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Din Djarin walks from one end of the corridor to the other unhurriedly, letting the rhythmic cadence of his steps and the clanking of his armour keep him company while his sharp eyes scan the surroundings for any disturbances.
The corridor is long, mostly empty, save for a number of marble busts placed between each of the grand windows spanning one side of the wall. Red velvety drapes frame the windows grandly, pouring to the floor like viscous water, as rich in sight as the rulers of the palace—the Royal House of Organa.
It connects a very important chamber—the Royal Family's private music room—to that of the Princess of Alderaan's private office and leisure room, hidden at the end of the corridor.
Though he's been part of her entourage for many years now, Din has rarely, if ever in fact, stepped in this area of the palace. The first (and the last) time when he came close to these private quarters was when he was first accepted into the ranks of the Inner Guardsmen of the House of Organa, and the Knight Commander took him on a brief tour, showing him the main areas he was to guard for the remainder of his knightly career.
At that time, this wing of the Palace was but an afterthought, but being now entrusted to patrol it, he is alert and fully dedicated to his task, lest he fail the Princess.
Leia Organa is a kind, but stubborn soul, very set in her ideas. Her parents have raised her well and the stars blessed her with an honest, open mind—sometimes, it is fortunate indeed when a good person is also stubborn.
She is definitely not the sort of person Knight Djarin wishes to disappoint in any way.
What all of this means is that he is so tense that he startles repeatedly when the Royal Cat dashes by his feet, chasing imaginary mice.
His first week on the job hasn't finished yet and he's already quite tired. If this becomes one of his main duties, he fears his hair may turn grey sooner than expected.
As much as his fellow Knights poke a little fun at his uptight behaviour, the sharpness of his following the code of conduct does pay off this evening, though.
Darkness has fallen already. The hour isn’t too late, but with the encroaching winter, it makes for early sunsets and darker nights. A handful of thick candles burn on the wall opposite of the windows, their flames small but steady, their warmth only in colour, if not in sensation.
Out of nowhere, the cat runs past Din in a frenzy.
"Get out," Din hisses at it when it jumps and paws at one of the marble busts. "Stop that. Go bother the chef instead, Artoo."
It watches him neutrally, paw still reaching up toward the statue.
Din takes a few steps toward it, trying to spook it into a chase, but the cat won't have any of it.
"You silly creature," he sighs.
"Mrrow," the cat agrees.
At the same time, a floorboard creaks behind him.
Instantly on guard, Din forgets all about the Royal Fleabag and turns toward Princess Leia's quarters.
Sometimes, the furniture groans by itself, as all things do in places as old and as full of history as this. The floors have a life of their own, entertaining phantomatic guests in the middle of the night, but this could be a sign something foul is afoot.
Following his gut, Din approaches the doors slowly, one hand resting atop the pommel of his sword.
"Princess?" he asks, even though he knows for a fact nobody passed by this corridor since the early hours of the afternoon. "Your Royal Highness, are you inside? Is everything alright?"
Predictably, nothing but silence answers him.
It appeases none of his worries. He turns around, looks back toward the other end of the corridor, but he can't shake the feeling there is something else going on.
He doesn't have permission to enter freely, but this scenario would fall under ‘potential security breach,’ so he gathers his courage and pushes one of the doors open.
Unsheathing the sword, he steps into the foyer.
The wallpaper is heavily patterned and gilded with silvers and golds. The light streaming in from the corridor cuts a sharp line into the square room, cleaving it neatly in half. There are two doors, one to the right, on the wall directly in front of the entrance, and the other on the wall to the left, leading toward the princess’ dayroom.
He walks further in, studying the corners of the foyer intently.
"Show yourself," Din orders. "I know you’re here."
Nothing seems out of place, except for the chill settled in the air.
The door to the dayroom is open. He goes that way, brandishing his sword in front of his body, despite the absence of a threat (for now).
Royal business has kept the entire family busy for the duration of the entire week, and with the princess barely having any time to herself, she hasn’t had the chance to unwind and paint as is her custom. Unfinished cavanses lay scattered all over the place. Half of the room is in disarray, full of tools, paints, and rags, and other painterly supplies, and the other half is arranged into a pittoresque, if strange arrangement of furniture, drapes, and vases that she is struggling to immortalize with her brushstrokes.
Din tiptoes around the scattered trinkets, careful not to disturb anything.
Suddenly, a gust of wind slams the other door open.
The window by the easel rattles from the draft.
He springs into action, hurrying into the office at once.
The window there hangs open as if left forgotten. Surely Din would have felt the growing chill, as the season is well on its way of changing and every morning there is more and more frost lying on the gardens.
It must have opened when he entered the foyer, then.
He looks outside. This room is rather high up in the palace; it must be at least fifteen meters to the ground, but Din has heard stories of very resourceful mercenaries and thieves over the years—he wouldn’t be surprised if someone managed to make the climb. There’s even an intricate trellis laced with ivy and roses leading halfway up, to make it easier.
Perhaps he should talk to the princess and have it replaced.
After he closes the window firmly and pulls the heavy drapes over the glass, he turns around.
It’s very dark, but there’s… there's a strange shadow even darker against the wallpaper, breaking up the faint lines of its pattern.
It takes him a moment to process it, and then…
The shadow lunges toward the small fireplace, grabbing the fire iron.
Cinders and ashes fly into the air and scatter all over the floor.
Din moves before he even thinks of a plan of action, his body trained so well to fight that it goes through the motions naturally, instinctively.
"And I was so very quiet," the shadow mumbles with the voice of a man.
"Not quiet enough," Din says.
His sword clashes with the fire iron.
The intruder is strong and knowledgeable of swordsmanship, as he catches the blade at the right angle to avoid it sliding right down his hand. If this keeps up, the iron is going to seriously damage the blade, but Din can worry about that later. All he can think about now is how silent this man was, to actually infiltrate the room without any noise, and to be unmasked by accident, because Din was simply too paranoid.
You found him, but you have to get rid of him too, Din tells himself angrily. Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet.
Adrenaline rushes through him, prompting him to attack faster and faster, looking for any openings.
The intruder is dressed in black, hard to tell much of him beyond the fact that there is little metal protecting his body. Even so, he moves like a fish in water, reading Din’s attacks with an ease that is irritating and admirable both.
He dodges a slash of Din’s sword just in time and sneaks past him, ducking underneath his raised arm.
By the time Din turns around, he finds the intruder has pulled free one of the decorative swords hanging above the fireplace, and is testing its balance and weight in his hands like they have all the time in the world to fight—like it is a friendly sparring match and that is not what Din is here for.
"Surrender before I am forced to hurt you!" Din threatens.
This opponent seems very resourceful. The longer Din lets him get adjusted to his surroundings, the more chances he’s giving him to gain the upper hand.
"You have no business being here," Din says, advancing on the other man.
With a sword in his possession, the stranger is far less hesitant to meet him directly.
The blades clash with a clank, shockingly loud in the quiet Palace wing.
A mask hides the other man’s face, keeping only his eyes and brows visible. More material covers his head, so that he blends in completely into the dark.
"You will answer to the princess no matter what you try, villain," Din tries again, though his patience is running a bit short. "Spare me this worthless fight. Face her with your blood still inside your veins."
Chuckling, the intruder pushes him away with his sword. "Don’t underestimate me, little knight."
"Face me directly, little thief," Din counters.
"Funny you say that, when you’re the one hiding behind all that armour."
The intruder’s sword glides off the surface of Din’s chestplate uselessly. It is, of course, dull and decorative only.
Upon their next meeting, the fake sword’s blade breaks in two in a jagged line.
"Marvelous," the intruder comments, rolling his eyes. It doesn’t stop his assault in any way; he tries to poke Din in the arm with the jagged end, now that the sword may have in fact obtained a modicum of potential danger to it.
They go at it another minute. Usually, Din is done with his opponents by this time. He’s growing a tad tired moving so quickly with such weight on him. The strain is starting to show, as the intruder notices his sower reflexes and wrenches the sword from his hands, sending it flying.
The blade cuts into the drape by the window and clatters to the floor.
The intruder throws himself toward the sword.
Sensing his intentions, Din follows suit.
The other man grabs the sword by the hilt, but before he can retaliate, Din throws a fist blindly toward his head and catches him in the cheek. He grabs the drape for support, but with the added weight of Din grabbing onto him, the entire thing collapses over them, drapes, and wooden rod, and all.
Moonlight flows freely into the office, now that the windows are bare.
"Will you stop!" the intruder exclaims, trying to disentangle himself from the drapery. "If Vader takes this out of my pay this month I am not going to forgive you!"
"Vader!?" Din shrieks, horrified.
An imperial spy! Right here, in the Royal Palace, looking for intel! There are so many documents in Princess Leia’s office—did he have the chance to snoop around before Din barged in?
The second wind gives Din a burst of strength and bravery, and he presses down on the intruder’s wrist, holding the sword away from them both on the floor. The man grunts in pain and starts struggling underneath him, but Din has never been more motivated to subdue an enemy, even one as skilled at close-quarters combat as this man seems to be.
"I don’t want to hurt you, but if you force my hand..!" The imperial spy gasps, half in pain, half in anger.
"You’ve got nothing else to do," Din growls.
The man is pinned underneath him well.
Something sharp stabs him in the side. It doesn’t make it past the chainmail shirt, but he feels the shock of it and moves to intercept the appearance of the small dagger.
The intruder wrenches his other hand free. The sword slides away on the floor, discarded, but he doesn’t need it anymore, it seems, as he grabs onto Din’s helmet and loosens the buckle underneath his jaw.
The helmet rotates slightly on his head—just enough to obscure some of his vision, and becomes unstable and annoying to deal with.
Going by instinct and training alone, Din brings a hand around the other man’s throat. Immediately, the other grabs onto his wrist, fingers digging in between the hand guard and the distal end of his vambrace to find some purchase and repel him.
Still choking, the intruder suddenly moves his hand up, setting the helmet loose entirely.
Unable to see anything any more, Din quickly moves to discard it. By the time he wrenches it from his head, the intruder has already slipped from his grasp and he stares at Din with crinkled eyes, very satisfied with himself.
They make eye contact once, both of them breathing heavily, then the intruder finally displays his full combat skillset, as he takes the initiative and tackles Din to the floor.
Din hits the edge of the desk with his shoulder on his way down. Writing tools rattle ominously on the desk and an inkwell falls down beside his head, splattering the floor in black. Drops of it stain the side of Din’s face, and he winces, turning his head away before it gets into his eyes. He grimaces, feeling the substance dripping over his mouth.
"I must say, you’re the first knight I meet who’s held up his front for so long," the man says infuriatingly sweetly. He leans closer to Din’s face, obscuring most of his field of view with the dark shadows that he casts. "Though I didn’t really fight for real."
"You haven’t won yet," Din snaps back.
"Aren’t you tired?" The man moves until he is straddling his abdomen.
The added weight, plus the hands he keeps on Din’s forearms to hold them down by the sides of his head—all of these force Din to acknowledge, at least to himself, that he is indeed tired, and could not stand without help at all.
Din refuses to reply, but he does stare back up, glaring.
During their skirmish, the fabric tied around the intruder’s face has been jostled too, and some strands of hair fall free in his face now, curly and hinting at quite the fetching looks underneath.
Though he keeps taunting Din, the man is breathing heavily too, and beads of sweat have gathered at his temples during their fight.
"Are you Din Djarin?" the man asks, studying his face very intently. His eyes trail up and down Din’s face and pause slightly over lips, before he brings them back up to his eyes again. He notices the surprise in Din’s widening eyes and chuckles again.
"I heard about you, but I thought you were on the brink of retirement, by the way she talked about you," he goes on, leaning down a fraction. "You’ve garnered quite a lot of admiration and respect already, Din Djarin. Maybe even a bit from me, after tonight. If only you hadn’t lost…"
Din moves his shoulders, trying to wrestle himself out of the other man’s grip, but he doesn’t manage it.
"You have a lot of skill," Din replies, voice full of judgement. "It’s a shame to see your talents wasted for the Empire."
"I don’t serve the Empire, I serve Darth Vader," the other says hotly, anger flashing across his face bitterly.
Looks like Din has struck a nerve.
"Is there a difference?" Din goads.
"You have no idea!"
With his composure briefly broken, the intruder is somehow more handsome and fascinating than he was before, when he was in full control and pretending to be toying with Din. The raw indignation in his eyes, coupled with the flyaway strands of hair around his face—the only missing part is to see him in full, in better light. Still, even as it is right now, this isn’t a sight that will leave Din easily.
"Same evil, different name," he continues. A tiny smile worms its way to his lips, widening when the intruder’s offended glare goes right back down at his mouth and it only makes the man’s brows furrow more. "Your admiration and respect mean nothing to me if you so easily offer your loyalty to monsters like Vader."
"You don’t know him," the intruder growls, bringing his hands to grab Din by the chainmail shirt around his neck.
Bidding his time to counterattack, Din lets himself be shaken, and he pours more tar over the fire easily, saying, "But I know what he’s done and he’s done a whole lot of evil."
The intruder breathes in heavily. He shakes his head slowly from side to side, as though trying to hold his temper and find a better phrased way to argue his side of the matter. When he looks at Din again, his eyes are wide open in judgement.
The audacity to look at him like that! Vader’s spy, to judge him, who is guarding the Princess of Alderaan!
Din would laugh.
"Listen, you don’t have the full picture. Nothing is ever as simple as that," the other man says.
"Evil deeds are simple. Knaves are so simple." Din’s eyes crinkle in mirth and satisfaction to see how surely the other man is losing his composure. "You’re simple, too. You think just because you have me on the floor that I’ve accepted my loss? I’d rather die for my princess, than give up. Would you die for your abysmal lord?"
The intruder doesn’t get a chance to reply.
Din brings his hand to the middle of his torso, right below the sternum, and takes the breath right out of him with a well placed strike. Mustering all the strength he has left, knowing that he has to back up his words, he brings his other hand to grasp the spy by the collar of his black shirt and throws him to the floor.
The intruder gasps in pain and surprise.
Din doesn’t give him any reprieve, quickly moving to intercept his hands before they get the chance to grab another weapon. The man may be strong, but Din is strong too, and has trained since early childhood to become a knight.
When the Knights of the House of Organa took him in in the name of the Royal Family, when they saved him from death. When his village was plundered by the Empire and nobody dared approach the fringes between the imperial battlefront and the unfortunate settlements lining this vague border, they rose above the rest and showed him there was more to life than blood and darkness.
He cares about this land and these honest people more than he cares about his own safety and life.
They wrestle on the floor briefly, but while the weight of the armour was an obstacle not letting Din get up easily before, now it helps him hold the intruder down, and he lies over his body with little regard how much pain he is causing to the other man, if it means the imperial spy is subdued.
"There are some things you don’t have to see the bigger picture of," Din says. "The reason for action doesn’t matter, if the action brings harm, now, does it?"
"You have some fucking nerve to keep me lessons in morality," the man grunts. "Where’d they teach you those? Before or after you learned how to take care of the stables?"
In their tussling around, the fabric tied over the man’s face has unravelled, now showing his face in full. Wild hair bursts out and frames his temples and ears wildly.
"I’m genuinely floored by your conviction, Din Djarin," he says. Suddenly, the tension in his body goes away, and he turns his head to the side, resting his cheek on the hardwood floor. A little smile appears on his face; without any more fabric in the way, it paints a pretty picture.
Oh, but he had to be attractive, didn’t he?
Din couldn’t have fought someone average looking, could he?
He’s already hot and sweaty from the fight—he can blame it all on that instead. No need to question himself.
Now’s not the time.
"What’s so funny?" he asks, tilting his head to catch the man’s eyes again.
"Hi, Artoo," the man says sweetly.
Artoo? Artoo??
Perplexed, Din turns.
A few paces away from them, in the cone of light streaming in through the open door, sits the Royal Cat, staring at them with keen, but unperturbed eyes.
"Get out!" Din exclaims. If the cat gets hurt in this fight, he may finally cross the line and take a human life without any remorse.
"No, don’t listen to him. Come here, kitty," the man stage-whispers.
"Hey—how do you know his name?"
"Artoo and I are friends."
And, lo and behold, somehow this statement rings true, as the cat stands lazily and wanders over to the stranger’s head to give him a little sniff. It paws at the folds of fabric pouring from the back of his head.
It’s so unexpected to see that it throws Din almost completely off his game.
"I’ll admit, I could have stopped this far earlier, but you’re fascinating," the man says. "I haven’t felt this alive in a long time, Din Djarin. You’re worth every word they say about you, but do you know what they forget to mention?"
"..." Din stares at him, not quite understanding what is going on.
"They never say how handsome you are."
Oh, no.
That’s the last thing Din wants to hear when they’re so pressed up one against the other.
Was his breathing this loud before? Was it this hard to breathe before, actually?
He swallows, but his throat is rather dry, and all it does is make him feel worse about this whole scenario. Glaring, he says, "Flattery won’t get you out of this."
"I think I’m starting to enjoy the sight too much to wish to move."
Din’s eyes flicker down to the man’s lips, parted. It’s only for a second and he doesn’t mean to, but he does, and it doesn’t go unnoticed either, as the smile growing on the intruder’s face is blindingly smug.
"What's going on here?"
Princess Leia!
"What the hell have you done to my curtains? Up, up, up!" she yells, stepping into the room. A handheld candle lamp rests in one of her hands, casting light over the mess in the office. One of her handmaidens steps inside, visibly holding back her laughter once she sees Din and the intruder on the floor, and hurries to light the candles in the office.
"Princess Leia, be careful, this man was…"
"Oh, I’m such a fool. Who filled in the guard roster today?" she asks her handmaiden, then she sighs heavily.
"I don’t… I don’t understand," Din says quietly. Underneath him, the intruder (whose face is exceptionally handsome now that there is proper light in the room), shakes with silent laughter. Annoyed, Din gives his shoulder a harmless punch and hisses, "Shut up!"
"It’s my fault, I’m sorry," the princess says. "Let that man go."
"Let him go?" Din repeats blankly. "He’s imperial! He broke in!"
"I know." She looks very apologetic as she says this, eyebrows drawn in and forehead wrinkled in her plea for forgiveness. "Please, stand up, both of you."
Slowly, Din obeys her order. There are so many questions running through his mind, he can barely figure out which one he wants to ask first.
Next to him, the other man takes his sweet time fixing his clothes and dusting them off.
"My dear," Princess Leia addresses her handmaiden, "please, please, remind me to schedule the guard rotations myself, though I guess at this point it doesn’t matter anymore."
"Your Royal Highness, I was concerned about the safety and—"
Princess Leia lifts a hand to silence him. "I’m sorry, I didn’t want to burden you with this."
The intruder procures a tiny, wax-sealed letter out of an inner pocket, and hands it to Princess Leia with a smile (and a wince, as his body should no doubt hurt as much as Din’s does.) "Here is the letter. Your father also sends you all his love—implied, as always, but if I’m not here to interpret his stony silences, then what am I here for?"
The princess takes the letter with a poised, elegant hand, accepting it as though it were the most precious official document for the House of Organa.
"Thank you. I’m sorry about the trouble, but I’m holding you accountable for the repairs," she says.
"I was perfectly silent! I don’t even know what the fuck he heard to come running here!"
"I don’t care, Fett. You’re paying. And don’t you come crying at me, when I saw with my own eyes what I almost walked in on."
"Fett as in Boba Fett?" Din asks plainly, staring between the princess and the intruder with confusion in his heart, in his head, and all over his face.
"The one and only," says Boba Fett, running a hand through his hair to sweep it out of his face.
He’s a legend!
Oh, no, you fought Boba Fett, says one part of him, in despair. Oh, no, you want to kiss Boba Fett, says another, in exhilaration. The distinction between these two is a bit muddled now, and that makes it even worse.
Princess Leia walks around her office briefly to inspect the damages: beyond the shredded drapery, broken curtain rod which will all have to be replaced, there’s the ink staining the wood that’s going to be much more difficult to clean up, the decorative sword cut in two, cinders and ash all over the floor in front of the fireplace, and a lot of scratches on the floorboards from the blades and the metal.
This doesn’t look good at all for Din, despite the reassurance she gave him that it isn’t his fault.
How is this not his fault? But then again, how else should he have acted?
He wants an explanation. He doesn’t dare ask for it directly, but he wants it, lest the world stops making sense.
The more she sees, the quicker she seems to go through the five stages of grief, until finally, resigned, she turns to her handmaiden and says, "I guess we could put a rug in here and cover all of this up for now. Is it possible you can find some people to handle this without going through the official channels?"
"Of course, milady," the handmaiden answers with a tiny bow.
"Perfect."
The princess suddenly turns to Din and bows deeply in front of him.
The sight sends him into a stupor.
"Sir, I apologize for the trouble. You did an admirable job at defending the Palace and I commend you for your service. However, and this information is of utmost secrecy, please understand, and do not reveal it to any one," —she waits for him to nod his head in understanding before she goes on— "but this man here delivers me extremely crucial information. It is vital for the wellbeing of our kingdom that this exchange does not stop. Do you understand?"
A double agent?
Din looks at Boba Fett with new eyes, but this doesn’t clear everything up. Boba Fett was very passionate when the matter of Lord Vader was brought up—why? It doesn’t make any sense. Could he be double-crossing the princess instead?
"I… This man works for Lord Vader," he says, a tad more resentful than he intends.
"Yes, I know," she replies, the very definition of patience.
"Y-you do?" He glances at Fett for a second. Artoo has made itself at home in his arms.
"Lord Vader is the one giving me the Empire's battle plans."
"..."
"You must swear on what you hold most sacred that you will not speak of this to anyone."
"I, I swear I will not speak. I swear on your family’s name." The words pour out of Din easily. There are few people he has honest, genuine faith in, but the goodness of the House of Organa is a rarity and a blessing to be associated with. "Is this safe, Your Highness? Pardon my impudence… I worry."
She smiles at him. "There is no need for worry. You are one of my most honourable knights, Sir. I didn’t mean to put you in this position. Now I have little choice but to bring you in on our secret plans, if you can find it in yourself to work with imperials, as diluted and reluctant as they may be in their affiliation."
"I… I can try," Din responds stiltedly, trying to process the situation. If this is the will of the Princess, then it must be worth the compromise.
"See?" Boba Fett balances the cat on his left forearm, and extends his right hand in greeting. "This is a lot more complicated than you’d expect at first glance, fellow associate."
Din looks at it with reluctance in his eyes, but ends up shaking his hand anyway. If he’s in this now, he has to conform to the new rules, although… it will take him some time to adjust to these parameters.
There are only so many revelations one simple man can handle in the span of an hour.
He understands why Boba Fett didn’t mention any of this now. Would he have believed the man, even if he had talked? Without the word of the Princess to quench his anxiety, Din surely wouldn’t have accepted anything at all, believable information or not.
(This one is quite unbelievable, too.)
"I wouldn’t mind running into Din Djarin again," Fett tells the princess casually, barely any formality between them.
It’s frustrating to witness, and Din itches to scold him into behaving appropriately in the presence of Royalty, but if the Princess allows it, he cannot dare speak up.
"Oh, but I would, if it means you end up wreaking havoc in my rooms," she snaps at him at once, shaking her head for good measure. "Why don’t you find some place outside in the woods to gauge your fighting prowess next time, hmm? I’m really disappointed you took it this far, Fett."
"I was curious," Fett says, studying Din. "I wanted to see if he was half the man you made him out to be, I suppose."
Princess Leia folds her hands and turns to look at Din too.
(This is too much attention. He wants to put his helmet back on, but it’s lying on the floor too far away to make its retrieval anything more than another dose of awkwardness.)
"And is he?" she asks.
"I don’t know why I doubted your word in the first place."
"You’re just like him," she laughs.
Fett frowns, but makes no move to disagree with her.
While it’s not strange to be talked about in third person when he is already present, what surprises him is to be privy to such compliments from the princess’ side too, not just the odd word he and the intruder exchanged during their confrontation.
For once, Din wants to break protocol and shut that man up before another infuriating word leaves his mouth.
"Alright, why don’t you go into the other room while I write a… Oh, blast it. Dearest, please bring me some ink from dad’s office," she asks her handmaiden. After the woman departs, Princess Leia clears her throat. "As I was saying, please wait in the other room while I answer this message. Do not—do not fight, do you hear me?"
Weirdly conscious of himself, Din gathers his helmet and sword from the floor, and though he’s following her order directly, it’s embarrassing to turn around and exit the office, knowing how much destruction he’s leaving behind.
Boba Fett releases the cat and hurries on ahead, well knowledgeable of the layout of this portion of the Palace, quickly making himself at home right on the chair propped up to be painted by the princess.
"Don’t sit there," Din says quietly, almost loath to speak. "Don’t disturb anything."
"Very well," Fett agrees easily and goes to sit instead on the sofa nearer to the painter’s side of the room. It is made of precious textiles and covered in a carefully embroidered fabric.
"Don’t sit there either," Din intejects, more loudly this time.
"I’m not the one who rolled around in ink, Din Djarin," the other man grumbles, but acquiesces to the request.
Having no other proper options, Boba Fett walks back toward Din and plops down on the floor.
"Come on, sit," he says, patting the space next to him.
"I didn’t ‘roll around in ink,’" Din grumbles as he, too, descends onto the floor heavily.
"There’s some on your face."
"And whose fault is it?"
Fett frowns, offended. "Why does there have to be someone to blame? I’m just stating a fact. Here, let me—"
—and he brings his hand to Din’s cheek, moving his thumb from his nose, across his cheekbone, all the way to his ear.
Din stands there frozen, aware of the warmth rising to his face.
"Well, that didn't work. I'm sorry, I think I made it worse, in fact," Fett says.
He's so close.
Unconsciously, Din wets his lips. The dry ink there tastes bitter and faintly alcoholic, but he barely notices it.
Fett follows the movement with interest. His eyes flicker upward for a second, meeting Din's—and that's agreement enough between them.
Din grabs him by his lapels again, this time to bring him closer and closer, and Fett leans forward eagerly, meeting his lips with his own mouth, half parted. Din tilts his head until their faces fit together, and he wishes to hold him better, but he's too tired to move around anymore. The adrenaline has left him, though there is another type of electricity coursing through his veins now.
They're both out of breath still, and they part to breathe, but the loss of contact is hard to bear, and Fett kisses him, ready to breathe in the air right out of his lungs.
Din responds with fervour, running a hand through his hair.
"Ouch, wait—" Fett winces and almost bites down on his lip. "Your glove is going to—there it is."
He sighs.
A lock of Fett's curly hair is caught in-between several of the metal rings at the end of his chainmail sleeve.
Din pulls his hand away slowly until Fett yelps again and grabs his wrist to hold him still. The little twitch of pain makes him purse his lips rather cutely.
"You looked too confident," Din says with a smile.
"Mm, and you don't know how hard I worked for it, Din Djarin."
"Why do you keep saying my name like that?" Din asks, watching him try to disentangle himself from the chainmail.
"It flows and I like it."
"I would like it more if you just called me Din."
Fett looks at him with a growing self-satisfied smirk on his face. Once his hair is free from the clutches of the cold, merciless metal, he sits up to his knees and swings one leg over Din's lap, then he places Din's hand on the sides of his waist, safely away from causing any more accidents.
"You should see my armour," Fett whispers against his lips, once again reducing the space between them to zero. "It's really beautiful. It's too eye-catching, though, I couldn't travel with it here."
This man already looks amazing in the blandest of outfits. To put him in metal would surely set him apart from the profane.
"I've heard stories about you," Din tells him in between two kisses, light like feathers. "They're not good stories."
"But they're good tales," Fett counters. The ink is on his lips now too, and so bitter, and so sweet that it should be fit to write poetry in it now.
"Cautionary tales," Din murmurs, holding him flush against him. His fingers splayed over Fett's flanks feel as though they belong there, to feel the solid weight of this man underneath. The subtle shift of his muscles as he breathes and moves and returns Din's affection with fire.
Slowly, bit by bit Din leans back, letting gravity take him. The day has been rather eventful, after all. The thought he has to stand guard for several more hours until he is relieved from his duty alarms him. How will he possibly stand alert, when his thoughts are all jumbled like this?
Fett follows him down, bringing an elbow by the side of Din’s head and leaning on it heavily. He pulls the leather glove off his other hand with his teeth, then runs his fingers through Din's hair and he scratches his scalp with his nails, sending a shiver down Din's spine. Oh, nobody's ever done that before, so tenderly and so intimately and—
He exhales heavily.
Fett chuckles warmly and keeps playing with his hair for another minute. Now and then, they share another kiss, though they're both moving more slowly now.
"Blast it," Fett says suddenly.
The thought that he regrets this whole thing falls like ice in the pit of Din's stomach. "What's wrong?" he asks quickly, breathlessly.
"I just realized I have to make it back home by tomorrow evening."
Oh.
"I'd rather not hurry to leave this time," Fett goes on, staring down at his face with carefully faked neutrality. "I'm not sure why."
"Strange," says Din lightly. "Is there anything I can do to help you figure it out?"
"Let me think." Fett squints, looking as though he is taking this assignment very seriously.
"I left the letter on the desk," exclaims Princess Leia from the foyer. "I'm taking Artoo with me. Don't forget the guard changes at the second bell. I'm leaving now!"
A few doors open and close. They listen to the retreating footsteps in silence, until everything fades away but the sounds of their breathing.
"How am I going to face Her Royal Highness tomorrow?" Din asks, his face whitening in horror. Everything that has happened this evening feels like a fever dream.
"Oh, this is nothing," Fett says, chuckling. "I kissed my boss when I was drunk. Now that—hmm how do I put it, that was another one of these good tales."
"You mean cautionary."
Fett laughs, his breath tickling Din's cheek. "No, I wouldn't say so. I certainly did not learn my lesson."
Din huffs in amusement. That’s not very difficult to picture, after all the exchanges they’ve had the past hour.
Fett moves to the floor and lies on his back beside Din, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a refreshing sight to see that even this confident, skilled man gets tired eventually and needs to catch his breath.
A minute or so of silence later, Fett speaks up again.
"Tell me something, Din."
"What?"
"What on earth did you hear? I swear I didn't make a single noise."
Din needs a minute to recall what led him here in the first place. "A creaking floorboard. It felt important at the time."
"I see. A creaking floorboard. Years of juggling direct combat and subterfuge, and my reputation is ruined by chance."
Din presses a kiss to the first place he can reach of Fett's—his brow.
"It's not ruined. I won't tell a soul."
"You swear?" Fett asks, oddly quiet.
"Look at me and I'll show you how much I swear."
He turns his head toward Din without question, and they kiss again. And again.
It's rather hard to keep track of it any more, to be honest.