the clearing has enough space only for him and the still thrumming ship. he waits patiently for the engines to fall silent and the door to open. his favored hunter steps out and boba approaches, noting the squirming motion between the unpainted gauntlets.
“you brought him with. good.” a gloved palm is offered to the little one, a furled and relaxed curl of fingers. when the tiny fangs find purchase in the worn-out leather, he cants his helmet at din. “this is for him to see too.”
the hand is freed, the other helmet pulled down in a quick acknowledgment. and he’d like to breathe here, but he knows this moment will feed them better elsewhere. so he lets him go, cuts the prelude short. the shards mixed with leaves crunch underneath his boots as boba turns around. “follow me.” his visor peeks over the yellow shoulderguard. “it’s good news.” he promises, almost hurriedly.
cycles-- how many cycles of the brothers had it been since you last saw him? the armor looks different, the gleam it catches off the suns the first noticeable difference: but you recognize him all the same, he’s unmistakable by this point. your excitement gets the better of you, and you sign in large, exaggerated gestures as the mandalorian approaches.
“mando!” your hands move quickly as you call out in q’hu’mhum’gah at the same time. “welcome back!”
something like laughter fogs in his visor. ‘no,’ the hunter concedes. ‘and you’re welcome.’ he hates long good-byes. much preferred is the way a jawa would scurry off with their prize, no acknowledgement necessary. his kind — mandalorian or otherwise — always tend to draw these things out.
‘can’t promise i’ll be seeing you around.’ he sighs with finality, the sudden movement producing a murmur from the pouch at his back. ‘if it means another krayt dragon, i hope i don’t.’ here, djarin offers a hand. thanks to this stranger, there’s a suit of armor slung over his own, a battle-scarred helmet propped under his free arm. it isn’t what he came here for, but what more could he expect?
‘i know what it meant to you,’ he says, meaning the beskar, meaning the scraps of mandalorian remains that are weighing heavier by the thought. ‘thank you for taking care of it.’
Without hesitation, Cobb grasps the hand offered him and shakes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself even as he releases him.
Is he disappointed to have to part with the armor? Yes, and perhaps a bit apprehensive besides. After all, that armor had helped him to protect his town, his folks, from bandits and raiders and all other manner of scoundrels and scum that thought they would cause a ruckus and stir up trouble.
But… He gave his word, and he’ll hold to it. He’s not a Mandalorian, but he has his own sense of honor.
And at least the krayt is dead, and the Tuskens… they might leave the town and the mine be now. That will make life easier for all of them.
“Well… while I do hope our paths might cross again, I will have t’ agree with you that if there’s a krayt involved, I’d just as well skip it,” he says with a chuckle before his gaze shifts to the armor, smile turning a bit wry.
“… Guess I should be tellin’ your people thanks for the loan. Kept a lot of good folks outta the sort of trouble that nobody ought t’ have.” That he knows all too well. After all, his own trouble had been branded and lashed into his skin.
“And as for you… You can just tell your people that I wasn’t the one broke that.”
There’s a beat and then he nods and turns to walk away only to pause and look back.
“… Safe travels, Mando. You an’ that young’un of yourn.”
there’s something unique to his steps that makes the glass underneath his boots crack louder. the damaged planet announces his presence with an inherited emphasis. thin spiderwebs spread throughout the shards, marking his path. he finds the mand’alor in a place he doesn’t recognize. there are murals on the walls around them and he has no idea what they represent. but it doesn’t matter, half of them are interrupted by blaster marks anyways. each time fett visits mandalore, there are more ruins to discover.
he stops by the foot of the steps. above him, din studies the scorched wall. the symbol of death watch is painted in black and red, asking to be interpreted as a threat. boba waits patiently. his presence will be acknowledged. inside the dented helmet, eyes roam from one mural to another, one battlefield to another. shame or glory, mandalorians seem to hold on to both.
as they stand in silence, he thinks about the throne he left behind. the desert lies gutted and bleeding, not much left he can do to it anymore. now, it has to heal and become stronger. but that’s not his business anymore. nor fennec’s. the next step he takes won’t be alongside her. there’s no reason to pretend like there’s still any debt between them. as he thinks about what to tell her, djarin finally shifts. the silver helmet turns towards him.
the green chestplate rises and falls in state of sudden restlessness. but his feet don’t move and the distance remains as mercy. they look at each other. this next step arrived sooner than he thought.
“i think we could do it.” the mand’alor speaks. he swallows, the next sentence sounds strangled. “find peace and build a home out of it.” ( x )
he doesn’t reply. din insists on making his way down the stone steps, a commitment to the words that just left him. they’re on the same level now and that’s how boba knows he can’t pretend that this ‘we’ meant ‘mandalorians’.
silence again. neither of them speaks until they are ready, that’s how it goes.
fett blinks slowly. everything inside him moves.
he always thought that something got lost in translation when it came to him. he’s known so much warmth growing up and then one day, it just slipped through his hands. once or twice, he considered the effort of relearning only to set it aside. today, care is pushed back between his fingers and he can’t afford to ignore it. he can’t look at djarin and call him a distraction. he can’t do that to him. there’s too much respect, too much motion in this half-frozen state. particles moving, threatening to snap.
the next step. after every mission comes a question, what now? and he wonders, what would it be like to live without that. then he thinks, it could work. but on his terms, on their terms. this realization paints its own mural on the inside of his armor. he steps forward, his first reply. the other follows, hoarsely.
“i don’t do half-measures, din.” his name slotted between the two armors, meant to open them both. “if you want to do this with me, then i will need all of you.”
because he knows they cannot create something he will only run away from.
he cups the silver helmet in front of him, both hands guiding it to his brow. the sound is soft and they know it so well by now. but still, he lets the beskar ring in his head, lets his mind attach it to the future. this isn’t the pragmatic thing to do. but was he invited to this galaxy to follow the shortest path or to live in it? he wants to apologize to someone that it took him so long to answer that.
a ragged breath. “and you will have all of me.” he announces even though this is known already.
intended or not, this has always been the case. it started with two reunions and then two kingdoms. there’s a sense of strings being pulled only because he doesn’t believe in luck anymore. his gloved palms fit perfectly the ridges of the din’s helmet. beskar curves meet the arches of his hands and he thinks there’s a reason mandalorians kept this design around for so long. the moment stretches. and then din’s hands find their way to his helmet.
they stand like this, two statues finding their place. complete, bowing before the other, held and pouring in at the same time. but eventually, they have to part ways even if it will be for the last time.
“two weeks.” boba murmurs. the sarlacc took so much from him but left one last quiet note in his throat for this moment. “two weeks and i’ll have my business on tatooine wrapped up. and if you come then, i will leave with you.”
in the end, he forms it like another deal. it’s just what he knows. and what will be understood.
boba releases him, their helmets immediately drop together, weighed down by the sudden need to breathe. to close this deal, they will have to find the right words first. but there’s time for that. two weeks, he promised.
plenty of time.
he turns around. they said all they needed to say. for now.
coruscant has seen better days. he almost berates himself for that obvious thought like it’s a misuse of his concentration. of course it’s seen better days. once the capital of the galaxy, now just a haggling bauble for the new republic and the crime syndicates. nobody knew what to do with the world that saw the rise of the empire. ignoring it seemed like the most comfortable course of action.
his helmet tips up as he attempts to see where the cloudcutters above him end but with their lights turned off, they perfectly blend into the dark sky. the neons he remembered from his youth are gone, so are the blaring screens and hurrying speeders. coruscant went from a planet without five minutes to spare to a complete standstill.
he finds din by the last working display on the entire street, studying the district map. boba joins his side, making sure he’s yet another barrier between the curious eyes and the fussy satchel at the other hunter’s hip. “we should pick up some deathsticks while we’re here.” he muses.
@djaryn / i can promise you you will never be alone. :)
russian doll. ( accepting ! )
suddenly he’s very aware that underneath every mandalorian helmet there are just scraps of meat and bone.
how easy it is to make them spill their contents. he doesn’t remember seeing blood but would he be able to spot it on red sand? red on red, he paints it to this day.
this isn’t djarin’s intention, to omit. to ignore the color on his gauntlets, the color around his visor. but it is red that frames all of fett’s vision, so he steps closer, helmet held high, teeth bared.
“i don’t find comfort in promises no-one in this galaxy can keep.” he holds that gaze, keeps the loop of two visors reflecting. and then he leaves, as fast as he approached. “we’re just men.” he reminds them both.
too many brushes with mythologies and forgotten artifacts, they might forget that fact of life.
he’s known this kind of silence for a long time now. crushing, if you notice it. stay quiet and you’ll meld into it. that’s one way of stopping it. just let it roll over until it becomes the default. the state of being, instead of an event. which has never bothered him before, but seeing it from an outsider’s perspective is jarring.
fett glances over his shoulder at the seat in the back. just how could the other mandalorian sit so still? his gaze returns to the stars before them. silence inside, silence outside. and this time, he’s the one who breaks it.
“aren’t you going to ask?” the quiet bristles at him, the traitor. but it’s enough, it slithers away and there’s something else with them in this cockpit. he flips a broken switch on the console, a dry snapping noise. more. he continues: “about the clone thing.”
ohhhhh they might recognize youR FACE.. i get it now lmaoooo
thanks for laughing at that joke 2 months later, king, but its still better than what fennec did bc she definitely got it but chose not to laugh on purpose :/
