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Boba thumbs over the soldering on the inside of his vambrace, frowning. The wiring there had always been finicky, and he’d had to replace it before, but the connection points were reworked, clean and neat and new - newer than he remembered them being. Swiping his thumb over the smooth hills of melted metal that held the wires down, Boba wonders if Vanth had made an attempt to fix something while the armor was in his possession. It didn’t seem likely, from the disrepair that it had been in when Boba had fetched it from the Crest.
As a younger and angrier man Boba might have killed Vanth for daring to touch what was his - but Boba had been rather indisposed and Din had told him that Vanth had been using it to protect his town. That was nobler than what Boba had been doing with it for years. He harbored no anger toward Vanth now, he had his ship, his armor, and bigger concerns than a slight to his pride.
Din had also mentioned that Vanth looked a bit silly, maybe used the phrase “string bean” even as his words filled with warmth.
If Din had a high opinion of the man, then he must not be too terrible.
Through the window a gentle breeze ruffles the sheer curtains Boba had placed to keep the worst of the sand out, fanning across his cheeks. The worst of the day’s heat was waning and Boba was down to his dark robes. He’d planned to spend the evening doing ordinary maintenance on his armor, but he’d gotten absorbed in the detail he couldn’t remember, that neat line of repair that hadn’t been done by his hands.
The slow back and forth rub of his thumb stops when there is a small knock on the door. Pulling himself up off the bed with a grunt, Boba crosses the room to jab at the control panel. Only one person would make it to his private rooms and then knock.
“Din.”
“Apologies if I’m intruding.” Even through his helmet Din’s voice is always soft and rich, his words picked carefully and succinctly. For a bounty hunter he was almost comically polite.
“Never.” Boba says, stepping back to allow Din access to the room. “How’s the kid?”
Bits of sand scatter across the stone floor as Din steps past him, cape swirling around his legs as he turns to face Boba again. Boba has seen his face, but he finds it almost as easy to read his expressionless T-visor, the jut of his hips and the way his shoulders curl.
“Grogu’s well. He’s good.” Din’s fingers twitch at his side and Boba’s eyes follow the gesture. The repetition sounds more like it’s to reassure Din himself than for Boba’s benefit.
“And you? Keeping busy?” Boba brushes past him, almost close enough to touch. The bed wheezes as he sinks down onto the edge, his good knee clicking and the prosthetic giving a small mechanical whirr. It’s easier to pick up the vambrace he was fiddling with than to look at the way Din roils in his thoughts.
Din makes an aborted movement toward the overstuffed chair in the corner, then paces the length of the room, eventually coming to hover near the edge of the bed. Without looking up at him, Boba shuffles over a few inches and Din sinks down beside him.
“What have you been doing?” Din asks, tilting his head in Boba’s direction.
Whatever is bothering him, he’ll tell Boba if he needs to know. Pushing for an answer won’t get him anywhere, so instead Boba turns the piece of armor he had been observing over in his hands again.
“Checking wiring.” His thumb finds that line of soldering and beside him Din tips his head again.
“I fixed that.” Din says, fingers twitching again where his hands rest on his thighs, “the wiring had come loose.”
Boba stares at him so long that Din leans back, holding a hand up.
“I wasn’t trying to overstep. I had a lot of free time between Corvis and Tython and not much to do. I didn’t think I’d be giving that armor to anyone, but it just seemed right to fix it.”
The silence between them stretches, thick and syrupy like the sunlight that is rapidly fading as the first sun sets. Boba doesn’t know what to say.
Din hadn’t known the armor was his, but he’d taken careful and considerate care of it the way he would his own. The thought made something sharp dig in under Boba’s ribs and he dropped his gaze, thumb still caressing that line of repair. Maybe it was a Mandalorian thing, or maybe it was just a Din thing, but Boba found himself touched by the gesture instead of feeling violated or wronged.
“Anything else you fixed?” Boba asks, keeping his eyes locked on the gauntlet in his hands.
“The uh, the biometrics in your chest plate were corroded, I replaced a few of those wires.”
“A trip into a sarlacc will corrode just about anything. Surprised there were any wires left.” Boba slips the vambrace onto his arm, turning it over and looking at it from a few different directions. He slowly drags his gaze up to look at Din again, “You could have fixed my rangefinder for me. That was a real bitch.”
To Boba’s surprise Din drops his head and his shoulders creep up toward his ears. For someone in full armor he’s more expressive than a lot of people that Boba has had dealings with. Well, maybe in a culture that equates your helmet with your soul, the way Din was brought up to believe he could never remove his helmet at all, wearing someone else’s was probably a bit too intimate. There was no other way to fix those wires without checking by putting it on. Boba drops his gaze as well, surprised to find his ears burning.
“Meant to say… thank you.” Is what Boba finally grinds out past the coil of awkwardness in his chest,
“Your armor needed to be cared for. This is the Way.” Din has turned to look out the window, the second sun making its way behind the distant mountains. It rings him in gold and red, and Boba can’t tear his eyes away.
What had he done to deserve such a man as Din as a friend? He’d been doing more of that lately, making friends. His father would be turning in his grave, but to Boba’s surprise he wasn’t as worried about that as he had once been.
Tugging the vambrace off again, Boba drops it to the bed beside the other pieces he had been working over, reaching over to flick his nail against Din’s pauldron. It rings pleasantly in the empty room, and Din’s visor snaps back to him.
“Let me see yours.” Boba gestures, falling just short of actually touching Din’s arm, “Your vambrace I mean.”
It takes a few moments for Din to react, and Boba is sure he’s going to refuse. Instead he simply sighs and reaches down to unhook the magnetic latches.
Din has to remove his glove to get it off, and Boba struggles not to stare openly at his bare hand. There’s a scar curling across his palm, faded but still stark and pale against the darker skin. Boba is so engrossed in staring at the details of Din’s hand that Din actually nudges him with the piece of armor before Boba can refocus enough to take it. It earns him a small chuckle, hardly enough to make it past the filter in Din’s helmet.
Boba’s ears are burning again, but he takes the piece of armor gently, turning it over in his hands. It’s lighter than he would have thought, even with the flamethrower built in. Much lighter than Boba’s. The design is similar but not the same, and Boba finds himself fixating on the differences, the way that the plates fit together and the neat curls of form. It’s not that his armor is lesser, but it’s a durasteel mix where Din’s is pure beskar. Boba has replaced almost all of the circuitry, made some upgrades, but Din’s armor is new. Brand new. He turns the side of his thumb nail against the edge and basks in the warm ring of it. Painted beskar would still ring, but it was more muted.
“You can put it on.” Din’s tone is hard to parse, and even glancing up at him doesn’t give Boba any insights, the emotionless visage of his helmet giving nothing away.
Boba breathes slowly though his nose, feeling the tension thick and tight around them as he slides his hand through the guard. It’s a bit small, a bit too long, but it’s not a bad fit. Boba has worn worse in his time. He flexes his wrist and the flamethrower catches, tiny blue flame sparking between them. Quickly twisting his arm to shut it back off, Boba stares down at the smooth silver plates. There’s a light, on the end, just above where the flamethrower’s heat will reach it, and Boba watches it flicker. It’s not unlike the indicator in his chestplate.
“It’s a heart monitor.” Din offers, unprompted, “Hooked up to the other circuitry. If I fall in battle, my covert can come and reclaim my armor.”
Boba looks up at him again. “Mine’s just for show.” He doesn’t need to say that there is no one to claim his armor if he falls, has already lost it once and had to rely on Din to get it back for him.
There’s a moment where Din’s head dips, and Boba sorely wishes he could see his eyes. He wouldn’t mind it, watching Din’s heart rate out of the corner of his eye with the other reading in his HUD. But that’s...too much. It already feels like too much, the weight of Din’s vambrace on his arm feels like a shackle suddenly, and he tugs it off, hands it back without looking up.
Boba had never been part of a group. The only person looking out for him had been his father, and he’d lost that far too early. He wasn’t good at relying on people, his father’s words echoing in the back of his mind whenever he found himself getting too lax. No attachments. No friends.
Is Din his friend? Fennec is someone he would like to call a friend, a colleague, a work partner. He’s known Fennec for a long time, they’ve shared a lot of things and seen each other brought low. Din he hasn’t known for very long. He knows almost nothing about him, But they’re rather similar, aren’t they? Din hasn’t said as much, but they had an awful lot in common. Even in Boba’s reluctance to call himself a Mandalorian, there were things that were simply understood between them in a way that Boba hadn’t often experienced.
Slowly turning his gaze to where his helmet rests on the rack, Boba can see his own reflection reflected, blurred and distorted, and the bright beacon of Din beside him. Did it make Din uncomfortable for Boba to show his face? Boba’s face had never been his own anyway, belonging to untold millions of others, his father gazing back at him all his life from behind his own eyes. Where did Boba himself begin, after all? He’d told others before, that his helmet was his face, and that was true. If anyone was going to believe him, agree, it was Din.
Maybe he should have thought a bit more about that before teasing Din about fixing his rangefinder. Even the thought of wearing Din’s helmet made him want to crawl under the bed. No way.
“If you were to paint your armor,” Boba says, swallows to clear the scrape from his throat, “What would you choose?”
Din is close enough that Boba can feel him shift, and has to physically restrain the urge to lean into the soft warmth that he was putting off.
“My armor before, mostly scavenged trooper armor, was red. Maybe closer to brown than yours.”
Red. Boba could imagine, Din’s armor splashed with rusty red like dried blood. Maybe that didn’t fit him so well anymore.
“I think blue might suit you. Or gold.” Boba says. He hasn’t torn his gaze away from where his helmet stares back.
Din shifts again, out of the corner of his eye Boba watches the fingers of his still-uncovered hand twitch and creep closer to touching Boba’s thigh, and then pull away. The urge to lean into Din’s space strikes him again, digging in under his breast bone.
“Not green?” There’s something teasing in Din’s tone, and abruptly Boba finds he can turn his head again, can look over at him.
“Why don’t we see.” Boba pulls himself up off the bed, a smile cracking across his lips. Din leans back, tilting his head at him when Boba flaps a hand at him.
He seems to get the picture when Boba grabs his chest plate from the rack, hands flexing where they rest on his thighs before he stands. Before he can lose his nerve Boba steps into Din’s space, broadly telegraphing his movements as he fits his thumb under the edge of a plate. If Din doesn’t want that, he can step back, push Boba away. Din does none of that, just reaches around to unhook the latch on the other side. Boba is close enough to hear his breath through his helmet, and goosebumps crawl along the back of his neck even though he can’t feel Din’s breath at all. But he’s in it now, and if he pulls away it will make things even more awkward.
Din’s chestplate is all one piece, plates overlapping and sticking together neatly so that they can slide without restricting Din’s movement. It’s heavy, when it comes loose in Boba’s hands, and without his gloves on Boba can feel how warm it is from Din’s body heat.
Din is staring down at him, gaze intense even through his visor. Boba is used to being the shorter one in a lot of conversations. It doesn’t bother him anymore. Carrying a large enough gun tends to restrict the short jokes that people might make at his expense, but it abruptly feels like Din is towering over him, and Boba steps away, clutching Din’s chest plate.
“Boba-” Din says voice thick.
Quickly Boba sets Din’s chestplate down, swallowing past the knot in his chest and gathers up his own armor plates. The magnetic clasps aren’t the same, but Din moves easily when Boba nudges his arms up, and Boba gets the plates mostly in place, dropping them when Boba steps back. Din looks down at himself, rolling his shoulders and watching the way the plates shift across his chest. They don’t fit great, and won’t stay on very well if Din moves too much without the back plate to clip them together- but it gets the point across.
“What do you think?” Boba, not for the first time, can’t tear his eyes away. The green doesn’t look bad, but it’s not Din’s color, that’s for sure. It isn’t lost on Boba that this is….something.
Willingly giving his armor to someone else? Looking at Din slowly turning and running his bare thumb over the edge of a plate. If his helmet is his face, then what is this? The flicker of the sensor in the chest catches Din’s heartbeat now, and Boba watches it skate back and forth for a long moment.
Slowly, Din looks up at him again, and even through his dark visor Boba can feel their eyes lock.
“Come here.” Din reaches for him and Boba goes willingly, despite the panic fluttering in his chest. When Din tugs him into the circle of his arms Boba does his best to swallow back the laugh that sounds maybe less than happy. It’s not a sob.
Din doesn’t give him a chance to squirm away, using his height to his advantage and tucking Boba tight to his chest. After a tense moment Boba relaxes, unused to the feeling of his own chest plates digging into him from the outside. In a strange way it’s intensely comforting, and Boba allows himself to be embraced, feeling more laid bare than he ever has before. Perhaps it should have made him uncomfortable, but before those thoughts can spiral Boba feels Din’s bare hand brush over his chin, gently coaxing his head up.
The smooth metal of Din’s helmet is cool against Boba’s skin when he presses their foreheads together, and Boba is struck still in shock until Din gently leans a little harder against him. It’s easy to push back, tilt his head just a bit the way he might to lean into a kiss, and earns a small pleased noise from Din.
They push against each other, Boba’s hands tangling in Din’s cape, and Din’s still-gloved hand digging into Boba’s hip, the other spread across the space between his shoulder blades.
That cracking smile spreads across Boba’s face again, and he nudges a bit harder, only earning more of Din’s weight leaned against him.
Abruptly Din leans back, and Boba almost stumbles, off balance. Din’s hand on his hip disappears and Boba’s eyes slide open. When had they closed?
Din wrestles his helmet off one-handed, twisting in Boba’s embrace to drop it onto the bed, and heat licks up Boba’s spine at the intense look in Din’s eyes when he closes the space between them again. Din’s hair tickles as it relaxes from being squashed into his helmet, tickling at Boba’s scalp when Din crowds back into his space. This close Boba can practically feel his eyes crossing, but he doesn’t want to look away from Din’s large dark eyes, the way his brow creases and then smooths out when Boba presses back against him again. It’s a little more awkward to do this without their helmets on, and Boba lets his eyes slip closed again.
“Can I kiss you?” Din asks, and now Boba can feel his breath against his skin, and it makes him shiver all over.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Boba leans up into Din’s touch to emphasise the point, and a small chuckle puffs across his cheek as Din nudges back.
“Boba.”
“Yeah, you can.” No sooner has Boba said so than Din’s bare hand finds his jaw and tips his head back and their lips together, soft as his breath.
It’s hardly anything more than the gentle press of their lips, but it’s enough to leave Boba swaying in Din’s arms, sighing into his mouth when Din tips his head.
When Din pulls away Boba chases him, loosening one hand from his grip on Din’s cape and bringing it up, meaning to brush his fingers over the cut of Din’s cheekbone. He freezes before he can touch, looking for any hesitation in Din’s eyes.
“This okay?”
Din gives a small nod, and Boba presses his fingers to Din’s cheek, the softness of his skin and the slight scratchiness of his mustache that Boba finds he doesn’t mind at all as long as Din keeps kissing him. When Boba cups his cheek Din sags against him, eyes falling half closed.
When was the last time someone had touched Din’s face? When he was a child before he swore his creed? Before he was even taken in by the Mandalorians? Even if he showed his face, Boba was not one for casual touch, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched his bare skin either.
His thumb had started to trace gentle circles against Din’s cheek, and he watches Din’s long eyelashes flutter as he forces his eyes back open. The warmth in Din’s eyes is almost too much to bear, and Boba drops his gaze.
Without his helmet, wearing Boba’s chestplate, it strikes Boba all at once that Din is just a man. A man that, for whatever reason, has a fondness for Boba. Din is no less a Mandalorian because he’s looking down at Boba with such open eyes, but Boba finds it’s easier to shed the shell he’s built up around himself after all these years. Din hadn’t even known who he was before they met, and he was still looking at Boba with that warmth that made Boba want to do something ridiculous like cry.
Maybe they aren’t friends, and maybe Boba can let Din see him without his armor, not even the hidden layers that aren’t as obvious as the green-painted durasteel that Din is still wearing.
“No wonder you wear that bucket.” Boba says, and Din blinks at him, “You’re too pretty without it. No one would be intimidated by your puppy dog eyes.”
Din’s lips curl into a grin, and Boba doesn’t resist the urge to lean up to taste it against his lips.