this point. If he runs into Bo-Katan Kryze out there, then that’ll just have to be what he deals with next. Unfinished business has a habit of finishing itself one way or another.
“You almost make me miss my bounty hunting days,” Fett says, crossing his arms. “Almost.”
“You’ve harbored me here for a long time,” Din says. “I won’t forget it.”
“Good,” Fett says. “I try not to be easily forgotten, both by my enemies and by my friends.”
Din swallows. He knows the truth of that, at least.
“So — I have your blessing to leave?” Din asks, stiffly.
Fett does not remove his helmet. Shamefully, Din wishes that he would so that he could see his face. He’s repulsed by his own desire.
“Do you need my blessing?” Fett asks.
“No, but — I don’t want to part on uncertain terms.”
Something in Fett’s shoulders relaxes a little. He steps down from his throne and clasps Din’s shoulder, his grip firm and uncompromising. Din feels steadied by it.
“Then go, Djarin. You have my blessing. You have a place here to come back to, if you ever want it.”
He does want it. In that moment, Din wants to stay exactly where he is, for as long as this lasts. But then Fett releases his shoulder, and the moment ends. Din’s mouth has gone dry. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Din,” he tells Fett. “My name is Din.”
“Din,” Fett says. Din can hear the smile in his voice. “Well met, Din Djarin.”
As far as goodbyes go, Din wishes he could have done this one differently. He feels suddenly unsettled, his resolve weakened. He wonders if he’s making the right decision.
But, no. Whatever fate the galaxy has planned for him, Din knows he can’t find it here. Din was adrift even before he broke his oath to his people. He knows with a strange certainty that his path will cross with Boba Fett again. But for now, he has to cut himself free.
Din reaches forward, clasps Fett’s arm. “Well met,” he says.