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Din always knew the darksaber would come back to him.
He's not sure how. But he could feel it in him — even after Kryze won it from him, years ago now, something in it resonated with his bones, down to his very marrow.
“You will be Mand’alor, someday,” Kryze had said years ago, as he set the blasted thing in her hand. She had won it, fairly. Thank Ka’ra.
Fett snorted behind her. “You'd best avoid that one,” he said. “I wouldn't wish it on anyone.”
“Please,” Din had said, “just keep it.”
But she was right.
The darksaber has come back to him, like a crescent moon turns in the sky.
When he steps off Slave I onto the docks of Coruscant, an army turns its blasters on him. Six dozen. Well-armed, bearing senate sigils. The exact opposite of a welcome, and not an unfamiliar sight during his short time in office.
“Oh,” its leader says, “we thought you were Fett. Sorry,” and starts to holster their blaster.
But the person next to them stays their hand. “Keep your gun out, idiot.”
Din raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “I'm just here to speak with the Senate.”
And then Fett walks up behind him, carrying the biggest blaster he owns. The entire army gasps, lifting their weapons.
Din resists the urge to roll his eyes. Drama queen.
“We, uh,” the leader says, “we are authorized to arrest Boba Fett for the following crimes —”
“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” Fett sneers, derision dripping through the vocoder. Din resists the urge to sigh and look to the sky.
And then Luke walks up behind the army. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t attempt to arrest my guests,” he says politely, voice mild, hands clasped in front of him.
The entire army pivots as one, and if they looked afraid of Fett, when they turn to Skywalker it’s like they’re staring into the jaws of death.
“Sorry sir, Master Skywalker, sir,” the leader babbles, almost dropping his gun. “Whatever you say, sir.”
Luke just smiles blandly. It’s accommodating on the surface, but Din knows that look: terrors lurk underneath, if they must. All six dozen men visibly recoil at the sight.
“I’ll show my guests to the senate chambers,” Luke says. “You can go. Thank you for your service.”
It’s as if he ordered them to jump off a cliff, for how quickly they disperse. Din has seen Luke in battle, destroying dozens of droids where just one would leave Din limping and gasping; Din has seen Luke in stealth, slipping silently as a shadow through ancient temples and enemy barricades.
But he has never seen Luke command an army as if he was born to it.
Something shivers in Din. He’s not sure whether it’s hot, or chilled.
“You’ve made quite an entrance,” Luke murmurs, as Din walks up beside him. They exchange a brief Keldabe kiss. Yes, they’re on business, but this is also the first time Din’s seen Luke in weeks. Boba positions himself at Din’s right, an ever-stoic red hand. Where Din walks carefully, quietly, used to years of operating alone where any sighting could mean death, Boba has no such fear; he clanks and clicks.
Luke makes no sound at all, as if his physical presence in this atmosphere is obligatory more than real.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Din admits.
“An unlicensed, pre-Imperial ship? Stacked with warrants against an infamous bounty hunter? Using decades-old Hutt codes to declare itself as it enters Republic airspace?” Luke asks, mouth quirked.
Din looks to Boba, who just shrugs.
“It’s been awhile since I visited this part of the galaxy,” Boba says. “There’s a reason.”
“Is it dangerous for him to be here?” Din asks. “Can you get him pardoned?”
“If I’d known you were both coming, it would already be done,” Luke says. “Your record is clean.”
“Don’t wipe mine,” Boba cuts in.
The mirth in Luke’s eyes grows. Din withholds another sigh.
“I just want to make this vote, speak for Mandalore, and leave,” Din says. “This isn’t even what the Mand’alor is supposed to do.”
Not that he really knows what exactly the Mand’alor is supposed to do. He’s only held the sword for mere days. The Armorer is off-planet, so she hasn’t told him. And Bo-Katan’s no help, sour enough that an upstart Vizsla took her much-sought throne from her, and even more annoyed that Vizsla was fool enough to end up at the wrong end of Boba Fett’s blaster, and beyond words into incandescent rage that Boba Fett then proceeded to instantly lose the darksaber to his husband in a friendly spar.
Din really doesn’t understand why Bo-Katan won’t just come stab him and put him out of his misery.
Instead, he’s trying not to jump every time a speeder flies overhead in the busy Coruscant capitol, walking side by side with both of his boyfriends, and attempting to mediate what’s soon to become an intergalactic disaster.
If Boba Fett doesn’t manage to make it even worse.
“Hutt landing codes, really,” Din mutters at him. Boba tilts his helmet, saying nothing, and Din can imagine the smug smirk.
The Senate doesn’t respond favorably. (Boba has to jetpack out a window a bit early after refusing to relinquish his anything to the weapon check droids, then drawing a blaster on several senators, but it's fine. They're meeting up at the spaceport.)
At the end of it all, though, Din emerges with a treaty worth a fat seven hundred-fifty million yearly, if the looks of outrage and swarm of military police are any indication, probably a fresh list of warrants under his name.
But the Mandalore system will be rebuilt, and it will owe the New Republic nothing. The Mandalorians will march as one once again, and have a place to call their home.
Din just hopes he’s not the one who has to do it.