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There’s a bounty on the head of Tatooine’s newest crime lord.
Frankly, Din wouldn’t be surprised if the client offered to double the payout for delivery of Fett’s literal head. Even calling it a bounty is generous; the client—anonymous and very high-paying—wants Fett dead, plain and simple. Din’s not sure if they think his entire operation will fall apart without him there to lead it, or if they think Fennec will just step aside and follow whoever they want to install in his place, but either way he’s offended on her behalf.
Still, it’s as good an excuse as any for him to drop in on them, so he docks his ship in Hangar 35, spares a moment for Peli’s brusque fussing, and rents a speeder out to Jabba’s Palace all before Tatooine’s twin suns have made it a quarter of the way through the sky.
Even this early the Palace is bustling, speeders and ships idling in the courtyard while their owners try their luck inside. The guard at the entrance lets Din pass with a distracted nod even as they wrangle the rest of the crowd, and Din’s vaguely aware of the tense, anticipatory hush that falls as he makes his way inside.
The throne room is full of even more petitioners, representatives from various factions across the galaxy here to negotiate new contracts or swear fealty to old ones, and Din heads for one of the pillars near the back to wait his turn in the shadows.
“Mandalorian!” Fett calls from where he’s sitting on the throne at the head of the room, and all of the attention in the room lands on Din. All of it except for the sorry soul kneeling in pleading desperation in front of the throne, and Din sighs under the helmet.
“Fett,” he says flatly, stepping forward. The crowd disperses, leaving a healthy amount of space around him, and that, at least, is satisfying. Din’s never cared for attention, but he does enjoy having space. “Got a moment?”
“For you?” Fett asks, and he’s smirking under his helmet, Din can hear it. “Always.” He stands from the throne, and the petitioner—a Mummer who’s potentially developed a conscience and decided to try their luck outside Naboo, by the looks of things—scrambles to get out of his way. Din snorts lightly enough that his vocoder doesn’t pick it up, but something in his body language must give him away because Fett tilts his helmet at him, amused. “Clear the room,” he calls, and guards materialize out of the shadows to herd the protesting crowd away.
Din meets him halfway. “You’ve kept busy,” he comments, and Fett laughs.
“Underworld won’t run itself,” he agrees.
“I don’t know about that,” Din tells him. “Someone’s offering a lot of credits for your head.”
Fett considers this. “Spike optional, I’m sure.”
It’s Din’s turn to laugh, and he follows Fett into the back room behind the throne.
“Well, then, bounty hunter,” Fett says as he lets the door slide shut behind them, “have you come to collect?”
“You have made it so easy...,” Din jokes, tapping his fingers against his pistol where it rests in its holster at his hip.
Fett groans. “Honestly, I’ve half a mind to let you.”
Din moves to lean against the counter of the bar at the back of the room, and Fett circles around the other side, pulling out two glasses and considering the array of bottles hidden behind the surface. “Underworld won’t run itself?” Din asks, amused, and Fett straightens back up to slant him a look.
“Somehow I doubt Jabba was ever doing this much damned datawork,” he complains.
Din ducks his head, laughing.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Fett warns. “Aren’t you supposed to be ruling Mandalore?”
“I’ll get around to it,” Din says, effortlessly skirting around the light panic those words induce. “Someday.”
“Will you,” Fett says, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re probably doing everyone a favor just keeping that saber out of Kryze’s hands.”
“If anyone asks, that’s the plan,” Din decides, and he settles in against the bar to watch Fett evaluate the selection again.
“Any preference?” Fett asks.
Din shakes his head. “Just water for me, thanks.”
Fett hums, turning to pour him a glass. “Didn’t know you had such expensive tastes.”
“Why, are the water reclaimers having trouble?” Din asks innocently, and Fett barks a laugh as he picks out his own drink.
“They certainly aren’t functioning well enough for us all to be drinking pure water,” he tells Din dryly, and Din smiles under his helmet, leaning over the bar to grab a straw.
“I assumed if anyone could afford it it’d be the Fett,” he says, sitting back on the stool and dunking the straw into his glass. The water is pure, refreshing and clean, and Din savors his next sip.
“If you’re going to be putting your exorbitant drinks on my tab,” Fett says as he finishes fixing his own drink, turning to add a splash of water to the reconstituted mixed-vegetable juice Din has never felt desperate enough to try, “I think you’d better use my name. Or else I’ll have to call you Mand’alor instead of Mandalorian.”
Din grimaces. “I’m convinced.”
“Good,” Fett— Boba says. He reaches up to remove his helmet, and Din averts his eyes. He doesn’t mind either way, Boba in his helmet or out of it, but there’s something about the moment of transition between the two that feels far too intimate. Besides, being able to look up and meet Boba’s warm gaze…
Din takes another measured pull of water through his straw.
“Now, tell me about this bounty,” Boba says, swirling his glass around.
“It was posted anonymously,” Din tells him. “The price is high enough that it’s probably multiple clients, and they’d prefer you dead to alive.”
Boba nods, thinking it over as he sips at his drink. Din tries to stifle his distaste, but not hard enough, if Boba’s light smirk and the way he raises his glass to Din, teasing, are any indication.
“Just me?” Boba asks.
“They don’t seem to think highly of Fennec, no.”
“Their mistake,” Boba murmurs, and Din hums in agreement. “Did you take the hit, or are you just here to warn me?”
“Ah,” Din says, feeling caught out. “I was in the area.”
Boba raises his eyebrows at him over his glass, and Din abruptly remembers that Boba is one of the few people in the galaxy who knows most of his regular haunts. He sets his glass down on the counter silently, daring Boba to comment, but Boba doesn’t say anything. There’s a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth, quietly pleased, and Din feels the flush rising in his face even as he ducks his head.
The moment is broken by the door sliding open, and Boba doesn’t even bother looking away from him when he calls out, “We’re a little busy here.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” the intruder says flippantly, and Din turns around to see the Mummer sauntering in towards them. Din’s got his pistol out and aimed in a flash, one shot bringing them to the ground in a heap, but not before they get their own shot off at Boba behind him. He holsters his pistol quickly, dashing around to the other side of the bar with a muttered curse.
Boba’s crouched on the floor, examining whatever projectile the assassin shot at him. He looks up at Din, holding the object out between his thumb and index finger. “Poison dart,” he says, dropping it into Din’s gloved hand when he reaches out before standing back up, and sure enough the dart boasts all the specifications of a Mummer original. Din resists the urge to drop it; he’s heard more than enough horror stories about the various biotoxins the Mummers favor in their attacks. Not a defector after all, then.
“He’s dead,” Din assures, dropping the dart into an empty glass.
“My hero,” Boba says, far too amused for a man who almost just got assassinated in his own stronghold.
“...You probably wanted to interrogate him,” Din realizes.
Boba grins. “Can’t argue with direct action.”
“Shouldn’t your guards have caught him?” Din asks, joining Boba where he’s turned the body over.
“Oh, them?” Boba says absently, riffling through the assassin’s pockets. “They’re just for show.”
“The… guards are just for show,” Din repeats incredulously.
“Crowd control,” Boba explains.
“Uh-huh,” Din says, dubious. “And what about when someone in that crowd wants to kill you?”
“Now,” Boba tells him, standing back up, “you sound just like Fennec.”
“At least one of you has sense,” Din mutters, and Boba shoots him another grin. Din clears his throat. “Where is Fennec, anyway?”
“Running errands, I assume,” Boba says.
Two of the guards finally show up in the still-open doorway before Din can question him any further, and Boba turns to delegate, presumably. They take the body out of the room, in any case, leaving them alone again.
“Maybe I should stay,” Din muses lightly. “To make sure you don’t get yourself killed before Fennec gets back.”
“Mando,” Boba says seriously, turning back to Din, “you can stay as long as you’d like.”
Din pauses, taken aback by the sudden sincerity. “Yeah?”
“Who am I to turn down a Mandalorian bodyguard?” Boba continues, and he’s teasing but at least half of his humor is directed at himself. “I’ve heard they’re fairly impressive status symbols, after all.”
Din bites back a startled laugh. “I guess I can stand around looking shiny and expensive, if that’s what you want.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Boba tells him fondly. “You’ve already saved my life the once.”
That’s being overly generous, but Din’s not about to argue. “In that case,” Din says wryly, “I’m going to tell you to put your helmet back on.”
Boba quirks a smile, but he’s already moving back to the bar. “Sick of this face already?”
“Not ready to see someone get a lucky hit in,” Din counters, and Boba chuckles.
“That’s fair,” he concedes, and he knocks back the rest of his awful drink before settling his helmet back on his head.
Din heads to the back of the room as well, ostensibly to finish his own water, though he gets distracted watching Boba move around behind the bar instead.
“Suppose I should get back to business,” Boba says finally, leaning over the bar with his elbows resting on the counter, and he sounds as reluctant as Din feels.“There’s a spot on the second level where you’ll be able to see everything.”
“I’ll set up there,” Din agrees, but he makes no move to get up, basking instead in the comfortable silence until Boba lets out an amused breath.
“Chin up, Mandalorian,” Boba tells him, reaching out to chuck Din under his helmet. Din’s breath catches in his throat. “You might even learn a thing or two for when you take your own throne.”
“Maybe,” Din manages, too flustered to come up with something clever, and Boba tilts his helmet in a smile.
“Let me show you the perch,” he says quietly, and Din gets up to follow him around to the stairwell carefully hidden at the side of the room. There’s a warmth in his chest, a calm sort of quiet in his mind, soothed by the solid structure of the palace walls around him and Boba’s steady presence in front of him. It’s not the vastness of space, the familiarity of Nevarro, but it’s a start, he thinks. If he sticks around, it could be more.
And, well.
He can think of a thing or two he might not mind learning.