Work Text:
Din’s arm healed quickly with the cryotherapy, and soon enough, he was back to throwing Boba and Fennec around the sparring room.
This time, he and Boba came to a draw.
Boba noticed Din was favoring one leg. He limped across the sand before flinging himself onto the wooden bench, sagging against the wall. He propped one leg up on the bench and groaned as he touched it.
“Injured?” Boba asked, concerned.
“Just sore,” Din said.
Din hissed as he unclasped his boot and tried to ease it off his foot. It hurt to watch. Boba strode over to him and crouched down on the sandy floor. “Let me,” he offered.
Din turned his helmet towards Boba. “Alright.”
Boba carefully finished unbuckling and unlacing Din’s ugly-as-sin scrunched-leather boot before gently working it down his calf, trying to jostle Din’s leg as little as possible as he got it all the way off. Boba was immediately hit with a waft of stinky foot in an equally stinky, sweaty sock, which hit him in the face even behind the filters of his helmet. “Ugh. Your need a foot bath.”
Din wiggled his toes. “Do we have that yet?”
“Hm? Well, we have the bathing pool? You could dip your feet in that?”
“I was thinking something more involved,” Din said, as he reached down to scratch an itch on the back of his foot.
“I’m listening,” Boba said. He was intrigued, honestly. Din had yet to come up with any original ideas for spa treatments. He was supportive, in his own way, but hadn’t really gotten into the hands-on part of the process yet. Yet, being the operative word. Boba kept holding out hope. If anyone deserved pampering besides himself and Fennec, it was surely Din.
“Back at the covert, one of the medics threw a fit after having to amputate a beroya’s toe after it went dead following an untreated injury. From there, it became a rant about the general lack of good foot hygiene amongst the tribe. In short order, the Alor was ordering everyone to submit to regular foot inspections. And, we uh, got a little creative with it?”
“Creative?” Boba guffawed. “What did you kinky bastards get up to?”
Din smacked him on the helmet. “I mean vigilant. We took it seriously, that’s all.”
Boba snickered. “Yes, mustn’t disappoint the Alor, who was ordering pedicures for your benefit and not hers, I’m sure. Very egalitarian.”
Din crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, that’s it. I’m shutting my mouth.”
“No! Wait! I’m sorry, please for all the sand in the Dune Sea tell me about your covert’s creative foot treatments that were absolutely not kinky and absolutely did not involve any polish.”
There was a short pause.
“Boba, how many toenails have you lost over the years?”
“Huh? Oh, I dunno, quite a few. Why?”
The silver helmet just tilted towards him. The angle of it looked judgmental, somehow.
Boba sat back on his haunches and hummed. “Foot treatments, huh? I’ll see what I can do.” He rose to his feet, steadying himself on the bench. He peered down at Din. “You, um, wouldn’t be willing to offer your services for that, would you? Not permanently,” he hastened to say, “But to train up some folks?”
“...I suppose.”
“Great! So, tell Fennec what supplies to order, and we’ll try it out. I might look up a few things too, and we’ll try them all out. Decide what to keep on the menu, so to speak. Sounds good?”
Din nodded. He still hadn’t moved other than to slump against the wall. It looked like he was about to settle in for a nap.
Boba couldn’t resist asking, “Do you need me to carry you out of this training room?”
Din made a rude gesture in Tusken sign, and Boba laughed as he left him alone to lick his wounds.
“You know,” Boba mused, as he, Din, and Fennec surveyed the shallow pool full of tiny creatures, “the more I read about this, I’m not sure it’s entirely ethical. These little toothy frogs want to eat real food, not the dead skin on the bottoms of our feet.”
The three of them were barefoot, with their pants rolled up past their ankles. But none of them were dipping their toes into the water.
Boba wasn’t ‘fishing’ for an excuse not to step in. Really. “Fennec?” he prompted.
“Yeah, I don’t want those things biting me. No thanks. I’m out.”
“Din?”
“I, uh, I think Grogu needs me for something. I’ll just... be going.”
Din and Fennec left Boba standing there alone in front of the pool of foot-nipping frogs.
It had been more than a month since they opened The Krayt’s Spa, and they’d been trying to develop new spa treatments to attract a broader clientele. (Apparently, a formerly slimy sauna and public baths that may or may not have been used for executions only attracted a very specific subset of individuals.)
That process was harder than any of them had expected. And that was ignoring the surprise issues they kept having with the labyrinthine Hutt palace’s former denizens, like the spider-droids that had, horrifyingly, managed to outlive Jabba on the upper levels.
Well, if even hardened bounty hunters like Fennec and Din ran for it when faced with a pool full of frogs...
“Okay, so we’ll write this one off as a failure,” Boba said, to himself.
He stared at the pool, wiggled his toes, trying to decide if he should at least try it once. But... no. He’d just have to figure out how to humanely dispose of the frogs. He didn’t think he could return them all to their native habitat on Mon Calamari.
Boba’s comlink pinged in the middle of the night.
He rolled over in the bed, pushing up his lavender-scented eye mask, and answered it groggily, audio-only, “Whuzz?”
“Boba.”
It was Din. Boba felt a flash of happiness at hearing Din’s voice while lying comfortably in his bed. But the feeling was instantly replaced by anxiousness, wondering at the reason for the call. “Sumptin’ wrong?”
“You don’t need to worry about rehoming the pedicure frogs.”
“Okay?” Boba really didn’t think this information needed to be shared in the middle of the sleep cycle.
The line clicked off. Din had hung up on him. Weird. Boba rolled back onto his side, pulled up the sheets, and fell back asleep.
The next morning, Boba was tasked with babysitting duty. Although he played it up like it was a burden, he secretly loved it. Grogu was kriffing adorable. Boba still got a kick out of the way the kid would point at him and gurgle, “Babu!” The word was some sort of mishmash between ‘Boba’ and ‘buir’. Boba could have sworn his heart expanded every time he heard it.
But it wasn’t affection swelling up on his chest as he swept Grogu up today for a hug. It was silver-green puke. The color of the vomit looked suspiciously like the feet-biting frogs.
“Gross, kid.”
Din’s late-night call suddenly had an explanation. As did the now-empty frog pool, when Boba had gone to stare and shake his head at it again over his morning caf.
Well, at least someone had enjoyed it.
Boba sighed and cleaned them both up. “Let’s go find your buir.”
Grogu agreed with a wet sloppy coo. Boba used the kid’s own tunic to wipe up the frog drool.
Din’s door was closed, and Boba hesitated before knocking. Maybe Din was asleep, after wrangling Grogu’s frog-eating adventures last night. Boba retreated to one of the lounges instead, where they kept some toys for Grogu to play with during his visits in between training sessions with Skywalker, who’d dropped off Grogu to visit Din. Boba had stood out front in his full armor, gleeful behind his helmet as he watched Skywalker leave with a forlorn glance at the 'No Jedi' rule on the spa entrance sign, mumbling something about the people of the New Republic needing him to perform some heroic deed or another.
Din was there, sitting on the floor with a bunch of unfamiliar supplies around him.
“Whatcha got there?” Boba asked, setting Grogu down on the floor.
“The footcare supplies Fennec ordered came in. I’m sorting them.”
“Only sorting?” Boba asked, only a little longingly. He picked up one of the bottles with a label in a script he didn’t recognize. He did recognize the depiction of bubbles on it, however.
“Ask nicely,” Din admonished.
Boba eagerly began stripping off his boots and socks. He sat down in the chair that was next to Din and nudged Din with his big toe.
“That’s asking nicely?”
“Please, Din,” Boba whined exaggeratedly. “Please do foot stuff to me.”
Din’s response was as expected. “I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“After this, you’re welcome to try,” Boba goaded. “But first... foot stuff.”
“If you list it that way on the spa menu, you’re going to get a lot of clients dismembered by the staff.” Din’s statement was dry, but Boba could hear the huff of a laugh escape the vocoder.
“That’s why we have the disclaimer,” Boba pointed out. He added regretfully, “Though our lawyer says people will wipe their asses with the fine print and then use it to wring our necks. I told her they’d be welcome to try. But... still.”
“Alright, put your feet in here while I finish prepping,” Din directed, shoving a small bucket of bubbling water in front of Boba’s feet.
Boba cautiously dipped his toes into the bath—both his real toes and his prosthetic ones. “It’s hot.”
“Yes,” Din said simply.
Boba meant it was a little too hot for his liking, but he stifled any complaint. He wanted to see what Din had in mind for this without too much more interruption. Footcare had never been high on Boba’s list of priorities, even before the sarlacc melted his leg, but Din’s explanation for how he’d acquired this knowledge was sensible enough.
Boba’s feet got accustomed to the heated water quickly, and then Din was lifting his non-prosthetic foot out of the water and eyeing it critically from behind his helmet. Boba was about to joke about whether his foot met with Din’s approval when Din suddenly began rubbing it with his bare hands.
Boba gripped the chair’s armrests, barely restraining a surprised gasp.
Okay, so, Din was using a washcloth. But still. He was washing Boba’s foot. Even scrubbing between his toes.
“You’re not ticklish, are you?” Din asked, tracing two fingers along Boba’s heel to test him.
Boba just blinked at him and shook his head. He wasn’t wearing his helmet today, or any of his armor, actually. Once he’d managed to finish his cup of caf, he’d gotten saddled with Grogu-duty and just slipped on his robes. Robes were great. In fact, he should probably give every Krayt’s Spa guest a big fluffy robe to wear while they were here.
“Does this one hurt?” Din asked, tapping Boba’s baby toe.
“No, I just broke it once, and it never reset right.”
“Hm,” Din said, probably gloating about his Alor-ordered footcare regimen.
Boba had relaxed by the time Din had switched to his prosthetic foot with a questioning sound, to which Boba gave his assent before Din proceeded to give it a similar brusque treatment. The programmed nerve endings did tickle a little, but Boba didn’t point that out. Din wasn’t being rough, per se, but he had a firm grip and scrubbed with quick, determined motions. Din was all business, which was par for the pod-racing course with him.
Din next turned his attention back to Boba’s flesh foot. He stuck a foam separator between Boba’s toes and hunched over Boba with a tiny rotating drill in hand. Boba braced himself as Din began using the device to file his toenails. He was sure he faintly heard Din mutter something about ‘should’ve started with clippers.’
Din then picked up something that looked awfully close to a knife.
“What’s that for?” Boba asked.
“Cuticles,” Din answered succinctly, before grabbing Boba’s foot and holding it still—the same way he executed his preferred chokehold, not letting Boba squirm away—and taking the sharp-looking tool to it.
Boba winced. This part felt like a dentist appointment. He wanted to go back to the foot scrubbing. And whatever Din had put in the water smelled so... pleasant. Flowery. Citrusy. Sweet. Boba’s toes were going to smell like Naboo roses after this.
After tortuously scraping Boba’s cuticles, Din placed Boba’s foot on a towel and dried it. He then retrieved another bottle and tipped it into his hands. He rubbed his palms together and then Boba almost melted into a puddle as Din began to massage lotion into Boba’s skin. He left no part of Boba’s foot untouched. Heel. Metatarsals. Knuckles. In between each toe.
“That’s nice,” Boba sighed contentedly, then froze, worried he’d said something wrong.
But Din just chuckled. “That’s the idea.”
“Yeah, I’d definitely pay for this,” Boba enthused, relaxing further into the chair and closing his eyes.
“You are paying for this,” Din informed him. Boba knew that if he could see Din’s face, it’d be smirking.
“Fine, fine, have Fennec allocate the funds,” Boba said with a wave of his hand. “Mm, I need a glass of sparkling Corellian wine during this. That’d be a good perk, don’t you think?”
“I’ll order straws,” Din said offhandedly. He sounded interested.
Boba wanted to crow.
After Din lotioned up his feet—both of them, even though Boba could have pointed out that it wasn’t really necessary for his prosthetic foot—Din took a fluffy-looking ball of cotton and dipped it in some kind of liquid before applying it to each of Boba’s toes. The soft, barely-there touch was soothing in its own way.
Din sat back on his heels and inspected his work.
Boba wiggled his toes, trying to get the toe separator off. “All done?” he asked.
A hand darted out and gripped Boba’s foot, keeping it in position. “Not quite.”
Din had some other bottle in his hand, and he was shaking it. Boba watched him suspiciously. “You’re not going to paint them, are you?”
“I sure am,” Din declared.
Boba tensed, ready to yank his feet away. “Din!” he protested.
“It’s a protective coating,” Din insisted. “Like a shield.”
“Well, if it’s like a shield…” Boba relented.
Din applied some innocuous-looking clear coat, and Boba closed his eyes.
That was a mistake. By the time he opened them again, the sheer polish had been overlaid with a highly pigmented green polish the same shade as Boba’s armor.
There was nothing left to do but pout as Din finished painting his toenails with a glossy top coat.
“Why are you wearing shoes in the sauna?” Fennec asked him later that night.
“They’re not shoes,” Boba explained lamely. “They’re spa slippers.”
“Spa slippers?” Fennec repeated. “No, I’m wearing spa slippers. See? They’re toeless.”
Indeed, they had ordered thong sandals in quite the range of sizes and shapes to fit most known beings.
“You,” Fennec pointed at him, “are wearing shoes . In the sauna. Might be a healthcode violation.”
“Can you send me that healthcode list again?” Boba asked. “Calrissian said it wouldn’t be an issue, but I need to review it.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Fennec said. “Now, shoes off.”
Boba sighed and kicked off the shoes. Slippers. Whatever. He waited for Fennec’s laughter to fill the humid air of the sauna.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Her chuckles were subdued, and she simply observed, “They really bring out the color in your armor.”
Boba threw his arm over his face and groaned.
There was only one solution.
Vengeance.