Archive of Our Own

They return to the Slave I without the child.

Boba hadn’t wanted to believe it when Fennec had comm’ed him moments earlier with a quick rundown of the situation. 

They had cleared out the cruiser, but the ship itself seemed to be under tracking from other remnants. Several distress signals had already been sent out before they had taken the bridge. Deeming it worth less than the hassle to keep, Kryze had declared it a lost cause. She and her pet will return with them.

They also have the Moff in custody. Boba hadn’t doubted they would be able to take him down, although alive is a surprise. The method had him barking with laughter when Fennec filled him in with a smirk in her own voice. 

Oh, how much he would’ve paid to see the look on Kryze’s face when the beroya had sauntered in, Darksaber in hand and the Moff in chains, without a single clue of the upheaval he had just wrought. 

“And the child?” He had asked, still reveling in the smug high of knowing Kryze had once again been denied. The pause in Fennec’s report had him sobering a little too quickly. “Was he harmed?” He had pressed, something low sinking in his gut at the thought of that. 

“No, the baby was safely recovered. But…” She had paused again, and Boba tapped against the armrest of his chair, counting the seconds it took for Fennec to regroup her thoughts.

“A Jedi showed up. To help.” That had made his restless tapping turn into a grip tight enough to make the leather creak.

“A Jedi?” Boba had said, as lightly as he could manage. 

“A man, young and blonde, with a sword of green light.” 

Boba had the Slave I jump back into the same space as the Imperial cruiser before Fennec could go on. The comm had sparked with static at the sudden change, but he didn’t care. Boba leaned forward in his seat, eyes searching the cruiser as the Slave I floated closer.

And there it was.

That familiar X-Wing with the red stripes, in the process of lifting off from the cruiser’s launch tube. 

His fingers had twitched over the trigger controls of the weapons’ system. He caught himself just as the static over Fennec’s voice stabilized and he heard, “Mando left the baby in the Jedi’s care.” 

Boba had stilled at that, jaw clenching and going slack several times in the span of seconds. 

“Boba?” 

“Copy that.” He had gritted out, lifting his hands from the weapons board, “Rendezvous in five.” He closed off communications, moving the Slave I closer. The X-Wing tore away from the Imperial light cruiser and disappeared into hyperspace just as he approached the landing pad. 

Boba hoped Skywalker had seen the Slave I before his departure. Hoped he’d felt a thudding of fear in his heart at the sight of his ghost. Hoped he understood the implications if he didn’t take care of the child properly. 

Boba hadn’t wanted to believe it. With the way the beroya had spoken of his child, the way he had been on the verge of breaking down the entire journey they’d taken to retrieve the child. All that, just for this outcome? How could he have allowed for it? Boba had sat in his pilot chair, staring out the transparisteel canopy until 6 lifeforms pinged on his screen. 

The child is not with them. 

With a sigh, he flips the switch for opening the hatch. Boba greets them at the entrance of the ramp. Fennec and Dune give him a nod as they enter. Kryze and her feral pet stalk in, backs and shoulders straight and brimming with tension. 

Kryze is holding onto the restrained Moff, whose face is tight with anger, a vein throbbing on the side of his head. The bruise blossoming across his cheek complements his bloody split lip. Boba is impressed at how little damage was done. If he had been in the beroya’s boots, the Moff would not have been so lucky. 

The beroya…

The Mandalorian trails behind the rest, steps heavy and slow as if he needs to consciously think about how to put one foot in front of the other. His helmet is tilted downwards, shoulders and back hunched. This...does not look like a person who feels good about what he had just done. 

Boba makes to confront him, but is stalled by the Moff suddenly jerking at Kryze’s grip to face him.

“Boba Fett,” The Moff looks at Boba like he’s something unpleasant stuck at the bottom of his boot, “to think you’d come crawling back from the dead, just to become a lapdog once again.” 

Boba wants to hit him and finish what the beroya had started. As if he follows anyone’s whim but his own. His eyes flicker to look at the Mandalorian, who had shifted to pull something from his bandolier. The glossy hilt of the Darksaber glints against Boba’s visor, and he sees Kryze turn her head abruptly to stare after it. 

This is a conversation he knows Kryze wants to have right this second. And it’s not one he wants the Moff within earshot of. 

“Take him to the brig. Separate from the doctor.” The words feel like sand in his mouth, but he says them anyway. Fennec nods, eyes understanding. They’ve only known each other for a little over a year, yet the woman has found her way onto the list of people Boba could steadily rely on. And that list is shorter than the number of fingers he has on one hand. 

The Moff attempts to struggle but he is passed off to Fennec without much trouble, and is soon out of the picture. The moment her hands are free, Kryze reaches up to remove her buy’ce. Her glare is fixed on Boba for all of one second before she turns her attention to the beroya’s hand.  

The atmosphere surrounding the remaining people is suffocating enough to make Boba want to take off his own helmet. He does not give in, already imagining Kryze’s dumb smirk the moment she sees his face. The face of his father. The face of millions. 

The beroya breaks the silence first. He steps forward, body still stiff and awkward. He holds the saber out to Kryze, and Boba can’t help but bare his teeth in a hidden grin at the way she stops herself from physically backing away while simultaneously restraining herself from snatching the saber. 

“Please.” He speaks for the first time since Boba has last seen him, voice barely above a whisper. It sounds distant and barely steady.

“You…” Kryze bites her lip, hands clenching into shaking fists. “You can’t just... give it to me.” She growls out. 

Boba snorts at that, copping another venomous glower from her. This is all very surreal and honestly, hilarious, to Boba. Of all the times for Kryze to suddenly get cold feet. As if she hadn’t had the saber handed to her before. Maybe she’s finally lost the title enough times. Enough for her to decide that having it handed to her is no longer an option she could reconcile with her pride. 

“I don’t…” The beroya trails off, the arm holding out the damned artifact hovers up and down and Boba snaps his attention back to him, raking his eyes over his body. He doesn't look too injured. The helmet looks a bit off, maybe a bit skewed. Boba doesn’t like the way he has his other arm hanging still, as if he’s afraid to move it at all. 

“I don’t…” He continues, and he sounds thoroughly and utterly exhausted, “I don’t care.” 

And Boba believes it. While the other man had been a mess before the rescue, there had still been some fragments of hope peppered in his voice, his posture, his every action. Now, he seems... not exactly at peace. But rather, he just seems empty. Like everything that has ever mattered, suddenly didn’t anymore. 

“I don’t care…” The beroya’s voice is a bit stronger now, the hand around the saber tightens as he thrusts it out at Kryze once more. “About this thing, about retaking Mandalore, about titles. I don’t care, alright? So just...take it, gedet'ye .” 

The room grows quiet except for the beroya’s soft modulated breaths. Kryze continues to stare, wide-eyed at the saber, unmoving. Her sidekick is looking back and forth between the two, expression worried. Dune is off to the side, her weapon held tight her grip. Boba can see the discomfort in the grimace on her face. She definitely did not want to be here and involved in this drama. 

“...I must take it in fair battle.” Kryze finally mutters, and Boba is rolling his eyes underneath his helmet. No she does not. It’s literally being handed to her once again, and she just wouldn’t take it. With the beroya practically teetering over the edge, there is no way any sort of duel between the two would be considered ‘fair’ right now. And he is not about to let the two duke it out in his cargo hold.   

“You’re making this much more difficult than it has to be.” Boba finally voices, and all heads snap to him.

“You have been nothing but a glorified taxi service. You have no say in anything that happens here, you aruetii—” Kryze snarls.

“I know the Resol’nare just as well as you do. In fact, I have as much claim to that thing as you do, princess.” He spits the nickname out. This is all so stupid. Going back and forth over a dumb weapon that should’ve stayed buried in the past. Kryze is terribly naive if she thinks just having it will be enough to unite the scattered Mando’ade across the galaxy under her rule. 

Boba can see her practically seething as she takes a step towards him, her pet close behind. He steels himself for a pointless scuffle. It’s three against two, he’s positive Dune would be on his side. She doesn’t seem particularly fond of them so there's no lost love there. He frowns when he sees the beroya drop his arm back to his side and sway slightly. Maybe two on two, then. But then again, Fennec should be back from the brig soon. And there’s no way these two have the skill to take all three of them. 

Then, he sees Kryze stiffen, hiding a wince that Boba barely registers before it’s gone. He straightens, deliberating. Some part of him is hissing with bloodlust, to finish the two while they are outnumbered and at a disadvantage. Leave them to burn on the Imperial cruiser that he plans to blow up when they depart.

Boba looks at the beroya again. He stands, head still tilted downwards. His grip on the saber is loose. Kryze could walk over, tap him, and he’d probably fall right over. Everything about him looks like a brittle statue; the slightest vibration a threat to shattering his very core. 

Boba closes his eyes, exhaling deeply.

“You are injured.” He nods his head towards Kryze’s chest plate armor. Now that he looks closer, he can see scuff marks of multiple close-ranged blaster shots against the metal, causing a scattering of minor dents. Her armor doesn’t seem to be pure beskar. While the damage looks minor, Boba knows shots like that leave insidious bruises that make breathing difficult even if they did not penetrate through the armor. 

Kryze blinks at him as if he had suddenly grown another head, “What?”

“There should be supplies in the medical storage below.” Boba moves towards the control panel besides the beroya . He barely reacts when their shoulders bump briefly, metal on metal. He closes the hatch. 

“You — ” 

“We will take you back to your ship. It will be half a day before we are planetside. Maybe some rest is in order before we continue this conversation.” He says, barely subtle. Kryze might be insufferable, but Boba knows she’s not stupid. She looks over to the beroya , her lips pulling thin. 

She runs a hand through her red hair with a sigh, brows furrowing in clear frustration. She begins walking towards the ladder that leads to the ship’s medical wing. Her eyes narrow as she passes him.

“This isn’t over.” She hisses before shoving her helmet on. 

“Of course not.” Boba agrees, teeth bared though she cannot see. They watch Kryze disappear down the ladder, wincing with each step; her pet close behind. 

And just like that, it’s suddenly easier to take a breath. Dune lets out a big exhale, her stance finally relaxing. Boba tilts his head left and right, enjoying the cracks of released tension. 

That should keep the princess busy for a while. Her pet would stay close by her side and help her manage those bruised ribs. Boba turns his attention back to the beroya . 

He has time. 

“Fennec and I will set the course.” Dune volunteers without Boba saying a word, and he’s once again in awe at how much competence he’s managed to find in the past year. 

“Thank you.” He nods, and she returns it. Before she heads for the cockpit, she lightly touches him on the shoulder.

“Easy with him.” She whispers, concerned eyes darting back towards the Mandalorian before settling on Boba’s visor, “he’s not handling it well.” 

Well, now isn’t that the understatement of the millennia. 

“I know.” Boba responds, and Cara squeezes his shoulder once before going for the ladder.

Then, it’s just Boba and the beroya.  

“Come on.” Boba says as gently as he could manage, reaching out to grasp the other man by the arm. 

He isn’t prepared for the violent flinch and hiss when he squeezed on a bicep. The Mandalorian wrenches himself from his grasp, backing away into the wall. He looks around wildly, as if the pain had just woken him up from a dazed dream.

“You’re hurt.” Boba observes, both hands held up. The beroya looks down at himself and Boba waits patiently for the man to finally take stock of everything.

“I...I think so.” He admits, still sounding too distant for Boba’s taste. 

“Let’s get you patched up, beroya. How does that sound?” He moves closer again, taking care to grab the man by his wrist instead. The vambrace is fastened high enough for him to touch cloth rather than metal. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t respond but he lets Boba tug him along further into the ship. 

Boba takes him to his personal quarters. It isn’t much to write home about, but there’s a bed, a small stash of rations and water, as well as his personal medical supplies. 

Boba lets go of the beroya’s wrist and reaches for the medical box he has hidden in a bolted down box. He turns around, and the Mandalorian is still standing by the closed doorway. He stands like someone that is trying his best to not look out of place, but is making himself look more out of place by doing so. His helmeted head tilts to the left and right, then up and down. Boba supposes he’s looking for personal trinkets or something. Not that he’d find any; Boba likes to keep his things in only places he knew. 

“Sit.” Boba orders but not unkindly. Once again, the beroya listens without struggle. He shuffles forward, still looking like he’s sleep-walking. Hesitantly, he lowers himself on the bunk. His gloved hands rub over the sheets as Boba opens the medical box.

“Lift your arm.” 

The beroya complies, and winces as he does so. Boba grimaces under his helmet when he sees the damage.

A stray blaster shot had grazed the unguarded underside of the Mandalorian's left arm. The sleeve is torn and singed. Boba can see the burn on skin, red and blistering. He thinks he can treat it through the torn hole in the cloth without having the other man remove his clothes or helmet. 

“Just a slight burn. Nothing a little bacta can’t fix.” He diagnoses, pulling out the said bacta gel. He pulls his gloves off, finger by finger and flexes his hands once they are freed. The gel is cool to the touch, and he scoops a generous glob out with two fingers. 

The beroya takes a stuttered breath when the bacta touches his skin. Boba isn’t sure if that’s due to the cool nature of the gel, or it’s because he’s not used to being touched. 

He rubs the bacta thoroughly into the warm skin, humming when the improvement could already be seen as the skin cools back to a normal color. He carefully cuts away the burnt edges of the sleeve before wrapping the arm in bandages. 

“That should heal without complications.” Boba pats the uninjured arm gently. The beroya merely hums a sound of acknowledgement, head still tilted to look down at nothing. Boba pulls away, still kneeling before him. He waits for a moment, and the silence stretches on for minutes. 

The Mandalorian stays silent without moving or acknowledging that Boba’s staring up at him. 

Boba swallows, ducking his head with a tired exhale. It isn’t a conversation he’s keen on having, but if the beroya won’t leave this catatonic state any time soon..

“You found the child.” He starts, watching the way the other man’s shoulders twitch at the word.

“I did.” 

“He was safe?” 

“..Yes, he didn’t appear injured.” 

“Good.” Boba nods, licking his lips, “Good. I held up my end of the deal then.” 

That seems to put some thought back into the beroya’s head. He sits up a bit straighter, looking at Boba for the first time today. 

“I...Thank you. I mean it. Your help has been,” He swallows, clasping his hands together, “invaluable in rescuing the child.”

Boba starts waving it off, “I was in your debt, it was only natura — ”

“I mean it, Fett.” He cuts Boba off, shaking his head. “You gave more than you got. Vor entye ... vor entye ” He speaks so softly that the modulator in his buy’ce barely picks up his last words. Boba finds it hard to draw a breath.

“I told you. This armor belonged to my father.” He places a hand over the heart of his cuirass. “No amount of effort was too much to return your child to you. Just as you have returned my father’s armor to me.” 

“Except the kid isn’t with me, I — ” The Mandalorian cuts himself off abruptly, head dipping down again. “I…” 

“You met a Jedi.” Boba finishes the thought for him, and he flinches hard before nodding stiffly.

“We were surrounded by the Dark Troopers. And he came out of nowhere. He…” The beroya makes vague gestures with his good arm, “He cut through them with his laser sword. Easily. Like they were fruit. He moved things with his mind.” 

Boba nods along. These all fit the description of that damn jetii . 

“He saved us. And the kid — ” Boba doesn’t like the way the beroya’s voice wavers when he mentions the child. “The kid...felt something. A connection, maybe. I don’t know. But…he.” His clasped hands are shaking, “he had to go with him.” 

“And why’s that?” Boba presses, eyeing the other man intently. The question makes the Mandalorian look up in surprise, as if Boba is the one who is utterly insane.

“Because...because the kid can do the same things. With tutelage, he could hone his skills and do the same. Skills that I can’t teach him.” The beroya says this in one singular breath, the words clearly familiar. Words that he must’ve repeated to himself over and over again until he’s convinced himself they are the truth.

“And is that so bad?” Boba strikes again, watching the other falter. Deep down, he might feel slightly guilty, but his need to know why overrides it all. Why would this man, this man who is clearly a father, leave his son with another? 

“...What?”

“Is that so bad? Leaving his Force skills dormant? Having him stay with you instead?” Boba leans back on his haunches, watching just about a dozen emotions flicker across the beroya’s helmeted head. Which is honestly impressive. He seems shocked, as if that possibility had not occurred to him before. Or, more likely, a possibility that he’s been consciously forcing himself to not consider. Why? 

“But his power...”

“I’ve seen the things that the Jetii and Darjetii are capable of.” Boba shakes his head. “They think each other so different, but they’re all cut from the same cloth. He wouldn’t be missing out on much. But with you?” Boba reaches a hand out, tentatively clasping it around the beroya’s knee. “He could learn so much more.” He whispers, feeling his throat close up. A father’s love.  

“No.” The Mandalorian knocks his knee out of Boba’s hold, “No..” He wields the word like a desperate man wields a stick against a sword. “That’s not...that’s…” 

His chest plate heaves up and down visibly, and Boba can hear the rasping modulated breaths. 

“ Beroya.. ” 

“Even if that’s true, I can’t-it’s too...too.” He’s agitated, one hand reaching to clench around the sheets, the other reaching up to hook into the gaps of his own cuirass. 

“Hey, just breathe.” Boba rocks himself forward, hyper-aware of the snit that the Mandalorian is currently working himself into. He hadn’t wanted to push him that far. He had just wanted to make him see. See what Boba didn’t understand. 

“It’s too late, he’s gone.” The beroya gasps out, his shoulders trembling. “Oh stars, I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice comes out between keens now, and Boba reaches up to rub the other man’s arms, feeling his own panic rise. “Hey, listen to me—”  “I..I shouldn’t have I shouldn’t—”

Boba lets his hands trail down until he’s yanking at the Mandalorian’s gloves and metal guards. They come off with little awareness from the Mandalorian himself. Boba leans in closer, intertwining their fingers. The beroya’s are freezing and clammy in between his, but he rubs at them insistently. 

“Hey, it’s going to be alright. It’s not too late, ner vod. You didn’t screw anything up. It’s okay.” He murmurs urgently, but he can barely hear himself over the Mandalorian’s soft rambling. 

“I didn’t have enough time. The Jedi was right there, I couldn’t . He had to go, I was quested, I had to. This is the way, I had to-” His breathing hitches between the words he manages to get out and Boba nods along with it, rubbing circles on his knuckles. “I didn’t have time. I would’ve...I would’ve said so much more. Let him know how much how much he—”

Boba freezes when he hears the first sob. He stares down at the singular droplet that had landed on their clasped hands. He looks up into the other’s visor with wide eyes, just...watching.

The Mandalorian cries silently, with only the occasional shudder across his chest and the whimper or two that manages to slip out. All the words and excuses have trailed off into stifled sobs that he is trying so hard to hide from Boba.

Boba had been the final vibration that shattered the brittle statue before him.

And Boba doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want that at all.

Boba pushes himself off the floor in one fluid motion, lowkey hating how his knees creak at the movement. He hears the beroya gasp between cries as Boba sits besides him, hands still connected together.

Then, Boba leans forward, their joined hands sandwiched between their chest plates. His buy’ce taps against the Mandalorian’s with a soft clink . 

Neither of them move, the only sound in the room comes from the still heaving chest of the beroya. 

Boba swallows audibly, eyes still clenched shut. He’s nervous, he admits to himself begrudgingly. This isn’t something that he’s attempted in a long time. He’s not even sure if this is what the other needs right now. But listening to all those sobs and desperate words without being able to do anything? Boba couldn’t stand it, he had to try. 

There’s a pressure leaning against his helmet, gently pushing back. It’s his turn to gasp as his eyes fly open. He squints them, trying to see past the layers of visor glass that separates him from the other’s face. Boba’s not sure if he can catch a glimpse of another pair of eyes, but that is somehow the least of his worries now. There is only one thought swirling in his brain.

He returned it. He returned the mirshmure'cya.

Boba knows it really isn’t anything special. Not for his heart to be jumping around like this. A mirshmure'cya isn't only reserved for...for partners. Parents and their children, vod between vod if they're close - they do it without batting an eye. He’s just offering the beroya some form of comfort, and it’s being received. Nothing more...right? 

He nudges back, smiling at the trembling in the Mandalorian’s voice when he whispers, “oh.” 

They do this for maker knows how long, pushing at each other’s buy’cese like ade , breathlessly giggling behind their buirs’ backs. Boba pushes back particularly hard, pulling his hands away from the Mandalorian’s, reaching up to cradle the other’s helmeted head even closer with one hand. The other hand went to the Mandalorian’s nape, rubbing at it and feeling the ends of curls. 

“Fett .” The beroya shudders, but doesn’t pull away. Boba feels something warm rise in his chest. He likes the way his name sounds, falling from the Mandalorian’s lips. He sits there, trembling under Boba’s ministrations, gasping at every knot Boba massages through. More soft whispers of “Fett” falling freely from his shaky voice. 

“Boba.” He offers his name, and along with it, a quiet promise to himself. 

He doesn’t receive an answer, so he continues rubbing at the Mandalorian’s neck.

“Din.” 

Boba freezes.

“What?” He chokes out, trying to keep the obvious excitement from his voice.

“Din Djarin. My name.” 

He’s grinning so hard, he wants to tear off his helmet to show Din.

Din. 

Din Djarin. 

No longer the Mandalorian.

No longer the beroya.

Din. 

Just Din. 

He settles with nuzzling his helm against Din’s once again. 

Boba catches the stifled groan that Din tries to keep quiet. He pulls back, staring into the other’s visor. He looks dazed, head tilted back to press against Boba’s hand.

“Are you injured under your buy’ce too?” He asks gently, but with a hard edge of concern. 

“I was punched by a droid.” Din hums, leaning forward. “A lot.” 

“Kriff, atin is what you are.” Boba sighs, pulling himself away even though he wants nothing more than to keep touching Din’s bare skin. He reaches for the medical box on the floor. 

“I’ll turn around or leave if you want. You know how to patch yourself up, right?” He sets the box between them, ready to stand and give Din his privacy. 

Din turns to stare at him, and Boba stares back, waiting for an answer.

Din doesn’t give him one.

Nor does he give Boba enough time to react when he reaches up to pull his buy’ce off. 

Boba freezes, his back ramrod straight. He turns his head away conspicuously before he can register the face, just in case Din’s injuries are serious enough that he had pulled off the helmet without thinking of the repercussions. 

“It’s okay.” Din’s quiet whisper reaches his ears, and he perks up. The voice sounds only the slightest bit higher without the helmet’s modulation. But the same soft and gentle tone persists. Slowly, Boba turns his head back towards the other man.

Brown hair with just a brush of grey near the roots, arranged in the softest of curls. His hands twitch by his sides. 

His eyes are also brown, but they are currently averted and trained on the medical box. His lips look dry and chapped, a hint of teeth peeking out to chew worryingly at them. 

Boba reaches up, yanking his own helmet off, placing it on the floor with care. Then, he’s reaching forward again, hands hovering over Din’s jaw. Din looks at him, his brown eyes red, the edges swollen and puffy from tears. There are faint tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. His hands land true when Din lowers his head down in a small nod, eyes drifting shut. 

The stubble tickles Boba’s skin and he rubs at Din’s face, wiping the tear stains away, tilting his head from side to side. His nose seems to have taken the brunt of the beating, looking bruised. Boba pinches it, feeling for any broken bones, letting out an amused breath at Din’s wince and soft, “ow”. He doesn’t find any thankfully. His hands move back until they’re cupping Din’s head. The curls feel just as soft as they had looked. Boba massages Din’s scalp, feeling for bumps. He finds none, but is pleasantly surprised by the way Din’s whole body shudders at his touch, dark lashes fluttering. He even draws a soft groan when he scratches at a particular spot. 

“Are you alright?” He asks when Din doesn’t stop trembling in his grasp. 

“Yes.” Din gasps out, dipping his head and avoiding his gaze. “It’s just...it’s been a while. I…” 

“I understand.” Boba nods, pulling Din closer until the other man is practically in his arms. His fingers tingle from all the contact; it's been a while for Boba as well. Din’s chin rests against his shoulder pauldron. It couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but Din doesn’t complain and Boba doesn’t push it. He continues running his fingers through the hair, listening to Din’s soft sounds of content. 

“So you’ve figured it out? Your creed.” Boba asks after a while. He waits, wondering if Din had fallen asleep. 

“You said I would have to one day decide which one I would compromise for the other.” Din finally murmurs against his shoulder. 

“I did.”

“I had to do what I needed to do...back on Morak.” 

Boba thinks back to when Din had returned from that trip after letting the ex-Imperial walk free. He had been quieter than normal, refusing to talk to anyone, not even Dune. 

“For the child.” 

Din nods against him, sighing when Boba finds another nice spot. “I...don’t think I’m compromising one for the other...I...my creed..the child is my priority. I mean it...nothing else..nothing else matters. If it means I’m protecting him...if I’m helping him in any way...there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.” His voice hardens, strong as beskar. 

“That is my way.” 

He finally sounds like the Mandalorian beroya Boba had been keeping tabs on ever since Tatooine, strong and so so full of conviction to protect what is his. 

He moves back, letting Din lift his head off his shoulder. Boba keeps one hand on the back of Din’s head, the other hovering over his cheek. 

Their eyes meet, brown on brown without any metal or visor between them. 

Boba leans in, eyes falling shut.

It’s a lot different from a Keldabe kiss. He doesn’t think Din’s ever kissed anyone, and Boba’s at least a decade out of practice. There's a split second where he wonders if he's made the wrong move, going so quickly. The thought disappears when Din finally presses back, dipping his head forward. They fumble against each other’s lips, exploring and tasting each other. Chapped lips against chapped lips, pressing in and pulling back for air in an attempt to find a rhythm that isn’t awkward. 

Din pulls back, breathing heavily while leaning his forehead against Boba’s.

“...I don’t think I made the wrong choice.” Din whispers and Boba opens his eyes so he could get lost in Din’s. 

“The Jedi had said Grogu just wanted my permission, before he went” This is the first time Boba’s heard the child’s name, and he nods. 

“And you gave it.”

“I gave it.” Din agrees, a sad smile on his lips. Boba presses in again, leaving a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

“Do you regret it?” He dips his head down, eyes closing as his nose bumps against the dip at Din’s throat.  

“A little, yeah.” Din gasps when Boba's breath ghosts over his skin. “But...this won’t be the last I’ll see of him.” Din reaches down to pull Boba away from his throat, forcing him to open his eyes. 

“I’m not losing him.” Din declares, rubbing at Boba’s scarred cheeks. His hands are calloused in all the ways a formidable gunslinger's should be.

But they are gentle, practically floating over the soft scar tissue. As if Din is worried he'd hurt him, of all people. 

“No, you’re not.” Boba swallows with a hesitant quirk of his lips, placing his own hands over Din’s. He returns it shyly, and Boba feels his smile turn into something just a little more certain. 

“But…” He sighs, reaching up to finally remove his armor. It’s been a long day, and the metal is starting to dig into his skin. 

“But?” Din frowns, but begins to paw at his own armor. There’s a pregnant pause, the room fills with only the sound of beskar. 

“You didn’t exactly ask that damned jetii for his commlink, did you? Just let him waltz right off with your ad’ika while telling yourself it was the right thing to do?” Boba looks up from removing his own boots, barking a shout of laughter when he sees Din go red with embarrassment. Even his ears look flushed. Fuck, that’s genuinely charming.

“I…” Din begins to protest, words dying at his lips when he realizes he really doesn’t have any clue how to find his kid again. The panic from before starts to re-emerge, and Boba quickly finishes removing the last of his armor, scooting close to help Din remove his last piece— the right pauldron he couldn’t reach without agitating his injured arm. 

“Easy, beroya. ” He soothes, detaching the beskar. He runs a finger over the raised bumps that make up the mudhorn signet. He’d have to ask about it someday. Din’s own finger nudges against his, tracing the horn.

“I know the jetii who has your son.” Boba brings up casually, doing his best to avoid Din’s curious gaze.

“You do?” 

“Yup. I have the connections to figure out where he’s probably gone.” Boba hums, hand finding its way to wrap around Din’s shoulder again. Skywalker isn’t exactly some no-named kid from the middle of nowhere anymore. It’s only been six years. Surely, there are still people out there that remember enough to point him in the right direction. 

“...Why are you doing this? Surely, the debt you owe me for your father’s armor is long paid.” Din asks, watching the way Boba rubs circles on his exposed shoulder, where beskar used to hide. “I didn’t even give the armor to you, y’know. You had to grab it yourself. If you hadn’t…” Din grows tense under him, then he reaches for his discarded bandolier. 

“This is all I have left now...he...loved to steal it from the control shift. Always trying to stick it in his mouth.” Din rolls the little metal ball around his palm.

“And you will continue to hold on to it until you see him again.” 

Din nods at that, bringing the ball to his lips, his eyes drifting shut.

“Did you leave him anything? From you?” 

“My...necklace. The one from my aliit .” 

Boba nods approvingly, “Good. Then he and that jetii will always know his roots. His buir is a fearsome warrior. A true Mando’ade. He should wear it with great pride.”

“I’m not his buir. ” Din whispers the word, eyes wide as if he had just spoken sacrilege by referring to himself as such. 

“You deny it? Even now?” Boba turns to him incredulously. 

“No, I...I.” Din stumbles over his words, expressions easy to decipher on his open face. “We haven’t done the gai bal manda yet. I’m not…” 

“Then it shall be the first thing you do when you see him again.” Boba decides.

“Yeah...it will.” 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, his hands rubbing big and small patterns over Din’s shoulders, back, and head. With each passing moment, Din’s trembling subsides and Boba feels a bit accomplished for that. 

“What are your plans now?” Boba wonders out loud.

“For?” Din’s voice is low, addled with sleepiness. 

“For well, everything. The Darksaber for starters.” 

“Hmm…” Din hums, leaning against Boba’s side. “I don’t know. I’ll offer it to her again. If she refuses, well...I’m sure I can sell it at the market downtown for another undershirt. This one has a hole in it.” 

That makes Boba snort, and he can feel Din's clever little smile against his shoulder. "Maybe toss it to the Jawas. She's sure to get her fair fight from them."

Boba’s shoulders shake with mirth until he can’t contain it any longer. He lets out a bellowing laugh, jolting Din from his shoulder. This man really couldn't give two shits about the chaos he’s sewn with his defeat of the Moff. To sell the Darksaber for a shirt. He could just envision the look on Kryze’s face! And her wrestling Jawas in the sand for the stupid thing? There are tears welling in his eyes.

“You’re something else, cyar'ika.” He shakes his head fondly, only pausing when he feels Din stiffening in his hold.

“Um..I mean…” He trails off with a barely hidden cringe, not sure what excuse he could use for the sudden nickname. It had slipped out so naturally in the moment. He doesn't think he's ever said it out loud before. Thought about it, perhaps. Maybe a lifetime ago, back when he still had his father and his vocabulary lessons. Back when he could wonder out loud if he'll ever find someone to call that. Jango had just loudly laughed and Boba smacked his father's shoulders, lips pouted because he didn't understand what was so funny about that.

Now, Boba doesn't think he'll ever be able to say it again without choking up with embarrassment.

For once, Din’s face seems blank, and Boba can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“Is that what this is now?” Din finally responds, and Boba isn’t sure what to say. He’s not even sure what ‘this’ is.

“You also didn’t tell me why you’re still helping me.” Din continues even as Boba flounders to figure out exactly why he’s become so invested. 

“I don’t know.” He says honestly. There’s something about Din, this strange beroya that had suddenly dropped himself into Boba’s life without warning. At first, he had been a mere obstacle towards his quest for his father’s armor. Now…

“What did you say your plans were? For after the Darksaber?” He swallows.

“Gideon is ex-ISB. Cara says the information he could provide the New Republic would be near priceless. Said something about double pay since I brought in such a high-value target alive. I think...I think I could get a new ship with that kind of credit.” 

“Your greatest bounty yet.” Boba whistles under his breath. A new ship would do Din well. Give him something to focus on before they find his kid again. 

“No, not my greatest.” Din chuckles at that, eyes glowingly warm. Boba responds by pressing another kiss against his temple. 

“What about you? Surely you had other plans besides sticking around for mine.” 

Boba tilts his head back, letting out a deep breath. Now that Din mentioned it, he does have some loose ends to tie up. 

“Probably head back to Tatooine. There’s a business in the Dune Sea that’s long overdue for some new management.”  

“Dune Sea…” Din yawns, leaning his head against Boba’s shoulder again, “Sounds dangerous...don’t get eaten again.” 

Boba snorts, knocking his own head against Din’s gently. His hair smells of sweat, but he doesn’t really care. Boba thinks he could get used to this. The warmth of another body pressed against his. Not even in the throes of pleasure. No, just...present. That would be enough for him right now, he thinks. 

And if Din is really ready to toss away the Darksaber, if it really is that easy to break away from all the Mandalorian drama. Then...he wonders…

“Maybe…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks. “Maybe, you could stick around with Fennec and I. We could always use another crew member.” He swallows audibly without looking down at Din. “Maybe we could...figure out what exactly ‘ this’ is.” He falls silent, wondering if he had sounded too hopeful. 

“...Din?” The name rolls off his tongue a bit too easily, making his chest tighten excitedly. He doesn’t receive a response, so he chances a glance down. 

The beroya is slumped against him, eyes fluttering in his sleep. His mouth slightly agape with soft snores pricking at Boba’s ears. 

He sits still, watching the slow rise and fall of Din’s chest. 

“You’re...really something else.” Boba smiles, keeping himself still so Din could continue resting undisturbed. 

“Well, that’s alright, we have time.” Boba says to no one in particular. He looks down at his feet; both helmets gleam back up at him.

We have time.