Chapter Text
When Cobb was a boy, he had once heard a slaver say that Tatooine had been a deplorable world.
"A real scum-like place," the man had said. "Only backwards folks like me live here." And, for years, Cobb had tried to deny that. He had fought against that current with his soul, his heart, his body as he decayed in the sand dunes he called his home. His mother had been born here, his father had raised him in these lands. They had been nothing like the slaver holding them, and they were from Tatooine, too. How could it be so bad? He had always wondered, always fought.
But with time, and age, and bitter experience, Cobb had eventually caved.
It hadn’t been a profound day, nothing of notoriety, but his awakening had felt sudden. One moment, he had been defending Tatooine to some banthashits in some cantina, describing the friends he had met, the family he had made, the hardships he had overcome just to survive another day. But someone had snickered and snubbed and, when provoked, when told that none of that didn’t matter any, Cobb had struck the son of a bitch, beating him within an inch of his life. As he was being wrenched away from the man, he had spat out, " You're what's wrong with this shit planet!"
The hypocrisy was pitifully ironic, a cold slap to the face. It had tasted like molding bread in Cobb's mouth, made him want to vomit.
Instead, he had drowned himself with a handful of bottles at some other bar in Mos Eisley. And afterwards, whole casts of assholes had made themselves known throughout his life, each stating the same rhetoric: “Tatooine’s shit” and “people here are useless” and “only slavers and kriffing trash live here”. Over time, Cobb had believed it.
He did believe it. Tatooine was a scum-like place, for the backwards, for the slavers, for the monsters who had nowhere else to hide. It had been crafted for bandits and thieves, the lowest of the low, the waste of the galaxy. They had called Tatooine their “home”, because if Tatooine was anything it was forgettable. Anonymity was easily achievable, death was easy.
“Ain’t a thing worth rememberin’.” some vague man had told him, once. “You just come here to disappear. 's why we all come here.”
Cobb couldn’t agree more, now.
The towns were sparse, pitiful things, mere spits of concrete and metal and adobe clay set-up to be an “establishment” but they were hardly that. Never stocked, always dangerous. In the ever-stretching sea of sand, it was a wonder anyone survived. Lights couldn’t cut through the darkness, and even the hardiest buildings didn’t stand a chance against the heat of the twins during the summer season. Nobody worth their name was on Tatooine. Nobody worth knowing. And those who were strong, were capable, were somebody , they had never stayed for long…
Which was why, upon spotting the Mandalorian he had parted ways with only weeks prior, Cobb’s brain lagged.
He paused, standing in the doorway of the surly Mos Eisley cantina with one eyebrow twisted down and the other wrenched up in his confusion because, of all the places to find him, why the fuck would that man here? What was on Tatooine for him? Surely not another Mandalorian. One was enough, two was weird, and three was damn unheard of. Though, Cobb supposed someone could have also acquired Mando armor through less-than-respectable means as he had. He stared, waited, unsure of whether he should re-introduce himself or not.
Then it struck him:
There was a half-drained bottle of Nadaai whiskey on his table.
Cobb didn’t see a guest in the vicinity, and last time he had seen the Mandalorian, he had been reminded, often, of the fact that they were to never remove their helmets. Never drank in public, never ate around others, shit, couldn't even get a breath of fresh air out in public. So why--
The Mandalorian lifted the edge of his helmet, snapping back a crude shot of the whiskey straight from the bottle before pulling his gear back into its place. In the darkness of the faraway corner booth, Cobb couldn’t see the man’s features, but he had known trouble when he saw it. Not necessarily trouble for the Mando but, rather, for his liver when he inevitably sobered up. Nadaai wasn't exactly a smart choice for shots. What the hell was he thinking?
A tendril of curiosity licked at Cobb, suggesting he move forward. But, it wasn't any of his business what Mando was doing; the bounty hunter was a private man, and Cobb understood that feeling all-too-well. Peace of mind had always washed over him when he could kick back and relax after a long day's work, doing nothing, entertaining nobody but himself. The Mandalorian would probably want privacy, he knew. Privacy, and quiet, and wanting nothing to do with some backwater marshal from Mos Pelgo. Absolutely, positively nothing.
...But Cobb was a nosy son-of-a-bitch. He pushed through the layers of people, breaking through the groups until he was at the back of the cantina and standing before Mando with his hands on his hips and a smile playing across his lips. "Howdy there, Mando."
The Mandalorian's helmet rolled along his shoulders as he glanced up at him. His head then snapped back down. There was an uncharacteristic looseness to his movements that could only be the work of the whiskey. The guy was past tipsy, then, probably completely drunk. The poise Mando had that Cobb always held in high regard was gone, drowned by his drinking. His rather pathetic drinking, at that, somewhat of a pitiful sight. The guy popped his helmet and took another swig of alcohol.
"Fancy seeing you here." Cobb began. He couldn’t swallow his halfhearted snicker as he gave the Mandalorian a once-over. "Bad day?"
“Vanth...” the Mandalorian slurred out, not bothering to look up. At least the guy had recognized him. Cobb had half-expected to be treated like he was a stranger, just another nobody from Tatooine.
A low laugh echoed from behind the expressionless T-visor, and Cobb raised his brow.
The man, then, reached up, fumbled, thumbed the catch of his helmet for the third time now, and, as quickly as his groggy limbs would allow, dragged the piece up over his head in one sloppy, unceremonious movement. Tan skin, dark facial hair, even darker fringe, and near-black eyes met Cobb’s stare.
Cobb blinked. Hard.
It wasn’t as if he had expected anything different; Cobb had never pictured anyone in particular underneath the armor. In fact, most of the time, while Mando had been in Mos Pelgo aiding him with the krayt dragon, Cobb had pictured anyone. It were almost as if the Mandalorian were a walking, talking tin can, sentient and smart and agile but nonexistent past that. His brain hadn't even bothered to fill in the gaps.
Though, now, as he looked at the guy, he found himself flustered to come up with words. Mando was human, was just like him, flesh and blood and bone. He certainly didn't look like someone who would be able to take down a krayt. Most startling of all, however, was the fact that there was such a kindness to the eyes he caught. Cobb hadn't been expecting that. it was a kindness and a pain, something dark and fierce. Cobb figured that the Nadaai was supposed to be taking care of that, supposed to be dulling whatever seemed to be consuming him from the inside out. Though, Cobb figured, perhaps the alcohol was doing too much if it had inspired the Mandalorian to remove his helmet.
Cobb pointed to the piece in Mando's hands. “Hey, are you sure--?”
“Yeah…” the Mandalorian interrupted. He dropped the helmet to the tabletop, grabbed the whiskey, and threw another gulp back, one, then two, then three, before pulling away. The man was inexperienced, and it showed. If not for the fact that he was guzzling Nadaai whiskey like it was fucking water, then because his face suddenly wrenched up and his whole body shuddered in retaliation to the drink. He was aiming himself for a real shit night, at this rate, and while Cobb wasn't any marshal of Mos Eisley, he was a man of the people.
And Mando was his people - an ally, if nothing else.
Cobb leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. He could smell the whiskey on the Mandalorian's breath. Voice low, eyes downcast, he asked, "What're you doin' here, partner."
He couldn't tell how old Mando was, but he looked terribly young, then, as he let his eyes slip shut, still facing Cobb but dozing off. Nonetheless, he mumbled out, "drinking..." as if it were the most obvious of things. Which, to be fair, it was, but Cobb was looking for something deeper, a splinter below the surface of the guy's skin.
"I can see that." he told the Mandalorian with a huff. "Are you tryin' to get trashed?"
Mando hummed. Cobb couldn't tell if it was in agreement or merely a sound from someone near-blackout. "Okay, okay, none of that," He grabbed the Nadaai's neck, dragging the bottle from the Mandalorian's gloved hands. The guy reached for his drink but missed, uncoordinated, his palm flopping to the table bonelessly. Cobb continued, lowly, "How 'bout you come with me. Get you situated for the night, partner."
He was met with a glare.
After a beat, the Mandalorian began shifting, gathering up his blaster, his rifle, his helmet, muttering something under his breath in a foreign tongue. He scooted forward, out of the booth, and stood fast.
There was a dizzying moment where Cobb was sure he was going to faceplant, or crack his head on the table, and he made to grab Mando as the guy stumbled on his feet, hands flying out, one catching the wall while the other slapped back to the tabletop. "Woah, there, Mando." Cobb said. "Easy does it."
He was glad that the Mandalorian's helmet was off, because he could see that something was wrong, that the guy was becoming a sickly shade of pale the longer he was upright. Damn, if Cobb didn't know that look. Most people on Tatooine were avid drinkers, having their first brushes with alcohol as children or arriving to the planet already practiced, but there was always the occasional kid that couldn't keep it down. Puking in the bars meant paying for the labor, and if they didn't have money or put up a fight, he had seen them pay with blood in a brutal beatdown. Cobb didn't know how much money Mando had, didn't want him to get the shit kicked out of him, didn't also want to get the shit kicked out of him by association, and so he moved fast. Throwing his rifle's strap over his shoulder and tucking the guy's blaster back into its hip holster, he looped Mando's arm behind his neck, grabbed him by the belt, and bodily hauled him towards the exit. The guy was tripping over his own feet, more stumbling that assisting Cobb in getting to the front door, but it didn't matter so long as he didn't spill his guts indoors.
Mando groaned, fell into him when he tripped. Someone at Cobb's left snickered. He ignored them, yanked the Mandalorian out the front door, and practically dragged him down the steps and into the alleyway off to the side to give him some privacy when he, inevitably, vomited up half a bottle of Nadaai.
When Cobb settled him against the cantina's wall and stepped back, he grimaced at the sight. The guy's free arm was wrapped around his stomach, holding onto his helmet almost desperately with his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw set tooth-grindingly tight. He didn't say a word. The night wind kicked up, ruffled his dark hair, and a shiver ripped through him. Cobb turned away. The suns had long set and the evening well into its reign, the moons out and brighter than ever, each one full and white in the black sky. Winter season for Tatooine was approaching, and Cobb could feel it. Only when it was such a season was the desert unbearably cold. It would soon be dangerous to travel at night, lest someone freeze to death, catching hypothermia as the frostbite settled in within minutes. He wasn't particularly keen on staying outside, not for long, anyways. Because he hadn't planned on being in Mos Eisley long - merely dropping off a supply trade, picking up his money, and grabbing a drink before heading back out - he hadn't brought a jacket. It was bitter cold.
Next to him, the Mandalorian choked.
He didn't need to look, didn't think Mando would appreciate it, anyways. Cobb looked out onto the street, down at his shoes, anywhere but the guy who was busy coughing up his mistake for the evening. Music drifted out from the cantinas, smooth and light. It was almost too easy to pretend that the Mandalorian wasn't right next to him, falling apart...
Though, admittedly, it nagged Cobb. It bugged him. Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.
"Fuck..." the Mandalorian muttered at his side. Cobb glanced over at him. He had one hand on his knees and his helmet hugged to his gut, probably trying to sooth the pressure. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the opposite wall, and closed his eyes tight. Around the fringes of his dark hair, Cobb noticed something tucked behind his ear, a wire, perhaps. But he moved again, shifted, nearly dragged his boot through his own vomit if not for Cobb grabbing him by the shoulders and guiding him back against the cantina's wall again.
"Just relax, pal." he soothed.
Mando couldn't seem to open his eyes. They cracked open into slits before drifting shut again. Dizzy, Cobb figured. If he were blackout-drunk, there was no way he'd be able to focus on anything, anyways. The guy was breathing hard again, slurring something incoherent, before he groaned again and pitched forward. Cobb caught him with a hand on his chest.
Gingerly, he asked, "You gonna puke again?"
"No." the Mandalorian ground out.
His stomach clenched and he puked again. Cobb grimaced and looked away once more. He had never considered himself squeamish, per se, and had experienced his fair share of disgusting encounters from dumb folks doing stupid shit, but there was something not right about this situation. That little something had settled, made him uncomfortable. Though, he wasn't an asshole, so he clapped the Mandalorian's back, mutter reassurances, and kept his focus elsewhere, trying to block out the sound of retching. There was probably nothing more than stomach acid, but he understood from experience that, when one's gut said 'get rid of it', it would leave someone as dried up as the surrounding desert. Poor bastard didn't stand a chance of remembering this night, Cobb knew.
When Mando was reduced to sharp gasps again, Cobb asked, "You done?"
He got a huff in response. The Mandalorian began to straighten himself back up, once easing inch at a time. Cobb's eyes caught on the glint of light on his ear, a transparent glitter reflecting the street lights behind him. The clear wire disappeared into the man's ear, curling around the shell of his ear, a small, thin box at the end.
Cobb hadn't seen one before, but he had heard of people who used them. An aid, of some sort. On Tatooine, if someone were blind, or deaf, they were abandoned, left to die in the deserts. Cobb's momma had told him so, had told him that a little girl born in the slaver's camp had been taken hours out into the dune sea, left to die, all because she hadn't been able to see. He had never heard about that girl again, had been shushed when he had asked. That child's bones were probably still out there, somewhere.
If the Mandalorian was one of those hard-of-hearing folks, he was lucky he wasn't born on Tatooine, then. Lucky he had been raised by people who could help him. Cobb had never understood the simpleminded thought processes of "throwing out" lives, never understood how someone could pass judgement on another for something they couldn't control.
His eyes snapped back to Mando's face, checking for discomfort, for another sign of losing his stomach, but he found nothing there. Nothing but exhaustion, his eyes still closed but now blissfully so, his head lolling back against the clay wall behind him. He looked ready to pass out. Cobb sighed, grabbed his arm, and pulled it back over his shoulders. "Alright, let's go." He paused, thought, then asked, "Wait, where you stayin', Mando?"
"Din." the Mandalorian mumbled.
Cobb's eyebrows pinched. He had never heard of 'din', not any place he knew of, at least. "Where--?"
"My name." the guy interrupted. "'s Din. Djarin."
"Oh." Cobb breathed out. He took a moment to let that settle, to digest the fact that the man who had been swathed in secrecy only months prior had now just shown him his face, given him his name, had made a spectacle of himself and his drinking experience. After a breath, Cobb began anew, "Okay, Din, where you stayin'?"
"Bay thirty..." Din trailed off.
Cobb didn't catch the last string of numbers, but he didn't need to. He balked, frowning, as he asked, "Bay? You stayin' in your ship? That can't be good for your back." He was only half-kidding, but judging by the unconcealed wince tightening Din's face, the man agreed. The man was terribly honest in emoting, always giving Cobb almost too much to work with. It wasn't as if he were bad at reading people, either. No, he was good at it, was his job as a marshal to tweeze out the liars and those telling the truth after someone's credits got swiped. And Din...
Din did everything for him. His eyes scrunched as he blinked, hard, peeled his eyes open, staring ahead dazedly. He ground his teeth until his jaw popped. "I'm drunk." he mumbled.
"Uh, yeah," Cobb scoffed. "You could say that, partner." He hiked Din's arm up a bit higher across his shoulders then said, "Look, I'll take you back with me to Mos Pelgo. Can sleep on my couch or somethin' for the night. How 'bout it?"
The offer hung heavily between them. Cobb waited, looking the guy over, grabbing his helmet when it began sliding from his fingers. Eventually, Din slurred, "My meds..."
"Meds?" Cobb raised an eyebrow. "You takin' meds?" He got no answer, not that he had necessarily expected one, at this point. "Okay, well, let's get you back to your ship. You grab your meds, then we go to Mos Pelgo."
Din nodded once, hard. His head flopped, rolled, eyes covered by his scraggly wavy hair. It wasn't what Cobb had hoped for - he much preferred a verbal response - but he nonetheless took that as his invitation. Making sure he had Din pinned to his side, Cobb began guiding them out of the alleyway, letting Din's stumble lead their pace. It was slow, painfully slow, but at least they were moving and it was of Din's own accord. Cobb felt a little less bad about strong-arming him to Mos Pelgo, then. It was truly coming from a place of respect, knowing the man was probably at his lowest, now, and Cobb didn't want him to deal with the aftermath alone. He owed Din that much after everything he had done for him, for his town, for the trading efforts between his people and the Raiders. Sure, he had been trying to finagle that beat-up Mando armor from him, but he had gone out of his way with the Tuskens, with securing a safety for those living in Mos Pelgo. Things had been going swimmingly, and Cobb hadn't felt that proud in so long. It had acted like a salve for all those years of heartache, of pessimism, of think he really was scum born on a scum planet made for scum things.
Their trek was quiet once they got onto the back streets, away from the chattering bars. The noise had echoed from a distance, but it had been easy enough to tune out. Din's dragging feet were louder than anything. Cobb had tightened his hold on the guy's belt, keeping him steady, biting out, "hold on to my shoulder, man" when he had begun to slide. Now, they walked in silence, Din's fingers curled loosely in the material of his shirt, only half-awake. Cobb really didn't want him to pass out, not when they were so close to the docking bay, so he asked, "Hey, tell me, Mando..."
Din didn't acknowledge him.
He continued, "So, uh, tell me, why's a busy man like you back on Tatooine?"
"T'get drunk..." the Mandalorian mumbled. "It...wasn't what I'd expected..."
Cobb barked out a laugh. "Yeah! That's what happens when you drink all that whiskey straight, pal." It was only then that it struck Cobb what had been so wrong, earlier. Or, at least, one of the things. He asked, "Hey, where's that lil fella you had with you? The green one?"
Din's face fell. He stopped walking. Cobb stumbled to a stop.
Nothing happened.
No words, no tears, no yelling. Nothing.
Cobb sucked in a breath.
So, he had crossed a line. A fuzzy, babbling, little green line that was shaped like that damn kid because the Mandalorian looked fucking wrecked at the mention of him. As Cobb glanced back at him, he could swear that his eyes looked glassier in the low street lights, his composure cracking just a bit more, cheeks bright red as the cold air whipped around them.
"He's gone." Din said.
That explained the drinking, then. If the kid had died, or had been taken to his people, then of course it had only been natural that his father would be so devastated. Though, to break his Mandalorian vows and remove his helmet? Cobb wasn't sure where that had come from, wasn't sure he needed to know. Not now, anyways. Not when the guy was so goddamn vulnerable.
Regardless of that, they needed to move. It was getting late, far later than Cobb had originally planned when he had made his trip to Mos Eisley. The longer they lingered, the more likely they were to be attacked by Raider groups, by creatures of the night, by bandits and bastards up to no good. He was tempted to ask the Mandalorian if they could simply fly their ship back to Mos Pelgo, but Cobb had never flown, and Din was in no condition to pilot. So, landspeeder it was.
"Come on, Mando." Cobb pulled him forward. Thankfully, Din took a step forward, then another, and another, and they were moving again, one stumbling, shaky beat at a time. The rest of the walk to the ships was silent, and Cobb was fine with that. He wasn't one to pry during darker times, and the guy clearly had his fair share of shit to work through. He, too, had fallen to the whims of drink and drug and gambling when he had faced hardships; it had been easier, had dulled the pain. Though, Cobb figured that Din was now in pain regardless, too drunk to be comfortable. He had skated by that sweet spot of being buzzed, of not having a care in the world, and it was a goddamn shame.
Once at the shipyard, it had taken Cobb a moment to coax Din's bay number out of him. Eventually, number thirty-twenty-two had surfaced, and Cobb only hoped that the Mandalorian had been right. He didn't need an ass kicking because he had tried to board another man's ship. As he turned them into the docking bay, Cobb frowned. There was no conceivable way Din was sporting such a piece of shit junker. The ship was barely in-tact and small, looking like he had picked it from the trash more than anything else. Hell, the thing didn't even have weapons on it.
Sensing Cobb's confusion, maybe, Din mumbled, "'s not mine..." He pulled away from Cobb, staggering forward towards the door panel. Using the ship's wall to prop himself up, he punched in the wrong code first, got yelled at for his troubles, then the right one and the boarding ramp dropped with a shuddering clatter, dust kicking up around it. Hardly graceful. Din stumbled up it and inside.
Cobb wasn't sure whether to follow or not, wasn't sure in Din even remembered why they were there.
There was a rustling, a clatter, a muted sound of pain - bastard tripped, probably - before he fumbled back down the ramp, punched a button, and narrowly avoided getting smacked in the head by the retracting ramp. As he approached Cobb with a curled palm and a tipsy gait, he tipped his cupped hand back against his mouth, tapping, then swallowing. Meds, Cobb's mind supplied, though what the medication was had him curious. That, he was comfortable asking about, "What's that?"
"Meds." Din said.
Cobb rolled his eyes. He should have expected as such. Din walked past him, a bit stronger on his own two feet than earlier before at the cantina. It seemed all that puking had helped, and perhaps the needlessly long walk, too.
It was Cobb's turned to lead the way, bringing Din to the outskirts of Mos Eisley where his landspeeder had been parked. The model was nothing special, made for hauling cargo and making long journies, but it had sufficed. He and some of the folks back at home had banded together to buy it used many years ago, and it had done its job well. Though, now that the Raiders had made peace with them, and business was, so-to-speak, booming in Mos Pelgo, the speeder was getting more wear on it than it ever had before.
He tossed Din's helmet somewhere in the back and helped the guy as much as he would allow, keeping Din steady as he hauled one leg over the lip of the speeder, stumbled, got the other one in, too, and plopped down. Cobb rounded the front and got in the driver's seat, starting the thing up and pulling out. He wanted to take the ride as smoothly as possible for Din, lest the guy puke all over himself, but at the same time, it was still getting later and later into the night, nearing dangerous hours when the moons were at their highest and the monsters were wide awake. Cobb propelled it forward and Mos Eisley was nothing more than a streak of clay and metal as they whizzed by the outskirts of the town.
The hum of the speeder became the only sound. Cobb had kept his focus ahead, on the landscape, even as he heard Din rustling. Even as he caught the man peeling off his shiny armor one piece at a time and dropping it in the footwell in front of him. Even as there was another shift, another rustle. It was only when they were well into the trip, when the sand dunes were at their sides and the path was flat and clear, that Cobb cast a glance.
Din was asleep, half curled on his side, head flopped back against the headrest, hair wind-whipped and wild. He had, indeed, stripped himself down to his flight suit and flak blacks, looking jarringly average in that moment. Mandalorian be damned, bounty hunter status forgotten; now, the man had been reduced to Cobb's level. To a human level. One that displayed his deep breaths and sleep-slackened face. Cobb's brow pinched with concern, but before he could get carried away in his thoughts, in his questions, in wanting to know what, exactly, had happened to the man, he ripped his eyes away and focused ahead once again. He could question Din later, when he was sober...
Mos Pelgo came into view soon enough.
The little village was asleep, almost all lights out, a silence dragging through the night air. It was a brand of peaceful that Cobb had been craving. Mos Eisley was great, but only for a few hours at most. He had grown used to the quiet of his home, to the simplicity of it all. These were honest people, people who wanted to live out the rest of their lives as normally as they could. No surprises, no drama. Cobb rarely had to do much except wrangle a teenager back to school, or fetch things for the village elders. But he felt important, felt good. He was happy to be home once more.
Cobb parked the landspeeder outside his house and twisted in his seat. Din was still knocked out cold. Admittedly, Cobb hadn't thought about this part of the journey. Sure, he had planned to take Din back to Mos Pelgo, where it was safer, was hopefully more comfortable, and yes, he had known that Din was absolutely shitfaced. But he hadn't put two and two together, hadn't realized that the drive was long and that Din would, rationally, pass out. He didn't have it in him to carry the man, and he didn't feel like dragging him, either. Cobb entertained the idea of poking around and seeing who was awake, but alas, as he looked over Din, he figured he better try shaking him awake, first.
His hand landed on Din's shoulder.
Nothing.
Cobb nudged, once.
Nothing.
"Aw hell," he mumbled at the Mandalorian. "Come on, wake up."
He moved his hand, gripped tighter.
Din's eyes opened, lids heavy, focus bleary. Cobb sighed out, "Good." He parked the speeder and pulled out the key, pocketing it and enveloping them in darkness as the dimly lit control panel turned off. He could make out the vague outlines of Din's arms, his head, his shoulders, and he used that as a guide when he hopped out, circled around, and practically heaved him out of his seat. The armor could be left overnight; there wasn't a chance that someone would steal it, not in Mos Pelgo, and the Raiders had no business scheduled with them for weeks. Without Din's heavy utility belt to drag him around by, Cobb settled on the much thinner belt tucked under the hem of his shirt and flight suit top. It did its job, allowed Cobb to get Din up the steps and into his house.
Cobb kicked the door shut, not bothering to lock it. He aimed them for the couch, but the Mandalorian must have been more fucked up than he had originally assumed, because he was slowing down, was going all wobbly, all lopsided. He ground out a string of, "wait, wait, wait" and Cobb stopped dead in his tracks. Din cursed, nearly tipped out of his arms if he hadn't braced himself against the wall and locked his knees to hold their weight.
"What? What's wrong?" Cobb looked Din over. He tightened his hold on the man's wrist. The guy didn't seem like he was going to puke again, but maybe he was.
Din mumbled, "Put me down."
Cobb blanched. "Right here?"
"Now." Din spat.
And he did as he was told, gently lowering Din to a sitting position. He propped him up against a wall, tried to tilt his enough to peek at Din's eyes but the man's head was down, chin tucked to his chest and hair hiding his face.
"Shit..." Din pulled a breath. "Shit."
Cobb got to his feet. "Hold on, I'll--" He stepped back, made for the 'fresher. There was a bucket somewhere in there, probably, if anywhere. If Din was going to vomit again, there was no way he wanted it on his floors. It would take an ungodly amount of time to air out the place, and it was too damn cold at night to leave his windows and doors propped open for fresh air. Inside the cramped room, Cobb combed the cabinets, finding toiletries, extra soaps, but nothing of use. He could always drag Din to the toilet, but that wasn't the best idea, he surmised. Cobb flipped around. Maybe his bedroom had something--?
There was a clattering sound, then a thump.
Then, silence.
Cobb hissed out, "Kriffing hell." He surged out of the 'fresher.
Din was right where he left him, curled on his side on the ground, his body writhing rhythmically, head smacking against the floor, eyes rolled back as the air was choked out of his lungs, his consciousness lost in the throes of a seizure.