Chapter Text
The Jedi doesn’t look happy to see Slave I.
The van rolls to a stop in a puff of dust alongside the highway, where Skywalker’s parked his stupid x-wing, which is the military-issue equivalent of a well-armed hotrod. The kid’s wearing all black despite the desert sun — pretentious as always — and Grogu’s propped on his hip.
And he’s frowning.
To be fair, Boba isn’t happy to see Skywalker, either. Even in those months where they briefly shared social circles, with Din visiting Grogu and living at Jabba’s palace, Boba’s made an effort to stay out of Skywalker’s hair. He hasn’t been convinced he’ll be able to stop himself from shooting the kid if he says the wrong thing. And that would upset Din, and then Din would have to re-launch his whole year-long search for Jedi, and so on.
Also, the New Republic would probably try to arrest Boba, again.
So, avoiding Luke Skywalker? High on his to-dos.
“He better be able to help,” Boba mutters.
Be polite, Din chides, which Boba ignores, per their mutual agreement to just pretend that none of this is happening. It hasn’t been too hard on the drive to filter out mundane mental responses to road features, once the radio problem was dealt with.
Out loud, Din says, “Well, I know exactly one other Jedi, and she seems… focused on other concerns.”
Boba just shakes his head, gets out of the car, and starts collecting his armor from the van. Father and son reunite behind him with a hesitant, awkward-yet-relieved “hey, kid” on Din’s part and a series of excitable burbles on Grogu’s.
Boba takes his time clipping his durasteel plates into the electronics of his flight suit, watching everything that happens behind him in the reflection of Slave I’s many mirrors.
He tries not to dwell too much on how those days felt for him — the scarcity of his father’s time, the uncertainties of his comings and goings, the desperation to steal a few moments of his attention in between jobs. He hadn’t understood then, not really, and Grogu’s even younger, but kids still have an instinct for some things.
Din and Skywalker are murmuring to each other, too low to hear, but they’re both looking at him, now. Boba can almost feel Skywalker’s burning impatience through the glass reflection.
He sighs. Nothing for it.
They’re going to have to fix this thing one way or another.
Boba slips his helmet on and turns around.
“I know absolutely nothing about this,” Skywalker says, but his tone isn’t worried, or stressed, or any of the things that it should be — it’s ecstatic, like they’ve brought him some sort of tasty treat after a bout of globetrotting.
The Jedi steeples his hands in some parody of wisdom and authority. Din’s cuddling Grogu to his chest like he’s clinging desperately to a doll for emotional comfort, fingers clenching and unclenching. Grogu baas at him and pats the side of his helmet.
Boba’s just sitting here. In the scheme of things, it’s not the worst news of his life. But it feels world-ending.
And Skywalker’s eyes are just continuing to light up. “So. You can hear each other’s thoughts?”
“Yes,” Din says, as Boba jumps to say, “Only some of them.”
It’s less to convince the Jedi and more to convince himself. Because if Din can hear all of his thoughts — Boba doesn’t even deal with all of his thoughts head-on. He wouldn’t wish them on anyone else.
“Emotions? Resonance, maybe, or a sense of what the other’s feeling?”
“I... think so,” Din says, hesitantly, glancing at Boba.
“And you’re both absolutely force-null.”
Din just tilts his head at this one, so Boba steps in. “No latent Jedi abilities.” Din nods his understanding.
“I wish you still had the holocron,” Skywalker laments, shaking his head. “It might’ve had something to say about all this.”
“You and me both,” Boba mutters.
“It just disappeared,” says Din.
“Did anything else disappear or change? As you left?”
“Something jerked us together when we tried to walk away from each other. Like a tether,” Din says.
Skywalker nods thoughtfully. “What about as you drove away from the temple?”
Boba doesn’t know the answer to this one. Maybe the thoughts came less frequently; maybe everything hurt less. Everything was so bewildering in the moment that it was hard to say what was hitting his head or what was the Jedi magic, and Boba’s baseline for pain has never been quite right.
Din hums. “I feel some sort of pain. Since I woke up. Every single inch of me. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before — and it’s gotten less bad, the further we drove from the temple. But it’s like it’s inside me, or under my skin.”
At those last words, Din stops and falls totally silent.
All Boba can feel is horror, so strong and overwhelming that it drowns out everything else. He’s not sure if it’s his own emotion, as he realizes that Din is realizing that he’s just described the pain that Boba lives with every day — or if it’s Din’s.
Now it’s all he can think about: the wet heat of the sarlacc, the slow burn as the acid ate through his flightsuit, his utter helplessness, his directionless hatred. Those hours in the desert after, skin melting for the buzzards, so close to death before the Tuskens found him.
The pit’s crooning, mocking voice: A long time since I had one like you, all bright and sharp around the edges, like it’d caught a priceless prize. There is a clarity to you that is quite wonderful. A purity to your intent. Those horrible words have followed him in dreams since, wrapped into the memories of losses that aren’t his but haunt him anyway.
He still lives with the knowledge that his anger was the only thing that kept him from rotting to death in there. The beast couldn’t stand his unfiltered disgust, his cruel tongue set loose, and worked itself into a flurry of its own — giving him the desperate few seconds he needed to wrench himself from its grip.
Even a thousand-year-old sarlacc couldn’t stomach the truth of him. He is proud of that. It saved him.
But now Din can hear the fury that made an ancient beast spit him out.
And Din can feel the aftermath.
Din hadn’t said, on the drive. Boba can hear blood rushing in his ears. Every breath echoes inside his helmet, too loud. He should say something, explain, maybe even apologize — but not in front of the Jedi. Boba focuses his breathing, tries not to let his disquiet show.
The Jedi is still talking, though there’s a fresh gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
“I do have some suspicions about how to deal with this,” Skywalker says. “First… try not to die? More than usual, I mean. You might both die.”
Boba barely registers that Grogu’s ears flick back at the words. His hands clench on the tabletop.
“And beyond that, I see two choices: I can train you to control it, to minimize what you send through. Or you can try to break it.”
“We’re breaking it,” Boba says, quickly. “How?”
Skywalker shrugs. “It might not be possible.”
It better be.
Din shifts beside him.
If this had happened with literally anyone else besides Din — except maybe Fennec, who Boba might actually prefer to be stuck in this with — Boba would probably just turn around and shoot them in the head. If they both die, they both die. Being bound to someone else like this is too much of a liability, guaranteed to leave him trapped and vulnerable one way or another.
It’s a death sentence either way. One death just comes on his own terms.
Din’s helmet tilts towards him in something resembling alarm, and Boba cringes, wondering exactly how much of that made it through the bond.
If it’s not possible — if they’re like this forever —
Din’s trapped to him, unwillingly. Neither of them has ever had great life expectancy, but this... It’s so dangerous for both of them, a total disaster for the kid — there are so many problems —
Boba takes a slow, measured breath.
Welcome fear as your friend, but never show it to others. Fear is your friend. Never show it. Boba clings tight to the familiar mantra. It comforted him as a child, alone and on the run, and then again in those horrible days after he crawled out of the sarlacc’s guts.
Skywalker is looking at him, now, eyes oh-so-curious, like he’s a bug on display.
“Stop that,” Din says abruptly, elbowing Boba. There’s no force behind it.
It takes Boba a moment to gather his voice. “Stop what?”
Fear is your friend, Din thinks straight at him. “You’re repeating it. Over and over.”
He’s grateful, at least, that Din hasn’t said it out loud.
Say no more than necessary, says the reminder in his father’s voice. But that’s not an option for Boba, any longer.
The pain, the code — suddenly it’s all too much to have all this exposed to Din, and in front of Skywalker.
All he can do is leave.
There’s a space in Din’s mind that’s slowly grown over these last few hours. He doesn’t know how to describe it, exactly — it’s nothing so easily defined. But it feels like Boba, an intangible mix of his familiar quiet self-assurance, his casual self-deprecation, his testiness and his inclinations towards violence.
And it’s also full of things that Din has never seen in Boba, before. Self-pity. Anger. Fear. So much of it, steadily growing every time the Jedi says something that means I don’t know.
He means to say “stop that” as friendly censure, a gentle prod to pull Boba off the track he’s fallen into.
But the moment Din mentions any of it out loud, he knows he’s made a mistake. That space between them goes dull and blank, and Boba’s thoughts wink out like a wisp of blaster fire in the night, or a bear trap clamping down on flesh.
Boba stands up from the table slowly, measuredly, and turns from the room without a word. It’s no different from a dozen rude exits Din’s witnessed. He might even say they’re a staple, for Boba.
But there’s a low buzz of something strange under Din’s skin: like something’s crawling through him and a fist is wrapping itself around his chest.
Skywalker just glances at Din. “He doesn’t take bad news well, huh.”
The grip on Din’s chest tightens. Before he can really think about it, he’s following. Boba can’t have gone far; he doesn’t feel the tug of the tether between them. And sure enough, Boba’s stopped just outside the door, braced against the wall with one arm.
“Boba,” Din says carefully.
Boba doesn’t respond, doesn’t indicate that he’s heard Din, either. His breaths are coming faster, sharp gasps punching through the vocoder. Din’s own head is starting to spin with a dizziness that he knows isn’t his own.
“You need to calm down,” Din says, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.
“I am calm,” Boba bites between breaths.
“I can feel you panicking.”
“I’m not panicking. And get out of my head.”
“You need to breathe,” Din says, reaching to place a hand on Boba’s arm.
“Don’t touch me.”
Din steps back, hands raised. “I’m not touching you.”
I can’t breathe. It slips through the bond between them as Boba starts sliding down the wall to hug his knees.
And then Skywalker comes out, Grogu in his arms.
Boba’s breaths come faster and sharper. Din has no idea what to do, only the barest training for this type of attack, and always on the assumption that the other person is, to some degree, cooperating.
But he knows that the Jedi is making this worse. Din steps between them, blocking Skywalker’s view of Boba.
“Take the kid out of here, please,” Din says.
Skywalker doesn’t protest, just gives a quick nod and… covers Grogu’s ears with one hand? Din will have to ask about it later. The Jedi’s steps retreat quickly down the hallway, though he keeps glancing curiously back in Boba’s direction.
Din looks around. This wing of the temple seems more or less deserted. And he doesn’t understand exactly what Boba’s thinking, for all that their heads are engaged in a seemingly uncontrolled thought exchange right now.
But he thinks he understands vulnerability. Can almost feel Boba trying to snatch the thoughts back from Din’s head.
Boba’s shown him so much, so unintentionally.
“I’m walking around behind you,” Din says, and leans back against the wall in arm’s reach of Boba — but still with plenty of space between them.
He sinks down to the floor, hands on his knees, so he and Boba are at the same height. And he sets his helmet next to him on the floor.
Then he starts breathing, taking slow, deep inhales that fill his stomach and lift his chest.
In the space between them, he starts to count.
Neither of them say anything for a long time.
The pain hums just under Din’s skin. When Din closes his eyes, he can almost feel the acid eating through Boba, smell the stench of rot in the sarlacc’s belly as if he’d been there himself. He can hear Boba’s voice in his head, quipping about death sentences and choice.
Boba sneaks what he must think are subtle glances at Din’s unhelmeted face. His hands have loosened around his knees, and his breaths come slower, now. He’s slumped back against the wall, next to Din. In a reversal of their usual, Boba wears his helmet, still, but Din has left his off.
Taking off the helmet still leaves him feeling off-kilter, unprepared. It’s hard to follow speech without his audio controls to boost the levels, and his own voice sounds unfamiliar and naked in the air. He can’t stop himself from making faces that he probably shouldn’t, because he’s so used to going unseen beneath the beskar.
But that’s probably how Boba feels right now, too.
Din’s pretty sure that most people think you’re supposed to talk, when you’re in a predicament with another person. Set boundaries. Establish expectations. But he doesn’t really want to talk. And talking seems to only make Boba more upset, not less.
They’ll find a different way through this — one that works for them.
And right now, that means sitting silently in a hallway. Din suddenly feels a pang of loss, that he doesn’t get to spend this time with Grogu. But he knows enough about the Force at this point to know that something unknown and unpredictable like this might be dangerous for the kid. It’s probably best they limit contact for now.
And so soon after they’ve started seeing each other again, too.
Din’s new internal frustration seems to rouse Boba, a bit.
“This is useless,” Boba says, finally.
Din disagrees. It’s been incredibly useful to him. He’s learning more about their situation every moment, and every bit of information gives them more control over the bond between them. But Boba’s having a different kind of day.
“We’ll get you back with your kid. We just need to go to a friend of mine,” Boba says. “She knows more than this child. I’ve met padawans who know more than him.”
“You have friends who know about Force things?” Din is pretty sure Boba hates Jedi — prime evidence, what just happened back there.
“How do you think I knew where to get a holocron?”
“I don’t know, bounty-hunting forums? You really know Jedi?”
Boba shakes his head. “She’s not a Jedi. She’s just… in the know. You ever been to Takodana?”
Din laughs. “No.”
“Really? Pirate capital — you’ve never —”
“Of course I’ve been to Takodana,” Din cuts in. “Your friend is Maz? What’ll that cost us?”
Boba shrugs. “I don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas,” he echoes, throwing Din’s earlier words back at him. But there’s humor in his voice, and Din finds he doesn’t mind it.
Din stands first. When he offers Boba a hand, Boba clasps his arm and pulls himself to his feet. For a breathless moment, they’re inches from each other, Din’s unhelmeted face close enough to smell the acridness of stress in Boba’s sweat, mingled with the steadier scents of armor polish and blaster grease.
Din leans down to rest his forehead against Boba’s, just for a moment. The beskar is cool against his skin. Boba breathes, a sharp intake of breath. His hand tightens on Din’s forearm.
“This time,” Din murmurs, “I choose the music.”
Boba’s surprised laugh quickly turns to token protests as they part.
Din steadies himself. He’ll say a quick goodbye to Grogu, he’ll thank the Jedi for his extremely helpful advice of “try not to die,” they’ll drive to Maz.
He can’t fault the idea. If anyone has a solution, it will be her.
Din just has no idea how they’ll be able to pay.