Work Text:
“I don’t think the handcuffs are necessary.”
They were not necessary, seeing as both Din and Boba knew that Din wasn’t going anywhere. There was no need for Boba to handcuff Din to the Slave I’s co-pilot chair.
“I find that hard to believe after you swore up and down that you wouldn’t make a break for it for the next 2 months.”
Din had in fact sworn up and down, multiple times to multiple people, that he would not ditch his kingly duties and hightail it for the stars for the next 2 months. He had, admittedly, not done so. He also didn’t bother to ask how Boba knew that. Din really needed to sniff out the leak, eventually.
So Din was still supposed to be sitting on his throne for another fortnight. But when he made that promise (promises) the push to reclaim Mandalore hadn’t been so strong nor threatening to tear apart all the painstaking progress he had made building New Mandalore from the ground up. Din had not initially thought many Mandalorians would follow him (he still couldn’t believe some did) but when that proved false he had scrambled for a place to put them all. After many heated arguments with Kryze, he convinced her to help him find a new planet to call home, at least for now. Somewhere uninhabited but not completely isolated, somewhere with water and resources, somewhere with forests and scrubland and animals to hunt, somewhere wild to tame. It had taken time, it had taken hours weighing the pros and cons of their limited options. But they found a planet that served their needs well. And as much as Din did not wish it was him doing the building, he was proud of what they had managed to scrape together. It was a single settlement, hodgepodge and somewhat thrown together but bristling with defences. But once whispers started to spread through the right channels Mando’ade trickled in from across the galaxy. Din understood that at least. His people were tired of wandering, they wanted to go home. But New Mandalore was not Manda’yaim and some believed it would never be. Traditional-minded Mando’ade took ire with that.
Din sighed, and let himself sink into the comfortable leather of the co-pilot’s chair. Boba was staring ahead at hyperspace, checking over navigation charts with the careful eye of a seasoned flyer.
“It’s just not polite,” Din said. “I’m your guest.”
Boba snorted but didn’t argue the point, it had been what he’d told Din the first time he’d chased Din down and dragged him back to his responsibilities. He’d said it after nudging Din into a cell instead of freezing him in carbonite.
(Once Boba caught Din when he ran because the title was suffocating and the self-appointed royal guards were suffocating and Kryze was suffocating and all the meetings and discussions and carefully placed words were suffocating and he just wanted to breathe. Din had picked up a bounty on some skughole of a planet in an attempt to find that sharp focus he found on a hunt. There was no room for a title he didn’t deserve nor fit into and all of its trappings while hunting. It hadn’t worked as well as he’d wanted and so Boba found him leaning against an alley wall in some filthy city quietly nursing his bruises. Boba hadn’t scolded him for his foolishness nor admonished him for abandoning his duties yet again. He’d taken Din by the elbow, to guide rather than tug along, and Din had not fought him like he normally did back then.
Boba had taken him back to his ship, showed him to a door Din had not seen before, handed him a well-stocked medkit and told him, “Here’s the birth. Get some rest, yeah?”
Din found that, sitting on Boba’s bed with his helmet in his hands, he could breathe again.
He didn’t sleep in the cell again.)
“You get your hand back when you start being a good guest.”
Din had perhaps been gruffer and possibly more spiteful than normal, but Boba had brought it on himself. Once Boba had caught up he’d tackled Din and pinned him down for little reason other than his own amusement. Din always went willingly however grudgingly these days.
Boba toggled with the navigation map projector, stacking the different maps on top of each other and tracing the patterns. His head had tilted towards Din just enough that he could see how the streaking hyperspace lights reflected onto Boba’s visor. “‘Sides I don’t trust you not to start pacing a hole in the hull.”
Din grumbled but didn’t argue. Boba did have a point.
They drifted off into silence as Boba continued to make sure they didn’t hit anything and get torn to pieces. Din would have offered to help but he’d learned early on that the only person who touched Slave I was Boba and Boba alone. And his hand was cuffed to the armrest.
Din let himself let go of the stress of the last month and a half piece by piece. The city planning he had to oversee, Whisked away by the lights of hyperspace. The dispute about taxes of all things, the now-familiar hum of the Slave’s hyperdrive drowned it out. Kryze’s continual attempts to gain more power from the sidelines, the flickering of the cockpit controls and the occasional flick of a switch were far more interesting. The push to reclaim a dead planet Din had never been to and never cared about, Boba‘s steady breathing beside him seemed much more important.
Din tipped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. If he was honest with himself, this was the calmest part of his little attempts at an unscheduled break. And a pretty hefty part of the appeal. Boba might judge him for his actions but Din found he didn’t care. Here, in the cockpit hurtling through space, he was not a drifting stranger nor a king. He could simply be. And that was a luxury he only found in very few people these days.
“How’s Fennec?” Fennec only tagged along on Boba’s Din-hunts occasionally, but Din had grown fond of her wit after they got past their first run in.
Boba’s helmet twitched in his direction slightly, “Off meeting a contact this week, drinking Spotcka by the gallon, flirting with some mechanic.” That was the amount of information Din was expecting to get out of him. Boba was cagey about whatever he and Fennec were up to.
“So,” Boba said, dragging the ‘o’ out slightly, seeming to deem the end of Din’s quiet time. “Why were you three ways up a mountain this time?”
Din groaned loud enough for his vocoder to pick it up, “Got a faction of Mando‘ade that think we have enough numbers to try to retake Mandalore.”
Never mind the fact that the planet was dead and they certainly didn’t have the tech nor the money for the tech to even begin trying to heal it. Never mind that while their numbers had grown they were still a fraction of what they could afford to send out on a mission like this. Never mind that all those that hunt them had only retreated to the shadows. Din hadn’t announced the return of the Mandalorians to any planetary governments or the New Republic yet. He wanted them to be in good enough shape to fend off any attacks that attention could bring them before possibly asking for aid. But if some Mandalorians did break off, attempt to reclaim Mandalore, and run into trouble before Din informed the galaxy they would die in the dark with no powerful allies. The whole situation threatened to force Din’s hand in more ways than one.
Boba whistled in sympathy. “You couldn’t pay me to wrangle that.”
“You just get paid to make me wrangle it.”
Boba did not say ‘isn’t that your job?’ or any of the other very valid points Din had opened himself up to receive in response. He didn’t keep to the script they had established eventually.
Instead, he said, “I don’t get paid.”
Well, that was news to Din. He’d asked several times who had hired Boba to track him down every time Din left. Kryze and her lackeys all seemed to hate him but Din had a couple of court members who drifted closer to Boba’s size of the civil wars rather than Kryze’s. Boba did not seem interested in returning to career bounty hunting as well which made the situation even odder. When he’d asked he’d always gotten a vague somewhat humorous non-answer as was Boba’s way.
“You don’t?”
“Mmmhmm” Boba hummed in response.
“Then why do you do this?” Din asked instead of I can pay you which would have revealed too much about why Din kept hitting the black. Not that why do you do this? was not an equally weighted statement. Din had also asked it several times and gotten vague somewhat humorous non-answers in return. But instead of brushing it off as usual Boba turned his head fully towards Din for the first time since they made the jump. Din couldn’t see the man’s eyes through their visors but he’d seen Boba’s face enough times that he could almost fill in the blanks. He had a piercing gaze when he wanted. Din got the feeling that Boba was considering him, weighing his options and Din crushed the urge to straighten up like a verd’ika presented for inspection.
“You stopped asking that question after a while,” Boba observed. “Why?” They were very off script now.
“You wouldn’t answer it.” It was not a lie. But perhaps Boba found the full answer in the slope of Din’s shoulders and countless previous conversations. I didn’t want to call attention to why we do this.
“Are you going to answer it this time?”
Boba tilted his head in slow consideration, still staring.
“How about a trade? Honest answer for honest answer.” He punctuated the sentence by taking a hand off of the controls and gesturing to both of them. Din tracked the movement with his eyes, knowing his helmet would not betray his gaze.
“That depends on what you want an honest answer about.”
Boba nodded like he was unsurprised.
“Why do you keep running off like this, because I’m pretty sure your reasons have changed, and that you have more than one. Why do you do it?”
Din sat quietly. Why indeed. There were, as Boba thought, multiple reasons and they had changed over time.
“The reasons are easy to guess.”
“Some of them,” Boba acknowledged, “But not all of them, and I’d rather not guess.”
Din weighed the deal in his mind. On one hand, Din did desperately want to know why Boba kept doing this if it wasn’t for money but on the other. To unveil the motives brought the why into question. Din did not want this inexplicable gift dropped into his lap to be taken from him.
They sat in relative silence for half an hour. Boba didn’t try to force Din’s hand, just made a couple of comments designed for Din to respond to without much effort. That was something Din had found himself struck by when he first met Boba all those months ago. The man was surprisingly patient. All the good bounty hunters knew how to be patient. Hunts could take weeks or even months and stakeouts were common. So really Din should not be surprised that Boba was so patient. But aside from the ability to avoid getting shot by your employer, social skills were not common among the ranks of hunters. It was odd to have patience turned on him.
The thing was, that Din did not want whatever strange peace he’d found here to be ruined because he started prodding. Don’t look a gift Steelee in the mouth and all that. Din had never been the most curious of people. Or perhaps he had a normal amount of curiosity that went ignored. In his experience curiosity killed and was best left unfulfilled. Yet he couldn’t deny how much he wanted to know why Boba did this. But the trade would mean showing all of his cards, some of which he had not examined too closely. But Boba might if Din put them on the table. This was also concerning for reasons Din did not want to examine.
Boba was drumming the fingers of his right hand to an irregular beat on the controls in front of him.
Din did not get a lot of chances to make stupid impulsive decisions now that he was king.
“Alright.”
“I used to do this because I owed you,” Boba said immediately.
“You don-” Boba quelled Din’s response with a sharp look and a single raised finger.
“Yes, I did. You put your life on the line for my father’s armour when you didn’t even know I was still alive. You didn’t even know who I was. Flying you around a couple of times doesn’t cover that in my book.”
Boba had helped him save his child the day Din had failed to protect him. That was far more than a couple rides. Din bit back his retort. He had a feeling that if Din kept interrupting Boba would cuff his other hand to the chair.
“So when I found out you’d disappeared I went looking for you. Wanted to make sure you weren’t getting held ransom.”
Din felt a rush of embarrassment at that. He had not been doing anything as respectable as getting held ransom.
“When I found you sitting in the corner of some slimy cantina I thought something else might be going on. So once I got the truth out of you I took you back.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought then that you could be a great Mand’alor, and that you were doing a disservice to yourself by running away from it.”
Din sat, reeling for a moment as Boba gave him a moment to digest what he’d just heard. This was not what Din was expecting at all.
“And I was right,” Boba said in a gentler tone. “You’re a good king, Din.”
Din was a poor beroya from a struggling covert hellbent on survival from a faction of Mandalorians that did not accept any other Mandalorian sects. He knew almost none of his own history, spoke only a smattering of Mando’a and had been ready to brand and kill Kryze as an outsider. How could Din ever be a king of his people when he didn’t even know his people had kings? How could he be a good one? And yet a vote of confidence from Boba that heartfelt made him think for just a moment that he was doing something right. Din did not know how to take that.
“I was, at the start. Running, I mean.”
Despite the helmet, Boba was giving off the impression of quiet attentiveness. Of course the man was a good listener too.
“I thought that someone would challenge me for the Darksaber within a day. They didn’t. So I started trying to give them reasons to. They still didn’t.”
Din sighed and rubbed underneath the edge of a pauldron.
“Then I was running because I wanted to get away from the stress. Still doing that actually,” Din let some wry bitterness drip into his voice. He knew it wasn’t exactly flattering. Boba nodded again.
“That’s why I kept doing it after a while,” Boba said. “Because you needed a break, and if you weren’t visiting your kid I knew you’d just sit somewhere while your brain tried to eat itself.”
Even though Din had sworn it didn’t matter, relief unfurled below his sternum to hear that Boba didn’t judge him for running. Perhaps it also loosened his tongue.
“Then,” Din started nervously, “It was kind of a challenge I guess.”
“A geroya?” Boba supplied. A game. Din recognised Bobas attempt to give him words, give him a way forward and grabbed it.
“A geroya,” Din agreed.
“And it’s been a while since you were evenly matched?” Din nodded stiffly. He could feel Boba’s gaze burning across his skin.
“A while since you were allowed to play without stakes?” It was framed as a question but was not one. Din was encased in beskar and yet Boba had the unnerving ability to make Din feel like he was laid bare before him. He shifted uncomfortably and the handcuffs jangled. Din had promised transparency but he did not want this.
But Boba was right. All his life Din had been hunter and hunted. He had chased and been chased in turn. He’d been hunted by the empire, by slavers looking for fight ring fodder, by the guild, by those who looked at his armour and saw credits, by those who looked at his armour and saw a dangerous savage to be put down. Din had never been hunted like this. Hunted by someone who matched his skill. Hunted by someone with teeth as sharp as his. Hunted by someone who wouldn’t bite down. Hunted by someone who’d hold him gently if he was caught. He found focus in the flight of prey instead of the chase of a predator for once. Din found he relished the thrill of knowing someone he could trust not to hurt him when he was caught was slowly circling in. Because Boba always caught him eventually. He was an excellent hunter. And it felt like Boba had reached into his mind and seen it all.
Din squared his shoulders. Boba’s intensity seemed to recede and for the first time, he looked back at the controls.
“It’s the same for me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?” Din asked.
“Yeah.”
Din felt a flicker of warmth grow out of his stomach. The weight of his armour seemed to half.
“I’ve got a cu’bikad kit twice as old as I am kicking around somewhere if you want a round? We’d have to go find it though, been a while.” Din let Boba pull them away from the edge they stood on and back to more familiar territory.
“Not sure a game of cu’bikad is worth fixing the knives if you haven’t been caring for them.”
“Nah,” Boba disagreed breezily, “The knives are beskar. They’ll be fine. Shame I don’t have any good alcohol left, Fennec dried me up. Cu’bikad’s always better tipsy.”
Din felt a pang for a time when beskar could be used in making playing knives instead of collected scrap by scrap for pieces of armour. Maybe he could find it to be more sympathetic to those that wanted Manda'yaim back.
“Well, you could stop by New Mandalore sometime. Tihaar production is ramping up.” Except they couldn’t export it off-planet until Din announced their return which put even more pressure on the decision.
When Boba froze for a moment Din realised what he’d said. Din had heard enough gossip from all political sides by now to understand the legacy of the Fetts was complicated and controversial among the Mando’ade. Din hadn’t spent much time thinking about why Boba had never visited New Mandalore. Either he wasn’t interested in rejoining Mandalorian society after so long away from it or he didn’t think Din was a good Mand’alor. But now Din entertained the idea of a third possibility.
“You’re welcome anytime.” Din threw in, attempting to seem casual yet genuine without trying to sound pointed. merely a statement, not a suggestion. It was something Axe Woves was a master at (Din did not expect that man to be particularly politically inclined nor a good public speaker until Woves stepped into Din’s court to talk about defensible housing and decided to stay) but Din had never quite gotten the hang of. Hunters were not known for their social skills.
“You sure about that Din? I wouldn’t want to make a scene.” Boba’s tone was light and relaxed.
“Someone wakes a scene twice a week,” Din shrugged. It was not a lie.
Boba looked at him for a long moment.
“I’ll see if I have a free weekend in my schedule,” Boba drawled slightly. “Don’t hold your breath though, I’m a busy man.” Din grinned behind his helmet.
Boba navigated through his projected maps and pulled out one for a nearby sector. He pointed at a spaceport orbiting a moon.
“I need to refuel first before I drop you off. Should take a couple hours, half a day at most.”
Din knew this sector of space, so he knew that there were several places to refuel less out of the way. He felt his grin change into something softer.
“I want to catch some sleep, take the handcuffs off.” Din hid his quiet happiness by flattening his voice to its flattest.
“Sure you want that? I can think of some other ways to spend our time. I think I have some prettier things lying around if you don’t like those cuffs.” Boba’s voice was a parody of flirtation. His grin (that Din just knew was shit eating) shaped his words around the edges.
Din pulled a small pick out of his left vambrace and jimmied the locks on the handcuffs open. He pointedly raised the cuffs, letting them jangle together before throwing them at Boba’s feet.
Boba threw his head back and laughed.