Work Text:
The atmosphere aboard the Imperial light cruiser is, somehow, more tense when he arrives than when he fled to hyperspace pursued by TIE fighters. Boba steps out into the cruiser's hanger and studies each member of their motley team. Fennec, Dune, Kryze and her hanger-on, and Din. Dune is holding up an unconscious Moff Gideon, arm twisted behind his back and blood trailing from his hairline.
There is no sign of the baby. He cuts his eyes towards Fennec.
“What happened,” he says flatly. Fennec's gaze meets his and holds, but it's Kryze who speaks. Her presence feels like metal filings under his armour.
“There was a Jedi,” she says. Fennec looks away, and Boba can't help but follow her eyes to Din, standing straight and tall and far too still.
“What,” he says.
“A Jedi,” Kryze's lackey states. “Took out the dark troopers Gideon sicced on us.”
Din moves abruptly, pushing past them and up the ramp into Slave 1. Dune calls for him as he disappears into the ship, but he doesn't even twitch.
“He's been searching for a Jedi to take over the baby's training,” Dune says. “I guess that rock thing on Tython worked.” Her eyebrows are folded unhappily on her brow. “Or something.”
“Fett,” Fennec says. When he glances her way, she jerks her head toward the ship. “We should go.”
He nods, but draws a blaster on Kryze. Her hands go to her holsters and the lackey reaches for a vibroblade on her thigh. “You two will stay in the cargo bay.”
Kryze has her helmet off, and her eyes are dark when they find his through his visor. She draws one blaster halfway and his grip tightens.
“Or I can leave you here with the Imps.”
That seems to do it, although Kryze looks hateful. Her lackey releases the vibroblade and they two women walk up the ramp with stiff backs, shoulders pressed together. Fennec follows them up with a nod to Boba, sniper's gaze on the back of their heads.
“We'll put the Moff in carbonite,” he says to Dune. She snorts, dragging Gideon along behind her by his wrenched arm. His limp feet twist and scrape as she hauls him along.
“Going to hold him for ransom?”
“Depends,” he says. The ramp hisses up behind them and he leads Dune over to the freezer. She tosses Gideon in, his head cracking satisfyingly on the wall. “It's nice to have insurance.”
Dune laughs over the hiss of the freezer. “At least the bastard's got some value.” She sobers abruptly. “I... listen.”
Boba turns to her. Dune's been brusque in the short time he's known her, but now her worry is a physical thing. “Yes?”
“Din,” she starts, and sighs. “He wants what's best for the little guy. But I don't think he... considered.”
“It was a mistake,” Boba says. He clenches a hand without thinking, thoughts twisting back to their first meeting, Din's frantic scramble up the hill on Tython as his son was snatched, as though he could make it with desperation alone. His gloved hands digging through the wreckage of his ship and his steely surety when he recorded his message for Gideon.
“Yeah,” says Dune, “yeah. Maybe.” She sighs again. “I'm going to find him. Force knows we won't talk about our feelings, but I'll sit with him.” She claps a hand to his pauldron and he barely feels the need to slap it away. “Let's get out of here.”
He takes them into hyperspace, Fennec talking stiffly with the Kry'tsad scum in the cargo bay and Dune on her search. He plots a course for the first place he can dump Kryze then sits, staring aimlessly out at the soft blue stars streaking away across the viewscreen. There's a noise behind him. When he turns to look, Din is standing stiffly just inside the cockpit.
Boba sits up slowly. “Dune's looking for you.”
Din steps closer. “I'll find her in a minute.”
“She said you've been looking for a teacher. For the kid.”
“Yes.” Din's voice is far too even. It's empty. Boba wants to shake him around. “I was quested to return the child to his people, to his family. It's the right thing to do. And he needs a Jedi to train him, or he'll lose control of his abilities.”
Boba turns to face him fully, feet planted on the floor. He scoffs. “Jedi tell you that?”
“Fett, his abilities-”
“He doesn't need any cold bastard teaching him Force magic.” He'd never met a Jedi whose gaze didn't feel like ice freezing on his skin. “He needs to stay with someone who'll fight for him, protect him. You'd do anything for him. I've seen you do it.”
“He needs to be with his people, with the Jedi. He's a Jedi.”
“He's your son,” he snarls, and though Din barely flinches Boba knows he wants to crumple. Even through the helmet, Boba can see him. Boba steps forward, doesn't know when he stood up, and gets a hand on each of Din's shoulders before Din's shaking exhale stops him short.
“I didn't want to give him up,” Din whispers. One hand comes up to clutch at Boba's shoulder. “I wanted him to stay with me.”
Din's hand is shaking. Boba thinks of his scramble up the hill, his gloved hands in the Razor Crest's ashes, his stiff back as he stood in the doorway of the cockpit. Seeking out Boba.
Boba's hands slide to Din's upper arms. There are few places on their bodies not covered in beskar or leather, and the cloth on Din's biceps feels flimsy and unsafe. Boba lays his leather-clad hands over Din's arms. Though he knows it's a phantom sensation, he swears that Din feels warm.
“Alright,” he says. All at once Din's helmet dips down and he sways in Boba's hold. The hand not sitting on his shoulder comes up to clutch softly at the back of Boba's neck. “Alright Din,” he says. “You wanted to do right by him.”
Boba's not a parent. Quite honestly, he doesn't think he could be, at least not as he is now. Too harsh, unpredictable. A parent should always be there for their child, a rock in the stream. That's what his father had been, calm and sure. Boba has never brought anyone steadiness. His father never taught him how to.
Sometimes it feels like that's the worst thing the Jedi took from him. When his father's head hit the bloody sand of Geonosis, Boba lost the chance to learn anything more from him. He knows how to fire a blaster, throw a blade, clean his armour, hunt down a target and cook uj'alayi cake with his grandfather's recipe. He doesn't know how to protect someone he cares for.
He holds Din around the waist. His hands find the unarmoured places at the bottom of Din's ribs, press over the cloth as though the leather of his gloves could be a shield.
“I don't understand your decision,” he admits. “And I don't like it. But I understand... wanting to protect a child. Do the right thing for them.”
“You're right though,” Din whispers. Boba smoothes a hand over his waist, thoughtlessly. “He is my son. I should have...”
“We'll go after him then.”
“What?” Din's hand tightens on the nape of his neck as his head jerks up.
“We'll go after him.” As soon as he says it, Boba's pretty sure it's a stupid idea. Din can't teach the child to use the Force, or keep him safe from the Empire in the way that a Jedi can. The Jedi probably won't want to give up the child either, will probably cite some archaic treatise or scripture about why children should be kept at arms length and never shown unconditional love. Still-
“Why should you not have a role in his life? He needs a teacher. But a teacher isn't a father. Children need their fathers.”
-it's worth a shot.
Din't shoulders shake, and panic weakens Boba's knees before he realizes that Din is chuckling. “What, joint custody?”
The idea, admittedly, sounds absurd. “I suppose so.”
“I don't-” Din's shaking his head. “Don't have a ship, or weapons, how-”
“What, you think I'm dropping you off with Kryze?” Boba taps at his waist with one hand. “Thought we had an agreement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you.” Hyperspace paints blue stars across the shining metal of Din's helmet. It makes him feel closer, like the cockpit has compressed down so that this is the only thing left in the galaxy. “Until the child is returned to you, I am in your debt. And I don't see a child on this ship.”
“I can't ask you-”
“You don't have to.”
Din looks at him. Boba gets the sense that, just like he can see Din through his helmet, Din can somehow see him through his.
It isn't as bad as he would have thought, being seen like that.
“Alright,” Din says, “alright Boba.”
“Alright,” Boba whispers. He isn't sure what else to say, so he just runs his hand over Din's waist again, back and forth.
Din still has his hands on Boba's neck and shoulder. Boba thinks about his hands again, in his ship's wreck, on a blaster. He's never seen Din hold his son, but he knows how gentle he would be.
“What's the plan then?” Din asks.
“I don't know about you,” Boba says, “but I could use a good hunt.”
Din laughs again, like he's surprised by the sound. “Back to our roots, huh?”
“Mm-hm.” An idea is crystallizing in Boba's head, and he tips his helmet to the side to show the grin breaking out across his face. “As for credits... I may know someone on Tatooine who could be, ah, persuaded to help.”
“Tatooine?” Din shakes his head a little. “I've got to go back to kriffing Tatooine?”
“I'll make it up to you,” Boba promises, as if his skin isn't already crawling thinking of that dustbowl. It's nothing but sand and bad memories, of clawing his way up and out of the sarlacc, gasping for breath and not unconvinced that his escape wasn't somehow a trick to break his spirit further. But Tatooine had given him Fennec. In a roundabout way, it had given him Din. Din, who has remained in his hold, whose son he could, maybe, learn to protect.
Din tilts his head a little and lets Boba lean up into him. It's barely even a kiss. Their foreheads tap together softly, just a clink of beskar, before retreating, but. It's good. Steady.
Boba hopes that Din knows he's smiling behind his visor.