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They break out of hyperspace in Tatooine's orbit, the surface of the planet dull and dusty beneath them. A gigantic sandstorm is raging in the planet's northern hemisphere, throwing clouds of fine red dust up to the stars, but the way down to Mos Eisley is clear.
“Main spaceport, hangar 3-5?” Boba confirms. Din's affirmative hums through his helmet comm a moment later. “Your contact knows what ship to expect?”
“Told her I lost the Crest. She wasn't pleased with me.”
That was an understatement. Though Din's call with his contact on Tatooine had been brief, he'd spent at least half of it apologizing for the loss of his ship. Apparently the contact's passion for mechanics outweighed any fear she may have felt over yelling a Mandalorian into submission. Boba's already a bit impressed by her.
The Slave 1 enters Tatooine's atmosphere and Boba begins to guide her down to the flat sprawl of Mos Eisley. The suns gleam through the viewscreen, glinting off the instrument panel under his hands. Boba swears he can feel their heat already. The ship touches down gently in hangar 3-5 and throws up a puff of dust that sifts down onto the pit droids skittering out to meet them. Boba shuts down the ship, makes sure the access codes and ramp controls are locked to his vambrace, and leaves the cockpit.
Fennec and Din are standing up the top of the ramp. Fennec has her rifle slung across her back and her helmet on as protection from the suns. Boba bumps her elbow with his before standing next to Din, facing the hangar with the same calm intensity he would a firefight.
“After you,” Boba says. Din's helmet swivels to his, and Boba gives a tiny shrug and smirks. Din sighs and starts down the ramp.
There's a woman waiting for them, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Mando!” She barks out, shoulders squaring up, “I just fixed your bucket of bolts and you already blew her up?”
“Your Trask job put a few dents in her first.”
“Oh!” The woman throws a hand up. “So there I was, getting you a nice easy job with a great payout, and you're mad at me for your bad flying?”
“I'd hardly call sublight travel easy.” Despite the bickering, Din seems at ease with this woman. He's crossed the hangar to stand in front of her, and allows her to clap both hands to his elbows without protest. Boba's pretty sure that she's a friend rather than a contact.
“So who're these two Mando?” The woman releases Din to gesture at him and Fennec. Boba heads toward them, Fennec at his side, and allows the woman to size them up.
“Peli, this is Boba and Fennec,” Din says. “I'm working with them.”
“Huh,” the woman says. Her eyes flick from Boba to the Slave and back. “Boba Fett?” At his nod, she lets out another “huh” and squints at him. She must recognize him. Boba remembers all of a sudden that Din has no idea of his history on Tatooine. He's not ashamed of it, though he won't be repeating the kind of work he did for Jabba, but he's suddenly and intensely certain that he doesn't want Din to find out from anyone other than him.
“Huh,” Peli says. “Okay. Nice to meet ya. And nice to meet you too Miss Fennec.” She claps her hands together. “You got any issues with droids Fett?” When he shakes his head, she claps her hands again. “Alright, let's let them handle the ship. We'll get out of the heat.”
She takes them to a small office at the edge of the hangar, half sunken into the ground and much cooler for it. Fennec slips off her helmet once they're inside.
“So Mando tells me you've got some plan for Jabba's palace.” Peli pulls a bottle from a small cooling unit wedged into the corner. She fetches two slightly dusty glasses from a little cabinet next to it and fills them halfway with water. “You looking to take over the planet or something?”
“Not exactly.” Fennec accepts the glass Peli hands her.
“More like clear out his coffers.” Boba hesitates, but removes his helmet and holds it at his side. Peli startles.
“Thought you Mandalorians didn't do that.” She turns to Din as she says it, eyebrows raised into her wild hair.
“Depends on the Mandalorian,” Din says. He and Boba have talked about Din's Mandalorians, their traditions and beliefs that were both foreign and intensely familiar to Boba. The helmet rule is something he's never encountered, but their style of training, their songs, their fierce protection of their children, these things Boba recognizes well.
“We have a lot in common,” Din had murmured, their heads pressed close, when they sat together in Boba's bunk one night on the way from Nevarro to Tatooine. Din hadn't taken off his helmet again in front of Fennec, still seemed uncertain of his path forward now that he had removed it, but slept bare-headed, curled with Boba in his too-small bunk and talking softly while Fennec took her turn piloting. Most nights they talked about Din's son and his hopes for what would happen after their reunion, but Boba had been curious about Din's covert.
“I thought that when we met,” Boba had said back, because it was true. Most of the time, he felt disconnected from Mandalorians, both a part of the culture and not, following the traditions he's been gifted by his father and yet knowing they weren't quite his. He hadn't felt that with Din. Mostly, he'd just liked being with him.
He'd kissed Din then, because it seemed the best way to convey the steady affection that grew larger in his chest whenever they spoke. Din had slung an arm around his shoulders and given him a kov'nyn in return.
“Sure, alright,” Peli says, bringing him back to Tatooine. She pours Boba a glass of water as well, and he takes it gratefully. He'd swear that he could already taste Tatooine's dust in his mouth. “Don't tell me too much about this, I don't want to be an accomplice if it all goes sour.”
“We're good,” Din says, not bragging but simply stating a fact. “We'll be alright.”
Fennec kicks at his ankle like she would to Boba. “Don't jinx us.”
“I like her. Smarter than you boys.” Peli drains her glass. “Now, Mando,” her expression goes serious, “tell me more about your little guy.”
The mood dips from there, Peli extracting the story from Din in halting sentences. For all her brashness, she's remarkably gentle, and pats Din's shoulder periodically as he recounts what happened on the light cruiser. Fennec has perched on the desk in the center of the room, looking away to give them some modicum of privacy. Boba leans against the desk next to her, looking over to check on Din whenever he pauses.
“Well,” Peli says once the tale is over, “I guess Jabba's coffers would be very helpful for tracking down a mystery Jedi.” She gives Din a final pat. “You're tackling that tomorrow then?”
“Right.” Din hadn't told Peli much of the plan over their comm call, just given her a rough timeline. She'd offered her hangar as a main base on the condition that she received a sizable bonus and stayed out of their trouble.
“Right.” Peli claps her hands together once again. It seems to be her favourite way to change the subject. “Well, I'm going to take a look at that fine ship in my hangar, then hit the cantina with the very lovely fee I shall be accepting for my services. Mando, the hangar and office are yours for the night. Sleep in the ship or the office, I don't care, just don't touch my paperwork. Fennec, Fett,” she nods at them, her eyes sharpening as she looks at Boba, “nice to meet you, try not to get killed tomorrow.”
“We'll try our best,” Fennec says, with a small crooked smile. She seems to enjoy Peli's brusque way of speaking.
For the rest of the blistering afternoon, Boba, Din, and Fennec organize their plan and weapons for the following day. Peli bustles around the Slave 1, exclaiming over the engineering more than anything else, though she does give the engines a good look and tweak some of the wiring. As evening falls, Peli heads for a nearby cantina, dragging Fennec and Boba along with her, to bring their dinner back to the hangar but mostly so that she can tell them how pleased she is that Din has people watching his back and how she'll drive a starship through them if they turn on him. She seems to know she's not very threatening to two seasoned criminals, but her sharp care for Din brings a smile to Boba's face.
Peli stays at the cantina, already staking out a sabacc game to cheat at and increase the substantial fee Boba had paid her for the ship maintenance. Fennec and Boba walk back to the hangar in silence, Mos Eisley's unsavoury nightlife picking up around them and a chill desert wind whipping up the sand at their feet.
Din has pushed the desk to the side of the office when they arrive, his chest and back armour sitting on either side of him. He's sitting cross-legged with his cape spread over his lap and sewing the rips in the hem with even, careful stitches. When Fennec flops down next to him, he sets his cape aside and stretches out his legs.
“Welcome back,” he says.
“Here's dinner,” Boba replies, setting a container of flatbread and spicy stew down by Din's knee. He sits on Din's other side, facing him and Fennec, and passes her the bottle of spotchka they've also brought back. They trade the bottle back and forth in between bites of their food and gossip about the locals Peli was planning on thrashing at sabacc. Din seems entirely unsurprised to learn Peli's plans for the evening.
When their food is done, Fennec stands with a stretch and leans down to nestle the spotchka bottle between Din's calves. “That's your share Mando. Peli said she'd save me a seat if I wanted to join her, so I'm headed out.”
“Gonna help her cheat?”
“Of course.” Fennec swats at the top of Boba's helmet for his comment. “More fun that way.”
“I'll walk you out,” Boba says, just in case Din wants a chance to eat in privacy. He follows Fennec out to the hangar. Tatooine's first moon has risen in the sky, the second just starting to peek over the horizon. The air is clear and crisp, a welcome respite from the oppressive daytime heat. Boba dislikes Tatooine's climate almost as much as the bad memories the planet stirs up in him.
“Have fun,” he says to Fennec as she exits the hangar.
She tosses a smirk back at him. “You too vod.” She laughs at the expression on Boba's face and gives a little salute before disappearing into the street.
Boba lingers a minute in the hangar, wanting to give Din more time, before crossing the sand to Slave 1. He enters and and heads to a storage cupboard off the cargo bay, loading his utility belt with clean rags and grabbing cans of armour cleaner and polish. He slings the dropcloth from the bottom of the cupboard over his shoulder and heads back to the office.
Din is cross-legged again when he returns, his cape back in his lap. The container holding his dinner is empty and set neatly to the side. He looks up when Boba starts to spread the dropcloth out next to him.
“Might as well look our best tomorrow,” Boba says in explanation. Din gives a little laugh and Boba grins. He strips off his upper armour, setting it neatly in a row at the edge of the cloth, and settles down with the armour cleaner. He starts with his helmet, left by Din's hip while he ate, cleaning the top and faceplate in long, smooth strokes. It's familiar, meditative work.
“Give me your kama,” Din says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. Boba hums questioningly. “There's a fray on the left side. I'll fix it.”
“I'll clean your beskar then,” Boba says. “Fair trade.” Din's hands freeze. Boba panics for a split second – too forward? – before Din gives a little nod. He passes over his back and chest plates, then starts to unlatch his vambraces. He stacks his armour next to Boba's until they're both wearing only leg armour. Boba unfastens the fabric around his waist and passes it over, Din leaning their shoulders together after he does so. They work in quiet tandem for a while. Din's silence is always calm and steady. It reminds Boba of flying through hyperspace, travelling along in a little private bubble that's both so quiet and so full of promise.
“No paint on your beskar?” Boba asks quietly after he's cleaned Din's back armour and started on the breastplate. Din's handplates are decorated with blue triangles, but he's yet to see paint anywhere else.
“That armour's still new. My last set was painted.”
“Will you paint this one too?”
“Maybe.” Din sets his cloak aside, the hemline neat and even, and reaches for Boba's kama. “I'm not sure what I'd paint.”
“Your covert uses different meanings for colours, right?” Boba asks. That was a similarity in their respective Mandalorians that they'd discovered early on.
“Mm.” Din gives a little nod. “My last armour was brown, with a blue pauldron.”
“Blue for reliability, brown for...?”
“You don't recognize it?” When Boba shakes his head, Din says, “Brown is used for children's caretakers. Parents or guardians, teachers. I used it because my bounty money went to the covert's foundlings.” His words are light, and Boba can hear his pride at being allowed to use the colour, but there's still a lingering unhappiness at the mention of caring for a child.
He rests a hand on Din's knee, rubbing a little circle just below the edge of his thigh armour. “You should use it again,” he says. “Still applies to you.”
Din tips his helmet to the side and down a little, a smile and gratefulness. He rests one hand over Boba's on his knee and squeezes. He lets go a moment later as they go back to their work, but not before Boba laces their fingers together and squeezes back.
“These are done,” he says a little while later, holding up the backplate he's been cleaning. Din picks up his breastplate from in front of Boba's lap and starts to fasten it on.
“Help me with that?” He says, and Boba's breath stutters. He nods quickly, sliding around to kneel behind Din and breathing through the sudden shakiness in his limbs. The backplate fastens easily to Din's underarmour with a series of soft snaps.
“Your cloak?” He says, and Din passes it back to him. Boba drapes the fabric over his back and sits up on his knees to peer over Din's shoulder. The cape seems to attach to a series of small clasps concealed at the top of his breastplate. Boba starts to hook the cape in place. He's a little unsteady, so he braces his left hand between Din's neck and shoulder to balance. Din doesn't react outwardly, but his deep inhale at the weight of Boba's hand presses his back against Boba's chest.
“All done,” Boba murmurs a moment later, dropping to sit back on his heels. He smoothes the cape flat where it's bunched at the nape of Din's neck, then chases the impulse that flashes through his mind and drops a kiss to the same spot.
“When,” Din's voice is a little raspy, “We leave Tatooine.” Boba hums. “If I buy some paint. Would you paint my beskar with me?”
Boba stills. The intimacy of the moment and of painting another's armour hits like a concussive round. He reaches his right arm around Din's waist and squeezes, hoping the shaking in his limbs isn't obvious. Under his palm, Din's heart beats just as fast as his.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out raspy as well. “I'd like to.”
Din exhales. They sit like that for a moment, until Boba drops his left hand and leans forward to rest his chin on Din's shoulder. “Maybe you could touch up my paint as well.”
Din reaches back to hold Boba's left hand. “I'd like that too.”
“Yeah?”
Din squeezes his fingers. “Yeah,” he says, his voice warmer than both of Tatooine's suns or any others. Boba presses his grin into the side of Din's neck.
“You've got a deal beroya,” he says, and soaks up Din's laughter like it's rainfall in the desert.