Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!
For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one.
Clan of Three
Every clan, if you think about it, must once have been just two people. A couple, or a parent and a child. A point at which someone stopped being alone, or chose to branch out from their clan of origin, and something new began.
Their situation is not really abnormal, it’s just unfamiliar. And sometimes you’ll be able to identify the moment of change or of beginning, it will be official, with the blessing of a trusted authority… but sometimes one thing will gradually blend into another and you’ll only be able to say that it has changed after it’s well established. You’ll have to recognise it for yourself.
For Din that moment of recognition comes in the middle of… nothing special. It’s a hot afternoon. They’re staying inside where it’s shady and closer to cool. He’s just coming out of the kitchen with the glass of iced tea Cobb asked him for. Cobb is sitting on the floor with Grogu sitting in the nest of his crossed legs, long and bare in the old shorts he changed into after the morning’s work. They have a picture book laid open on the floor in front of them and Cobb is reading to Grogu, changing his voice for the different characters.
“And so the lonely Wookiee growled, ‘Oh no! Oh my! I don’t know what to do!’ and — ow! Hey, you little ratbag.” Grogu’s little clawed hand had been resting on his shin, idly playing with his leg hair, and he just pinched a few strands together and pulled them. Grogu giggles as Cobb growls again, giving his best (very inauthentic but spirited) imitation of a Wookiee, wraps his arms round him and blows a raspberry on top of his head. That makes him squeal and laugh, which gets him another raspberry. “What am I gonna do with you?” Cobb asks. “Anyway,” and he resumes reading the story.
You are as its father. It’s been a long time since then, and he would politely but firmly correct anyone who called Grogu it, but those words set him on this path, and now he knows he’s not on it alone. Just when and how Cobb became a father to Grogu too, he’s unable to say, even as he looks back over the months they’ve lived together. There was no moment of blessing, only patience and kindness and growing trust and reliance. There’s no ritual or ceremony, no symbolic gift to confer membership in the clan. Cobb is part of it already. Din needs to sit down.
He keeps that thought to himself for a while. In a way, he’s treasuring it; but in another way, it troubles or at least puzzles him. He wouldn’t have expected to feel satisfied by something so informal and it seems disloyal not to feel a need to formalise things properly according to creed and tradition. Those things still matter to him, they matter deeply, they’re at the foundation of who he is and tries to be, but perhaps it’s because they don’t apply to Cobb in the same way. Cobb respects his beliefs, no question, and he tries to understand and support them, but Din suspects he’s never going to ask what one needs to do to convert. He looks sometimes at Cobb’s new armour (second-hand gear still, but they’re restoring and improving it together) and thinks about where on it would be a good spot for a mudhorn stencil. Would it be okay to go that far? Informally, but symbolically?
Grogu’s crayon drawings are getting more assured, and he frequently draws the three of them as a group, smiles so wide they come off the sides of their faces (he just draws a smile onto the front of Din’s helmet to make it clear he’s happy). There’s a symbol for you. He used to stick close to Din when they all walked somewhere together, regardless of where Cobb was, but now he always toddles along between them, and he loves if it they each reach down and grab one of his hands and lift him up and give him a swing back and forth. He squeals and giggles — and that’s another thing, since they’ve been living with Cobb he’s noticed more and more laughter from Grogu. He was never really a timid kid, despite everything he’d gone through before Din found him, but he’s become noticeably more confident and exuberant, and Din has to think it’s from having a settled, comfortable home with not one but two people who love him and also love each other. Cobb encourages that side of him; they’ve settled into roles where Din is generally the more calm and gentle parent, Cobb the more playful one. Din is more likely to rock Grogu to sleep; Cobb is more likely to bounce him in the air. When Grogu gets really mischievous and Din is exasperated but still amused, he’ll accuse Cobb of teaching him to be a gremlin, and Cobb will laugh back and say that’s all you can expect from a Tatooine feral.
They’re in bed one very early morning when they both wake to the sound of a thump followed by little scuttling footsteps in the kitchen. Cobb groans quietly and snuggles up to Din’s back as they both listen drowsily for any sounds of disaster demanding action. There’s a wooden clatter — that sounded like the broomstick falling over. Then a strange sound kind of like rain that has Din baffled until he starts to suspect it’s dry spaghetti falling on a tiled floor.
“Your son’s getting into some shit,” Cobb mumbles.
Din thinks about how comfortable he is right now and how dark it still is outside. He’s a dutiful parent, but he’s human, and he’s not in this alone any more. “Before sunrise,” he mumbles back, “he’s your son.”
There’s a moment’s quiet, and he wonders if he overstepped by saying that. In the kitchen, there’s a sound he’d tentatively identify as an egg breaking on the floor. Cobb grumbles and puts a kiss on his shoulder, and whispers, “I want your clean-out-the-fridge fried rice for dinner.” Then he rolls over, gets out of bed and shuffles off, bare feet whispering on the floor. Din rolls on his back, stretches out his legs, and listens for the sounds of two of his clan of three.
Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!
For today I have just one story and it's SFW. It's the second of the three linked stories (SFW, SFW and NSFW in that order - but the two SFWs can stand alone if you prefer not to read the NSFW one).
AU/Freebie Day - I chose Drunken Home Ear Piercing (as a free choice, not an AU)
People have idiosyncrasies when they get drunk. Din’s noticed that, mostly as an onlooker, because his principles for most of his life didn’t allow for social drinking. He’s never been one to drink alone either — given how much he was alone, it seemed like a fast track to pickling himself in alcohol — so he’s mostly just watched, feeling uncomfortable because he can’t participate and people either think he’s a killjoy or that he must have some deep dark personal reason for not drinking, when it’s just the practical fact that you can’t keep your face covered and drink. So when he came to stay with Cobb, broken-hearted and bare-faced, he kind of crashed into drinking far too much too fast, and paid the price with a sunburn that took days to heal and made the whole affected area peel like tattered white lace.
“Passes out in the blazing sun and half cooks himself” was a pretty stupid drunken idiosyncrasy, definitely worse than “decides he can sing” or “wants to get into everyone’s lap” or “starts planning a revolution” or the other quirks he’s observed in the people he’s known over the years. He’s managed not to make a habit of it. With a bit of guidance from Cobb on knowing when to stop, and drinking to enjoy the experience, not to blot out how awful you’re feeling, the tendency that seems to be developing is just “easily talked into things.”
Cobb is generally the one talking him into things, and fortunately so far they haven’t been too troublesome — dancing with him was nice, obviously, and the pancakes eventually peeled off the kitchen ceiling after they tried to make midnight breakfast and he didn’t know his own strength flipping them. Neither of them can really remember what they were hoping to accomplish by digging that pit out the back of the house but there was a very muddled drawing on a scrap of paper on the living room floor labelled, as far as they could make out the next day, AWESOME SWIMMING POOL. The less said about the lawn chair incident the better, but they both walked away from it, somewhat unsteadily.
That’s not Cobb’s idiosyncrasy so much as the effect of the two of them being otherwise sensible and competent men who for some reason get a little bit dumb when they put their heads together. His thing is that, by contrast with the many people who find their calling as a stripper when tipsy, he starts putting things on. He keeps darting into his bedroom and coming back to show Din this great hat, or a big coat he found in a thrift store, or how many sweaters he can put on at once, or the jacket with the fringe which swings out when he goes like this (which coincided with the dancing). This evening it’s his best suit, another second-hand find which probably predates the Empire and features not only fringe but embroidery. He parades around the living room enjoying the attention, since Din is suitably impressed, before dumping himself down on the couch next to him again and taking a long pull on the drink he abandoned to go and get dressed up. As his head tips back Din notices something shining and looks closer. Cobb has an earring, a yellow gold sun in his right earlobe with a rose gold sun hanging from it on a tiny ring.
“Hey, where’d you get that?” he asks, trying to touch it without pulling on it.
“Oh, that? Found it in the jacket pocket when I got changed. I thought I lost it dancing at Tracy Dunerunner’s wedding last winter. Must’ve just dropped in there by luck.”
“It’s so pretty.”
“Why, thank you.” Cobb tilts his head to let him admire it better. “I only really wear it for special occasions. Thought the hole might’ve closed up, but it seems okay.”
“You should wear it more. It looks good on you,” Din says earnestly. “I wish I could wear stuff like that.”
“Why can’t you?”
Din blinks at him, befuddled. “Don’t have pierced ears,” he says.
“Well how the heck do you think ears get pierced, dummy? You gotta pierce ‘em. I’ll help you, I’m good at this.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s easy. C’mon, the best light’s in the kitchen.”
So without quite intending it he’s ended up sitting on a kitchen chair with Cobb wiping his right earlobe with alcohol and then rubbing it with an ice-cube to numb it. That feels really weird and it makes him wriggle around so Cobb sits on his lap facing him to hold him still, which feels weird from a whole different angle.
“Okay,” says Cobb, flourishing a sharp darning needle, “I’m ready to operate. Got you a nice little earring to start off with.” It’s sitting on the table after a dip in a shot glass full of rubbing alcohol, a plain silver stud, like a moon to Cobb’s suns. “I’m gonna need you to hold still for me, okay partner? Real still, because if you pull we might just tear your earlobe, and it’ll heal but who wants to deal with that?” He’s cut a piece of potato for Din to hold just behind his earlobe, so when Cobb sticks the needle through quick and hard the point will go into that instead of the side of his neck.
“I can hold still,” Din says, although his heart is beating fast and his numb earlobe is already starting to feel warm again.
“Okay,” says Cobb. He rubs the ice-cube over his ear again, making it sting and tingle with the cold before it grows number. “On the count of three, one, two,” and he stabs the needle through right then. Din gasps in shock and no small amount of pain, ice or not, but he manages to keep still. “That’s great,” says Cobb, “just a little bit more now, hold on for me, hold on,” and with slippery fingers from ice and blood he pulls the needle free from the potato and then manages to fumble the stud post through the raw new hole and get the back onto it. “Woo!” he cheers, raising his arms in the air. “That looks great!” He grabs the little shaving mirror from the kitchen table and holds it up for Din. “Take a look!”
It’s hard to get a look at his own ear in the small mirror but Din makes it out; there are bloody fingerprints on his neck and ear that make the whole thing look kind of gory but there’s the little silver ball shining in his earlobe, and it really does look great. A big smile breaks out on his face as Cobb wipes and dabs the blood away with a damp cotton ball, and then touches the fresh piercing and the pain is so sharp he yells “Fuck!” right in Cobb’s face. Cobb starts laughing and apologising and laughing more.
“I’m sorry, darlin’, sorry, at least it wasn’t alcohol, right?”
“It was alcohol, that’s the point,” says Din.
Cobb glances back over his shoulder at the unfortunately identical-looking shot glasses of water and rubbing alcohol and says “Whoops. Well, it’s clean.” His voice turns gentle and coaxing. “C’mon, you’re okay, right? A big strong man like you?” He strokes Din’s jawline as he admires his ear, and it’s pretty hard to stay angry. The pain has changed from a stab to a hot throbbing, and when he holds the melting ice to it he feels some instant relief. Cobb’s looking at him with such a lovely smile, and he finds he wants to earn more of that.
“You think you could do the other side too?” he asks.
Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!
For today I have one piece and it's SFW (also pretty short). I think that's because there was already a lot of water imagery (or just practical use of water) in several of the earlier pieces so I didn't have a lot left in the tank!
Water
“Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water.”
The first time Cobb says it Din just takes it as a compliment couched in the kind of folksy language Cobb seems to like using. It’s not as if he’s strikingly tall or that’s the best thing about him, but he likes the warm look that comes with it, it makes him blush a little in the privacy of his helmet, so he quietly says, “Thank you,” and leaves it at that.
Cobb seems… vaguely disappointed by that, perhaps? Maybe it’s not the right thing to say in reply. Maybe he’s supposed to flirt back, though he wouldn’t have a clue how. Everything he tries to come up with sounds clumsy and stilted and dull. “You look nice today.” Yes, fantastic, that’ll make his heart flutter. Cobb is surely perfectly well aware that he looks nice every day. He has to say something better than that to make it worth saying.
Cobb seems to think that particular line worth saying more than once. He doesn’t know how to take it now. “You are one tall drink of water,” Cobb murmurs, gazing at him in the rosy sunset light as they sit together on the roof of his house.
“Uh — thanks, you too.”
“Me too?” Cobb asks.
“You’re… also tall?”
“Ah,” says Cobb. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Maybe a little taller than me,” Din says, hoping that makes it more of a compliment.
To his surprise, Cobb suddenly takes his hand, squeezing through the worn leather glove. “I don’t think I’m making myself clear here,” he says. “I’m not praising your height here. I’m trying to say… imagine you’ve been out in the blazing sun for hours. Your skin is burning and your mouth is parched. You finally get home into the shade and in front of you, you see a tall glass, so cold there’s mist beading on the outside, full to the brim with pure, fresh water, glistening with ice cubes that settle with the perfect soft clink. It’s right in front of you and you can reach for it. And that is how I feel when I see you.”
“Oh,” Din says foolishly.
“I’ve lived in the desert all my life, I’ve almost died of dehydration, but never have I known such a thirst,” Cobb says softly.
“You can drink me,” he blurts out, and dumb as that sounds to his own ears, it makes Cobb smile wonderfully.
Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!
For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one.
New Experiences
Cobb keeps on saying he’s been cold before, it gets bitter cold out in the desert at night, and Din has kept on telling him that yes, that’s cold, but it’s not ice and snow cold, and if he’s going to take him on a trip he needs Cobb to trust him about the appropriate clothing.
He does need thermals, he does need thick wool socks, he does need a heavy parka, wool cap and mittens.
“What about you?” Cobb asks. “You may be wearing thermals under your suit, but I don’t see a parka.”
“I’m used to making do without one,” says Din, “but I have higher standards for you.”
“Have ‘em for yourself too, then.”
“All right then. I will.”
“Just see that you do.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Din says, smiling inside his helmet.
“I’m the boss of everyone, they just don’t know it yet,” says Cobb with a cocky grin.
Boss or not, he’s got Din to wear a parka over his beskar, which he doesn’t altogether like to do. The shiny breastplate is for show as well as for function. A symbolic declaration of identity and values. Well, everyone can still see the helmet, and he compromised on cutting off the parka sleeves just above the elbow so his vambraces are free and functional. This is meant to be a pleasure trip, just to show Cobb a different world as a treat, but he’s still not about to go anywhere without ready access to his grappling hook, flamethrower and whistling birds. Safety first.
He lands the small ship he’s borrowed from Boba on a small, flat-topped hill overlooking a frozen lake, its edges frosted white and its heart a turquoise blue. In fact, if you’re generous with your aesthetics, the lake is sort of heart-shaped. He wonders if Cobb will notice and appreciate that. They lower the landing ramp and step outside into a brilliantly sunny day. The air out here is so cold and crisp it stings your face. Cobb actually gasps. Din gives him a few moments to walk to the bottom of the ramp, then slowly, carefully, extend one foot and put it down and feel the crunch and squish of the snow under his boot.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s weird!” says Cobb enthusiastically. He sees his own breath condensing on the air and huffs out another cloud of warm mist. Then, “Ow.” He puts his mittened hand to his ear.
“You forgot to take out your earring?” Din asks.
“I was excited to see the snow,” Cobb says sheepishly. “And I love it. You gave it to me.” It’s the beskar dart tip from a whistling bird and Cobb is almost comically proud of how it looks glinting in his earlobe.
“Well, it’s gonna get real cold and I don’t want you to get frostbite. Hold still,” Din says. He pulls off his gloves, gives them to Cobb to hold and carefully removes the already chilly earring. He pulls up one of the hook-and-loop flaps of Cobb’s parka pockets, tucks the earring firmly down inside, presses it closed, then pulls Cobb’s wool cap down to cover his ears properly. “There.”
“This hat is crushing my hair,” Cobb grumps.
“A Mandalorian helmet couldn’t unpretty your hair, but you think a toque will?” Din asks, pulling his gloves back on.
“Aw, Mando, you think I’m pretty?” Cobb beams at him, more radiant than the sunshine on the snow crust.
“C’mon,” Din says, embarrassed. He does think Cobb is pretty but he has too little experience of romance to be able to say it smoothly. He grabs Cobb’s hand and pulls him along, heading down the slope towards the lake. Cobb slips and flounders and laughs. He starts to lurch forward, catches himself and throws himself backward, landing on his butt and then flopping on his back with his arms outstretched. “Come on,” says Din, with a chuckle. He reaches down and pulls Cobb up to his feet, leaving his outline in the snow.
“Hey, look at that!” says Cobb, twisting to look back. “It really takes a print, doesn’t it? Not like dry sand at all. It’s so crazy that this is water.” He scoops up a mittenful and crumbles it around.
“Try squeezing it,” says Din. Cobb squashes the snow between his palms. “See how it compacts? It’ll hold together.” He’s remembering the short period his first covert spent living someplace very like this, a little compound in the snowy woods. Unlike most covert locations, it offered both secrecy and open space for children to run and play. The snow forts they built and the snowball battles they fought were both educational for warriors in the making and tremendous fun for a motley assortment of kids in hand-me-down winter clothes and soft training helmets. The snow was the first thing that brought him out of his shell to play with the others. Up to then he had been his foster father’s shadow, dumb with sorrow, until finally the sight of them running, shouting, flinging snow had sparked his attention.
Buir had seen where he was looking as Din stood beside him holding tightly a fistful of his cape. He’d looked down at Din, his helmet impassive, nothing like his lost parents’ dark, expressive eyes and smiling, talking mouths. But there was something kind in the tilt of his head, and he gently jerked it in the direction of the romping foundlings. Buir barely spoke because his larynx had been crushed in a fight years before. Rather than speaking through the mic in his helmet, he would hold a little electrolarynx device to his throat when he really needed to speak aloud, but more often than not he used a modified sign language, finding it more convenient. That was what he told Din back then, but thinking on it now, he’s fairly sure Buir switched to relying on signing because the electrolarynx made him sound a lot like a droid, and he saw how uncomfortable that made the child he’d picked up. He didn’t need to say “Go on”; Din understood, and after hesitating a moment longer, he released his grip on the crumpled fabric and ventured out to play.
That was the day he learned to make snowballs, and it’s something he can teach Cobb now, how to press and mould the snow between cupped palms, how to roll it down the slope, picking up more and more snow as it went, turning it between the two of them to keep its shape even and rounded. It makes them both laugh just out of happiness and satisfaction. Cobb’s cheeks and nose are flushed a sweet rosy pink. His eyes are bright, their hazel colour almost gold where the sharp sunlight catches it, and he’s altogether so lovely a sight that Din is glad his face is hidden and he can stare as openly and foolishly as he wants.
Together they build a snowman where the ground flattens out; he gets an idea and labours back up the hill in the sliding snow into the ship’s hold and brings back a bucket to mould its head into a snow Mandalorian. After that success they make their way down to the lake, and after Din checks how solid the ice is, they venture out on its surface, skidding around a little. Cobb keeps grabbing hold of his hand, and although it actually makes both of them a bit less stable, Din’s happy to let him. When Din asks, “You want to try sliding?” he’s immediately game. They run and slide on foot, on knees, and on a few accidental occasions on their asses until they’re out of breath and glowing with warmth. It occurs to Din that apart from a little light Grogu-entertaining, he hasn’t really played in years. He still knows how, though. Panting and laughing, they stagger off the ice and begin making their way back up the hill, wallowing in the knee-deep snow, helping each other up by reaching down from above or by pushing from below (hands on butts). At the top they look back at their chaotic trail across the formerly perfect snowscape.
“What do you think of it now?” Din asks.
“It’s fantastic,” says Cobb. “I couldn’t have imagined what it’s really like. And there’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.” He throws his arms around Din and, to his surprise, kisses him smack-dab on the cheek of his helmet. He can’t feel it, of course, but he enjoys it symbolically, at least for a few moments until it becomes clear that Cobb’s lips are stuck to the frosty metal. He tries to pull away, gives a little muffled cry of panic and pain, and stares helplessly through the eyeslot of Din’s visor. “Hnnh!”
“Dank farrik — it’s okay, hold still. Just — okay, put your hands on the helmet, hold it, take the weight. Got it? Don’t let go or it’ll peel your lips.” He steadies it with his hands too and brings his head and shoulders down, pulling his head out of the helmet. He’s dazzled by the unfiltered bright light for a moment, then gets a proper look at Cobb, scarlet-faced and glaring with anger, confusion and embarrassment, still smooching the helmet. He has to bite his own lip hard not to laugh, but it’s not really funny, he doesn’t want Cobb to get frostbite or tear the skin off his lips. “Stay there,” he says, turns and runs up the ramp into the ship. In the tiny, cramped galley he draws a cup of lukewarm water from the tap, then rushes back, trying not to spill it. “Okay. It’s okay, just hold very still for me, got it?” Carefully, he pours water over the join between lip and metal, while Cobb breathes loud and fast through his nose. After a few moments the icy seal breaks and Cobb is able to gently, carefully peel his lips away from the helmet. They’re very red and they look like they’re sore and stinging. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding anywhere,” Din says hopefully.
Cobb cautiously runs his tongue-tip over his lips and winces. “No, but they feel raw,” he says. “Goddamn that was cold!”
“I think you’ll survive,” Din says.
“Well, sure, I’ll survive,” says Cobb. “But could you kiss ‘em better?”
Dincobb Week Day 7 - Alternate First Meeting (SFW)
Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!
For today I have one piece and it's SFW.
Alternate First Meeting - in which the Jawas weren't there but a Mandalorian was
There’s a small, struggling human shape toiling across the desert below the Razor Crest. Din notices it from a distance. Someone alone and on foot. No speeder, no bantha. Leaving an uncertain, wobbly track in the sand. Doomed, out there.
It’s not his problem. And he’s busy. There’s a big bounty to track down, someone Bib Fortuna wants contained in order to consolidate his new power. He hasn’t got a contract from this high up the Tatooine power structure before — it seems the regular guy bit the dust along with Jabba, opening up an opportunity. Din doesn’t know him, but he’s heard he was a Mandalorian, so the galaxy is a little worse off without him — but there’s nothing he can do about that, he just has to stay focused on his own work, take care of his own people.
It’s not his problem.
Damn it. It’s one thing when people have done something to place themselves beyond his sympathy, when they’ve threatened him or what he protects, but he can’t just ignore whoever is stupid enough to try to cross the desert alone and on foot. Maybe he doesn’t have to do anything now. The little figure just fell over and lay still.
Still, he lands close by and goes over to check.
It’s a man, one of the local settlers from the look of him, grey-haired and lanky. He’s not remotely dressed for this — not even a hat to keep off the sun, let alone a robe or a poncho, just a shirt and pants. He didn’t intend to cross a desert in that outfit. He doesn’t have a canteen. He was carrying a camtono — no idea what’s in there but presumably something of value, just not of any practical use for his survival. His breathing is shallow, but he is still breathing. Din picks him up, with some difficulty since he’s a dead weight, slings him over his shoulder, scoops up the camtono and carries him up the ramp into the hold of his ship, where there’s shade.
He places the man on the floor, sitting up against the wall with his head lolling, and examines him. He’s badly dehydrated; when Din pinches the skin on the back of his hand it takes several seconds for it to smooth out again. His lips are chapped and cracked and he’s covered in dust and dirt. He needs water, but if Din just pours it down his throat he’ll choke, so he goes and gets his own canteen, fills it from the galley tap, brings it back and shakes the man’s shoulder a little, crouching beside him.
“Hey, can you hear me? Talk to me. Can you hear me?”
The man stirs a little, his head rolling from side to side before he manages to lift it up. He looks at Din blearily, with suspicion and some alarm, and makes a faint croaking sound, his mouth clearly too dry to speak audibly.
“You’re safe. Drink some water.” He offers the canteen and the exhausted man moves like lightning to grab it. He puts it to his lips and drinks frantically, water trickling from the sides of his mouth into his beard and down his neck as his throat bobs, looking up at Din with disconcertingly sharp eyes. He looks ready to do murder when Din takes the canteen from his hand, but doesn’t have the strength to stop him. “Take a breather,” says Din. “You drink too fast and you’ll throw it back up.”
The man pants and sniffs, and wipes his mouth with the back of his arm before clearing his throat and saying hoarsely, “Who’re you?”
“I’m a bounty hunter,” says Din.
“They send you to get me?” the man asks.
“No. I was flying by and saw you pass out. I don’t know who you are.”
“Name’s Cobb Vanth,” says the man, then, politely, “May I have some more water?”
Din hands it back to him and he drinks again, his eyes closing this time as if in bliss. He lowers the canteen after several more deep swigs with a soft “paah” and catches his breath. He peers at Din again. “Are you a… you’re a Mandalorian, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never met a real Mandalorian.” He chuckles. “Heard stories. I know you’re good at killing.”
Din lets that pass. He’d like to think there’s more to him than that but he won’t deny he’s efficient.
“And you’re a bounty hunter, you say?”
Din nods.
“So you’re for hire?”
“You’ve been out in the sun too long,” says Din. “You can get some rest now. Where do you want me to drop you off?”
“No, I’m asking…” Cobb sits up straighter, pulling himself together. “I know some people that need killing. And I can’t do it all by myself.”
“I’m not a hitman,” says Din.
“You don’t understand,” says Cobb. “The Mining Collective.” He’s clearly still exhausted, but pushing himself hard. “They moved in on my town. The night we got news of the Death Star blowing up. We didn’t even have time to celebrate.”
Din’s heard about that in vague terms over the past few days; it doesn’t make a great deal of difference to his day-to-day, though he’s glad to hear of the Empire going down. Maybe sometime soon it won’t be so dangerous to be a Mandalorian. He won’t hold his breath, though. Can’t be disappointed if you don’t get your hopes up. The Mining Collective is bad news too. He nods.
“I lit out. Took what I could from the invaders. Grabbed a camtono,” Cobb says, looking around vaguely and then nodding when he spots it by his feet. “I wandered for days. No food, no water. And then… I was saved.” He gives Din a sly smile and points at him. “I guess every once in a while, both suns shine on a womp rat’s tail.”
“Guess so,” Din says, and begins to stand up. Cobb grabs a handful of his cape and holds on. He’s still weak, but he is quick. “Listen to me,” he says. “I’ve got treasure. That camtono. It’s full of silicax crystals. It’s yours if you help me. Help me take back Mos Pelgo.”
Din has to think about that. A full camtono of silicax is nothing to turn up his nose at. Depending on what Mos Pelgo is like, this could be a side job that doesn’t take too much time away from finding Fortuna’s bounty. Depending on the quality of the silicax he could be almost doubling his payday, and he has a lot of mouths to feed. He sits down. “Tell me about Mos Pelgo.”
It’s manageable. Mos Pelgo is just a flyspeck on the map. The Mining Collective hasn’t committed a whole lot of resources to it because they don’t have to, not to control a small population of frightened and demoralised people armed only with mining equipment. He has an armed ship and it amounts to a few minutes’ intensive work culminating in a fireball outside of town. He circles to make sure there are no survivors leaving the wreckage and returns to land closer to the settlement.
Cobb Vanth is grateful, relieved. It’s a good feeling when he can do that for someone he actually likes. Pretty rare too. Cobb is brave and resourceful and not too proud to ask for help. He likes that. He asks Din to have a drink with him before they settle up and while he declines the drink Din is happy to sit with him while he has one. It’s just the two of them in the shady cantina at the end of the day. Cobb keeps looking him up and down appraisingly, and it’s mildly disconcerting but not unpleasant.
“Would you consider staying?” Cobb asks. “As our defender. We can make it worth your while.”
Din shakes his head. “I have my own people to get back to.”
Cobb sucks his teeth, thinking. “Well, would you consider selling me your armour so I can do it myself? Take it out of the camtono too.”
Din’s back straightens from the more relaxed posture he was sitting in. “No,” he says.
“You can always get more, can’t you?” Cobb protests.
He clearly doesn’t understand what a repugnant suggestion it is, and Din doesn’t have the time or the inclination to walk him through it. “To get my armour you would have to pry it off my dead body,” he says. “Don’t ask me again.”
“Then we’re just as vulnerable when you leave as we were before,” Cobb says. “Sitting ducks for the next syndicate goons.”
“I’m sorry but that isn’t my problem,” says Din. “I’ve gone out of my way to assist and I need to get back to my job. You’re a survivor. You'll survive. Good luck.” He gets up and turns towards the door, he hears the clatter of Cobb’s chair overturning and — the man is quick — he feels something blunt and hard butting into the back of his neck, where he’s only protected by the folds of his cape. If he’s not mistaken, that would be the muzzle of a blaster. Must have been dropped by one of the Mining Collective goons in their rush to leave. Cobb is a survivor, a scavenger; of course he picked it up.
Cobb’s voice is urgent, sharp. “Take it off,” he says, “or I will.” He’s also still recovering from his exhaustion and dehydration. He’s not strong right now. Din simply drops down, whips his leg out and kicks Cobb’s feet out from under him, then rises up as he falls down and steps hard on the wrist of the hand that is indeed holding a blaster. He presses down with his boot until Cobb swears and lets go of the blaster, and then he kicks it away; it skitters under the sagging old piano by the wall. Cobb keeps on swearing and cursing him, sitting up wringing his bruised wrist with the other hand.
“What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do now?” he keeps saying.
“I can sympathise with your motives,” Din says, “and that’s why you’re alive now.” The camtono is standing on the table where Cobb set it, and Din picks it up and sets it down between his legs where he sits on the floor. “You should be able to buy the kind of gear you need with this. Try the Jawas, or the black market in Mos Eisley. Don’t tell anyone about me. The Guild takes a very dim view of freebies.”
“That’s it?” Cobb asks, looking up at him from red-rimmed eyes.
“That’s it,” says Din, and turns to go.
“I don’t know your name,” Cobb says abruptly, behind him. Just for a moment, Din wants to tell him. He wants to hold onto the feeling he had that they could have been friends. But Cobb is not his problem. He has more than enough of those.
“I don’t expect our paths will cross again,” he says, and he leaves.
