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Boba Fett sat heavily in the hold of his ship, pulling his helmet off, glad for some respite. It had been a somewhat tense battle clearing bandits out of a small town they had taken over. While not particularly skilled fighters, they had made up for it in numbers.
But that was over now, and thankfully everyone had come out unscathed. At least he thought they did, you could never tell with Djarin. Not one for sharing his injuries with the class, that one.
He squinted over at the other man, as the gyroscope that kept the cargo hold stable, turned around them. It was Fennec’s turn to fly, though they both knew it was an excuse to keep an eye on their Mandalorian friend, in case he decided to bleed out without telling them. They’ve learnt from their mistakes there. A story for another time, not one he wished to have a repeat of.
Boba winced as he watched sand cascade from Djarin’s armour as he sat down as well. They had sent the younger bounty hunter ahead to scope out the isolated town a few days ago when they didn’t hear from the townsfolk for a while. He asked for regular signals to avoid this sort of thing. The last thing he wanted was Tatooine to be taken over by spice runners again.
“You’ll have to clean that up.” He huffed good-naturedly, pointing at the fine dust now coating his floor. The last thing he wanted was for it to get caught in the mechanism. All he got in response was a tilt of the helmet and a nod after a moment. Din sat back and crossed his arms, apparently not in the mood to talk. Or wanting to stay still, as not to empty half the desert into the Slave I. Boba could appreciate that, at least.
He was quiet for a while, listening to the ship rumble around them before getting up with a huff and rummaging around in a nearby crate and fishing out a couple of ration bars. “I know they’re not the best,” Boba started, offering one to Djarin. “But they should hold us over until we get back to the palace for some real food.”
He watched the impassive visor consider it for a moment before a slight shake of the head. “I’m fine.” The younger man denied.
Boba frowned. He’d been with the Mandalorian all day and hadn’t seen him eat anything, and the suns had been setting when they boarded the Slave I. He didn’t lower his hand, instead motioning again with it for him to take the bar.
Forgive him for mother henning, but he had become quite fond of their little group. It worked. And someone had to look after the self-sacrificing idiot. He’d known that since he’d watched him willingly get eaten by a kriffing Krate Dragon. Even Fennec had agreed.
Din took the bar, probably just to make him stop waving it in his face, and held it in his lap, fiddling with the edge of the wrapper. “I’m fine. I ate at the palace before I left.” He could hear the smile in Din’s voice, as if Boba was the foolish one.
Now, that did draw him up short. “Two days ago?”
“Yes.”
Now that was worrying. Boba wasn’t the crazy one for thinking that was worrying, right? He had half a mind to call Fennec down to ask, but he was determined to solve this one on his own. “Strangely enough that doesn’t put my mind at ease.”
Another tilt of the helmet, confusion, this time.
Boba just wasn’t understanding the issue, Din had been getting more comfortable around them, taking his helmet off when it was just the three of them. He hadn’t thought much of it at the town, since they had been preoccupied, and there were no small amount of strangers there. But now they were back on the ship?
“Right… Well, I’ll be right back.” Boba gave a curt nod and took the second ration bar up to Fennec, just in case she wanted it, his mind buzzing the whole time. Fennec seemed to notice he was deep in thought and gave a questioning eyebrow raise, to which Fett shook his head. Later.
He rejoined Din in the cargo hold a moment later and couldn’t help but voice his burning question. “You know base-line humans are meant to eat three times a day, yeah?”
The bounty hunter-turned-father stared, before busting out an even bigger head tilt… Apparently not…
Sure, Boba and Fennec didn’t see the elusive man every mealtime, but they figured he was still settling in and didn’t feel up for socialising. So they hadn’t pushed him.
Maybe they should have pushed him.
Djarin, clever idiot that he was, seemed to sense the tension seeing out the gaps of Boba’s armour. “What?”
“Are you sure you’re baseline human?” Boba asked instead of going off on him.
“... Yes.”
“You don’t seem certain.”
“I don’t remember much of my family and never had a reason to check.” Din shrugged, casually, like that wasn’t the longest string of words Boba had ever heard him say. He should have been recording, damn it, Fennec will never believe him!
When was the last time this man went to a proper healer? “Well, I know what we’re doing once we get back home.” Boba deadpanned, before tossing a second ration bar at the shiny silver helmet. “Eat something.” He pointed, a warning tone in his voice, slipping his helmet on to make some calls.
He turned and headed back up to the cockpit to scheme with his right hand, smiling in satisfaction as he heard the begrudging hiss of a helmet unsealing.
—
Boba kept an eye on the hunter as they left the ship, knowing he had a habit of sneaking off. Fennec took Mando’s other side, boxing him in as best they could without cuffing him and dragging him through the palace.
They got back late, the sandstone halls were dim and quiet. Ok, maybe he should rethink his plans, they were all tired, after all… Boba glanced around Djarin’s back at Fennec, who caught his eye and gave him a small nod. The plan was still on then. Fine with him.
Din stopped suddenly, hands on his hips. Damn it, The Dad Pose. “What are you two planning?”
Kriff. He’d noticed. Of course, he noticed. “Nothing! Nothing! Keep walking.” Boba hovered a hand behind Din’s back to prompt him to do so. To Boba’s relief, he only regarded them suspiciously before following once more.
He suspected he was only playing along for now because he felt himself to be in some sort of debt. Either for helping save his son, the accommodation, the supplies, transport or whatever else Din had convinced himself he needed to pay Boba back for. All things Boba was more than happy to supply him with, with no intention of collecting.
Though, for now, he didn’t mind abusing the imagined credit to get the man to take care of himself, for once. He was well aware he was a little too attached, but there was something about hearing a man swear to stick by him until they both fell, that made him protective. He didn’t have time to dwell much on it at the time, what with an imminent war. But now, it sounded far too much like the words of a man with nothing left, gunning for a warrior's death. He struggled to sleep that night, the words echoing through his mind.
Of course, the Mandalorian had perked up a considerable amount once his son had shown up. The events leading up to, and after, the green creatures' appearance, still baffling to think about. Speaking of, he hoped Krrsantan fared well with babysitting. The kid should be asleep by now.
Boba was drawn out of his musings as he caught the Mandalorian’s helmet turn out of the corner of his eye, looking back longingly as they passed the door to Djarin’s quarters. Well, he couldn’t hear any crying, so that was a good sign, at least. Still, he and Fennec guided him further down the hall until they reached the private dining room.
It wasn’t an overly large room, a large imported dark wood table sat in the centre, filling up most of the space. It was circled by similarly styled chairs. A small door on the other side, meant for staff, that lead to the kitchens. Boba had called ahead to ask the cook to lock it. All in all, a homely room, if he did say so himself.
A steaming pot sat in the centre, perhaps blocking off the exits wasn’t the only thing he requested.
“In you go.” Fennec stated cheerily, giving Din a small shove towards the door. The assassin and the bounty hunter duo use the moment to step forward and block the taller human in the room, in case he gets any bright ideas about escaping.
Din stumbled slightly, clearly not expecting it, having to catch himself on the backrest of one of the tall dining chairs, just stopping himself short from sprawling on the floor. That was worrying in of itself. Maybe he was actually hurt, they were doing a good thing for their friend in that case. A grunt of annoyance, or pain, (a mix of both?) emerged from the helmet and he turned around slowly to stare at them incredulously. Fair.
Boba watched as a hand went to grip one of the many weapons at his waist, before Din clearly thought better of it and instead settled on his hip. And… The Dad Pose was back in full force, somehow more ‘not mad, just disappointed’ this time.
Not even the great Fennec Shand seemed to be totally immune, she shifted slightly, before doubling down and crossing her arms over her chest, planting her feet.
Fett made a sweeping motion towards the table “Take a seat, Mandalorian.” Din made a face. Even though he couldn't see it, years of reading armoured body language allowed him to paint a clear picture of the grimace, that he must be sporting, from the line of Din’s shoulders.
Djarin looked fit to argue, fingers twitching, before probably realising he had almost used up that day’s allotted words, and had to use his remaining speech sparingly. A beat. Then three. Then he sat robotically in the nearest chair, the one used to catch himself.
“Wise man.” Fett praised. Beside him, Fennec scoffed.
“We-” Boba took a seat opposite Djarin, not wanting to crowd the skittish man. Fennec perched on Boba’s right. “Are going to enjoy a meal after a well-fought battle.”
He reached forward and poured them each a bowl of the meaty smelling stew in the centre of the table. “Haili cetare.” At a look from Fennec he clarified. “Fill your boots.”
It earned him a huff, of what was likely laughter, as Din took the bowl. “Vor’e.” He hummed his thanks.
Boba suspected it would have been the full phrase, but again, the self-inflicted word limit. Though he was glad for it, he really wasn’t sure what he would do if he’d busted out: “Vor entye.” Quite literally “I accept a debt.”
Slipping off his helmet first, Boba wasted no time in digging in, placing it on the table beside him. Neither he nor Fennec looked up at the sound of a second helmet unsealing and being carefully set down.
The three around the table fell into comfortable, companionable silence, the day (or days in Din’s case) catching up with them. Really, at this point, nothing needed to be said between them. But, unfortunately for Din, Boba enjoyed a good-natured pestering too much to keep quiet for long.
“So, Mandalorian.” He began, sneaking a look up, at the man in question’s face. Boba noted the range of emotions that flashed by, from annoyance to the grimace he’d sensed earlier. Still not used to having to school them, it seemed.
Djarin had told them, one evening, of his Armourers' words. A Mandalorian no longer. What bantha-shit if ever he heard it.
So now he liked to use the name as often as he could get away with, just to remind the man he was still very much a Mandalorian. Probably one of the most Mandalorian people left out there in the Galaxy. He had yet to disagree, so Boba held out hope that he didn’t truly believe the cultist witch either.
Boba met his brown eyes. “Any injuries we should know about?”
“Nothing sleep won’t fix.” The voice was softer without the helmet in the way.
“Hmm…” Boba hummed non-commitaly, taking another mouthful of stew to buy himself time to study the face that was steadily becoming more familiar, before him. There was dried blood covering what was probably a split lip. And a worrying amount below his nose. His hair was too long and dark to tell if there was any other damage to his head. But it did clump together in some places. Either from blood or being in a helmet in the middle of the desert. To top it off his pupils looked a bit uneven… So, not great then. “A sleep in the bacta tank, maybe.”
Knowing Din he’d likely been caught in an explosion at some point and hit his head, the man was shockingly prone to them. In the short time Boba had known him, he’d witnessed the Mandalorian get blown up a worrying amount of times. And even more before then, if his tales of previous adventures were anything to go by.
Clearly, he’d never heard that lightning didn’t strike twice, or he had and chose to ignore it. That or some fire god wanted him dead and it never stuck.
Which brought up the question again of how the hell he was so resilient.
“That… won’t be necessary.” Din denied quickly, sounding slightly panicked at the thought.
“Why not? We have one. May as well use it.” He met Fennec's gaze out of the corner of his eye. She drained the dregs of her stew and placed the bowl back on the table, before excusing herself for the night.
She walked around the table, having to pass by Din to get to the door. He didn’t seem to pay her much mind. Good.
Djarin opened his mouth to reply, likely to argue about not needing help, some more. Boba watched with bated breath as Fennec pulled a syringe from her pocket and aimed it at the, now unprotected, neck in front of her, in one swift, deadly motion. The Mandalorian acted just a second too late, turning to see what the movement was.
He brought a hand up to grab at her wrist and push her away, but it was in vain. She emptied the syringe and retreated. Or tried to. Djarin had a death grip on Fennec’s arm, using it to pull himself up to standing. The other hand clasped the side of his neck protectively.
“What the fuck?!” He half yelped, half-shouted, eyes wide from adrenaline and the shock of it all. It broke Boba’s heart, it really did. It felt like a break of trust, sure, but he’d rather the trust shattered than to see the man dead.
Boba got to his feet, suspecting they wouldn’t get through this without a fight. Din swayed slightly, Fennec had to grab his elbow to stop him from toppling over and doing more damage to himself. Somehow, Boba doubted it was the fault of the sedative, that wouldn’t have kicked in so soon, no, more likely from standing too fast with whatever head injury the Beroya was sporting.
“It’s for your own good, we wouldn’t have to do this if you weren’t so insistent on avoiding any and all help we offer you.” Boba tried to placate, voice gentle and hands up. “You’ll wake up feeling as good as new, I promise.”
“... A sedative…” Djarin struggled against Fennec's grip, trying to get away, but Boba could see his eyelids growing heavy and his head dropped to his chest. Boba stepped forward to help take the now-deadweight.
“Well. That went well.” Fennec snarked, quirking an eyebrow. “A bit drastic?” She started to reposition Din so he would be easier to carry between the two of them.
“He’ll get over it.” Boba shrugged, hoping that was true. “Besides you also-” He was cut off when a jerky movement ripped Djarin’s arms out of their more lax grips. Din twisted, using the moment of utter surprise to hook an arm around Boba’s neck, applying enough pressure to cut off his airway.
First of all, how the fuck was he still conscious? Had he pretended to go limp to get them to let their guards down? He should really be sound asleep about fifteen seconds after administration and then be down for the count for ten hours. That’s what the dosage said at least. He’d definitely need to double-check that. The last thing they needed was for him to wake up and kick a hole through the bacta tank. Then Din really would be in his debt.
Secondly, he was a big fan of breathing. This was the last thing he expected to happen, a man he considered a friend, maybe even family, currently trying to choke the life out of him. And for what? Attempting to knock him unconscious without warning or explanation? Actually, no, on second thoughts, that was fair. Boba would probably do the same thing in Din’s position.
Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
“- Din-!” He coughed out as Fennec recovered and tried to pry them apart without harming Din. This was getting ridiculous.
Just as black spots started to appear in his vision, the grip loosened and Boba gasped for breath. His head swam, but he had the clarity to turn and catch Din as he fell into unconsciousness. For real this time, it seemed.
“You alright?” Fennec sounded impressed as she regarded the unconscious Mandalorian.
“I deserved that.” He wheezed pausing to rub at his bruised throat. Hooking his arms under Djarin’s armpits, he watched as Fennec bent to grab his legs. “To the medbay.” He said wearily. It had been a long day.
—
For a tall, fully grown man covered in a full set of beskar armour, Din was surprisingly easy to haul across the Palace. Something to discuss with him once he woke up and wasn’t trying to kill them.
Before dunking him in the tank, they gave him another dose of the sedative to keep him down, after a quick scan had advised it.
And now here Boba was the next morning, trudging his way back to the bacta tank after setting an alarm for just before Din was set to wake. He didn’t want him waking alone and panicking. This tank was expensive.
Stifling a yawn he slid into the seat beside the tank and waited. Boba studied the figure laying still in the tank for a moment, glad to see that the blood on Din’s face had disappeared. In sleep, he looked almost peaceful, younger, and Boba savoured that because he was sure that wasn't going to last much longer.
Glancing at the screen on the side of the tank he studied the readings. All stable, all good. It looked like he was fully healed. While his actions had been a bit drastic, he didn’t regret them. The brief synopsis of injuries they got from the quick scan last night hadn’t been good. And while the wounds weren’t fatal at the time, he was sure they would have developed into something more life-threatening if left untreated. Not to mention that he wasn’t going to let him just ‘sleep off’ a concussion without medical attention.
Movement within the tank caught his eye as the younger man stirred. Eye’s slowly blinking open and fingers flexing as he came back to the land of the living. Without much warning, Boba watched as Din immediately ripped the breathing tube away from his face and started to thrash about.
Boba slammed his fist against the button on the side of the tank to quickly drain the fluid before Djarin sucked in too many lungfuls of the stuff. Idiot. He pried off the lid and leant back as Din hauled himself up to sitting and swiped a hand over his face, looking around wildly.
His gaze fell on Boba and his shoulders sagged, seemingly relieved to recognise his surroundings. A good sign.
“Good morning!” He greeted brightly, tossing Din a towel.
“What-” He stopped, coughed, sucked in a breath of air and tried again. “Why?” He looked down at himself. “Where’s my armour?”
“Safe, in your quarters. Had to take it off for the tank to work fully.” A pause. "Along with the two ration bars squirrelled away in your belt."
Din, at least, had the decency to look guilty. Boba stood back as he stood and swung a leg over the edge of the tank, and down onto the floor, nearly slipping as his sopping wet flight suit left a puddle on the ground under his feet.
“Next time, just accept our help, Mandalorian.” Boba sighed, thinking about the cost of the bacta that was slowly seeping between the tiles of the floor.
Din was silent for a moment, looking back at the tank, then at Boba, looking sheepish. “Sorry for ah… for trying to uh… strangle you. I panicked.”
“Seemed pretty thought out and premeditated to me.” Boba crossed his arms.
He winced. “Yeah… I’ll pay you back for the bacta.” He promised, though he seemed to pale slightly at the thought of that many credits.
Perhaps that was why he was so hesitant to accept anything from them? Worried the nonexistent debt will grow to be unmanageable? He’d need to clear that up at some point...
“No, you won’t. Go on now, I’m sure your son has probably noticed your absence by now.”
Din’s brown eyes widened at the mention of Grogu, and his head whipped around to look at the door.
“See you at breakfast.” Boba called after the Mandalorian’s retreating form.