Chapter Text
The argument has been stupid. What had it even been about? As Din was being dragged towards the ship he didn’t even have the energy to turn his head to see, he struggled to remember. Something about the Jedi, something about Boba’s past, something that triggered Don’s protectiveness of Grogu. The drug that they injected him with was already making it hard to think, which instinctually worried him. He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have been jabbed with a needle twice, but his kidnappers were being frustratingly careful, dosing him again once he was down.
In reality, it didn’t matter what the argument was about. It was the ending that stuck with Din more than anything, and what happened after. He could still hear Boba’s chilling “Get out.” Could still see his eyes, dark and smoldering with anger, a look he has given so many others but never Din. The way he had turned his back as Din stood there dumbly and sneered, “And don’t even think about returning unless I say otherwise.” Dismissive and cold. The message was clear: he didn’t want Din around anymore.
And so what was Din to do? He had heard many call him the king’s dog. An obedient little pet, ready to jump at any command. Din, if he was being honest, didn’t mind the nickname. After all, was it wrong? He felt a sense of completeness working for Boba. He trusted him the way he trusted very few others. If being loyal to the king of Tatooine labeled him as a dog, then so be it. Din wanted to stay by Boba’s side as long as Boba would allow him to.
If Din was being even more honest, though, he didn’t view Boba as a boss, or even as a coworker. Lately, when Din would catch sight of the king rubbing a tired hand over his scarred head when hunched over his paperwork, or humming a small tune early in the morning as he fixed his caff, or giving Din a subtle wink as an annoying diplomat stammered his requests in the throne room, Din felt a wave of affection come over him that was so startling and foreign feeling that it frightened him.
‘This is what you get’, he thought bitterly as he was tossed into the cell on the ship. The drugs at this point have completely rendered his body useless. The few blaster shots he had managed to fire before he dropped like a sack of rocks had only served to annoy his captors, but not injure them. It was frustrating. ‘You never should have let your guard down. You never should have let yourself get this attached.’
If his clan could see him now, they would be ashamed.
The door was slammed shut and he could hear the thick bolt of a lock settling into place. Not that Din would be able to get out anyways. The two ridiculously large henchmen that has snuck up on him as he fumbled to get his blaster out to shoot the twi’lek who he now saw was little more than a distraction had done their jobs right. He could barely even turn his head to squint at the slot in the door when he heard it open, revealing a pair of amused looking eyes.
“Well, well, well. How lucky I am to have found you, puppy. Did you get lost?” A woman’s voice, sounding incredibly smug. Din did not recognize it. “I bet your master would be so upset. Why don’t we sent him a message, hm?”
‘No’, Din thought weakly. She must be talking about Boba— who else would she be referring to? And if she was calling Din a puppy she also knew who he was— the shiny Mandalorian bodyguard that Boba had picked up somewhere. So this wasn’t just a random attack on him to get his Beskar. These people wanted something from Boba, and were going to use Din to get it.
How long had they been tracking him? He had been gone from the palace for about a week, trying to decide what to do. The planet he had landed on had seemed like a good place to think— small, sparsely populated, with more alcohol than water and plenty of hiding places for people who didn’t want to be seen. It was the kind of place Din had seen hundreds of times before, since it was a favorite environment of bounties. And now he himself found himself here, using the carelessness of the people and landscape to try and think about what he was going to do next with his life.
He had a few ideas. Most involved returning to his search of other Mandalorians. He wanted to find his tribe, more than anything, even though he knew they would reject him. He could at least return his armor and provide him with some money he had been saving him, a payment for his loss of service as their Beroya.
He toyed with the idea of reaching out to Bo Katan, to figure out what she wanted to do with the whole laser sword situation. As much as he didn’t want to ever have to deal with her again, he knew he would have to eventually, and he would rather have it be on his own terms. He only ever considered this idea when he was feeling really helpless, usually in the late hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep.
He briefly considered going after the Jedi that took Grogu. Maybe the Jedi could give him some jobs to do, something hard that could distract him. And, Din thought to himself, he would love to see Grogu again. The little womp rat had given his life meaning when nothing else had— not bounty hunting, not his tribe, not the satisfaction of being named Beroya.
But it didn’t matter in the end. He hadn’t even come close to a decision when he had been attacked while he was heading back to his ship with new provisions. It never should have happened— he should have been more on guard, more aware of his surroundings. He had been trained better than this. But he had been thinking about Boba, as per usual, replaying his last words he spoke to Din over and over in his head.
And now here he was.
A spike of panic went through him, knowing that Boba would be disgusted, knowing that Boba was still mad, that he would not want to see Din and how badly he had messed up. But his panic was wasted. Whatever message the woman wanted to send clearly wasn’t going to be sent now, because she barely stuck around to see Din’s reaction. Soon he was alone, belly down on the floor, neck twisted to the side, body heavy and thoughts swirling, until finally, finally, the darkness took him.
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He woke to two people jostling him up into a standing position. He flinched, then had to suppress a hiss of pain as the cramp in his neck from his sleeping position the night before caught up to him. It didn’t couple well with his headache, no doubt a result of the drugs, that felt like someone had hit him in the head with a gaffi stick then ran him over with his speeder. It was pounding and intense and, as he was forced to stand, made him feel dangerously nauseous.
“We’re here, dog. Move.”
Hands, shoving him until he stumbled forwards. Which meant his legs were free. Din took deep breaths, trying to focus, to spread his awareness past the pain in his head and neck. His arms were tied, which he expected. But his armor was on and, he assumed, untampered with. Two henchmen were beside him, each gripping an arm tightly and leading him through the ship. He could see no one else. Now that the drugs were slowly clearing from his system he was able to note that it was a decent sized ship, certainly bigger than the Crest, with lots of cells, although the rest of them seemed to be empty. When they finally led him off of the ship, it was into a dim looking tunnel that Din presumed was underground. Difficult to escape from, but not impossible.
And this could be his best chance to escape. Whatever was waiting for him at the end of the tunnel was no doubt going to be much worse than where he was now, closer to the ship. Despite the lingering weakness and the painful after effects of the drugs, Din figured he was probably more powerful, or at least more skilled, then the henchmen leading him, despite their larger sizes. And the last thing he wanted was to be paraded to Boba like this. Shame crept through Din’s body, making him feel hot and sick.
But that hadn’t happened yet. He could still get out of this, like he had gotten out of situations like this before. He was still a Mandalorian, at least by training. Still a hunter, not willing to be the prey. He could do this.
He had whistling birds left, but the flamethrower worked just as well in situations like this. He activated it and the two men holding let go with surprised shouts. He stumbled a bit before regaining his balance and slamming a boot against the closest one’s, the Rodian’s, hard stomach. As he doubled over Din turned towards the other and slammed his helmeted head against their unprotected skull. They groaned and staggered back, clutching their forehead.
Free from their grips Din turned towards the Rodian again, knowing he had seen the key in his belt that he could use to get his arms free. But before he could so much as take a step towards him, a familiar prick was jammed into the side of his neck and he felt himself weaken at an alarmingly fast paced.
“Now, now, puppy,” a chastising voice purred right next to his ear, “I thought you were better trained than that.”
The woman’s voice again, the same tone of amusement, smugness. When had she gotten so close? Din hadn’t even heard her come up to him, but then again he had been distracted. He turned towards her to give her the same treatment he gave the others, but she had already stepped away from him and with the room spinning around him Din wasn’t sure if he could make it to her.
“Get up,” she snapped to the henchmen Din had managed to knock the wind out of. “Do I always have to do everything around here myself?”
Din stumbled back from them, wishing his arms were free, wishing that his headache wasn’t so bad, wishing that they all didn’t know exactly where to put the needle so it got through the layers protecting his neck and went right into the skin. Panic began spiraling through him, making his breaths shorter, his vision narrow. This was bad. He could hardly remember the last time he was in a situation this bad. With Grogu, maybe? Sometimes the memory of the water lapping over his head and seeping into his helmet woke him up at night. But that had been different. Even drowning, he had had more control than he did now.
It only took a few moments and he felt his legs buckling. What was in that kriffing drug? His arms were gripped again, tighter now. When had they gotten over to him? “He has a flamethrower,” one of them grumbled defensively.
“Don’t worry,” the woman, who Din could see was clearly the boss, sighed, calmer now that Din was once again being manhandled away from their ship. “He won’t be keeping his armor for long.” Din felt another cold wave a panic at that. He tugged weakly at the bindings around his wrists and tried to twist out of their grips, even though he knew it was useless. It only caused them to grip him harder, hard enough that Din knew he was going to bruise.
He had been able to defend his armor countless times in the past. But he knew that this time was different. It was the drugs, whatever they were— he wasn’t familiar with them, as they tended to be expensive and, by many standards, cheating when it came to winning a fair fight.
Clearly they don’t care about either of those things, Din thought warily as he was dragged towards the end of the tunnel, which opened up into a large room. There were other people bustling about, although many stopped and looked towards Din and his as he was brought in. Many of them were dressed like the two holding him, in dark red outfits. Uniforms. Many were holding equipment— chains, prods, handcuffs, looking like they were trying to organize it all. Din watched as they started moving again after a moment, a strange sort of order to the place. And that’s when it hit him.
Slavers. The thought pierced through Din’s mind. Oh. Now a lot of things made sense.
“Cell three. Get that armor off of him.” The boss waved them off, then hesitated. “Leave the helmet on.... for now.” A brief sense of relief followed by yet another wave a panic. Din was feeling dizzy, sick. He wanted his legs to move, to cooperate. He wanted his head to stop feeling like it weighed as much as a bantha. He squirmed weakly again but that was about as much as he could do.
He was surrounded by slavers. He was surrounded by slavers who were about to take his armor. This was really, really bad.
It wasn’t just them being slavers themselves that was bad. It was their notorious vendetta against Boba Fett, the new king of Tattooine who banned and chased off all the slavers he could find. Kriff.
Another cell, smaller and more cramped. Rough hands, pulling and tugging at the armor. Din’s arms felt heavy, unfamiliar. His head lolled on his neck.
“Not so strong now, huh?” The Devaronian, now sporting a small bump on his forehead, grunted as he finally managed to gingerly undo the straps of Din’s arm gauntlets, no doubt wary of the flame thrower. “I’ve seen others take many more doses than that.”
“Seems like a waste,” the Rodian huffed as he tugged at Din’s boots, apparently deeming them a part of his armor. “We don’t have much of that drug left, since the move. We could have just knocked him out ourselves.”
The Devaronian laughed loudly at that and slapped the Rodian’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember who the Fett would send after our outposts? Don’t you remember hearing the reports?”
Breathe. Focus. Their voices surrounded Din, but he barely understood what they were saying. He was being stripped bare of his shell, his skin. Helplessness gripped him as his armor was removed, piece by piece. He could barely move, could barely twitch his fingers. He wanted to scream.
When they were done they let him fall back carelessly, his helmet clanging on the hard floor. Pain spiked behind his eyelids, so intense that he couldn’t focus on anything but the white noise filling his head as they gathered his armor and left. By the time he controlled his breathing and could squint his eyes open to stare up the rough, unfinished ceiling, he was alone.
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Going back to Tatooine with Boba had been an easy decision. Din wasn’t sure why the older bounty hunter had taken him, but he was thankful for it none the less. Being with the newly turned king had given Din a sense of purpose again. It was easy to throw himself into the job of protecting the other.
Boba had been... kind. Kinder than Din had expected. While it was true that he hadn’t heard of the apparently infamous bounty hunter before, it didn’t take long for the rumors about Boba Fett to reach his ears when he started working for him. While they served to impress Din greatly about Boba’s past, they also confused him since he couldn’t match up the man he knew with the legend from the stories.
Boba, despite the fanfare surrounding his name, was caring, and sensitive, and funny. He made sure that Din ate when he forgot to, that Din had was comfortable in his room, that Din had a full closet of clothes since he had lost all of his on the Crest. He had a sense of humor, of honor. He was a true mandalorian, despite what he said. And Din found himself admiring Boba more and more the longer he spent with him.
Although Boba gave him plenty of jobs, Din spent most of his time standing next to the other’s throne as locals, diplomats, ex slaves, and others came to stand in front of the new king and swear their loyalty one way or another. Boba was a good king, Din thought, although others didn’t seem to notice this. He was fair, and cared about making Tattoine better, more substantial. He was firm in his dealings and demanded respect, but was hardly cruel. Although he had only sat in the throne for a short period of time compared to the hutts before him, he was already making a change.
From the beginning Boba had invited Din into his personal chambers, showing the younger bounty hunter vulnerability and allowing Din to show the same. Fennec was often invited too, drinking and playing card games. She was good company, Din realized, and he found himself looking forwards to the nights where the three of them could unwind after a long day. The atmosphere was always light, almost intimate, even when business was being discussed. Din felt incredibly lucky that they allowed him to be there too. He did not have many relationships like these in his life.
Over time, though, Din found himself reveling in the nights where Fennec didn’t come, for one reason or another, and it was just him and Boba. It might of been his imagination, but he always felt like they sat closer together than needed, the other’s scarred hand occasionally brushing against Din’s shoulders or knee. Often, when they were alone, Boba would wear just his loose robes, and Din would get a glimpse of his broad, strong chest. It always made a blush rise to his cheeks. He was infinitely glad for his helmet, because the last thing he wanted was for Boba to realize how affected Din could be by the smallest things.
Din was sure he was reading too much into it. After all, his experience with romantic partners was... limited, to say the least. His entire life he was either training to provide for the covert or actively providing for it. He hardly had time to think, let alone pursue anyone romantically. Besides, it would have been taboo for him to couple with someone outside of the covert, and since he spent little time among the members of his tribe since he was the only Beroya, he didn’t know any of them well enough to consider them as a mate.
Then came Grogu. The child had changed a lot of things, had made Din love like he never thought possible, but that didn’t make him less busy. Up until watching him be carried away by the Jedi, Din’s daily life had revolved around Grogu— how to keep him safe, what to feed him, mending his clothes, making sure he napped, trying to track down a Jedi, avoiding the Moff. It wasn’t until the elevator doors slid shut that Din realized that, for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do next.
Perhaps Boba had recognized that. Maybe he felt little more than pity for Din, and the younger bounty hunter was so lonely that he was reading that pity as something else. Not that it mattered. Din would never act on his feelings. It would be disrespectful to the man who had let him into his life. Din recognized it for the privilege that it was. And how that privilege was gone.
Maybe being ignorant about Boba’s past had been a mistake. Din knew that at some point he was making a conscious decision not to look up things about the other bounty hunter. But he didn’t do that out of spite. He merely thought that if Boba wanted Din to know something he would tell him. Clearly that wasn’t the case.
But Din couldn’t make people trust him. This was a lesson he learned repeatedly throughout his life. It stung that Boba fell onto the long list of people that Din trusted but did not fully trust him back. It was a problem, he knew, that he put too much faith in other people. But as much as he tried, he couldn’t help but to believe that people could be inherently good. That they wouldn’t backstab him, or abandon him, or go behind his back. Din couldn’t help but want to trust people. Maybe he should work harder at quelling that feeling. As he finally let the exhaustion of the day get to him and his vision began to darken, he couldn’t help but wonder if where he was right now was what he really deserved.
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When he woke up again another pounding headache made itself known. He managed to push himself up into a sitting position, but his arms felt weak, and he has to drag himself over to the wall so he could slump against it. Aside from his headache he was now painfully aware of how dry his mouth was, and how hungry he was. How long had he even been here? How long had the trip over been? When was the last time he had ate?
He was given plenty of time to mull these things over. For hours, no one came for him. As he sat hunched against the wall he looked around the cell he was in. It was small and rough, carved into the side of the cave. If he could stand he was sure his head would brush the ceiling, and as he stretched his legs out his toes touched the bars. They were old fashioned, but they worked, plus they allowed light to come in, which Din was thankful for.
Sitting for so long made him feel stiff, and pressing against the rough stone made his back ache and seemed to suck the heat out of his body. Armorless, he only had his flight suit to keep him warm, and it wasn’t helping much. They had even taken his cape.
Escaping was not an option. Not yet, at least. He was weak and without his armor he had no chance of breaking or bending the bars. There were a few pebbles around, but nothing big enough to be useful. And since no one had walked by his cell in hours, he hadn’t been able to use anyone else to help him escape, whether they wanted to or not.
It was frustrating, but Din doubted he would be staying in the cell for long. Even if Boba hated him now, if they sent him a message Din hoped the king would send someone to break him out, or at least to kill him to keep him from spilling Tattoine’s new government’s secrets. Din would much rather be taken out than be forced to be a prisoner to slavers. He knew they didn’t keep prisoners long— if they could make money off of him, they would.
Depending on others to get him out didn’t sit right with Din. He has spent his entire life relying only on himself, and he didn’t want to change that now. But much to his frustration, by the time two new slavers showed up outside his cell hours later, he still didn’t have a solid plan.
“There he is. For all the stories we’ve heard about him, he looks kind of... small.” Din tried not to bristle at the disappointed tone from the Zabrak squinting at him from behind the bars. The Wookiee next to him barked out what sounded like a laugh. They were large, Din thought, like the last two workers, but maybe...
Or maybe not. As he struggled to get himself into a standing position, the Wookiee pointed a gun at him and he froze. The Zabrak smirked. “Oh don’t worry, no need to trouble yourself with getting up.” Din tensed as the Wookiee shifted the gun, but no blaster shot came out. He almost relaxed. This could just be a farce, then trying to act confident by pulling out a gun. He doubted that they wanted to kill him— not yet. If they wanted revenge they would at least do it in front of Boba.
Suddenly, a sharp pain in his thigh. He sucked in a gasp and looked down sharply to see a large dart, far too large for a human his size, sticking out. The Wookiee barked another laugh as Din stumbled back, grabbing the dart and throwing it away from him. Logically he knew he should have tried to hold onto it— it could be a potential weapon, his way out, but panic had briefly overwhelmed him, coupled by a sudden wave of fatigue.
“Dont fight it, Mando.” The door was opened. “They’re using the good stuff on you. You should feel honored.”
Din was against the wall but he still tried to move out of their grasping hands. All this got him though was a sharp kick to his knees, causing them to buckle. His arms had never been untied, so his balance was off. The Wookiee easily caught him and slung him over his shoulder, causing his vision to double them darken at the edges.
The Zabrak was holding the gun now, right against Din’s neck. With his cape gone, Din could feel the cold metal against his skin. He felt too hot, too cold. He wanted water. He needed to be put down because whatever they just gave him made him want to die. What was this kriffing drug? Was it even the same one as before? It made him too weak, too fast. He could hardly think with it in his system. If they kept jabbing him every time they wanted to move him, he would never escape on his own.
He couldn’t tell where they were going. Even moving his head as much as he could, he could only see the floor, moving too fast underneath him, making him feel sick. He tried to swallow down the feeling but he hardly had enough saliva to do that. His mouth felt like it was filled with sand.
Finally, they paused, the gun was moved from his neck and a door was swung open. Din hardly had time to register this before he was roughly dropped into a chair. Another slaver was ready as soon as he was in it, and he felt a loop of rope go around his chest then tighten. He couldn’t suppress a small groan of pain as he was forced into a sitting position. His head felt too heavy to lift like this, and his vision was still blurry. He thought that staying still would help his stomach, but he still felt sick. He didn’t just need water, but food too.
“Put his head up. Make him face the screen. Yes— there. Good.” Hands on his helmet, making his heart throb painfully with fear, but they didn’t try and pull it off. He felt himself get moved around, like a doll. His limbs felt like they weren’t even there. If it weren’t for the hunger in his stomach and the dryness of his mouth, Din was sure he wouldn’t be able to feel the rest of his body too.
“There! Perfect.” Din squinted as he tried to make out the form standing in front of him. It took him a few moments to recognize her as the human woman from before. “Now hold him there.” She leaned towards him and patted his helmet twice. “Good puppy,” she purred, before she backed away and turned around. “Call him.”
A tense silence filled the room. Din focused on his breathing, then on trying to move each one of his fingers. Tried not to let the exhaustion over take him and pass out again. He listened to the sounds of the slavers shifting nervously, waiting, waiting... and then, a voice that made Din’s heart ache. “What,” Boba Fett growled from the other end of the holo, “do you scum want?”