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Boba doesn’t have much experience with human children; wrangling a child of a species no one’s ever heard of is a challenge and a half.
He has no idea how Din did it all on his own, while hunting bounties and with Gideon hunting him in turn, but Boba has a newfound appreciation for his patience now that he’s the one alone with a Grogu who’s refusing to go to bed.
The room is a mess, the kid’s tantrum made even more potent with the Force, and all the childcare forums Boba’s skimmed say that he should be glad the kid feels comfortable enough around him to act out, but the only coherent thought in Boba’s mind is that the Jedi must have been karking masochists, to take in Force-sensitive children at such a young age. No wonder Skywalker was so happy to send Grogu back after teaching him the barest basics of control, though judging by the number of pillows and stuffed animals that have gone flying through the air tonight Boba’s not sure that was a great decision.
At least Fennec isn’t here to witness the legendary Boba Fett, Crime Lord of Tatooine, brought down by a toddler, although at this point he wouldn’t say no to a little backup.
“What do you want, kid?” Boba asks, trying to keep his exasperation out of his voice. He’s sure he never gave Jango this much trouble.
The kid just babbles back at him, looking up with those enormous eyes, and Boba sighs. He fetches the most recent animal to go flying, a wooly stuffed bantha that Peli uncovered from her own storage, and sits down on the bed next to the little nest of blankets Grogu’s comfortably nestled in.
As soon as he’s brought the bantha back to Grogu’s menagerie of stuffed toys, another one of them rises ominously. Boba makes a decision, grabs the feathered, fluffy mythosaur before it, too, can go flying, and levels Grogu with a look.
“Listen,” he says, and miracle of all miracles the kid does. “If you stop throwing things for me to fetch like an overexcited akk pup, I’ll tell you a story about a brave warrior and a ferocious beast.”
Grogu blinks up at him, ears twitching as he considers Boba’s offer. Boba wiggles the mythosaur toy a little, trying to entice him, and Grogu reaches out, petting its soft feathered body with his tiny claws before looking back at Boba expectantly.
“Wayii,” Boba mutters under his breath, settling fully onto the bed with his legs crossed under him. He tries to remember the story as his father told it; Jango had never been the best at weaving tales, but he’d tried, for Boba. Even after he’d been perfectly capable of reading his own holobooks Boba hadn’t stopped asking his father for stories.
Boba looks down at Grogu, sitting in his little nest on the bed, waiting patiently for Boba to start speaking.
So maybe he’d given Jango a little grief, after all.
He clears his throat. “A long, long, long time ago,” he begins, “there lived a species of ancient warriors who, eventually, became the first people to call themselves Mandalorians.”
Grogu coos next to him, ears twitching in recognition, and Boba smiles.
“Yes, Mandalorians,” he says. “Like you. War forced them to leave their home, and they wandered the galaxy until they found a planet perfect for their needs: they could build homes, and plant food, and raise their families. But,” Boba pauses dramatically, “there was one problem, on this perfect planet.”
Grogu makes a concerned noise, looking up at him, and Boba nods commiseratingly.
“On this perfect planet,” he tells Grogu, “there roamed enormous, ferocious creatures, so incredible that the Mandalorians called them mythosaurs.”
Grogu reaches out for the toy Boba’s still holding, and he relinquishes the animal so Grogu can clutch it to his chest.
“For a while, the Mandalorians lived on their new planet in peace: they left the beasts alone, and the beasts stayed away from them in turn. But one day, that changed.” Boba clears his throat again, wishing he had water. He’s not used to talking so much in one turn.
“The Mandalorians were skilled hunters, but mythosaurs had been hunting on Mandalore for a very long time. They knew where to find the animals, and how to track them and kill them with ease, and the Mandalorians were struggling to do the same.”
“One day, one of the hunters grew tired of spending their days tirelessly tracking prey through the jungle only to scare it away at the end of the hunt, and so they decided to follow one of the mythosaurs, instead. You have to know,” Boba adds, “mythosaurs were truly enormous beasts. Some say they were the size of cities, but then cities are all different sizes, aren’t they?”
“So the hunter followed this enormous beast, and they watched in awe as it found the same tracks they had been following for weeks and moved through the jungle with far more grace than they had ever managed. They followed it through the jungle all the way to the home of the creatures it hunted, and watched it lure one of the creatures away to kill it, and then the hunter followed the mythosaur back to its own home.”
“The hunter was so enchanted by this magnificent creature that they forgot to pay attention to their own footsteps, and when they stumbled, the mythosaur heard them and turned around. And so they stood there, person and beast, staring at one another: two creatures who had never seen the likes of the other until the stars had brought them together.”
Boba pauses, but Grogu’s still awake, listening with wide eyes; Boba bites his lip against a smile, trying not to tip him off, and ignores the figure leaning against the open doorway to continue the tale.
“Now, the hunter and all of the other Mandalorians were curious about the mythosaurs, but they had left them alone out of fear. They hadn’t considered that the mythosaurs, clever in their own way, were equally curious about them, and equally afraid.”
“On that day in the jungle, the hunter decided the fate of the Mandalorians and the mythosaurs. They had come out to hunt, and they had all of their hunting tools, and it occurred to them to take down the mythosaur, surprised as it was. Their village could feast for days on meat from the beast, after all, and make beautiful clothes from its feathers and sharp weapons from its bones if they did.”
Grogu makes another concerned sound, clutching the stuffed mythosaur closer to his chest, and Boba chuckles.
“They thought about it, but they didn’t strike,” he assures Grogu. “Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they didn’t want to attract the attention of the other mythosaurs. Maybe they saw something in that creature’s eyes that made them reach out to it, unarmed and open-handed, in friendship.” Boba reaches his own hand out, and after a moment Grogu’s tiny palm reaches out to touch his. Boba gently clasps Grogu’s hand in his own and shakes it, once, smiling at the determined little furrow in his brow, the serious look on his face as he follows the gesture. “We’ll never know the true reason, of course, because that hunter lived a long, long, long time ago, but what we do know is this: that hunter reached out, all those years ago, and even to this day, people remember Mandalorians and mythosaurs both, and always together.”
“And we still hunt using the lessons the hunter learned from their mythosaur friend,” Din adds from the doorway where he’s been standing for the last half of Boba’s story. Boba stifles a smile as Grogu leaps out of his nest, excited to see his parent, and Din rushes to the bed to keep him tucked in. “You were supposed to go to sleep an hour ago, verd’ika.”
“Can’t be a good warrior if you don’t know your history,” Boba justifies. “Isn’t that right, Grogu?”
Grogu babbles back at him, delighted with his father’s return and, Boba’s sure, the excitement of being up past his bedtime.
“Can’t be a good warrior if you don’t go to sleep,” Din says pointedly, coaxing Grogu into lying down.
“That’s true,” Boba concedes, and when Grogu turns to look at him, betrayed, he schools his face into seriousness. “Don’t you want to fight alongside mythosaurs in your dreams?”
Grogu’s eyes widen, and he looks back at Din as if to confirm the possibility.
“The sooner you go to sleep the sooner you can wake up and tell us about your adventures,” Din tells him, and Grogu snuggles down into his bed immediately.
Boba chuckles, unfolding his legs from underneath himself and getting up off the bed, and when Grogu blinks up at him he reaches a hand out again. Grogu meets him halfway, wrapping his claws around his fingers this time. “Good night, Grogu,” Boba says, and Grogu shakes his hand as he coos back up at him.
Boba doesn’t look at Din as he leaves the suite, letting father and son catch up in favor of setting out a late dinner for himself and Din. He wasn’t expecting Din to get back until well into Tatooine’s night, if not early tomorrow morning; if he’s here already, it’s because he rushed through the job to do so.
He pours himself some water, downs it in measured gulps to soothe his parched throat, and gets as far as reheating the light, spicy-sour soup that’s leftover from lunch before the door to the bedroom opens and Din steps out. He’s taken off his armor, left in just his flightsuit and helmet, and Boba lets out a careful breath.
“Kid asleep?” Boba asks, and Din hums in affirmation, letting the door slide shut behind him and moving into the little kitchen Boba had installed within his first month living in the palace.
“I haven’t heard that story since I was a child,” Din says.
Boba turns to pour him a glass of water. “Me neither,” he says, smiling wistfully. “It was one of the only stories my father was any good at telling. He said he used to ask his own father to tell it so many times he remembered every version almost word for word.”
“It’s a good story,” Din muses, taking the water from Boba and holding the glass in his bare hand. “Practical. I think my parent used to change the details every time they told it, depending on what lesson they wanted me to learn.” He sounds amused.
“Very Mandalorian,” Boba agrees, and then, because for once the memory is more fond than anything, he adds, “I used to play at being the hunter, with my trusty mythosaur friend at my side.” Jango likely hadn't intended for Boba to use the lessons he'd learned from the tale to sneak around the facilities on Kamino, but looking back now Boba can see that those stories had served as some of his very first lessons in bounty hunting.
Din laughs lightly, and there’s something in his body language that makes it impossible for Boba to keep looking at him. He turns his attention to doling out the soup instead, placing the bowls onto plates for easy transport and garnishing each serving with a few sprigs of the fresh coriander growing on the windowsill.
“Why don’t you get settled at the table,” Boba suggests. Din hesitates, but before he can say anything Boba continues, “We made some adjustments since the last time you were here.”
Boba watches Din move to survey the small dining area off the kitchen in his peripheral, adding some of the leftover sliced fruit from Grogu’s meal to both of their plates on a whim.
“You split it in half?” Din asks, knocking his knuckles against the surface of one of the tables. He looks up at the heavy curtain that, when extended, hangs between the two seats, and then he turns back to Boba. “You didn’t have to do this.”
"Eh," Boba shrugs before picking up both plates. "No sense in us both eating alone.” He joins Din in the dining room, setting one of the plates on the table in front of him. “Unless you prefer that..?” he asks, and the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until this moment.
“No,” Din says quickly, shaking his head. “No,” he repeats, softer this time, and standing this close Boba is abruptly very conscious of the slight difference in their heights. “I prefer a shared meal, when I can.”
Boba nods absently. “Good,” he says, staring up into Din’s T-visor. “That’s good.”
They stand there for another beat before Din looks down at the plate Boba’s still holding. “Do you want me to…”
“Oh,” Boba says, “no, I was just—” He gestures to the other table with his free hand instead of finishing the sentence, and Din nods. “Take a seat,” Boba tells him, moving around to the other side of the dining room, and he sets his plate down before pulling the curtain shut. The material is thick enough and dark enough that he can barely see Din on the other side where he’s silhouetted in the light of the kitchen, but that doesn’t stop his mouth from going dry when he hears the rustling of Din’s flightsuit as he reaches up to remove his helmet, the slight thunk as he sets it down.
“Dammit,” he mutters, and Din huffs a laugh across from him.
“All right over there?” he asks.
Boba shakes his head at himself. “Should have grabbed water, is all.”
“Let me get you some,” Din offers, and he’s out of his seat before Boba can tell him otherwise.
He runs his spoon through his soup, instead, listening to Din poke around in his kitchen, familiar enough that he returns in no time at all.
“Here,” he says, pushing the curtain back enough to extend the glass to Boba, and the brush of Din’s bare fingers against his own as he takes it is enough for Boba’s idiot heart to skip a beat.
“Thank you,” he says, slightly hoarse, but he’s blaming that on the earlier storytelling and nothing else. He downs a sip of cool water and sets the glass down, running his thumb along the rim. “How was the job?”
“Mm,” Din hums. “Job was fine. Standard bounty, no surprises.”
“That’s good,” Boba says before sipping a spoonful of light broth.
“Was Grogu all right?” Din asks after a moment. “He didn’t give you any trouble?”
Boba can't help it: he laughs.
Din groans. “He did, didn’t he?”
“He was fine,” Boba assures. “He didn’t want to go to sleep, but we worked it out.”
Din's silent for a bit, his spoon clinking against his bowl as he eats.
"Thank you for that," he says finally. "I've been meaning to teach him about our culture, but I never know where to start."
Boba makes a considering noise, thinking. “I don’t think there’s a wrong way to do it,” he says, and then he stops. “Well. I’m sure there is,” he qualifies wryly, “but I don’t think you’re at a high risk of that. Maybe save the more blood-soaked stories for when he’s older, and you’ll be fine.”
Din laughs. “When I first came in I did think you were going to tell him the version of that story where the hunter kills the mythosaur, after all.”
“What sort of monster do you take me for?” Boba asks, mock-affronted, picking up a slice of plum and popping it into his mouth, a refreshing burst of sweet-sour on his tongue.
“You’d be surprised, the sorts of tales that were told in our Covert,” Din tells him. “That version only got more popular with time.”
For the first time tonight, Boba regrets the curtain separating him from Din. He has plenty of experience reading Din even through his armor; stripped down to just his flightsuit, Boba’s sure he could gauge where that rueful note in Din’s voice is coming from.
Instead, he settles for leaning back in his seat, thinking over Din’s words. “I didn’t grow up surrounded by Mandalorian culture,” he starts, and Din makes a soft noise across from him in acknowledgement. “But my father tried to raise me the way he’d been raised, as best as he could.” Boba sympathizes with that, now, the unique struggles Jango had had with him—the ones he would have had even without the added burden of Kamino and his contract—but he’s getting away from himself.
“It’s like you said,” Boba continues. “The story is practical, versatile; you change it based on what you want the audience to take away. And children should have stories about friendship.” Nice stories, he doesn’t say. Stories about being safe, and happy, and loved, and people to give them all of those things and more. Din already knows, even better than Boba, the nightmares his child has seen.
Din clears his throat. “You’re right,” he says, and then, “thank you. We’re lucky to have you in our lives.”
Boba valiantly ignores the heat creeping up to the tips of his ears, though he can’t stop the pleased little smile. “Not many people in the galaxy who can say that, I’d wager,” he deflects. “Speaking of stories Grogu probably shouldn’t hear.”
Din snorts, and the building tension in the room eases. “Are you done eating?” he asks.
“Yes,” Boba says, idly drumming his fingers on the side of his plate.
“Then give me your dishes,” Din says, reaching out through the curtain.
“You don’t have to do that,” Boba tells him halfheartedly, but Din just wiggles his fingers impatiently.
“You cooked,” he says.
Boba laughs, handing him his empty dishes. “I over-ordered from the cantina in Mos Espa to justify the delivery charge, you mean.”
“You didn’t feed me ration bars,” Din says, and there’s a smile in his voice as he moves into the kitchen. “In my book, that counts.”
Boba shakes his head even though Din can’t see him through the curtain. “Low standards. I should have known.”
“Are you complaining?” Din asks over the light clinking of dishes.
Boba sits back in his chair, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling, completely content and vaguely surprised about it. “Nah,” he answers belatedly. “Just thinking about how else I can spoil you. Ration bars, come on.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Din says, indulgent and clearly amused.
Boba smiles to himself. It’s not exactly a hardship, finding nice things and sharing them with his partner; he’s rather looking forward to it.
Din finishes up in the kitchen, meandering back to the table and retrieving his helmet. He pulls the curtain back after he’s got it settled back over his head, and Boba finally pushes himself up from the table.
“Off to bed?” he asks, and Din nods, stepping in closer.
“You?” he asks.
Boba shakes his head. “I’ve got some work to finish up, but you go ahead.”
“Okay,” Din says, and he moves in even closer, one warm hand coming up to cradle Boba’s jaw. He traces the curve of Boba’s cheek with his bare thumb, and Boba closes his eyes as Din presses in closer, curves his own hand around the back of Din’s neck, fingers barely brushing against his soft curls. The cool metal of Din’s helmet against his own forehead is a welcome sensation, between the warmth of his body and the warmth rising in Boba’s chest.
“Good night,” Din murmurs, quiet enough that his helmet’s vocoder doesn’t pick up the words, but Boba is so close he can hear him anyway.
“Good night,” he echoes, equally soft, and he brings the hand at Din’s nape around, running his thumb over the line of Din’s throat and feeling his pulse, the way he swallows at Boba’s touch. “Sleep well,” he says, letting his hand trail down Din’s chest lightly as he pulls back.
“I will,” Din tells him, dropping his own hand back to his side. “Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, moving towards the bedroom door. “I’m sure Grogu will be up bright and early, with lots to say.”
Boba groans theatrically, and Din turns around, leaning back against the still-closed door.
“It’s your own fault,” he says, smiling, “telling him such exciting stories before bedtime.”
“A rich imagination has to be fed,” Boba tells him loftily, heading to the stairs that lead down into his workroom.
Din just shakes his head. “I’m not the only one you spoil.”
Boba doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he doesn’t. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you,” Din confirms, nodding once, decisive, before turning around and palming the door open.
Boba waits at the top of the stairs until the door’s swished shut behind him, and then he waits a moment more, still vaguely in awe at the turns his life has taken to bring him here, before he finally heads back downstairs. Now that Din’s back—home, he lets himself think—maybe he’ll be able to focus enough on the meticulous datawork he’s been putting off all day. The books won’t balance themselves, after all.
Boba settles into the still silence of the night, Din and the child safe in the suite above, and gets to work.