Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Begrudgingly, under the guidance of a clip-toned flight-coordinator, Paz guided The Vambrace down to land. The platform he had been guided to was on the dark side of the planet, jutting out into the inky dark of the sky. Around it, clouds swirled in bruise-dark colours, incredible midnight blues and magnificent indigo purples.

     Despite the beauty of the sky, the platform itself was far from impressive, hardly the grand entrance Paz had been expecting.

     Through the darkness, he could just pick out attendants and guards milling around the closed doors at the far end of the platform, each wearing a uniform that gave their bodies high shoulders and crisp lines. Most of the attendants seemed human, some with cybernetic enhancements, though there was one Neimoidian with a hunched back drawing up the rear of the group. None of them looked quite prepared to greet the Mand’alor, and Paz felt his hackles immediately begin to rise.

     Din, sat in the co-pilot’s seat where he had been banished to with the intention of keeping up the appearance of a powerful man with attendants should anybody peer through their screen, sighed deeply. Paz couldn’t blame him. They had had a long trip, and the hustle and bustle of a chattering crowd of greeters felt like too much. Especially after the argument – one of many they had had in recent days – that still lingered accusingly between them.

     Paz believed that they should go back to Klatooine, back to their tribe, where they could be of use. Real use. Din, however, kept arguing that a deal was a deal, no matter how they had been pressed into it. Paz had pointed out that, since they had not actually agreed to Teva’s conditions, they didn’t actually have to abide by them.

     Din had shot that argument right out of the sky, brutal and efficient as he was in all things, and though it kept rising, not a creature to stay down, to admit defeat, it was rapidly succumbing to Din’s overwhelming persistence.

     That they were already there, on Bespin, did not serve to encourage Paz’s dying plight.

     It was while he was readying himself to stand, shoving his mounting irritation away from him, that the doors to the platform slid open.

     White light spilled onto the metal gangway, illuminating a small stretch of the floating city, reforming all the attendants before it into silhouettes. In the doorway, another shadow appeared, features indiscernible. All Paz could tell about him was that he had a cloak or cape of some description on. And that he appeared, even from only the outline of the figure he cut, ostentatious.

     Sighing, Paz rose from his seat and exited the cockpit, crossing the main belly of the ship in only a few strides. Din was right behind him, Grogu once again placed into a bag hanging by his hip, and Paz winced internally.

     They had come straight to Bespin. They had not even had time to find replacement shells for Din’s bandolier, nor the band around his shin. He looked unready, unprepared. It was never a good look on a Mandalorian. His still-cracked visor and barely polished beskar’gam only served to worsen the affect. Paz, his once-smooth coat of paint chipped and flaking, one leg stiff and healing from the monstrous bite he had received on Mandalore, hardly appeared any better. Neither cast Mandalorian royalty in a good light; all the more reason they should have turned around before they landed and headed to shelter with their own covert instead.

     But no. There they were, poor representatives of an already poor monarchy, waiting to greet their summoner.

     When the ramp opened, Paz fell into step just behind Din’s right shoulder, looming menacingly. Nobody on the platform seemed particularly impressed, though Paz got the impression that the caped man in the centre of them shifted nervously, even if only just a little.  

     In the various grey-green tones of his night-vision, Paz could see the man was curly-haired and moustachioed. His mind immediately flew to Din, to the way the coarse strands of hair clinging to his jaw had scratched at Paz’s skin when they had kissed.

     He grew ever more frustrated at the memory.

     They had been too busy fighting to talk any more about their relationship, too irritated with each other to share any soft, sweet moments, any real intimacy, even just a kov’nyn. All Paz had of the other man was his memory of their first kiss in the hollowed-out bowels of a decaying city. If things kept going the way they were, if the tension between them kept building and building until finally it snapped, sent them reeling, spinning ever further out of sync, Paz feared that one kiss would be all he ever would have of Din.

     Drawing him out of his miserable thoughts, the curly haired man threw his arms wide. Blinking, Paz recognised a winsome smile spreading across that handsome face, charming crinkles appearing at the corner of those dark eyes. There was something familiar about his features; Paz’s mind zapped him suddenly back to Dubrillion, to the caw of those wicked winged beasts, to that courtyard they had found that little café in. He wasn’t sure why. He scowled.  

     “Welcome, welcome,” the man cried, reaching one hand forward in greeting. Din offered his own response first, and unsurprisingly, received a hand-shake instead of a clasp of the arm. Paz, too, received the same treatment. The man’s palm was warm, but strangely calloused. He might have been a man of luxury now, but it was evident he had not always been such. “The finest bounty hunters still in business!”

     “Bounty hunters?” Paz was confused. Hadn’t they been summoned for the political position Din held? He knew they didn’t exactly look like royalty, but still… “We are—”

     “Your people call yourselves beroyas, don’t you?” He steamed over Paz, completely ignoring him.

     To Paz’s growing irritation, Din responded with, “Beroyase.”

     As if this aruetiise needed to be corrected on their poor Mando’a.

     “Beroyase,” the man repeated, though he didn’t give any indication that he had filed the information away for later use. Unlike it had been to Paz and Din, who had once fought bitterly over the position, being a beroya to this man was not an indication of status, of ability. To this man, they must have seemed just another two out of hundreds in the galaxy who were in the business for their own gain. The covert they might have been supporting was never considered – as it shouldn’t have been. Yet Paz still felt the familiar sting of judgement whenever anybody who thought themselves above such professions beheld those who lived them. This man’s expression seemed to speak of an attitude just like that. “Well, I have work for you, if you’re willing.”

     “Work?” Paz fumed. They had been drawn away from Klatooine, from their covert, for a job? Couldn’t it have waited? Couldn’t they have hired anybody else? Why did the New Republic believe it had to be the Mand’alor who worked it? Unless it was just to show that they could get him to, that they could order the Mand’alor about.  Through gritted teeth, Paz growled. “We are—”

     “Tired, I imagine.” The falsely charming smile was back, accompanied by a leading gesture. Leaning into Din, throwing a twinkle of comradery over his shoulder at Paz, the man said, “Your husband is a grumpy one, isn’t he?” Before Paz could defend himself and his temperament, before he could rumble, almost embarrassed, about how they weren’t married, the man said, still to Din, “But then, you seem to be the silent type, so I can see you working well together. I can see it.”

     Paz swelled in anger, his chest puffing up, his shoulders rising. Every step he took became stiff, stilted. Din peered over his shoulder, the tilt to his buy’ce a warning. That gesture only further wound Paz’s spring, only turned the key in the mechanism a few times more. Very soon, he was going to be too tense, would either snap raggedly, his pieces scattering all over the pristine floor, or he would let out all his frustration in one violent burst of uncontrollable energy.

     Din, perhaps sensing such an eventuality, turned to their guide and said, “It’s late. Where are our rooms?”

     “Rooms?” The curly-haired man scoffed, sweeping his cape dramatically out in front of him. Here, in the light, it was vibrantly yellow. His clothing, pressed, blue, and badged, stood out against the stark white corridors and their miniature wall panels of blinking lights in red and green. “Come now.” He put his hand on Din’s shoulder, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Din’s entire upper body stiffened. Paz even caught the quickly-stifled twitch of the other Mando’ad’s fingers towards his blaster. “You’re going to be paid handsomely enough for your services anyway. One room and an on suite will surely be enough.”

     It was not a question. Paz’s mood soured further.

     “Besides,” the caped man continued, as he guided them down yet another branch of winding corridors. “I’ve already gotten you the finest of gifts.”  

     His words did not serve to distract well from the fact that they were deeper in the complex; no windows were set wide and open into the walls, no skylights transformed the ceilings from confining plains of unbroken white into vast and beautiful landscapes of towering cloud formations and glittering stars. Here, they were far within the maze – and it showed.

     “We do not require gifts,” Din said stiffly, before Paz could. A kernel of fondness for the other man broke through his frustration when he realised Din was letting him focus more heavily on their environment, trusting him and his abilities enough that Din himself could focus on the man they were following, the conversation they were both caught in. “We’re here for a reason.”

     “And we’ll discuss details in the morning.” With the flick of an airy hand, Din’s concerns were battered away. The man drew them into an alcove a few meters deep, at the end of which sat a door. Next to it stood a blue uniformed human aide with a velvet swathe of reddish material draped over their extended arms. Delightedly, their guide drew them forwards, announcing, “Tonight, you accept my gifts.” He winced, then turned to eye Paz. “Gift. We weren’t honestly expecting the spouse.”

     Then you won’t mind it if I leave. If we both do, Paz thought, but didn’t say aloud for the sake of maintaining the appearance of solidarity between himself and Din. In a place as unsettling as they were in, it would be best not to show any weakness whatsoever. Even Grogu had seemed to understand, staying still and silent in the bag at Din’s hip, barely stirring, unnoticeable if you weren’t actively looking for him.

     Paz breathed a contained sigh of relief, shifting his focus away from the ad, content in the knowledge that he was as safe as he could be, all things considered. 

     The aide, he realised, had moved forward while he had been checking on Grogu. Now, they held up the material and shook it out from its folded package. It cascaded down into a shining, velvety red cloak with golden stitching in a half-familiar pattern around the edges, a mudhorn but wrong. At the front, it clasped together with great metal discs that mimicked roundels, if perhaps a little smaller. It was garish. It was too much. Paz hated it.

     Evidently, so did Din. He took an unplanned step back, his hands raising almost involuntarily towards his ratty black cowl. Seeming to take control of himself, he held up one quelling hand, gave a sharp shake of his head.

     “No, please, I insist,” the curly-haired man said, but still Din refused. Even through his displeasure, Paz felt the sprouting of fondness, glad to see that though his partner was stubborn, idiotic, infuriating, he at least hadn’t lost all sense of sanity. Almost forcefully, the stranger said, his smile fixed, “It’s important to me.”

     Fed up with the pointlessness of the whole exchange, Paz let himself audibly growl.

     Marching forward until he was shoulder to shoulder with Din, he jabbed a threatening finger towards their guide. He didn’t quite touch the man’s chest, but it was a near thing, enough so that the man jerked back with a halting cry. Paz did not lower his finger. The threat was there. It was inherent.

     “He said he wasn’t interested,” he fumed. Behind him, Din let out an enormous sigh, which only served to stoke Paz’s rage higher. He wasn’t defending Din’s honour, no matter what the other man thought. He simply wanted their smarmy, preened host gone so that he could round on Din in the relative privacy of their almost-certainly watched room and argue his case for leaving. “Now will you let us rest, or will you not?”

     Raising his hands in a show of surrender, obviously nowhere near as threatened as he should have been, the cape-clad man backed away.

     Gesturing with a flourish, he told them, “Your room, gentlemen. Please, be comfortable.”

     “Thank you.” Din bowed his head, even as Paz applied himself to opening their door.

     Grogu, evidently distressed by the high emotions, finally whined softly at Din’s side. Paz cursed himself bitterly, but found that he could not persuade his temper to cool. That particular inability of his had always been one of his greater faults.

     “An aide will be by shortly to make sure you have everything you need,” the man told them. Almost forcefully, before Paz could round on him and tell him just where he could send his aides, the man added, “They will be by shortly. I won’t hear a word otherwise.”

     Then, quicker than Paz or Din could raise their objections, he had strode out of the alcove and around a corner, the aide with the cloak hurrying along jerkily behind him.

     Paz didn’t care to watch them go, ducking through the door to their shared quarters.

     It was a large space, a bone white rather than the blinding snow-white of the rest of the city. There were no windows, but instead of a headboard, indents behind the head of the bed contained dark, artificial cloud projections that churned slowly, as real clouds might have in a gentle breeze. Paz wondered if they would lighten throughout the day, or if they were always a gloomy purple-blue.

     By the single wide bed, covered in cream sheets with a blood-red runner spread neatly across it, stood two nightstands. On them, behind abstract twists of decorative glass, stood two cage-based lamps, both switched off. Paz was willing to bet that, when lit up, they would cast flickers of light across the thick carpet, which was so deep that Paz’s boots sank into it like they did into river-bed mud. Even the rest of the furniture seemed to be sucked down, the stand of the low mother-of-pearl coffee table, the nubs the crimson couch balanced on, even the legs of the matching white desk and chair standing by a slide-up door set into the wall.

     All of it was primped and polished, all of it unsettlingly sumptuous. And it all smelled of hastily concealed cleaning product.

     Paz despised it.

     His fury grew.  

     When Din stepped into the room a few seconds later, Paz was ready, willing, and waiting.

     He whirled on the other man, raging.

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“We should leave,” Paz growled in Mando’a, staring down Din. At least, he attempted to. Din seemed immovable, only further stoking the fires of Paz’s ire. “Our being here is pointless.”

     “We made a promise,” Din argued, beginning to strip his weapons from his back and lean them against the wall by the desk. Grogu, who had jumped his way up to Din’s shoulder, reached out to touch them. Before Paz could march forward and snatch the ad up, the other man jerked his amban out of the way, and held up a stern finger to the boy in warning, though his words were for Paz when he said, “We will keep it.”

     “We didn’t make a promise,” Paz retorted, stomping over to the other side of the room and folding his arms. He wasn’t going to remove his cannon or minigun. He was not. “We were given a command. By someone who has no authority over us.”

     Din’s sardonic head tilt spoke volumes.

     It took a few minutes for Paz to muster up a new direction in which to grow his argument. In the meantime, Din went back to removing most of his affects. Even his ratty cowl, the one he had just been so stubborn about keeping on, was loosened and ducked out of, the ragged ends of it just sweeping the shampooed floor when he draped it carefully over the back of the desk chair.

     Curiously, though his tone was still heated, Paz asked, “Why did you refuse their gift?”

     “It might have been bugged.” Din seemed distracted, searching around the room for defendable spots, and weaker ones. Paz knew he should help, but he truly had no intention of staying for any longer than it took to hold this argument and win it. Under such circumstances, there seemed little reason to case out their quarters. Din pressed a button on the wall, and it whooshed open to reveal an overly luxurious ‘fresher. Looking at Grogu, the man said, “Bath time.”

     The ad’s ears drooped.

     “Din,” Paz objected, following after him. At the basin, Din was plugging the sink and running water into it. His vambraces and gloves had been stripped, his sleeves rolled up. Scarred and tattooed skin revealed itself, and just as it always did, it made Paz weak in the knees. He tore his eyes away and refused to look. Now was not the time to be distracted by a mere glimpse of the other man’s bare arms. Instead, he pressed, “Evidently, you distrust these people, too.”

     Din didn’t respond, too busy rifling through the cabinet below the sink. He emerged with a pinkish bottle with some writing system on it that Paz didn’t recognise, but that Din obviously did, because he un-stoppered it and poured a splash into the running water. Immediately, it began to bubble, and Grogu’s face lit up.

     When Din bent down again, presumably to find some safe cleaning gel, Grogu took the opportunity to bat at the growing bubbles. He tripped on the hem of his robe, and would have fallen head-first into the water if it weren’t for Paz’s quick reflexes.

     Despite his anger, he wasn’t going to let the ad hurt himself, so he darted forward and caught him, his bes’lovike bashing loudly against Din’s nor’cabur. The other man paused in his search, then turned his buy’ce very slowly over his shoulder. Paz suspected that, had the beskar not concealed it, he would have seen a prominent frown on Din’s face. He scowled back, then withdrew from the other man’s space, Grogu caught and held firmly in his hands, despite intense protest.

     Din rose with a blue-tinted bottle, setting it down on the counter and turning to face Paz fully. When he held his hands out for the boy, Paz sighed and handed the squirming ad over, lending a helping hand in undressing him when it became obvious it was required.

     Even through his frustration, he couldn’t contain the way his lips twitched up at the corners. If there was one thing Grogu didn’t like, it was getting in the bath. Maybe that should have served as a clue to Din that they ought to have left, to returned back to The Vambrace and cleaned the ad there in a familiar environment, the hum of the ship comforting him as they flew back to Klatooine.

     But… The water had been run. There was no sense in wasting it. And Grogu really was quite grubby. Paz supposed it would not hurt them to leave after they got the ad clean.  

     “Thank you,” Din said, as he turned to lower his wriggling son into the basin. Grogu’s little legs folded up towards his body, and he squeaked urgently, his ears lowering. However, when he finally found himself half-submerged, his ears lifted and he looked up almost in surprise. Babbling, he started splashing at the surface of the warm water, leaving Din free to grab a wash cloth and begin scrubbing. While he worked, he said, “If this turns out to be nothing, then we’ll leave.”

     “It has turned out to be nothing,” Paz snapped, shutting the lid of the vacc tube and slumping onto it. He crossed his arms, fixing his gaze on where Din was very, very carefully wiping at Grogu’s delicate features. “All we’re accomplishing here is making targets of ourselves.”

     “If we left now,” Din said, dodging a large wave of water Grogu created with his powers. “We could not return directly to the covert.” Dropping the cloth into the sink, Din grasped his ad’s hands and gently scolded him for making a mess. Though he trilled disappointedly, the splashes reduced in size. For his efforts, he received a thumb rubbed gratefully over the ball of his cheek. Paz watched fondly as the ad leaned into it. “We would have to be sure we weren’t followed first.”

      “So the sooner we leave, the better,” Paz pointed out. He was sure his frown was audible in his tone, though Din didn’t seemed to pay it little attention. “We shake any tail in the Outer Rim, and return to Klatooine.”

     “Staying until morning wouldn’t make a difference.” Din’s tone was calm, collected, reasonable. Paz hated it immensely. Didn’t this man ever anger, truly anger? “And we might learn why we’re here.”

     “We’re here so they can make a mockery of us,” Paz fumed, jabbing his finger at Din’s turned back. “The great Mand’alor, theirs to control.” When Din didn’t say anything, only further stoking Paz’s ire, he bitterly tacked on, “They want us to hunt bounties for them. It is beneath us.”

     For the first time, the other man seemed to react. His shoulders tensed and hunched inwards, and his washing-motions ceased. His buy’ce tilted down towards his ad. Paz suspected Din wasn’t actually seeing Grogu. Though, as quickly as he had paused, Din shook himself and continued on with his work.

     But Paz knew he wasn’t as unaffected as he attempted to appear to be.

     And Paz knew why. Though it had little to do with the work – kark, for a long time, Paz had wanted the job Din had held – he had spent a great deal of time mocking Din’s chosen profession. At this point, Paz wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the other man was taking anything said against bounty hunting as a personal attack against himself, his way of life. He had given up so much to provide for the tribe: a stable home, a supportive community, his physical and mental health. Any words spoken against the task Din had set himself must have felt like a harsh attack.

     But how could Paz explain it wasn’t the hunting that was the problem? It was the clients he usually had problems with. And even then, nine times out of ten it wouldn’t have been a big deal – though he would still balk over working with Imperial remnants, and he suspected that these days, Din would be the first to object, loudly and very violently – but this client, this one, they bothered him. 

     There was something very off within the floating city. Surely Din could feel it, too.

     Gathering himself, he tried to soothe the other man, tried to figure out a way to bring him around to Paz’s own way of thinking.  

     “I didn’t mean it like that.” He tried, softening his tone. He wasn’t altogether successful, and Din remained stubbornly turned away from him. “Din.” The other man sighed, then finally faced him. Taking the opportunity given, Paz murmured, “I didn’t mean it like that. But even you must admit that there is something wrong here.”

     “There is,” Din agreed, leaning against the counter with one ankle crossed over the other, one hand cupping the back of Grogu’s head to ensure that it stayed above water while he wasn’t looking directly at the boy. “We can help.”

     “Help?” Paz was flabbergasted, his ire sparking once more. Furious, he growled, “They are a threat!”

     “Or threatened.” Grogu trilled, catching Din’s attention, and he twisted his body around to remove the boy from the water. Paz, wanting to get back to their conversation quickly, stretched his arm out and plucked the hand-towel from the hook it was resting on, handing it to Din. With a grateful nod, he wrapped the ad in it, gently drying his wriggling form. While he was working, he said, “They wanted us to take that cloak.”

     “Because they wanted to spy on us,” Paz reminded him. “You said it yourself.”

     “Or someone else did,” Din posited. “It may have been bugged. Which makes me wonder who wants to listen in.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “They could have posted an aide to listen outside our door,” Din told him. Setting Grogu on the counter, still wrapped in the fluffy white towel, Din moved over to the sonic. Switching it to the setting that worked on clothing, he hung Grogu’s usual coverall on a hook that dangled from the ceiling, then began the cleaning sequence. Finished with that, he turned back to his ad and plucked him up, saying as he did, “If they were the ones who wanted to listen, posting an aide would be enough. To bug something we would carry with us, it suggests a second party, one that doesn’t trust the first.”

     “That makes it more foolish for us to remain.” Paz threw his hand forward, indicating Grogu. “You would keep him here in the thick of things?”

     Almost viciously, Din fired back, “Since the Jedi would not take him, the safest place for him is by my side. I can trust no one else with his protection.”

     “And yet you would bring him into a potential war zone,” Paz sneered, knowing as he said it that he was being unfair. Almost cruelly, he commanded, “Return to the covert. Leave him there, where he will be safe, surrounded by our own kind.”

     “There’s no guarantee we’ll be accepted,” Din pointed out, and now his voice was tired rather than patient. “We may get to Klatooine and be told to leave.”

     “So you would change course like a coward?” The other man jerked back, and Paz knew he should have revoked his words immediately, knew they were far too harsh for the situation, for any situation with Din, but he couldn’t. Rage was building up inside him, a dam full of pressure ready to burst. His entire body felt jittery, but he had to keep still in the small space. His back teeth were grinding painfully with the clench of his jaw. “You are supposed to be a leader.” When the other man said nothing in response, Paz scorned, “Do you remember even one time that the Armourer changed course after she had set it?”

     “Paz—”

     “You don’t,” he finished, coldly triumphant. “Because she did not.”

     “I thought you had decided that the Armourer was wrong.” Din sounded truly exhausted. When the sonic pinged to say that the cycle was finished, he took a few moments to react. Slowly, he drew the little romper down and tried to wrestle the wriggling boy back into it. Grogu was not proving cooperative, too busy trying to bare his teeth at Paz. “On Mandalore, you said—”

     “Not about this,” Paz roared, his Mando’a echoing off of the bathroom tiles. Grogu whimpered, his ears sinking, his body stilling, and Din took the opportunity to slip the boy’s romper over his head, before drawing him up so that he was nestled in the crook of Din’s neck. Calming himself, taking deep, soothing breaths, Paz bit out, “She has been a leader for far longer than you have, Djarin.”

     “I know—”

     A smash from the other room cut Din off.

     Whipping their heads around until their visors met, they quickly hurried out. Paz, remembering that Din had stripped out of his kom’rke, shoved himself in front. He was fully armoured, and he wasn’t holding an ad. He could take the brunt of any attack.  

     However, once they reached the main room, they realised there was little need to defend themselves.

     A Gungan aide, pink-skinned and smartly dressed, hopped from foot to foot, their long-fingered hands slapped over their small cheeks.

     “Oh nosa, oh nosa,” they were saying, looking around the room in a panic. Strewn over the thick carpet lay the shattered and twinkling remains of one of the glass ornaments from the bedside table. The Gungan danced overtop it, narrowly avoiding stepping on any of the treacherously sharp edges. And there was something about the Gungan’s worried prancing – understandable, but still annoying – that almost seemed performative. Paz tried to shake his suspicions off. He had already been far too uncharitable that night. The Gungan was still wailing. “Thissa not good!”

     “Calm down,” Paz finally growled in Basic, causing the aide to whip around and face them both. Their eyes widened, and the stalks they sat on sank guiltily downwards. Though he wanted to be furious that the aide had been in their room and they hadn’t even noticed, apparently too caught up in their vicious exchange of words, the poor Gungan looked like they were about to burst into their species’ equivalent of tears. “It is merely a sparkly bauble.”

     “But meesa has disturbed-a the rest of the mightiest Mand’alor!” They threw their hands up in some form of bizarre worship-like gesture. “Thissa cannot go without a punish.”

     “No punishment,” Din declared, stepping out from behind Paz. Seeing his bare skin when it was just Paz was one thing. Seeing his bare skin on display for any being to come along and glimpse was quite another. Paz wanted to move back in front of the other man again, shield him from unworthy eyes, but he didn’t. There was no point being jealous of a Gungan, and especially one that had demonstrated their species’ typical clumsiness. He only felt more ridiculous when Din commanded, not even casually interested in the aide’s plight, “Just… Leave us.”

     “Oh, nosa. Meesa cannot dosa that.” The Gungan was shaking their head, their large ears flapping loudly against their back. “Meesa must tidy meesa mess. Themsa the rules.”

     “We can tidy up the mess ourselves.” Din, a more patient man than Paz yes, but apparently still impatient to be left alone, to return to their discussion, tried to guide the Gungan out of the door. His free bare palm landed on their blue-clad shoulder, and Paz forced himself to resist the urge to knock the aide aside, to grab Din’s wrist and force his arm back down. Grogu, clutched in Din’s other arm, shot Paz a narrow-eyed glare. Rightfully so, he knew, for his jealousy was unbecoming, and certainly not something he ought to use to police Din’s behaviour. Din, who was guiding the Gungan away, didn’t seem to notice Paz’s dilemma, saying, “It’s late. The child needs rest.”

     “But meesa new,” the aide whined, now standing by the door, but refusing to go through it. “Meesa must come back. Meesa only have thissa job for threesa days.”

     Urgently, they held up three fingers, shaking their hand back and forth in an attempt to impress upon Paz and Din the limited time span of their employment.

     Distantly, Paz wondered why they had been given a servant that was so new to the job, and so obviously clumsy. The inconvenience of it, the insult of it towards the Mand’alor, only heightened the flames of his anger. All his muscles strained with the effort of preventing himself from lashing out, from whipping around and spewing the most cutting vitriol he could think of into the air between them all.

     His teeth ground together when Din sighed heavily, said, “Fine. You can come back.”

     The Gungan puffed out a relieved breath, their cheeks popping. Paz jolted in fury at the sound. Under his buy’ce, his nostrils were flaring, his lips twisting into a furious grimace.

     Baring his teeth at Din through his beskar, he snapped in Mando’a, “Why did you agree to their return?”

     Rudely, the other man held up a bare finger in Paz’s face, so distracted that the flesh of it was almost pressing against Paz’s visor. Jerking his head away, he stomped one step backwards and spun, arms folding across his chest as he moved towards the desk across the room. 

     Before he could whirl on the other man again, Din said, “There’s something here.”

     A sliver of a mirror peeked through the open doorway to the ‘fresher, and Paz fixed his eyes stubbornly on that, refusing to turn around to face Din. In the slightly distorted reflection, he saw as the other man bent down and retrieved something from beneath the bed. There was the delicate tinkling of glass shards being displaced, but when they fell on the carpet, the sound deadened, faded.

     Something about that lack of sound niggled at Paz’s brain, and he frowned.

     When he saw Din straighten in the mirror, Paz finally glanced the other man’s way.

     In his hands – Grogu had been safely deposited on the bed, away from the danger of a slicing edge – Din clutched a folded sheet of yellow flimsi. On it, Paz could just make out the faint scribblings of a graphite drawing tool, pressed extraordinarily lightly against the delicate surface.

     “What does it say?” All his previous rage lay forgotten as he picked his way back across the room, arms falling to his sides. Din, evidently in the same boat, joined him. Together, they huddled over the scrap, frowning. It was a string of letters and numbers, at first almost incomprehensible, and then Paz slapped his right hand against his motun’bur and declared, “Co-ordinates!”

     As if bursting to life, Din hurried back into the ‘fresher, snatching up his kom’rke and fitting them to his bare skin. Paz winced at the discomfort he knew that would cause the other man, then leaned in as Din pulled up a miniature projection of a galaxy map, keying in the string of digits and letters. For a few seconds, the blue hologram flickered and glitched but otherwise failed to do anything. Then, very suddenly, it was zooming in on one particular planet.

     “Florrum,” Din read privately over their in-buy’ce comms.

     “It could be a note intended for the aide,” Paz suggested half-heartedly, but already knowing firmly that it wasn’t true. Dropping his chin against his chest, he bit back a groan and admitted, “But I don’t think it was. After all—” he moved over to the broken ornament and picked up the largest chunk of it, then moved to another piece of carpet and threw the shard he carried as hard as he could towards the floor. The glass bounced once, twice, then lay glinting in the low light, undamaged. “—this trinket could only have been broken deliberately.”

     Din said nothing, merely tilting his buy’ce towards Paz in deliberate silence. Rolling his eyes and folding his arms again, Paz let out a heavy, heavy sigh.

     “Fine,” he finally conceded, throwing one hand out Din’s way. “We stay. But at the first sign of trouble…”

     “We’re Mandalorians,” Din reminded him with a half-amused huff, moving towards the bed. “We’re good with trouble.”

     It could have been a humorous moment, an extension of a reparative branch between the two of them, but the Gungan burst back in again, laden down with cleaning items, ruining Din’s intent.

     Without saying anything, the aide immediately set about their self-imposed task, chattering to Grogu as he gave imperious, nonsensical commands throughout the process. When the glass was safely removed, the Gungan turned to leave, only to pause at the door.

     “Oh mightiest Mand’alor.” They bowed low, their ears flapping forward from their back to dangle about their face. “Theesa one wassa wondering if yousa would likey it iffa meesa took away yousa rubbish.” A finger pointed towards the scrap of paper still clutched in Din’s hand, now crumpled and somewhat smudged. “Meesa would putta it right in the inciny-rator. Meesa swear it.”

     They put a flat hand over their chest, the same way a Mando’ad might ball a fist and thump it against their hal’cabur in pledge.

     Paz shrugged when Din glanced at him in question, and so the other man moved forward and handed the torn yellow flimsi over. It was immediately slipped into the Gungan’s pocket, and as soon as it was Paz believed the aide when he said the note would be destroyed. Nobody went around with incriminating evidence on themselves for extended periods of time, not if they could help it. Whether it was the owner of the city or the Gungan themselves that wanted to send a message, it would soon be disposed of.

     Paz let himself relax just slightly.

     When the Gungan was finally gone, he moved towards the bed, removing his sen’tra and weaponry as he did. Leaving it propped against the foot of the bed, well within reach if need be, he lay on his back, half wondering if Din would lay curled safely against him as he had on the cruiser all those weeks ago.

     But, after fetching his gloves and replacing his kom’rke properly, the other man lay down flat on his back, visor staring impassively up at the ceiling, and Paz realised that the desire for shared intimacy between them that night was a fool’s hope. Din wouldn’t want to press close, not after the harsh words Paz had flung his way that evening.

     Pressing his lips together tightly in regret, wanting to reach out and touch Din, to apologise to him, to drag him closer and fold him into himself, Paz tried to persuade his mind to quiet, to allow him to drift into sleep.

     But sleep did not come.

/////////////////

A fair while later, and Paz remained awake, staring up at the ceiling, listening to nothing. Din was, while sleeping, unnervingly quiet, and somehow Grogu had managed to fall asleep in such a way that he wasn’t making adorable little popping snores. Paz had half a mind to wake the ad, to check he was still alive, but he knew Din was so attuned to the boy that there was no way he could stop breathing without the other man noticing, even in his sleep.

     Grogu was curled in the crook of Din’s neck. It was very likely Din could feel the stirring of the air, was soothed by the gentle tickling sensation.

     Thinking of the other man feeling his ad breathing against his neck only served to remind Paz of a few weeks ago, of Kryze’s light cruiser, of the night he and Din had spent pressed against each other. It had been so warm, had felt so safe despite their lack of beskar’gam.

     But there, on Bespin, in the same bed as Din, he was cold. The thick, sumptuous covers lay under them. His beskar dug into his skin uncomfortably – it had been a long time since he had slept on an actual bed in beskar, and the contrasting sensations of soft mattress and unyielding metal played with his mind, left him uncomfortable, awake – and his boots confined his feet, left him unable to even wiggle his toes to stretch them.

     Unsurprisingly, he missed the easiness and comfort of the other man’s embrace, was cursing himself for a fool that he had antagonised Din so much that the man had simply laid down as he was, had not even offered a begrudging goodnight to Paz.

     He wondered if that was how things were always going to be, wondered if it was a bad thing. After all, they were sharing a single bed in a single room. Obviously, unity was expected of them. Yet there they lay, one of them regretful, one of them blissfully, perhaps deliberately, unaware of the other’s struggles.

     Perhaps it would be a good thing. Opponents would see their disconnect, would underestimate them. But at the same time, Paz wished they could provide a fully united front, could go back to how they had been before Din had accepted the responsibility of the darksaber, back to when they had both been set on the same mission, had had the same goals.

     Suddenly, a blinding fury coursed through Paz, and he wanted to yank the hilt from Din’s belt, to storm to the nearest window he could find, break it, and chuck the blasted blade through it. He wanted to steer Din away from the oath he had sworn, wrap him up in family life, in training and bounty hunting and the deep caves of the covert, claim the man as his partner and never leave again. They would be a family, him and Din and Grogu, and they would have each other, and that would be all they would ever need.

     It was only Din’s honour that stopped him. The man had sworn his intentions in the Living Waters. Now, short of death or losing the blade to a challenging Mando’ad, Din would march forward along the path he had stumbled upon, and there was nothing Paz could do to change that.

     For the first time, he thought he understood just why Din had spent so long avoiding the responsibility he had accidentally won himself. Because it wasn’t a prize, not to him. It was a burden, carrying the fates of all Mando’ade upon his shoulders.

     Perhaps, if Din did not care for his people so much, it would not have weighed him down. Perhaps, if he did not care about his responsibility so much, he would have been able to shrug off his duty, do his own thing, go his own way.

     But Din did care about duty. They were on Bespin right then, not Klatooine as Paz felt they should have been, because Din of how much Din cared about duty.

     Unkindly, Paz wondered if, other than Grogu, anything would ever come close in Din’s list of priorities.

     He was just trying to shove that uncharitable thought away from himself, to turn his mind to the discussion they would have to have with the caped man when they awoke in the morning, when he finally heard Grogu stir.

     The ad let out a bleary coo, and Paz turned his head to peer through the darkness at the boy. Huge brown eyes blinked back, the swirling clouds of the headboard reflected in them. The slowly churning pattern only served to make Grogu look wiser, as if centuries of knowledge resided within his little wrinkled head. 

     The boy rose to his feet, tap-tap-tapped across Din’s hal’cabur, then performed a tiny leap from his buir’s chest to Paz’s, landing with a soft thump. Din was jostled in the process, his visor tilting towards the two of them, but otherwise he remained undisturbed.

     Paz let his focus drift back to the ad on his chest.

     This close, Paz could smell the soapy scent of the boy, could reach out and cup his hand around Grogu’s back, so he did. The ad leaned into it with a quiet squeak, his ears falling behind him in what Paz had come to recognise as relaxation.

     After a few moments of that, Grogu shifted, shuffling around so he could pluck at the edges of Paz’s glove. At first, Paz was confused, struggling to determine why the ad was doing such a thing, but then it dawned on him, and he slipped the offending material off.

     Sharp claws landed on his bare skin, manipulating his fingers carefully, pressing exploratively against the darker green of Paz’s palm.

     Then, the ad looked up, and patted his own chest.

     “Yes, little one,” Paz agreed quietly, extracting his hand so that he could brush his thumb over Grogu’s furrowed brow. “We’re the same colour. That’s vorpan. Can you say vorpan?”

     “Pah!” Grogu’s shout was louder than Paz had expected, and he winced. Rolling his buy’ce to the side, he risked a glance at Din, but there was no change in the man’s demeanour. He lay still and serene, apparently undisturbed by the ad’s enthusiasm. Paz figured he must have had to deal with it regularly, what with the two sharing sleeping quarters on The Vambrace. His attention was drawn back to Grogu when the child patted at his hal’cabur, declared, “Bu!”

     “Kebiin,” Paz told him, pointing to his kar’ta beskar. “Blue.” 

     Throwing one three-fingered hand out to the side, Grogu asked, “Buh?”

     “Your buir?” Paz frowned, though he knew the boy couldn’t see. Peering at Din, he considered what to say. After all, there was no word for silver in Mando’a. The closest he could form was ‘bright grey’, dral’genet. Beskar was beskar-coloured. It did not need a name. It was the default, the only beskar’gam that did not require a colour description when the stories of ancient warriors were told.  As best he could, he tried to explain that to the ad, only to feel a fool when Grogu shook his head, sending his ears flapping, and pointed once again to Paz’s hand, then to Din. “You mean his skin colour?” Grogu nodded, and Paz breathed a sigh of relief. That was far less difficult to explain. “Nau’daryc. Ra tra’gam.”

     Grogu patted his own face, then made a querying sound. Paz must have outwardly displayed enough confusion, because then the boy was sliding off his chest until he stood between him and Din, one clawed hand reaching out to paw at Din’s sleeve, the other stretched like he wanted to grasp Paz’s fingers again.

     Shifting so that Grogu could do just that, Paz cocked his head, pursed his lips. The ad was clearly asking something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Letting go of him, the boy started to make those hand-gestures that Din seemed to be teaching him alongside Basic, but Paz was ashamed to admit that he didn’t understand them. They weren’t the movements of gaan’joha, and he knew no other sign language.

     Grogu, evidently getting frustrated, huffed, “Bah.”

     For a few moments, his ears waggled as he thought, his eyes narrowing with his concentration. Then, they opened wider, and the boy struggled to his feet, tapped Din’s arm, then Paz’s skin and his own at the same time. He repeated the motion a few times.

     Eventually, hesitantly, Paz inquired, “Are you asking if he’ll… turn green?”

     He held up his own hand for emphasis.

     Grogu shook his head, then pointed to himself, then Paz, then Din.

     “Are you asking if you’ll grow up to look like him?”

     This time Grogu cooed, plopping himself down on his rump and staring up at Paz with an engaged expression.

     Inside Paz’s chest, his heart broke. Oh so gently, he scooped up the boy, nestling him into the crook of his neck, pulling aside his kute so their skin was pressed together, a comfort he had noticed Grogu particularly enjoyed.

     Then, ever so carefully, he explained, “Your buir isn’t the same race as you. And I’m not, either. You’re always going to be green, and you’ll always have three fingers and sharp teeth and big ears.” Grogu cooed sadly, so Paz booped him gently on his nose. “Silly ad’ika,” he rumbled, rearranging the boy so that he could see Din over the slope of Paz’s chest. “You think your buir loves you any less because of it?”

     Just on the edges of his visual display, Paz caught Grogu’s little hand raising, pointing towards the ‘fresher. A sad, curious trill sounded, so contrasting with the ad’s usual happy demeanour.

     And then a thought struck, hard enough to wind, to wound. Closing his eyes, Paz tried very hard to control his breath. It still took him a few seconds to steady himself, to stroke Grogu’s back, to promise the boy, “Your buir and I were arguing. He wasn’t cross with you, Grogu. He was cross with me. And I was cross with him.” Tilting his buy’ce until the indent of his cheek was resting against Grogu’s forehead, he whispered so quietly that his vocoder almost didn’t pick it up, “We shouldn’t have fought with you in the room. I’m sorry. Ne ceta.”

     For a few quiet moments, Paz thought that that had been enough, that Grogu would feel more settled, would be able to sleep through the rest of the night. But then suddenly the ad was wriggling, freeing himself from the loose hold Paz had on him, crawling across Paz’s chest and over to Din’s. Paz held his breath, hoped the other man didn’t wake, but Din’s breathing didn’t hitch, his buy’ce didn’t twitch.

     He didn’t so much as shift, even when Grogu bent down and tapped at his kar’ta beskar, then at his own tiny ribcage. Again, he repeated the action a few times, enough that Paz could understand what he meant.

     Snorting softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his fond smile, Paz promised, “Your buir loves you very much, Grogu.”

     “Buh!” This time, at least, the ad managed to keep his voice down. Raising his arms up, the universal gesture of every child wishing to be picked up, he asked, “Bu buh?”

     “Boba?” The question was a slap in the face, and an unexpected one at that. Paz could barely even begin to parse out the meaning of it. Scooping the boy up, tucking him back against his neck, he hummed, “I’m sure your ba’vodu loves you very much, as well.”

     “Nuh!” An ear thwapped against Paz’s throat, tickling him, and he delicately rearranged the ad until his ears were tucked into the crook of his neck, rather than resting wide across his sensitive trachea. “Bu buh!” A little tapping sounded, and Paz soon recognised it as the ring of Grogu’s claws against his beskar. He caught up that small hand, pressed it gently between his index finger and thumb, listened as Grogu asked, “Meh?”

     “Oh, Gro’ika,” Paz gentled, smoothing his fingertips down the boy’s back. “I care about you, too.” More sternly, but no less fondly, he instructed, “Now, it’s bedtime. Time to sleep. We have an important meeting in the morning.”

     He felt as Grogu’s ear shifted against him again, recognised the intrigue and excitement that caused the ad’s ears to raise.  

     Chuckling quietly to himself, he hummed, “Yes, and breakfast. But you have to sleep first. Goodnight, little one. Jate ca.”

     He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a muttering that sounded like ‘jate ca’ coming from Din’s prone form, and he swivelled his buy’ce to stare at the other man in stiff horror. It took him a solid few moments to realise that Din was still breathing steadily, had not so much as shifted beside him.

     Chalking the sound up to his paranoia, to the strange environment and his distaste for having to be there in the first place, he resettled himself, turning his visor to peer at the ceiling.

     Somehow, with Grogu pressed against his neck, a warm bundle of steady breaths and purring rumbles, he felt easier, sleepier. The reassurance he had provided the boy had served to calm his own concerns; no family abandoned each other simply because of a single disagreement. Love didn’t disappear just because someone had shouted at another. And though they weren’t a family – not really, not yet – and though Paz didn’t know if Din loved him or was simply only attracted to him, he knew the other man was not impulsive when it came to relationships, did not walk away from promises, implied or otherwise. Their simply being there on Bespin was proof enough of that.

     And though they had given no promises to each other save for Paz’s vow to serve the Mand’alor, that shared kiss in the dark of Sundari’s ravaged depths – that had served as intention enough. They had not worn their buy’ce, and they had not regretted.

     So no, Paz realised, a simple argument was hardly going to be the thing that destroyed them, that broke them apart in such a way that they could never piece back together.

     Relaxing, taking the respite his mind had finally allowed him with Grogu’s intervention, he felt himself beginning to drift, to float away into the black, to rest.

//////////////////

Inside the dining room, a tantalising breakfast spread was laid out before them on a white table cloth. Bowls of sugared fruits, pitchers of pouring cream, and glasses full of fresh-pressed juices glinted in the sunlight pouring through the expansive windows surrounding the table. Cold meats, sliced wafer-thin, were folded into fancy circular displays, the plates they were on dressed with salad leaves. Loaves of still-warm bread, the mouth-watering scent enticing even through Paz’s buy’ce, rested on wooden boards in the centre of the table. There were even, he spied, some spiced preserves laid out in a colourful array on the sideboard in the room.

     All of it looked delicious.

     All of it made him furious.

     He couldn’t eat any of it.

     Grogu, of course, did not have this issue. With a delighted cry, he launched himself out of Din’s hold, landing on the table amid a clatter of crockery, darting forward to immediately snatch up some of the meat.

     Sighing, Din rounded the table to scoop the ad up again, scolding him about his poor manners, and reminding him that he also had to eat some vegetables.

     Then, the man pulled out one of the high-backed chairs opposite their host – who was grinning excessively, making Paz shudder – and, removing his bevii’ragir and leaning it against the back of the chair, slid into it, selecting a smaller glass of yellow juice and helping Grogu to drink from it.

     With a scowl, Paz slid into the seat beside Din. He perched on the edge, his weaponry making it hard to do anything but, and immediately cleared his empty plate away so that he could rest his kom’rke on the table, his fingers folded together before him. He made sure to keep his visor pinpointed directly on their host, his head tilted like he was studying a new form of life that he wasn’t particularly impressed with.

     Usually, that look made the victims of it squirm. Their new acquaintance simply smiled sunnily at them both, before delicately taking a bite out of a chunk of bright red fruit. Paz wondered if the giant vases in the centre of the table, bursting with white flowers and merry greenery, blocked the full intensity of his expression.

     Din, next to him, didn’t say a word, didn’t move an inch. He sat there, a disapproving statue, and waited the curly-haired man out.

     His strategy proved far more effective than Paz’s; after a few minutes of suffering Din’s stare, the man sent each of the aides in the room away on individual missions, from fetching a type of preserve that Paz wasn’t even sure existed (he’d never heard of tihaar and meiloorun spread, and frankly he was glad for it) to tracking down a cloak that Paz was certain any sane man would have had destroyed from the description alone (waist length, bright pink, and with brown frogs all over it).

     When the room was clear, the man finally put down his cutlery and asked, all pleasantry, “Did you get my message?”

     “It’s why we’re here,” Paz growled, his fingers squeezing so tightly together that the leather of his gloves began creaking. Grogu, one hand stuffing a piece of some kind of melon into his mouth, patted at Paz’s wrist with the other.

     “What he means to say,” Din said, far more diplomatically, reaching for a small plate and beginning to pile it with food items Paz felt sure the other man would prefer Grogu be eating. “Is that your message is why we’re still here.”

     “Come now,” the man held his arms wide, the smile on his face turning strained. “I can’t let it be said that I’m a bad host.”

     “Perhaps not.” Finished with his selection, Din set the plate down in front of Grogu, who looked up at him curiously, before reaching for a slice of pinkish meat on it. Not scolded, the boy bared his teeth in his best attempt at a grin, before stuffing the food unceremoniously into his mouth. Paz unwound his fingers so he could pat the ad on the head as Din said, “We’re busy men, with little free time.”

     “You must know who we are,” Paz agreed, refolding his fingers. Leaning forward into his glare, he pressed, “This seems like a waste of our time.”  

     “Of course I know who you are,” declared the man, his eyes twinkling, though Paz realised there was a hint of stress tightening his features. His right eyebrow was ever-so-faintly twitching. Tipping his head towards Din in indication, the man said, “You’re Mando. One of the best bounty hunters working out of the Nevarro Guild.”

     Paz felt Din bristle next to him, and wondered whether it was the implication that he wasn’t the best bounty hunter, or if it was because this man’s information about their position was wrong, because it seemed they really had been summoned for a hunt.

     “And you are?” Din asked, before Paz even thought to. “I don’t take Guild work anymore. I like to know who’s paying me.”

     “That’s unusual, isn’t it?” The man mused, tilting his head to the side. Studying them both with a raised brow and tightly-pressed lips, no longer smiling, he probed, “I’ve met others of your kind before, you know. They were hardly opposed to working for the highest bidder, no matter who that might have been.”

     “We’re expensive,” Din laid down flatly, his arms still hanging loose by his sides.

     “But discerning,” Paz added, pressing his knee against Din’s pre-emptively, so that the man would know he wasn’t charging him with anything, wasn’t throwing down a subtle accusation towards his previous work with Imperials. “We have a great deal of responsibility now.”

     “Indeed you do,” the man indicated Grogu with an inclination of his head, who paused in his industrious eating in order to point and turn inquisitively towards Din and Paz. “How is the new change in your life treating you?”

     “It keeps us busy,” Paz said pointedly. Then, more pointedly, “Or it would, if we weren’t here.”

     Chuckling, waving off Paz’s concerns with a lazy hand, the man – who Paz had noticed had never actually given his name, only adding to his suspicions – declared, “You—” he waved his knife between the two of them, ignoring the glob of orange preserve that fell from it to the otherwise pristine tablecloth “—need a vacation. I’ve heard the forests of Ashas Ree are excellent this time of year.”

     Next to him, Din’s buy’ce tilted, his body tipping ever so slightly inwards towards the table. Paz realised that his attention had been caught, that something their host had just said had registered as important, though he wasn’t sure what. Unless the other Mando’ad really wanted a break – which, considering their argument last night, seemed unlikely – it must have been Ashas Rees. But Paz didn’t recognise the name, couldn’t put the pieces together.

     That was, he couldn’t, until Din said, “Or somewhere nearby.”

     Florrum. He must have been talking about Florrum.

     Suddenly, Paz realised, as Din must already have realised, that they were speaking in code. This man, obnoxious as he may have been, had a message for them, but he feared they were being watched, that somebody in his blasted floating city was a spy. Who they were supposed to be working for, Paz could only guess. But it was a very good guess.

     Feeling more engaged with the conversation than he had previously, he resettled himself in his seat, hooked his ankles around the legs of his chair and tucked it in closer to the table, closer to the man so that he could hear him more clearly.  

     Din, rigid in his seat, was clearly engaged despite his stillness.

     “If you can find a destination somewhere nearby,” the man, obviously recognising that they had understood his intentions, scooped a spoonful of berries and cream into his mouth, chewed it thoroughly before finishing, “That would be ideal.” Gesturing to the lay before them, he practically demanded, “Come, eat with me.”

     Sighing deeply, Din said, “We’ll need straws.”

     With a click of his fingers, their host managed to summon a brunette aide that had been hiding just out of sight on the other side of the open doorway. Kicking himself for not scanning in infrared before he sat down, Paz bit his tongue, tried desperately not to let his embarrassment show despite the way it locked his muscles.

     He still wasn’t completely used to life outside the covert, and it had been over a year since he had left Glavis for his vengeance turned avowal.

     “Straws for our honoured guests,” the host said, charmingly.

     “Yes, Lord Calrissian.” The aide, standing close to the man – Calrissian’s – chair, bowed low enough that her forehead almost touched the man’s silky, pale blue cape.

     Looking uncomfortable, Calrissian bid her rise, then shooed her off with a wave of his fingers, turning to Din with an almost pained expression.

     “Whatever you end up doing in your life,” he hissed, leaning forward over his plate, fingers clutching tightly at the edges of the table, crumpling the cloth covering it. “Do not get assistants like that.”

     Din didn’t say anything in response, but Paz knew exactly what he was thinking. In an ideal world, Din would not get assistants at all. Paz didn’t know how to break it to him that, if he really claimed rule of Mandalore, if he really retook the planet like Kryze wanted him to, like so many of their vode wanted him to, he probably wasn’t going to be able to avoid being saddled with a flock of Mando’ade who got an unholy amount of joy out of fetching things for him, opening doors for him, and keeping his schedules.

     Sometimes, Paz wondered why he had been so desperate to claim the darksaber from Din in the first place. Thinking on it further, the administrative fate sounded like Haran itself.

     Before anything could be said in response to Calrissian’s hanging sentence, however, the aide returned, two metal straws clutched tightly in one hand. Rounding the table, she held them out to Din with a bow, and he plucked them up, looking more uncomfortable than even their host had.

     Paz resisted the urge to snort at the idea that every time Din would be bowed to in the future, he would so openly cringe.

     Pulling forward two cups of juice, picking out one that he was certain Din would like – it smelled far less sweet than his own – Paz let the other man slip the straws into their drinks before sliding his up under his buy’ce and taking a sip.

     The burst of flavour on his tongue was magnificently sugary, reminiscent of his home planet’s fruit pastries, and the wetness of it soothed his parched mouth. With that discomfort removed, he felt as some of his remaining irritation evaporated away, leaving him fully ready to engage in a veiled conversation.

     “That’s an interesting symbol you have there on your shoulder.” Okay, maybe he wasn’t ready to engage in veiled conversation. This was only the second step of it, and he was already lost. He liked straight-talkers. Still, he tried to keep up as Calrissian pointed to the skull on Din’s bes’marbur, asked as if he really was interested in the answer, “What is it?”

     “A mudhorn,” Din told him steadily. “The symbol of my clan.”

     “But your clan doesn’t wear it?”

     With a start, Paz realised that Calrissian was referring to himself and Grogu.

     Unsure how to respond to their host’s probing, Paz turned to Din, waited for the other man to answer.

     “My son is too young for a pauldron.” Paz was glad to hear Din claiming Grogu as his son without hesitation, glad that his telling Din to perform the gai bal manda had worked, had made the man realise that the two were family and that wasn’t going to change, not ever. But his pride subsided quickly, lost in the anticipation of hearing Din’s words about him. They were, “Clan politics are complicated.”

     A sinking in Paz’s stomach; he had hoped for Din to say something that would give him hope, would indicate that the other man was just as interested in building an aliit together as Paz was. After all, Mando’ade didn’t tend to take their time about marriage, about relationships, especially not in the covert they had both grown up in.

     Once feelings were realised, courting would usually last for a few weeks to a few months, and then the riduurok would take place, accompanied by as big a gal’riduurok as could be thrown with the supplies they had on hand. Often, Din had been sent out to fetch more, the riduurok ceremony delayed for a week or two just so that their beroya would have had time to take a few bounties, earn enough credits to stock up on food and beskar paint. The food would be put to good use in the gal’riduurok, a huge feast laid out in celebration, the whole tribe chatting loudly enough to be heard through the privacy curtains hung throughout the cavernous mess-tunnel.

     The beskar paint, on the other hand, went to use in the riduurok ceremony itself. Aruetiise often believed that Mando’ade swapped pieces of beskar’gam, usually a kom’rk or a bes’marbur. However, Paz knew from sitting through many ceremonies that that was untrue. Often, the Mando’ade who were speaking the vows were not the same size, could not comfortably wear the other’s beskar’gam. What they could do, however, was paint their original kom’rk to match their riduur’s colour palate.

     Ridiculously, sadly, Paz wondered how he and Din would manage the ceremony. Even if he stripped the paint from his kom’rk, it would not look as bright or as shiny as Din’s. Though the amount of beskar he was wearing was high, not a single plate on his body was pure. The durasteel alloy was duller, greyer. It would hardly be a representative of the man he loved.

     Worse, Din had shown no inclination towards painting his beskar’gam at all. Would the prospect of having to do so drive him away from speaking the riduurok with Paz? Was the idea of having a blue—

     A kick to his ankle jerked him from his spiralling thoughts, left his still-sore leg throbbing.

     Scowling, he swivelled his visor until it rested on Din, who outwardly appeared to be incredibly focused on whatever Calrissian was nattering on about. Distantly, Paz could hear something about a friend of his and their senator wife, about them growing a family, having a child of their own.

     Then, abruptly, catching Paz’s attention from the sheer randomness of it, Calrissian asked, “Do you understand Wookiees?”

     Paz nodded, even while Din, ever the show-off when it came to languages, rumbled out, in accented but understandable Shyriiwook, “Passably.”

     Calrissian clapped his hands together, chuckled, “Perfect!”

     Paz glanced around, trying to locate any reason for such a question to have been asked. He could find none, and frowned in confusion.

     Beside him, Din drank the last of his juice, leaving only deep red watery dregs in the bottom of the glass. Grogu, always interested in what his buir was consuming, raised the vessel with some difficulty and poured the remains into his waiting mouth, cooing in delight when it hit his tongue. With a sigh, Din caught up the tattered end of his cape and used it to wipe Grogu’s sticky chin.

     Paz saw Calrissian watching them with a sparkling expression, a mingling of surprise, intrigue, and fondness contained within his dark eyes.

     Eventually, once Grogu was done shovelling the last few morsels on his plate into his mouth, the man said, “You’ll be paid handsomely, of course.”

     “For what?” Paz asked, the question genuine. He understood that they were there under the guise of two beroyase seeking out high-paying work, but that was exactly his point. They hadn’t discussed any contract, only made vague, confusing conversation that Paz hoped Din had been following better then he had, otherwise all the clues they had just been delivered were lost to them entirely. “You haven’t hired us for anything.”

     “Of course I have.” When Calrissian laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkled up charmingly, increasing his handsomeness. Paz didn’t like it. It was a practised smile, entirely different to the just as charming, but far more genuine, Kanis’s. Not for the first time, he deeply missed the company of other Mando’ade. Though he could no longer deny that they did have to complete this job, they had to do so as quickly as possible, he decided. Calrissian caught his attention again, claiming, “You’ll be hunting for me. You have all the details you need, don’t you?” Din nodded. “Excellent! Then, as I was saying, you’ll be paid handsomely.”

     “How?” Paz demanded, wondering what they would get for their efforts.

     “Why, enough supplies and fuel to tide you over to your destination,” Calrissian declared, grandly. Before Paz could ask if that was it, could complain that that was less than they would usually get from even the smallest planet they stopped on, the man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a bar of metal. A familiar metal, swirled and shiny, stamped with the Imperial print. “And this, left behind by the occupation many years ago. It should be in the hands of your people, don’t you think?”

     Tentatively, Paz reached out across the table, palm up and open to receive the bounty.

     When it was placed into his hand, he felt its familiar weight, recognised that smooth texture, that brilliant solidness of it. Drawing it back to himself, he offered it to Din, listened to that glorious ringing sound as the man struck the bar against his kom’rk. Pure beskar, in bar form.

     “Will that be enough?” Calrissian asked, and for just a flicker of a moment he looked genuinely worried that it wouldn’t be, that they would turn him down.

     And then Din was rising from his seat, reaching for his discarded bevii’ragir with one hand, the beskar clutched tightly in the other. Copying him, Paz rose, scooping up Grogu and balancing him on his shoulder, listening as the ad’s claws scratched lightly against his buy’ce as he kept himself upright by grasping the rim of it. 

     “It’s enough,” Din assured, passing their prize over to Paz. He tucked it carefully into his largest belt pouch, then copied Din in leaning over the table, gripping the man’s arm in a traditional Mandalorian arm-clasp.

     Calrissian looked a little confused by the gesture, but grinned all the same, said, “Then it’s a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.”

     And that, Paz supposed, was that. They had their heading, they had their payment, and Din had all the information they needed to know.

     Once again, there was a mission ahead of them, and while it wasn’t the one Paz had been wanting or expecting, they were going to see it through.

////////////////

By the time they reached Florrum, Paz’s frustration was back tenfold. The journey had not been quick, and all the supplies packed for them on Bespin had been the mildest, blandest foods Paz had ever eaten. He might as well have been eating Reeves’s rehydrated mush for all the enjoyment he had gotten from it.

     Matters were only made worse by the fact that, trapped in such a small space and fully supplied, they had had no reason to stop off and hunt for their supper. While he supposed it had made their journey quicker, it had made it feel longer. There had been no way to work off his energy, no way to burn off his aggression.

     Early on in the journey, he had continued Din’s Miri lessons, but after a day and a half of doing little else, he had grown tired of the repetitive nature of the task. After that, they had improvised a game of mirsh’geroya, but a few rounds of losing that had grown frustrating, and rules appeared to be being made up on the spot on both sides. Eventually, Paz had skulked off to the cockpit, had stayed there, occasionally pressing useless buttons and wishing he was on Klatooine.

     Meanwhile, Din had been doing something much more useful; sewing a new toy for Grogu out of one of his ruined kute. It was lumpy, and Paz hadn’t actually been sure what it had supposed to be a soft toy of, but Grogu had squealed in delight when it was handed to him. Paz had realised, in that moment, that he hadn’t heard the ad’s laugh throughout the entire trip. It had only made him feel worse.

     So, when they landed on Florrum and set foot for the first time in almost a week on solid ground, Paz felt he could breathe a sigh of relief.

     Orange sky, fresh, spice-scented air, and yellowish grasses underfoot all relieved some of his tension. They had landed in the port, Weequays having guided them down, and the sound of ships landing and taking off was deafening. There were the sharp beeps of binary from irritated or startled droids, the low commands of well-armed captains, even the occasional bleating of livestock being unloaded. Ever present beneath the initial din was the chattering hum of a criminal hub.

     Briefly, distantly, Paz was reminded of the comfortingly incessant noises of Nevarro as he had heard them from within the tunnels of the covert. His chest tightened; the corners of his lips pulled down. But he shook the feeling off. It would not do to be distracted by grief on a planet like Florrum.

     Satisfyingly, as they crossed the port together, Grogu tucked securely into Din’s hip bag, most of those populating it gave them a wide berth. It meant they reached the bustle of the packed-dirt streets quickly, and without much incident to add to Paz’s mounting irritation. The only tension that did arise was when a rusty R6 unit bumped into Din’s thigh and spat vitriol in binary, though that was soon shut down when Din pulled his blaster. He didn’t shoot, but the threat was clear.

     Perhaps unfairly, Paz had felt a little better in himself, knowing that Din was just as frustrated and wary as he was.

     Din’s stiffness had only increased when they had begun to walk through the market. Stalls of all kinds were set up on the sides of the roads, tables bursting with many goods, though all seemed worn, tattered, or broken. Grogu, as was his wont, tried to peer out of the bag at the wares, but Din kept him pinned inside with one hand, obviously not trusting any of the crowd not to recognise Grogu as the bounty he used to be.

     Paz didn’t blame him. The streets were filled with all the lowest of scum and villainy.

     Weequay pirates wandered to-and-fro, inspecting and taking goods with little care for the complaints of the traders.

     Behind one shadowed stall, Paz spied an Ithorian attempting to entice teenage street rats towards themself. When he saw the various hard spices piled high on the man’s table, he made sure to bump into a young human scurrying over. The boy, who couldn’t have been older than fourteen, fell into a stall of half-rotten fruits. The furious minder chased him away and the teen fled with his metaphorical tail between his legs, but Paz couldn’t find it within himself to be sorry, not when it meant the boy had been kept away from a spice-haze for another day.

     All over the town, similar scenes played out. Paz watched a drunken Rodian stumble out from between two wattle-and-daub huts. He saw a Reesarian get into a shoot-out with a Devlikk over some engine parts, saw as a gang of Weequay youths vandalised an Ardennian’s speeder, saw young pickpockets hurrying through the crowds, collecting goods for whatever boss they answered to as they went.

     Fortunately, none were dumb enough to try to steal from Mando’ade. Paz suspected that they might have got a blaster waved in their face for their efforts, so tense was the man beside him.

     His tension only rose when someone behind them cried out, “Mandalorians!”

     Paz froze.

     Widening his stance, dropping his shoulders, loosening himself for what could potentially be a real scuffle, he pivoted.

     Standing behind him, dressed in a red coat that had probably once been fancy but was now more patch than anything else, was a Weequay. A hat was pressed firmly onto his head, and goggles covered his eyes, leaving only his narrow, spiked chin visible. His traditional braids, wrapped with dull threads, hung down his back.

     Flanking him, dressed in thin linen shirts and grubby pants, were a whole crew of individuals. Most were Weequay, though a dusty, grey Nautolan hovered near the back. Closest to his side, standing at his shoulder-height, was a Tholothian girl in a similar coat to his. Her eyes were strikingly blue, and fixed on Din’s bag.

     Uncomfortable, Paz half-raised his arms, ready and more than willing to throw a punch should the Tholothian edge even one inch closer.

     “My, my,” the Weequay folded his hands behind his back, stepping closer and peering up through his smudgy goggles. Half his teeth were gold, Paz saw when he spoke, the others looking yellowed and rotten. “We hardly get any Mandalorians here. Not since the old days.”

     Paz bit back the sarcastic comment that begged to trip off his tongue, instead waited to see how Din would respond to the situation.

     After a few moments, it became clear that the other man was going to respond only with judgemental silence. The usual, then. Unhelpful. 

     “Come now,” the Weequay pouted, though there was a hardness behind his eyes that belied the mock hurt of his expression. “I don’t like it when my guests ignore me. We can be friends, can we not? This is, after all, a town to your gentlemen’s fine tastes.”

     Again, Din responded with silence. Again, Paz copied him.

     “I am Hondo Ohnaka.” Pressing a dramatic hand to his chest, the Weequay – Hondo – moved forwards. He came right up to them, reaching out almost as if he was going to touch their beskar. He evidently thought better of it, because he drew his hand back closer to his body, waving it around with flourishes as he spoke. “And this fine establishment is my fine establishment!” When that still drew no response from either himself or Din, Hondo leaned forward and hissed under his breath, not so quietly that his crew couldn’t hear, “That means you bow to me around these parts.”

     “We’re not here to cause trouble,” Din finally said, and Paz swung his visor the other man’s way. Between the kicked-up dust beginning to dull the gleam of his beskar’gam and the web-like cracks in his visor, Din already looked like a low-life. With his bevii’ragir and his amban jutting violently upwards over each shoulder, he looked downright dangerous. Nobody would think he was there to cause trouble. He was the trouble. “Once we’ve seen to our business, we’ll be on our way.”

     “A Mandalorian who doesn’t cause trouble?” Hondo laughed, and when they heard him, his crew all laughed along with him, all but the Tholothian, who was still focused intently on Din’s bag. Shaking his head, Hondo sighed, “I had thought we had real Mandalorians amongst us. But you cannot be real! Not here to cause trouble? Pah! Where did you get that beskar?” Rubbing his fingers and thumb together on one hand, he leaned in, told them, “There’s some shiny credits in it for you if you tell me.”

     Paz took a step forward, found his progress halted by Din’s restraining grip on his elbow. Hondo, startled by his movements, stumbled back, his hands raised placatingly, his mouth stretched into a thin smile.

     “My mistake, my mistake,” he chuckled, straightening and tucking his hands behind his back. “Mandalorian or not, you are clearly fine warriors! But… even fine warriors must pay tribute to the King of Florrum.”

     “I was unaware Florrum had a king,” Paz growled, though he fell back beside Din as instructed.

     “Oh, it’s all very new,” the Weequay reassured with a lazy wave of his hand. “I was inspired by the new king of Tatooine. I thought, perhaps I can make myself a king, too. And it worked!”

     He threw his hands out wide, a gesture that was evidently meant to encompass all Hondo had accomplished. Tilting his buy’ce to the side just slightly, Paz saw as a Balosar woman with startlingly orange hair was thrown from what must have been a cantina by a rough-looking Weequay woman. The Balosar picked herself up from the ground and staggered across the road, before vomiting against the wall of another hut.

     Paz wondered if Hondo really ought to have been that proud about his accomplishments. After all, Fett had done it better. Paz remembered, at the very least, that there hadn’t been any signs of slavery in the palace, nor in any of the towns that Fett seemed to hold sway over. Din had told him that spice, too, was a trade no longer welcome on Tatooine, that they had been in the middle of a battle with the Pyke syndicate when Grogu had returned to him.

     The silence of both his and Din’s judgement stretched between the group, and then Hondo was talking again, a ceaseless chatter that all carried the sharp edge of threat to it, along with more than one shady business deal.

     “—you know that there have been rumours that someone found the darksaber.” Paz’s attention was suddenly captured, chained inescapably to what the Weequay was saying. “You Mandos should know all about it, if you really are Mandos. But here I was thinking…” he stroked his jaw, eyes shrewdly narrowed. “Perhaps if you joined me, before the Mando king can give his call. A crime boss needs his hired hands, after all.”

     Beneath his buy’ce, Paz’s eyebrows rose, then continued to rise when he realised the Weequay wasn’t joking.

     Offended, Paz boomed, “No Mandalorian worth their beskar would ignore the call of the Mand’alor. It is not the Way.”

     “Oh-ho!” One brown finger pointed up into the air triumphantly, and a look of delight spread across Hondo’s face. “So you are real Mandalorians after all! A boon to have wandering my town, to be sure.” Sounding almost regretful, though Paz knew it was all an act, the man told them, “But there is still the matter of payment.”

     “What do you want?” Din’s voice was quiet, resigned.

     Paz couldn’t blame him. He, too, wanted to get off the blasted planet as quickly as possible, yet there they were, locked in a stalemate with a pirate king. They could hardly blast their way out: doing so would likely send whoever or whatever it was they had come to meet running. Plus, they didn’t need the kind of heat starting a war with Florrum would bring.

     At the same time, Paz really didn’t want to be running bounties for the Weequay, and they had precious few credits to spend.

     “Oh, nothing much, nothing much,” the Weequay assured, one arm folded across his chest, his opposite elbow resting on that hand. His balled fist pressed to his mouth, as if he were deep in thought, but Paz was far from stupid. He was fully aware that the man already knew exactly what he wanted. “A few credits will do nicely.”

     A tired sigh, and then Din was shifting, pulling the little black pouch that tucked into his belt out. Opening it, he tipped out a few metal bars, readying himself to throw, but the Weequay held up his hand, shook his head.

     “Oh, no, no, no,” he told them, his braids swinging lazily back and forth with the shake of his head. “I couldn’t possibly take them from you directly.” Holding up one finger, he declared, “But! You must spend them here in my market, yes? Yes!”

     Paz simply stared at the man. Was business that bad that he had to threaten people into buying? From the rowdy crowds within the cantinas lining the streets, Paz doubted it. So it had to be something else, something different.

     Perhaps the sight of two Mando’ade, decked in full beskar’gam, would give credence to the man’s claims to kingship. Perhaps their presence would establish some gravity to the criminal empire Hondo was evidently trying to build up.

     Whatever the reason, it was no hardship to visit the markets, Paz thought. Especially considering the fact that both he and Din were in desperate need of ammunition, and cannon and lighter fuel.

     Din must have reached the same conclusion as Paz, because he put his pouch away, sighed, “Fine.”

     “Excellent!” Hondo declared, turning on the spot. His crew turned with him, all of them. It was only when the group was a few enaabe away that they seemed to realise that Paz and Din weren’t following. Over his shoulder, Hondo called back, “We will hold a toast for our visitors. Come, come!”

     So, with a deep sigh and very little other option, Paz and Din followed behind.

////////////////

It had taken a few hours for their hosts to finally drink themselves to oblivion. Only Hondo, deeply inebriated, had noticed as they had slipped from the hall, and though he had tried to call them back, they hadn’t listened. It wasn’t like the Weequay was going to remember any of the final two hours of the impromptu party, anyway.

     By the time they left, the streets were twilit, more stumbling drunkards on them than before. Bounty hunters, some familiar from Tatooine or other hotspots for non-guild work and some entirely unfamiliar, lurked in the shadows. One brown-haired human watched he and Din closely as they passed, and Paz made sure to keep his visor fixed threateningly on the man.

     The pickpockets appeared to have gone, replaced with women crying out credits for time from narrow doorways or dingy alleyways. Most were human or Twi’lek, though Paz did notice one Karkarodon woman in strategically placed red scraps.

     Men stumbled into the women, their hands grabbing too tight, their faces twisted into proprietary leers. Prices were low, and concerns for the safety of these women seemed even lower. 

     Even Nar Shaddaa hadn’t been as bad, Paz thought. Though, he supposed, that may have only been because there were creatures stalking those streets that would have eaten any who tried peddling any sort of services in the dark.

     Eventually, after walking some distance, Grogu kept tucked safely down inside the bag he was carried in despite his mounting protests, Din halted their journey.

     Seemingly at random, he turned towards the doorway of one of the huts, beckoning Paz after him. Brow furrowed, Paz trailed Din into a full cantina.

     This one was quieter than the others on the street had been, the hushed sounds of cutting conversation and contemplative drinking washing over him in a wave. His hair stood on end beneath his beskar, the back of his neck prickling.

     There was always something off-putting about being in a smuggler’s tavern. Even bounty hunters rarely spoke so stiltedly, and in such low voices.

     Din, ignoring the atmosphere as usual, stepped up to the bar, ordered two ales – not black, Mandalorian ales were never sold anymore – and a cup of green milk. Surprisingly, the bartender had that rare beverage on hand. She slammed the mug down onto a coaster printed with a strange, horned and furry beast, asking no questions. She was probably used to strange requests, in a cantina like hers.

     Thanking her, Din returned to Paz’s side, balancing all three mugs. Reaching out, Paz took his own, then scanned the room himself. He wasn’t sure what they were doing there, but he could still be helpful.

     Most of the clientele were human or near-human, though a group of Iridonian Zabraks huddled in the far corner. Wooden posts held up the roof, leaving it impossible to get a full view of the space, and some tables were hidden in the shadows of deep alcoves in the back wall. From one of those alcoves arose the growling warbles of an irritated Wookiee, and something pinged in Paz’s mind.

     Calrissian had asked them about their Shyriiwook.

     With a jerk of his head, he led Din towards the sounds. The path through the tables was made an easy one by sheer fact that they were Mando’ade; chairs scraped out of their way, wayward limbs returned to their owners, and some unsettled drinkers even got up and left the establishment entirely.

     It was possible, Paz realised, that most believed that he and Din were bounty hunters there on a job. But, as they were leaving most people undisturbed, it seemed they were being left undisturbed in turn.

     That was, until they got to the alcove in question.

     Paz stopped short when he realised that one of the men – the brown-haired human in smuggler’s garb – had drawn his blaster under the table, the movements of his upper arm and shoulder subtle, but obvious enough if one knew what they were looking for.

     Din, just as observant as Paz, shifted the bag Grogu was in until it was out of the line of fire, then stood with his thumbs tucked into his belt, waiting.

     Unable to look nor feel as confident standing in the same position, Paz left his hands dangling by his sides, perfectly ready to snatch up his blaster should the need for it arise. Though the charge was running low, he had faith that it would serve him for at least a single shot.

     “We don’t like your kind here, bounty hunters,” the brunet said, one arm stretched out faux casually along the back of his tattered bench-seat. The dark leather was cracked, and he picked at it idly, even while he jerked his head to the side, told them, “Beat it.”

     “We’re here for you,” Paz told him, and watched in interest as the man seemed to tense further. His movements became tighter, cleaner-cut, even as he sprawled wider, his head lolling heavier. The bravado was almost amusing.

     “Here for me, huh?” He nodded to his companion, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. It would have looked perfect, were it not for the faint line between his brows, almost invisible in the dim light of the cantina. “You hear that, Chewie? They’re here for me.”

     The Wookiee rumbled an admonition to his companion, telling him to behave, to not start a fight.

     Evidently the human ignored it, because suddenly he was leaning forward on the table, his blaster hand still beneath it, his other forearm pressed flat to it. His hand splayed on the wooden surface, and he told them, as if in confidentiality, disguised by the low chatter of the bar, “I’m actually here waiting for someone, and you’re not gonna like who. So I’d suggest, before they get here, you scram.”  

     He threw his thumb suddenly to the side, indicating the door.

     Din merely resettled his stance, utterly unimpressed. Paz found fondness for the other man bubbling up within him. Though he dearly desired to return to Klatooine, there was always a treat in watching Din work. It was in the surety of his movements, in the sniffy disdain he seemed to hold for the whole galaxy and all its occupants. It only made being the one he trusted, the one he confided in, the one he willingly put his back to, all the sweeter. And all the funnier, watching everyone else he interacted with getting riled up while Din stayed completely unmoved.

     This smuggler-figure was no different.

     To Din’s silence, he said, “Seriously, fellas. The bounty on me? Not worth it. Tell ‘em, Chewie.”

     Nudged by the human’s arm, the Wookiee rumbled again. This time to ask the man to stop elbowing him.

     The smuggler, though, said, “You said it, Chewie. They aren’t the first Mandos I’ve met. You think I should tell them what happened to their buddy when he came after me?”

     The Wookiee answered with a short, emphatic no.

     Evidently, either the man himself didn’t speak Shyriiwook, or he didn’t believe Din and Paz did, because he grinned wickedly, and shared, “Last Mando who came after me? Much bigger rep than you guys have. And I—” he jabbed the thumb of his free hand towards himself, his chest puffing up proudly, though Paz suspected the movement was in order to disguise the way his blaster shifted to rest on Paz rather than Din “—put him in a sarlacc. Yeah. So hows about you two jokers turn around and walk out that door, before I do to you what I did to him?”

     Paz, ignoring the way Din tensed beside him, feeling facetious and not particularly concerned by the threat the smuggler posed, pointed out, “There are no sarlaccs on Florrum.”

     The Wookiee chuckled softly to itself under its breath, earning a betrayed look from the smuggler. Before Paz could seize the opening, though, the man whipped back around, didn’t take his eyes off Din or Paz for a second more. He eyed Paz as the more dangerous, to Paz’s amusement, most likely to do with his size, or maybe the single step forward he had taken. Din, far more dangerous out of the two of them, stayed stock still. An outsider might have believed he had fallen asleep in his buy’ce.

     Paz restrained his snort of amusement.

     “I don’t need any sarlaccs to put you down, Mando,” the smuggler said, and for the first time Din did move. He shifted his visor ever so slightly so that he could pin it on the human, the cracks in it almost fading to invisibility in the shadowed lighting, restoring his appearance to its former glory. Other than a darting glance, the smuggler didn’t shift his attention away from Paz. He wondered why.

     It took him a moment to realise that the smuggler hadn’t heard of Din, didn’t realise he was the Mandalorian bounty hunter that answered to ‘Mando’, didn’t know just how prolific in his work Din had been.

     Might be more scared, Paz thought. If he did know.

     He was just about to say so, to reveal Din’s reputation, when the smuggler chuckled to himself, said, “I know word is I’ve turned over a new leaf, and maybe I have. But I still don’t have any problems with shooting first.”

     Paz’s gaze flickered down to the tabletop under which the man’s blaster was concealed, then back up to the man’s face. He wondered how, exactly, the smuggler thought he was going to get a clear shot at them through the pitted surface.

     Scoffing, he reminded the man, “We’re wearing beskar, di’kut.”

     It was testament to just how unfriendly Din had become – and Paz still needed to figure out what it was the smuggler had said that had upset Din so, because there was no way this guy had actually put a Mandalorian in a sarlacc – that he didn’t even quell Paz’s name-calling.

     The smuggler obviously hadn’t noticed the coldness emanating from Din, because he snorted, said, “You’ve still got squishy bits between those plates though, haven’t you? And let me tell you something: I’m not a half-bad shot. Good enough to down a friend of yours. So why don’t you let me and my buddy drink in peace?” He leaned back in his seat again, once more the picture of relaxation. “I told you, ain’t no bounty worth it, and I don’t want to go home and tell my wife I caused a scene on a job just ‘cause I had to show some puffed-up, big-egoed, overgrown laserbrains why nobody messes with me.”

     Next to him, the Wookiee rumbled out a lament at the ridiculousness of his companion, shaking their head in exasperation.

     “Boy, you said it, Chewie.” Turning to Din and Paz, the smuggler flicked his finger back and forward between himself and his companion, saying, “If you don’t leave us alone, it’s not just me you’ll have to deal with. And surely not even Mandos are dumb enough to mess with a Wookiee holding a grudge.” Turning to the Wookiee, not taking his eyes off of them even as he leaned in, he asked, “Hey, Chewie, do you think these bucket-heads are dumb enough?”

     The Wookiee rumbled out its species’ equivalent of a deep, exasperated sigh.

     Din, close enough to Paz that he could feel as the man shifted his weight from one hip to the other, asked, exhaustion clear in his tone of voice, “You done?”

     “What do you mean ‘am I done’?” The smuggler asked, incredulous. “Didn’t you sleemos hear anything I just said? I’m waiting for someone. And you won’t want to be here when they get here.”

     Sighing quietly, disappointed that the man hadn’t, apparently, understood the situation yet, Paz announced to him, “We are the contacts you’re here to meet.”

     “Yeah, right.” The smuggler snorted, his gaze flicking between Din and Paz incredulously. With one pointedly raised brow, he said, “I’m here to meet King Mando. Real impressive guy, apparently.”

     Brown eyes focused on the scratches on Paz’s hal’cabur, the hastily stitched leg of his kute that the mutant-massif had torn through on Mandalore, the mud caking Paz’s boots. Shifting his gaze to Din, the smuggler let it catch on the creeping lines webbing across Din’s visor, the tattered edge of his cloak, even the empty bandolier running across his chest.

     Wincing privately inside his buy’ce, Paz realised that the man did have a point. After all, they hadn’t really stopped since Mandalore, hadn’t had a chance to fix themselves up, to make themselves presentable in the eyes of non-Mando’ade. Even the nobility the bevii’ragir gave Din was diminished by the amban stabbing up over his other shoulder. Even the indication the darksaber would have provided to any vod, and possibly New Republic contacts, was lost by Din’s insistence on wearing the blade under his cloak where it couldn’t be seen.

     Paz supposed that, realistically speaking, they did just look like run-of-the-mill bounty hunters. And perhaps not even good ones, at that.

     “What’s with that get-up, anyway?” The smuggler asked, taking a swig from the mug before him. “You look like you’ve just come from a sarlacc yourselves.”

     “No, we don’t,” Din said, though he didn’t elaborate further.

     Turning his head, Paz inspected the other man. He was tense, his shoulders higher than they usually were. There was a dangerousness to the way he was standing, a subtle indication of the rage swelling within. Paz had only seen Din so furious once before, when Grogu had been indirectly threatened by a bounty who didn’t know when enough was enough. That bounty had been brought in cold. Ice cold.

     Fearing that the smuggler would end up in much the same situation, Paz put his hand on Din’s elbow. He tried to ignore the sting of it when he was summarily shaken off.

     “Talkative guy, isn’t he?” The smuggler said, and Paz watched in concern when Din’s chest hitched in anger.

     The Wookiee growled at Han to stop, that the Mandalorian clearly didn’t like him.

     “Yeah, I don’t like him either.” The man said.

     Before he could elaborate, could run his mouth and get himself into even more trouble, Din spoke up, said, “You have information for us.”

     “I have information for your king,” the smuggler stressed. “Different thing, that.”

     Irritation prickling through his blood, now that he had realised just how wound-up Din was, Paz thrust his finger out to indicate his partner.

     “He is our king,” he declared, eyes narrowed even though they couldn’t be seen. “Our Mand’alor.”

     The look of disbelief on the smuggler’s face was, frankly, insulting. His brows were raised, his lips curving downwards at the corners. Without saying a word, he turned to his companion, tilted his head in a clear question.

     The Wookiee rumbled their response, asking the man if he had been expecting a crown of the leader of a warrior people.

     “I at least expected a golden helmet,” the man suggested, then peered around the room as if he thought that a Mandalorian in just such beskar’gam would poke their head out from behind a pillar.

     Disappointed in the display, Paz explained, voice rough with impatience, “Mandalorians wear gold for vengeance. The colour of our leaders is bronze.”

     “A colour I notice your friend there isn’t wearing.” The smuggler indicated Din with an upward nod of his head, then turned his attention from Paz to Din. Mockingly, he asked, “What’s the matter, Silver? Couldn’t find enough bronze?” When Din didn’t dignify such a question with an answer, the man informed them, “You know you could buy enough of the stuff to build an entire gunship out of it with just one of your pauldrons, right?”

     Paz thought that making a gunship out of bronze would have been a terrible idea. He also thought that swapping a pauldron made of pure beskar for a buy’ce made of bronze would have been a terrible idea. Idly, he wondered who let the smuggler out on his own, then caught sight of the Wookiee again and mused on the possibility that the furred being was there as adult supervision. All things considered, it made sense.

     Tiredly, more to the Wookiee than anyone else, Paz repeated, finger pointing once again, “This man is the Mand’alor.”  

     “Yeah? Prove it.”

     That demand stumped Paz just a little. How were they supposed to do that? As they had already discussed, Din didn’t wear a bronze buy’ce, and even if he had, they had no proof that what they had said was the truth. To aruetiise, a simple vow of honesty hardly counted.

     Worse, there were no other Mando’ade around to prove their claims. Even if they were, unless they were shown the darksaber…

     The darksaber!

     But…

     “The only proof we have is not something we can simply get out and wave around in public,” Paz bit out, frustrated. Blowing his cheeks out beneath his buy’ce, he resisted the urge to sigh heavily. Next to him, Din’s visor swivelled to pin on his, even as the smuggler tried to smother a laugh. Poorly.

     Eyes darting down to Din’s belt of all things – or maybe lower, but Paz didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to imagine the way the stranger might have been considering his partner, eying his partner – the man snickered, “It might be impressive, but I doubt that alone makes you the ruler of your people.”

     The Wookiee reached out to bat at the smuggler’s shoulder, and Paz realised suddenly and with great fury that the man had been looking at Din’s crotch. How dare he—

     “After all,” the man continued, nodding his head towards Paz himself with an uptick to his lips, “Someone’s always got a bigger one.”

     Self-conscious – trying desperately not to think of Din’s size, of how impressive he might be, of how attractive – Paz shifted, turning helplessly towards his fellow Mando’ad.

     With his uncareful words, Paz had gotten them into an uncomfortable conversation, and he feared he would not be able to find their way out of it. His way of speaking had never been exceptionally well-known for getting anybody out of trouble. More often, he tended to get people into trouble. Himself, usually, and whoever was with him. He was too quick to explode, and he rarely thought through what he said.

     Taking pity on Paz, or maybe he really was as exasperated with the conversation as he sounded, Din commanded, “Enough.” Stepping forwards, thumbs still tucked securely into his belt, visor tilted down menacingly at the brunet, Din told him, “We were sent here by Calrissian. We came from Bespin.”

     Swallowing discreetly – though not discreetly enough that Paz didn’t notice it – the smuggler asked, “Yeah?”

     Obviously taking it as the probing it was, Din elaborated, “He attempted to gift me a cloak. I did not accept.”

     Both in an attempt to lessen the tension, and to further the credibility of what Din had said, Paz shrugged, pointed out, “It was an ugly cloak.”

     Immediately, Chewie volunteered that they believed what Din and Paz were saying.

     The smuggler took a little while longer, sitting there deliberating with an almost pained expression pinching their face, their eyes darting around the establishment a few more times. Whenever the door opened, they glanced at it, before sinking deeper into their seat each time they were disappointed by the newcomer. The susurration of hushed conversation seemed to grow louder as he thought, pressing in on all sides.

     Then, as if he had given up, he threw his arms out to the sides, shook his head, declared, “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

     The Wookiee looked entirely unbothered by such a prospect.

     So unbothered, in fact, that its only response to its companions words was to tell him to offer Din and Paz a seat.

     Sliding into the booth, Din mimicking him on the other side of the table, Paz met the Wookie’s eyes, told it, “There is no need to speak through this shabuir. Our understanding of Shyriiwook is good enough.”

     Paz caught, just on the edge of his visual display, the way the smuggler next to him twitched. He wondered, in a brighter light, if he might have seen a red flush spreading over those tanned cheekbones, might have noticed a humiliated widening of those dark eyes.  

     Din’s buy’ce tilted as if he was darkly satisfied, pleased to see the hint of embarrassment clouding the once-smug face. Ever-so-slightly, his shoulders relaxed, his arms moving to rest in his lap, kom’rke forming a protective barrier around the bag that sat there, unmoving.

     The stillness unnerved Paz slightly; it was a rare day for Grogu to stay in the bag without complaints, without even a plaintive coo of displeasure, or a shouted ‘patoo’ of protest. Perhaps he could sense how tense his guardians were. The ad was far from stupid. In incredibly dangerous territory, he often stayed hidden away, aware that something awful could happen.

     Fondness for the ad swelled within him, only serving to make the jolt of unbridled terror that went through him at the Wookiee’s next words all the worse.

     Moff Gideon. Escaped.

     Stiff, he turned to Din, saw the raised shoulders, the strained way he was sitting, as if all he wanted to do was scoop up his ad and run and run and run. Considering what he had spent a good two years of his life doing, first from bounty hunters and then from the Imperials themselves, Paz wouldn’t have been surprised if that was exactly what Din wanted to do.

     Discreetly, he stretched his leg out, knocked his toes against Din’s boot and then around, moving until his ankle was pressed against Din’s, an expression of comfort that was enough to jerk Din from frantically whirling thoughts.

     Oh-so-slowly, his visor turned towards Chewie, pinning the Wookiee in place, and he asked, voice croaky and cracking, “How long?”

     Taking over for his friend, the smuggler said with a shrug, “A few weeks.”

     “A few weeks?” Paz was enraged not only by the answer, but at the casual delivery of it as well, as if it wasn’t a huge threat to the entire Mandalorian population, a huge threat to Din and his foundling. “We should have been told sooner.” 

     “Yeah, and how did you want us to do that, huh?” the human asked, a single brow raised. “The Mand’alor wasn’t kriffing available. And then when he was, he was on the other side of the kriffing galaxy.”

     Fuming, Paz made to launch himself to his feet, to grab up the front of the smuggler’s clothes and shake him, to demand he take the matter seriously, to stop defending a corrupt Republic who had not thought to inform the people affected most by Gideon’s escape that the demagolka even had escaped.

     The Wookiee halted him, interrupting his actions with a hand pressed flat to the table over a carved impression that looked like the horned and furred beast on the coasters at the bar, likely the cantina’s logo. Drawing its hand back, it warbled an explanation of a Republic infiltrated with Imperial spies, of communication systems bugged, of how the safest way to deliver information between two parties without it being spied upon was to arrange clandestine meetings such as the one they were currently engaged in.

     Lips twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, Paz sank back into his seat. Biting back his objection – to deliver information in such a way would take weeks, would make their networks slow, their facts outdated, useless – he looked across the table at Din.

     The man sat like he wanted nothing more than to spring from his seat. It was sheer force of will that kept him pinned down, his body held so still that it looked painful. Through the connection of their ankles, Paz could feel the minute trembling, the fury and very likely fear that thrummed just beneath the other man’s skin, a humming vibration of barely repressed violence.

     Words more stilted than usual, Din asked in a low, deadly voice, “Why are you telling us this?”

     “What do you mean?” The smuggler cocked his head.

     “If this was public knowledge, we would already know this. It’s not, because we don’t.”

     Shrugging as if to say, ‘you got me there’, the smuggler admitted, “My wife thinks you lot ought to be prepared. Gideon seems to hate your kind real bad. She thinks he might target them.”

     Obviously, Paz thought, the word loud even through the pounding in his head. But he didn’t say it aloud.

     Stirring up tempers now would be counter-productive, if not downright deadly.

     Ordinarily, Din would act as mediator, the much calmer presence compared to Paz’s irritable and fiery nature. But under the burden of this reappeared threat, Din would be volatile, unsteady. Paz was going to have to step up, to be the responsible one where his partner couldn’t be.

     Just faintly, over the murmur of the tavern, he heard Grogu’s concerned coos. They had to wrap up their conversation, and fast.

     Glancing around, keeping a wary eye out for anything that appeared suspicious, Paz reassured himself they were fine, safe. He was just turning back to the Wookiee, ready to pry more details out of it, when he saw the Tholothian from earlier, still sitting in the corner. Her eyes were once again focused on Din’s bag.

     He took a deep inhale of the booze-scented air to steady himself.  

     They had to wrap up their conversation really fast.

     Nudging at Din’s ankle until he caught the other man’s attention, he gestured with a concealed hand to keep an eye on the Tholothian threat, then declared to their contacts, rudely and loudly, “We do not owe you for this.”

     “What do you mean, you don’t—”

     “It is your Republic that has failed us, and any who relied upon them to keep that demagolka captive,” Paz interrupted the incredulous smuggler, teeth gritted and finger jabbing violently against the damp tabletop. “We owe you no debt.”

     “We told you about it—”

     “A paltry action, compared to the many casualties his escape will bring,” Paz snapped. Raising to his feet, encouraging Din to do the same, he leaned forward until he was far into the smuggler’s space, until the brunet was leaning back away from him, an expression of displeasure fixed firmly to his face. Cruelly, but meaning every word he said, Paz informed both the human and the Wookiee, “Should any of our vode fall, their blood is on your hands.” To Din, his words growled out like a prowling nexu’s, he muttered, “Vi vegyce’ganar ru’davaar kaysh, tion’tuur vi ru’ganar jate’bana.”

     Din didn’t respond verbally as he climbed out of his own seat, though the tilt of his buy’ce was testament to just how much he agreed with Paz’s statement.

     Vindicated, Paz turned to go, ready to march all the way through Hondo’s despicable town and back to The Vambrace, back to safety, back to wherever he and Din could exist where Gideon would not find them, would not find Grogu.

     He was stopped only by Din’s voice.

     “Solo?” He said, surprising Paz – Din had known who they were talking to the whole time? – and there was a hardness to Din’s voice that wasn’t usually there, a hardness to it that made Paz swallow not with anticipation, but with concern for the person it was directed at. That wasn’t the voice of a fair Mando’ad with a clear goal in mind who would quickly, cleanly drop any who got in their way. It was a voice that suggested the Mando’ad was furious, vengeful, that they wanted to cause suffering. It was not a tone, Paz realised, that he liked to hear coming from Din. But, to his surprise, all Din said was, “Boba Fett sends his regards.”

     Then he was turning, sweeping through the crowded barroom, customers practically leaping out of his way. Paz, distantly confused, much more focused on the potential danger, hurried after him, keeping a wary hand on his blaster, just in case.

/////////////

Once they reached The Vambrace, Din lowered the ramp and swept aboard, then kept moving, heading towards the cockpit. There, he slid straight into the pilot’s seat, and made to fire up the engines, to take off and presumably never return.

     Paz stopped him just in time.

     Grabbing at the other man’s hands, he pulled them away from the controls, folded them between his own, held them firmly in Din’s lap. Grogu, concerned, wrestled his way from the bag he had been confined to, reaching out his own claws to press to Din’s abdomen.

     At first, Din struggled, tried to rip his hands free. They were shaking so badly he might as well not have bothered, his control over them limited, weak. Paz tightened his grip in sympathy, leaned forward until he could bump the forehead of his buy’ce against Din’s, could rest there and just breathe with the other man for a few long moments.

     Then, very slowly, he pulled back, moved his visor until he was peering into Din’s. He was so intent that he almost believed he could see the faint impression of Din’s eyes behind the damaged black transparisteel, though he knew he couldn’t really. The visors were merely there for show.  

     Knowing that fact was probably calming to Din in that moment. His whole galaxy had just been shaken; he did not need to fear Paz seeing his bare face before he was ready, either.

     Taking deep breaths, Din tipped his head back, let his gaze focus on the ceiling of the ship, and then slowly move back down to Paz’s. Carefully, he leaned forward into Paz again, didn’t stop until their foreheads were pressed together. Paz, knowing how much Din needed it in that moment, worked his hand into the folds of Din’s cowl until he could run soothing fingers over the back of the other man’s neck, could play with the few curls that escaped that beskar buy’ce.  

     In the small gap between them, Grogu cooed worriedly, his big eyes looking between them both in query.

     “It’s okay, little one,” Paz assured, moving his spare hand to stroke at the ad’s ear. Din’s arms slipped around the boy, tugging him closer to his stomach, forming a protective barrier of beskar on all sides. In as reassuring a rumble as he could manage, Paz repeated, “It’s okay.”

     “Paz…” Din’s voice was hesitant, the trepidation within it startling. Paz didn’t think he had ever heard the other man sound anything less than certain before. Even when he had talked about the darksaber, had deliberated one way and then the other over taking up the role of Mand’alor, he was adamant he didn’t want it, sure that he had to take it up all the same. “Paz, Grogu—”

     “Shh.” Paz let go of Grogu’s ear to clutch at Din’s right bes’marbur, the one with the mudhorn on it. The raised ridges of the symbol dug into his palm as he tightened his grip. “Nobody here is hunting Grogu. He is safe.”

     “He might not be.” Din tried to pull away, but Paz wouldn’t let him. In an ideal galaxy, he would have folded the other man down into himself, would have pressed so tightly that no space remained between them, would have absorbed the other man deep into the cavity of his chest so that he could have kept him safe behind his ribcage. But it wasn’t an ideal galaxy, so he had to settle for holding Din up, supporting him as he fretted, as he fell apart. “Gideon is out there. Paz, Gideon is out there.”

     “He is,” Paz confirmed, because he could not lie to Din. There would have been no point to it, anyway. The other man had been there to learn of the devastating news from the New Republic representatives just as Paz had. Gesturing to the port beyond their window, Paz promised, “But he’s not out there.”

     “We should leave.”

     Paz wanted to. Really, he did.

     Together, he and Din could fly off, could go to Klatooine and locate the covert, could settle down hidden within it and never leave.

     But he knew that Din would never really go for that. The second his minor panic was over, he would insist that they stopped Gideon, that they ensured the safety of as many Mando’ade as they could. If they disappeared to safety, he would berate himself for the rest of his life, and Paz just couldn’t have that. Din was already berating himself for a long list of absolute osik. He could not let the man add to that list.

     So, gently, he reminded Din, “We can’t leave yet. We need supplies. And we made a deal with Ohnaka.”

     Din’s buy’ce cocked, scraping against Paz’s. It was as if he were about to tell Paz to kark Ohnaka and the deal they had made. That was not like Din; the news of Gideon’s return had really thrown him.

     For a flash, Paz considered stalking back to the bar, whipping out his blaster, and gunning the smuggler down where he lounged. But it wasn’t really the man’s fault that Gideon had escaped. Also Paz suspected that shooting representatives of the New Republic right after they had divulged unpleasant information was a sure-fire way to make sure the New Republic never informed certain individuals of new developments ever again.

     Instead of giving into his impulses, Paz shifted until he was settled on his knees before the other Mando’ad, letting him continue to press their buy’ce together. It felt good, to be so close, even given the circumstances. Their proximity appeared to be helping Din; the tremor in his body was receding, his breaths coming far steadier and deeper.

     Finally, sounding much calmer, much more ready to take action, Din raised one hand up to Paz’s shoulder, whispered, “Gideon could have put a bounty out on Grogu.”

     “We would have heard about it,” Paz soothed, sure that they would have. Either from their friends on Nevarro or Tatooine, they would have received word. Still, if it would make Din feel better, he could make concessions. “I will go and gather supplies. You stay here with Grogu.”

     “We should go.”

     “We can’t leave yet,” Paz pointed out again. Stroking softly at the back of Din’s neck, he reminded him, “We must tell other Mandalorians about this. That cannot be done from hyperspace.”

     Din sighed, but nodded his head, said, “Okay.”

     But even with his agreement, he didn’t move. He simply stayed there, buy’ce pressed to Paz’s, breathing slow and deep. They stayed like that for long enough that Paz’s knees began to ache, pressed hard into the metal of the floor. His neck felt stiff, supporting the weight of Din’s head against his own. His spine began to protest, curled uncomfortably in effort to keep Din’s gaze. Despite all that, Paz stayed put. For Din, he would have stayed for an eternity if he had been called upon to do so.

     He did not have to wait that long.

     Nodding his head, Din pulled back, told him, “I will contact our allies. You go and get supplies. Grogu stays here with me.”

     In full agreement, Paz took one last deep breath of Din’s familiar leather-metal-blaster-soap scent, then heaved himself to his feet. His knees popped and his back cracked, but he didn’t say a word about it. Din still managed to look guilty nonetheless.

     Chuckling softly to himself under his buy’ce, Paz reached out again and cupped the side of Din’s head, let his thumb brush gently over the divot of Din’s beskar cheek. Then, he turned from the cockpit.

     He glanced back only once. Din’s buy’ce was already off, his dark curls on full display, Grogu raised up so high and so close to Din’s face that their foreheads must have been pressed together.

     Condemning himself even for glancing only at Din’s hair without permission, Paz hurried through the ship, more than ready to play his part in their little plan.

/////////////////

The true market – not the one on the streets, but the one in a massive square space to the west side of the town – was surprisingly busy for the time of night. Instead of closing up shop, the merchants had simply invested in huge floodlights that lit the area to a blinding white. Some stalls that didn’t benefit from this sea of light, those far on the outskirts, had strings of blinking bulbs wrapped around the rotting wooden beams supporting their wispy awnings.

     Those stalls seemed ethereal, selling goods of a more niche nature. Some held jewellery, others artworks, and some intricate windchimes or elaborate stained-glass plates. All of it was beautiful. None of it was useful.

     Wraith-like figures flittered through the narrow corridors between them, eyes large and shadowed, hoods pulled low. They didn’t seem to talk, just danced around Paz like moths around a flame. Reverse moths: they fell back when he stepped into the ocean cast by the floodlights hovering above.

     Moving past those, Paz found places to haggle over batches of wheat, grain, vegetables, fruit. There was all manner of crops, and even some musty-smelling livestock, guarded by watchful figures calling out criminally low prices for their wares.

     Beyond those, were the more practical yet smaller items. Flightsuits, boots, bags, wilderness gear. Anything a bounty hunter or merc might need to pick up on the regular. Paz was certain he even saw some blinking red fobs clutched in weathered hands, a man lording it up around a pungent-smelling tent of food and drink, handing them out.

     He shuffled past it quickly, hoped that nobody would associate his large form with Din, hoped that they hadn’t yet been seen together often enough for a person to look upon him and put two and two together.

     It was only once he reached the middle of the market, where all those who surrounded him looked hardened and grizzled, that he relaxed. Amongst weaponry of all manners – along with the many loaded pieces foolishly strapped to unguarded backs, unwary thighs – he felt more at home. Though he didn’t carry much on him, here he had no shortage of opportunity to arm himself. Any figure that wandered past was game, any stall that kept blasters and cartridges together an opportunity.

     Most of what lay on the stalls was superfluous to him; he had no need of mini blasters, nor any use for the cheap kark that only the most down-on-their-luck criminals would buy. But he did manage to find some particularly well-crafted vibroblades at a blue Rodian’s store, their mechanisms simple but effective, their balance almost perfect. Only a Mandalorian kaan’goran would have been able to do better.

     Buying those, along with their sheaths, he finally replaced the blade he had shattered all those months ago on Tatooine, along with the one he still kept tucked against his calf. The Rodian took his credits, and his old knife as well, their galaxy-eyes staring at Paz in maybe wonder. Or maybe recognition.

     He ducked from the stall quickly, sinking into the crowds, his heartbeat steadying the further away from the stall he got.

     For the first time in a long time, Paz felt truly prepared for what was coming. It figured that he only felt that way when he knew for certain a threat hung heavy overhead.

     Keeping his nerve, he managed to locate enough jetpack fuel that he and Din would not need to purchase any more for quite some time. He paid a droid to take it back to the port on a hover-trolley, though he did warn the impromptu courier to be wary about his task. Din wasn’t particularly fond of droids on a good day. Paz dreaded to think how he could behave towards them on a bad day.

     That task completed, and the droid’s safety in its own pincers, his hunt for ammunition and emergency blaster cartridges began. None were laid out on any of the rickety tables, though to his surprise he did manage to find some plasma packs at a highly illegal stall run by a tiny, yet very menacing, blonde human woman. She seemed put out at seeing all her plasma sold in one fell swoop, and cheaply – she hadn’t been willing to argue from the second one of the packs had found its way into his cannon – but Paz felt accomplished.

     The rest of the purchase fell into the huge bag he had tied at his hip, the one that he had acquired when he had bought Grogu’s frog plushie on Birgis. It clattered around there as he walked, adding an intimidating heaviness to his step that he usually avoided.

     With so many eyes on him, so many whispers exchanged behind guarding hands, so many drawn faces following his movements, it would have been foolish not to add to his perceived threat. He made a show out of checking the power levels on his cannon, of inspecting his kom’rke and his brand-new knives.

     When he came upon a stall filled with thermal detonators, he wasn’t shy about catching the Weequay merchant’s attention, along with many of those weaving between the tables besides. The majority shrank back, leaving well-enough alone.

     He thought he had gotten away with it.

     He thought he was home free.

     Then, he heard the beeping of a fob far too close for comfort. It wasn’t insistent, but regular enough that it would have told its owner that their target was on planet.

     Turning towards it just slightly, he saw a purple hand reaching for a holstered blaster just on the edge of his visual display.

     Faster than he could react, he felt the shuddering impact and the scorching burst of a bolt scoring along his hal’cabur.

     He didn’t even stop to think. Ripping one of his brand-new blades from its sheath on his thigh, Paz threw with his spin. The blade sank deep into the Keshiri’s throat, blood immediately bubbling up around it.

     They dropped to their knees, clawing beneath the protrusion, and then fell forward. Paz caught them as they fell, yanking his blade free and using it to slice the next attacker as they came up behind him.

     It was a four-armed Volpai, who stumbled back and clutched at their upper left shoulder with one hand, their other two quickly reaching for a set of twin blades themselves. Paz laughed deeply, unimpressed with his assailant’s bravado. No non-Mandalorian was taking him out with a vibroknife. He kicked out, boot landing firmly on their chest, sending them flying into a high-piled stall.

     Gasps rose up, figures scurried out the way, and weapons clattered to the floor.

     For a moment, Paz thought he had won, and then he stumbled as another blaster impacted his back, then another.

     Under a flurry of gunfire, he dropped to his knees, tried to escape. It was to no avail.

     Growling through his clenched teeth, he whirled around, fired his whipcord, and pulled his closest attacker nearer to him. They grunted as they fell to the floor, then cried in rage as they were dragged backwards, their nails cracking and tearing on the hard-packed dirt beneath them.

     When they were near enough, Paz drew his blade across their throat, didn’t even pause to mourn the loss of a fellow Mirialan.

     Grogu was potentially in danger. There was no time for sentiment.

     He shoved his knife back into its sheath, tore his blaster from its holster. He aimed, fired. This close he couldn’t miss.

     But nothing happened.

     Cursing, he remembered that the charge was down, that he didn’t have a spare cartridge to use.

     Tucking it away, he regained his feet and charged forward instead, scattering the growing crowd, barrelling through them, and beyond.

     Blaster bolts barraged into his sen’tra, ricocheted dangerously off his beskar. Innocent merchants threw their arms above their heads and cried out in dismay. Tables overturned when he crashed into them, weaponry and charges flying everywhere.

     Scrabbling beneath himself for something to throw, he caught up a flash-bomb, tossed it behind him. Screams arose when it went off, and the acrid tang of incendiaries filled the air.

     It gave him a chance to shake his tail.

     Quickly, he ducked down another avenue of stalls, eyes on the search for any… any…

     Yes, there!

     Skidding to a halt, he rifled through the cartridges on the table, fingers shaking in his desperation to find one that matched his blaster. He could hear the pounding of footsteps behind him, felt a heated burst as a red flash flew over his shoulder.

     His fingers closed around what he was looking for. Ignoring the Twi’lek’s protests, he swapped out the cartridge in his gun, then whirled.

     A purple Twi’lek woman fell under his first shot. His second downed an oddly familiar brown-haired human, glancing off their ribs. They fell to the ground, rolling and clutching at themselves, tripping a large-headed Qiraash, whose head bounced off the corner of another stall. Blood began to pour, staining the ground beneath them, and Paz felt a grin stretch itself across his face.

     Then, very suddenly, another shot rang out. For a split-second, Paz thought it had been aimed at him, that he had been caught by it, that in his adrenalized state he hadn’t noticed. But then he saw as a Gotal slumped, then another human, then another.

     Scanning around for the new threat – were they on his side, or their own? – he let his eyes run frantically over the whole market. There was nothing he could see. In the shoving, fighting crowd, how could he?

     Taking the opportunity, he held the bag at his hip open, shoved ammunition and cartridges and explosives inside. Anything that he could get his hands on. Anything that would fit.

     Then, he tied the string and began to move slowly back, just as a familiar face stepped out of the crowd.

     Paz had seen her before. At the bar. When Ohnaka had welcomed them.

     The Tholothian.

     How karking desperate is she for this bounty, Paz cursed to himself, raising his blaster quickly. That she would take out the competition, first?
     In his experience with Din, it had always been capture the bounty, get them to the ship, and then fight off anyone else who was coming for them. When you were distracted, like this lady was, the bounty had time to run.

     Paz did.

     He careened between smaller set-ups, heading towards the edge of the field, shoving past those who didn’t get out of his way quickly enough.

     Shots continued to rain after him, some flying wide and glancing off bystanders, but none of his pursuers had good enough aim or luck to get him between his beskar. Every few steps, he would twist his body, firing rounds back even as the cartridge he’d put in his blaster bleeped its low warning at him. Using the Tholothian, still firing at her fellow bounty hunters, as cover, he tore it from his gun, thrust his hand into the bag bouncing and clattering at his hip, and fished around until he found a casing that felt right under his fingers.

     Shoving it into his blaster, he continued shooting, heaving out a sigh of relief as the walls of the town-proper loomed.

     He was just about to tear down a narrow alleyway between two red-lit constructs, when he saw a spread of exactly what he needed sitting on a purple cloth on the floor. Groaning, unable to pass it up – he, Din, and Grogu wouldn’t get an opportunity to land anywhere selling supplies for some time, if a bounty really was out on the ad – he skidded to his knees and levelled his blaster at the Ardennian owner’s neck with one hand, scooping everything on the blanket into the middle, before grabbing up the corners like it was a knapsack and shoving it all into the bag at his hip. It didn’t fit in properly, and the Ardennian called out superficial words of protest, but Paz ignored both these things.

     Hurrying to his feet, the baying crowd of furious hunters behind him, he slipped between two buildings and was gone.

////////////////////

For a few seconds, having flown through a fair few alleyways to hide himself, Paz had thought he would be safe. But no.

     A Savarian had kept close on his tail, the Tholothian not far behind them.

     Growling his frustration, he kept heading for the port, turning his in-buy’ce comms on once he was in range of Din.

     “Fire up the ship!” He roared through his panting, using the corner of a building to redirect himself, then firing a shot back at the slavering crowd of gun-toting attackers. Weequays were starting to join them, making the pack ever larger. Paz cursed, then cried, “We must leave immediately!”

     “Copy,” Din said, and then his comms fell silent. It didn’t worry Paz; Din was a good man, and a great fighter. He would follow Paz’s command.

     Glad that his escape route was secured, Paz kept running. He ignored the sting in his feet, the burning of his muscles, the tightness in his chest. His breaths came short and sharp, sucking down what air they could.

     Heavy-infantry were not made to run long-distances. But he couldn’t use any of his heavy-infantry kit besides his beskar’gam. His minigun was still broken, and his plasma-cannon was overkill. Any of the screaming women toppling away from him could get caught in the blast, and that would not do. Their lives were already difficult enough.

     Strangely, he wasn’t so worried about hurting the drunken pirates and smugglers raising their fists and cursing furiously after him.

     Finally, bending low as a volley of shots smashed bruisingly into his back, he crashed into the port. Workers were still milling about, but they soon darted into the alcoves around the space, metal shutters beginning to lower. Fuel lines fell from ships, leaking flammable liquids all over the floor. He tried to avoid stepping into the puddles, but found it impossible. The viscous substance stuck to his boots, clung to his tadun’bure, the acrid reek choking him even through his buy’ce.

     He slipped, catching himself on the side of a ship that looked suspiciously like Din’s old one, a rusted edge of the outer hull slicing through his glove, his palm. Blood began to pour, and he yelled, loudly, “Osik!”

     Disoriented by his stumble, it took him a moment to locate The Vambrace, but when he did, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was hovering above the ground, higher than Paz could reach, but that didn’t matter. Firing his whipcord again, he got it hooked tightly around one of the support struts for the gangplank, crying out, “Take off! Take off!”

     The ship began rising, lifting Paz off of his feet. Reaching up with his bleeding hand, ignoring the smears of red he left all over his kom’rk, he began to reel in the cord. Quickly, he was pulled over the lip of the plank. Soon, he would be entirely aboard.

     And then, to his dismay, a lucky shot tore through his whipcord. It snapped, sending him tumbling backwards, and he only barely caught himself in time.

     “Din!” he cried, dangling many feet in the air. Without fuel for his sen’tra, he could not turn it on. And all the fuel was on the ship. He had not thought to fill it up in the market, had been too overconfident in his own safety as a Mandalorian. He silently berated himself, cried, “Din!”

     He tried to pull himself up further, but the weight of his purchases was dragging him down. He dangled there, chest barely over the edge, fingers clawing uselessly at the floor. Smears of blood slicked his grip, and he felt himself teetering backwards.

     If he fell, he would die.

     But then Din was there, kneeling before him, fingers tight around Paz’s wrists. He was tugging, throwing the whole of himself into yanking Paz up, seemingly oblivious to anything beyond that task. Not even the barrage of shots that were scoring carbonated streaks on their ceiling distracted him.

     Paz breathed a sigh of relief, managed to hook one knee over the lip of the ramp – and then the ship shook violently, knocking him down again.

     Din, still holding onto him, was yanked violently forward. With a grunt, his hal’cabur smacked into Paz’s bes’marbur, then bounced off. He clattered towards the edge of the gang-walk buy’ce first, rolling over its edge.

     For a heart-stopping second that felt like an eternity, Paz thought Din was gone. But then beskar knocked into his side, and he realised, with such intense relief he sagged where he hung, that Din was clinging to the lip of the ramp, too.

     Turning his head sideways, he immediately whipped it back around. Din’s buy’ce was gone, his hair flyaway. From the brief glimpse that Paz had caught, his lips were pulled back from his teeth, his jaw clenched in effort.

     “Your buy’ce!” Paz called, even as he attempted to lift himself back onto the ship.

     “I know!” Din’s voice was strained, but not mechanised. It sounded wrong to hear like that in such times of trouble, and Paz’s heart beat faster in fear for the other man. It didn’t even slow when Din managed to haul himself up, his entire abdomen resting on solid metal, before inching forward those last few enaab’ika. “Give me your—Grogu!”

     For a moment, Paz thought that the ad was missing. Then, realisation dawned on him, and he realised the situation was far worse. With all his strength, he managed to haul himself up until he was more stable, enough so that he could spy Grogu at the top of the ramp, his little hand out, his eyes closed in concentration.

     “Get the ad back inside!” he yelled to Din. He was ignored. Din shielded Grogu with his body, but he fired his whipcord, let it wrap around Paz’s wrist, tried to use that to haul him up. All it did was unseat Din, pulling him forwards. With a growl of frustration, his eyes scarily wild in the brief glimpse Paz allowed himself of the other man’s face, he ejected the cord and wrapped it around the nearest strut.

     They were high enough now that it was unlikely a second blast would tear pose a threat to the whipcord. But they were not so high that they were out of danger.

     Paz risked a glance down, and saw to his astonishment, that Din’s buy’ce was rising towards him.

     Grogu, he realised, and protectiveness surged within him.

     Wrapping his bleeding, stinging hand around the cord tethering him in place, ignoring the fiery pain that lanced up his arm, he began hauling himself aboard. It was slow going at first, made more difficult by the way the ship rocked again. Then again.

     Growling, he peered beneath him, saw a Yarkora had managed to find a cannon. He winced, remembering the fuel spilled all over the area below, and redoubled his efforts to get over the lip of the gangway.

     It paid off. With a mighty cry, he hauled himself up, sprawling on the metal and letting his forehead rest there for just a second as he took a deep, steadying breath. Then he was climbing to his knees, shooing Din away with a gesture – his face was still a blur, but the bags under his eyes were dark – and calling out, “Get the ad out of here.”

     Din didn’t argue, snatching his son up and heading for the cockpit. The boy cried his protest, sharp, high-pitched sounds.

     Paz ignored them, just as Din did, and staggered over to the panel on the wall, smashing the button that would raise the ramp.

     It began to close, and Paz let out a sigh of relief, peering down over the edge now that they were out of firing range.

     The port was in a clamour, enough bounty hunters gathered together to make it appear just as busy as it had before the workers had hidden themselves away behind blast-doors. Hunters were even gathered on the walls of the port, some shooting pointlessly, some merely waving their fists at the retreating shape of The Vambrace.

     Something moved on the edge of Paz’s visual display. Turning towards it, wonder flooded him. It was Din’s buy’ce, still floating up towards him.

     Reaching out, he plucked it from the air, barely managing to fit it through the gap between the closing ramp and the ship.

     His last view of the port was of the Tholothian, her blaster lowered, her other hand raised towards them, as if that alone would be enough to stop them from flying away.

     And then there was a deafening boom, the ship shaking and rocking all over again, tossing Paz into the wall. It took a moment to steady himself, and when he did, he roared, “What the kark did you do, Djarin?”

     There was no response.

     Of course there wasn’t. Paz was holding Din’s buy’ce in his hand.

     Carefully shifting it, wincing at the crimson he smeared on one cheek, he raised it up until it pressed against his forehead and paused there like that.

     Then, taking deep breaths, he staggered towards the cockpit on shaking legs.

     Maybe Din had been right, he considered. Maybe there really was nowhere safe for them, anymore.

//////////////////////

Paz looked the other way as he opened the door to the cockpit, waving Din’s buy’ce around enough that it caught Grogu’s attention.

     The ad squealed loud enough to alert Din, and very soon the beskar was plucked from his hands. He knew it was safe to look around when the other man said, voice mechanised, “Thank you.”

     “Next time,” was Paz’s only response, even as the dark bags beneath Din’s eyes flashed upsettingly through his mind. “Engage the seal.”

     Din’s only response was to snort, but Paz didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have been particularly talkative if he had had his buy’ce ripped off by karking physics. You couldn’t kill physics, or even maim it a bit. It just was.

     He could let Din have his silence. So long as he was next to him.

     So, carefully, he pushed past Din and settled himself into the co-pilot’s chair. He only fully relaxed when Din dropped back into the pilot’s seat, and guided them up and out of the atmosphere.

///////////////////

A few hours later, merely a short jump in hyperspace from Florrum, and Din and Paz had both cleaned themselves up. A tight bandage hid away Paz’s palm, and his glove and kute were in the sonic. After he had slipped into a new kute, but before he had replaced his beskar’gam, he had looked at the melted drips and blackened patches of paint on his nor’cabur in dismay.

     That, he realised in disappointment, was the one thing he had not found in the market.

     Everything else he had returned with – sen’tra fuel, amban ammunition, flash bombs, thermal detonators, lighter fluid, blaster cartridges – had either been put away on their person or in the storage compartment at the back of the ship.

     When Paz stepped back into the cockpit, adjusting one final clasp on his right bes’marbure, he came face-to-face with the back of Din’s head.

      His hair was more flattened now, no longer buffeted by the wind, but it still felt wrong, entirely off, to see him without his buy’ce. Especially after he had retaken the vow. Especially because it hadn’t been Din’s choice.

     Freezing in the doorway, he watched from behind as Din finished his rewiring. While waiting, Paz idly hoped the other man had fixed the colour problem on his visual display. They had talked earlier about what was wrong with the thing, and upon hearing that Din’s complaint was that his visuals were ‘bluer than they usually were’, Paz had had to inform him, with no small degree of fond exasperation, that they weren’t supposed to be blue-tinted at all.

     Kark, but Din really was an idiot sometimes.

     When he was done, Din shoved his buy’ce back on his head unceremoniously, then swivelled his chair to face Paz. With Grogu on his lap, ammunition back in his bandolier, thermal detonators affixed to his belt, and smears of blood no longer marring his indented cheek, he looked put-together. He looked right.

     It took all of Paz’s will-power to dismiss that flash of a washed-out face, deep bags under tired eyes, a scruffy and unkempt beard.

     He would not forget what it meant, though. Din was struggling. He was exhausted, had been for far longer than since he had learned of Gideon’s escape. Dark circles like his did not build up in a handful of hours. Not even in a handful of days. This was weeks of overwork, and Paz couldn’t shake the weighty suspicion that much of it had been his fault.

     All his arguing. All his demands to return to Klatooine.

     What Din needed, Paz realised, was someone who agreed with his decisions, and even if they didn’t like them, considered them rather than simply dismissing them out of hand.

     Paz, he decided, would be that person. At least for a few days.

     He kept that resolution as he marched towards his own chair, even as he sat down.

     He even kept it when Din said, “We can’t keep running. We have to take the fight to Gideon.”

     It sounded like banthakark, a fool’s idea. But Paz had been expecting it, hadn’t he?.

     After all, Din had spent almost two years running from Gideon. If anyone understood the futility of fighting such a man, it would be him.

     So, instead of fighting, instead of immediately tensing up and throwing accusations and jabbing his finger at Din’s chest, he asked, as calmly as he could, “How do you propose we do that?”

     For a moment, Din remained silent, merely stroking his sleeping ad’s ear.

     Then, glacially slowly, he began speaking.

     “I think… we need to unite Mandalorians.” Din began. “All of them. Not just the clans we’ve met.”

     “Okay,” Paz nodded. He leaned forward in his seat, rested his clasped hands between his knees.

     “And I think…” Din hesitated then, and Paz knew he wasn’t going to like what Din next said. He braced himself. “We need Kryze’s cruiser.”

     “Why?” Paz asked, already knowing that whatever Din’s plan was, it meant they still wouldn’t get to return to their covert. Not yet.

     “It would have had valuable information in its data banks,” Din told him.

     Paz, tilting his head in confusion, asked, “You think Kryze hasn’t already got access?”

     “I think she would have done something big by now if she had intel,” Din told him. His fingers were still stroking gently over Grogu, who smacked his lips in his sleep, rolling further into his buir’s stomach. Quieter, Din led, “Which means the cruiser didn’t have any information or—”

     “Or that Kryze can’t access it,” Paz realised.

     It made sense, he figured. After all, Kryze had seemed lost, back when Paz had first met her, and she hadn’t been much better when he had returned with Din. At that time, he doubted that she would have even thought to dig through the ship’s banks to gain any intel. He also doubted she had the skill; Kryze was a far cry from a slicer, and it was unlikely, as a Mando’ad, that she would have known any Imperial access codes. Even now, Paz suspected she was too busy regaining her followers to focus on what the ship could yield to her.

     So they would go to Kryze, he realised. But first…

     “Do you know any slicers?”

     “I don’t,” Din admitted, bowing his head. “Not ones that I can trust.” Then, squaring his shoulders, looking as if he were preparing himself for a fight, he said, “But I do know an ex-Imperial. He might be able to help us.”

     Ordinarily, Paz would have been furious to hear Din suggest such a thing. But Paz had already met Din’s ex-Imperial, already knew who the man was talking about.

     To confirm, he asked, “Mayfeld?”

     Din’s visor whipped towards him. He tilted his buy’ce, starlight bouncing off the cracks in his visor, and seemed to study Paz.

     Eventually, with a curling of concern in his voice, he said, “Yes.” Then, even more uncertainly, as if probing to learn whether the man was dead, he added, “But I don’t know where he is.”

     “I do,” Paz told him, already turning from Din so that he could punch coordinates into the screen before him. He didn’t hear the swivel of the other man’s chair, assumed he was still watching him. So, sending the coordinates across to Din’s own screen, he said, “Morak.”

     “Huh,” Din sounded surprised, as if he would have expected the man to have made it off the jungle planet somehow, despite his lack of ship or funds. Paz shook his head fondly. Not everyone was as enterprising as Din, and it was always funny when the other man didn’t realise it. Finally, the squeak of his chair spinning did sound, and then the quiet beeps of his screen as their destination was input. More to Grogu than to Paz, the man said, “Guess we’re going to Morak, kid.”

     Then, without further ado, Din pushed the button to take them into hyperspace, and their course was set.