Chapter Text
“And by unanimous decision, the winner iiiiis…. Din, ‘the Mando’ Djaaaaarrriiiiiiiin!”
Din blinked, snapping out of his adrenaline-fueled tunnel vision as he felt his arm hoisted into the air by the referee, the din of the crowd’s cheering coming into deafening focus as though Grogu had decided to experiment with the volume dial on the radio again.
Another win. Another pay-day for his team, and his son. He sagged with relief.
His team poured out of their side of the octagon, his best friend out in front, swamping him.
“Nice job, mir’sheb,” shouted Boba down his ear, pounding on his back.
“Five rounds? What took so long?” winked Rex, tossing a towel around Din’s shoulders and guiding him past the media that howled questions at him, waving various recording devices. On the other side, the oldest Mereel brother shielded him from the crowd, somehow managing to level a scrutinizing gaze at Din.
“We’ll need to work on that left hook attack,” Alpha stated bluntly, deftly knocking back eager hands grasping towards the sweaty fighter. What they wanted to touch, a thoroughly drenched Din didn’t know, and he didn’t much want to find out. “My baby sister can land a tighter hit.”
Mandalorians.
Din squinted above a rapidly swelling cheek. “You don’t have a baby sister.”
Alpha opened his mouth to retort, cut off by Boba muscling in and chivvying away his older brother. “Ah back off, he did fine. Went up in the rankings! Title fight at the Darksaber next month is as good as ours!”
“You did us proud.” The warm, quiet voice brought Din up short, and he turned to see Jaster Mereel, head of the Mereel Martial Arts Gym, standing at the fighter’s entrance. The older silver-haired man wore a fond smile, undiminished by the broken nose and old scars; a fighter’s face, well-worn and familiar. He was flanked by Wolffe and Cody, his loyal grandsons and right-hand men in the family business, who also nodded in approval. Din stood a little straighter, letting the warm flood of pride and gratitude cut through the aching haze of pain. Still a rare feeling, he relished the earned praise.
“Vor’e, sir."
“N’entye, son. Make sure you get that cheek looked at, and we’ll see you and your little one for Sunday dinner at the house,” Jaster clapped him on the shoulder, then moved past, easily intercepting the encroaching media to allow Din his escape.
Those leeches didn’t stand a chance. If Jaster didn’t hold them at bay, they stood no chance against Cody or Wolffe. Those two were scary.
“Get back here once you’ve showered, Kix will look at that cheek and check for concussion, you look a little out of it,” Rex squinted into Din’s face as they passed down the tunnel into the changing rooms.
“‘m fine, just tired. Five rounds, you know,” Din tossed back drily, as Boba tugged his gloves off and shoved him in the direction of the showers.
He might have been slightly concussed. Just a tiny bit. But Din needed a plan to avoid Rex and Kix, because a concussion was not in the cards tonight. He needed to get home to Grogu.
He let the steamy water pour over him, melting away the aches in sore muscles as he schemed, bringing into focus the pain in his head. That shot to the cheek had jarred him, and it had been a struggle to push past it and secure the win.
The Covert would have been disgusted, the Kryze Gym disappointed. But a win was a win, and the Mereels were simply jubilant to claim the W, even as they teased.
He loved these people.
But they were… protective. Over-protective. Din could relate, feeling the same about Grogu, but he needed to get home to his son tonight. He couldn’t afford the delay of a concussion diagnosis right now. Just the thought of not having his son in his arms made Din itch.
Relax. He’s with Peli. The Skywalker incident will never happen again. You’ll be home soon. He could snuggle with his son tonight, get woken up too early tomorrow, and make Grogu’s favorite pancakes.
Then worry about Peli’s impending retirement from babysitting and prompt decampment for Scarif.
Step 1: get home.
Step 1a: get past Kix’s concussion test.
“Did you drown in here?” Boba barged into the showers, just as Din flicked off the tap.
“Free hot shower,” Din shrugged, toweling off and pulling on some clean sweats, soft and well-worn. Only Boba had the right to be in here now. The insane rules of the Covert— and the scars— had left Din body-conscious, something he struggled with every time he stripped down for a fight. The Mereels respected that, and gave him privacy.
Boba Fett, of course, claimed exemption.
“C’mon, Toast,” he grabbed Din’s bag and threw an arm around his shoulder, dragging him to the door. “Time to get that face of yours fixed.” Din grinned involuntarily, wincing as the action aggravated the cut on his cheek.
“You’re toast!” The first words that the angry Mando facing Din in the amateur sparring match yelled, violence vibrating from every lean muscle in the kid’s body.
Din won.
Eight years later, Boba swears up and down that he calls Din “Toast” as tribute to his boring personality and bone-dry humor.
Din always let it slide. It’s not like Boba was wrong.
The cacophony of the jubilant room made Din wince as he entered. Taking a seat in a chair next to an open med kit, Din surrendered himself to Kix’s tender mercies, and glanced around as the team medic began assessing the injury and checking him over for any hidden ones. Boba had fought his bout earlier in the night, and had slid past Din to join the party surrounding the team’s other fighters. He tried not to smile and wreck Kix’s work as he watched Boba grab a beer and toast to Fennec Shand, who had won her flyweight class bout in record time and smirked as she returned the gesture. Boba’s round-one TKO clearly left him with way too much energy, and despite his penchant for not smiling, Din could see how thrilled his friend was for the win.
Din might have had the main event fight, but tonight should be Boba and Fennec’s. Which should make it easier to slip out.
“All right, that's you patched up,” announced Kix, leaning back and assessing the bandage. “Now we just need to assess for conc— ah shit, I left my phone in the locker. Hang on, II’ll be right back.” Din nodded, and waited until the Mereel brother had disappeared around the corner.
Not a chance.
Din scooped up his bag, and edged around the party to the door, slipping out into the cool night air.
The chill of early spring in Concordia soothed his aching head, but brought to bear the bone-deep weariness the fight had left him with. Din fought a frown at the thought. Grogu’s seasonal allergies had wreaked havoc with their sleep lately, which likely did not help the matter. But he loved his kid, and if the little gremlin’s poor sleeping occasionally left him more tired for fights, then so be it.
Din prayed that Peli had remembered to prep the coffee pot for tomorrow morning. He’d need it.
Wincing at the pull in his cheek as he yawned, Din stopped in front of the door of the minivan, and dug for his keys. Bottom of the bag, as usual. Blearily he flicked through them, and slid the key into the lock.
It wouldn’t turn.
Din blinked, staring at the key bemusedly. Strange. He tried again.
“Are you lost?”
Din didn’t look up, too focused on shoving the key into the lock. “No.”
“Right,” replied a feminine voice, unconvinced. “Well, that is my van.”
Din blinked, looking up and turning his head to behold the most beautiful Mando’ad woman his potentially concussed mind had ever seen. Thick, white-blonde waves tumbled over slender shoulders and framed a small smile below kind golden-hazel eyes crinkled in amusement, even as her posture stood slightly tense and wary, one hand in her back pocket as though she were ready to pull something. Simply dressed in casual jeans and a dark gray t-shirt stamped with a brick-red Mythosaur and a black soft jacket thrown over it, she was— if Din could be pardoned a dad joke— a total knockout.
“That’s very kind, but it’s still my van.”
Shit, did he say that out loud?
The gorgeous blonde smiled, the action wrinkling her nose in an unfairly adorable expression. She relaxed, straightening up.
“You fought tonight, right? Din Djarin?”
“Mm,” Din hummed, pain blooming in his head from an aborted nod. He looked back down at his keys, frowning at them. They had worked earlier, and this was honestly embarrassing, having nonfunctional keys in front of a beautiful woman—
“Are you all right?” He looked up again, wincing, as the woman slid a phone into her pocket. “You seem a little out of it.”
“Sorry. Just tired. Need to get home to my son, the sitter’s got him,” Din mumbled. Dimly, he could hear his inner monologue raging at him for wasting an opportunity to flirt with a kind stranger.
Wait, what was he thinking? Him, flirting? He didn’t have time to flirt, he was a father, he needed to get home to his son, Grogu was all alone with Peli, he never left Grogu with anyone overnight anymore, not after the disaster last time—
“Is it far?”
Din blinked, refocusing as the woman’s beautiful face creased into a frankly copikla frown. Not that he’d ever tell her that. Shit, hope he hadn't said that out loud too.
“Your home, do you have to drive far? Sorry, just seems like a drive might be a bit much, if you’re tired.” The word was formed carefully, as though she were acknowledging the lie without directly calling him out. Din sighed. Why did this always happen at the worst times? Under any other circumstance, he’d happily stare awkwardly at this kind, beautiful woman and watch the social interaction go down in flames, but no. He had to be exhausted, sore, and possibly slightly concussed.
“I—"
“Din! Din, that’s— what are you doing, vod? That’s not your van!”
A Boba-shaped figure jogged into view. “Thanks, Omega,” he tossed at the woman, coming to a stop before Din and scrutinizing his appearance.
Omega. Even her name was beautiful. He heard Boba scoff, and saw the woman look away, biting on a smile. Shit, did he say that out loud again?
“Shit, Din, did you escape Kix’s concussion test again?” Boba’s tone was unfairly disappointed as he tried to peer into Din’s eyes by the light of the parking lot lampposts.
“I’m fine, I need to get home,” he tried to gently shove Boba away. “Peli’s got—”
“You are not going anywhere, if you think this van looks even remotely like that piece of shit,” Boba pointed at a silver minivan three spots away. Yes, the dent in the passenger door and the peeling orange paint from a replacement panel above the rear tire definitely marked it as his. He looked back at the charcoal minivan before him, not a recent model but certainly in better shape than his own silver van.
“They’re similar.”
The beautiful blonde made a sound like she had choked on a laugh, poorly passing it off as a cough as she tapped at her phone.
In seconds, Rex appeared.
Strange.
“Di’kut, this is what you get for skipping the concussion test,” the older Mereel scowled as he planted himself on Din’s left, Boba falling in on his right. “Thanks, Megs.”
Who’s Megs?
“We’ll call Peli and get her to keep Gro’ika overnight, and Wolffe will drive your piece of shit van back,” Boba announced, scooping up Din’s gym bag with a free hand. “But you’re not driving tonight.”
With a heavy sigh and no energy to resist, Din had no choice but to submit to the ignominious retreat back to the building, frog-marched past the blonde woman who waved with a kind yet amused smile.
“Ret, Din Djarin.”
“Ret, mesh’la,” the pain in his head growing and slurring his words slightly. A sharp tug at his right caused him to grunt in pain as he stumbled, while Rex snorted in amusement on his left.
“Seriously?” Boba’s long-suffering tone seemed disproportionate to the moment.
“Are you blind?”
“Of course not. I’m also not concussed—”
“Did you not see how gorgeous that woman was?”
“Gross. I mean, yes, she’s objectively good-looking—"
“You are definitely concussed, vod,” Rex grinned, pushing open the door and maneuvering Din inside and down the hall.
“‘M tired. And are you blind, too?”
“Oh, she’s pretty, I’ll give you that. You're just never this candid. Except that one time Bob’ika got you drunk. This is pretty close.” He pushed open another door, to revealing several eerily similar frowning faces. “I cannot wait for tomorrow’s conversation, he’s going to be so mortified.” Din couldn’t help a pout at Rex’s unreasonably gleeful tone.
“It’s the truth—“
“Fine, ugh, whatever, she’s hot,” Boba snapped. “Just don’t hit on my sister in front of me.”
Din came to a sudden halt, blinking through the pain throbbing in his head from the lights, the motion, and the roar of Rex’s laughter.
“Your sister?!”