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Bounty hunters don’t work for free. This has been something Din Djarin has been firm with throughout his life – yes, some jobs pay in favors rather than in credits or beskar, but they pay none the less. There are some jobs he takes on because he owes someone something, some jobs he takes on because he can’t stand to see innocent people hurt.
Mos Pelgo has neither credits, nor beskar, nor does the Mandalorian owe them anything. And yet, when a distress call is sent from the town to him, he goes without hesitation. Not because he expects something in return. Not even because he knows the place is filled with nothing but innocents. He goes because of Cobb Vanth.
The distress call had been unclear, rushed and hurried and desperate, and most notably, not from the town Marshal, that much Din can tell. But the people of Mos Pelgo remember the Mandalorian that had slain the Krayt Dragon, the knight in shining armor that had bartered peace with the Tuskens, and so they know that fearsome reputation or not, he is a friend to them. A friend to Marshal Vanth. And although the call is sent out in vain, he is the only person they know to call. A small place in the middle of Tatooine has no desire to deal with the New Republic, lest they have their lives overtaken by pilots in orange.
Before Din’s ship even touches sand, he knows exactly what sort of trouble he’s in for. While Stormtrooper armor might bleed the white snow of places like Hoth, it sticks out clear as day against the browns and beiges of Tatooine. What Stormtroopers are doing in Mos Pelgo of all places, Din doesn’t know – but that doesn’t matter. Their presence means nothing good, only brings with it death and destruction and forced submission. And while one or two Stormtroopers can be ambushed perfectly easily, even by the townsfolk of as small a place as Mos Pelgo, the twelve that Din can see sitting straight along the road through the center of town alone tell him why this is a problem much better suited for a specialist.
Ask questions first, shoot second has always been Din’s motto – he likes to know why he’s shooting before he has to. Wants to make sure nobody innocent is getting hurt before he so much as reaches for his blaster. And while he doesn’t often give Stormtroopers the benefit of the doubt, he does this time. He does this time, because the last thing he wants is anyone getting caught in the crossfire of a fully-armored shootout. It’s just being safe.
The troopers are on him before he’s so much as reached the first building in the town.
“Mandalorian,” Din hears one of them say, and he can’t discern whether it’s spoken with shock, hesitancy, or as a precursor to being shot at.
Din is silent as two troopers approach him, blasters both held across their chests.
“State your business.”
His business. Ridiculous.
“I’ve come to see an old friend,” he says, because it’s not untrue, and it’s the truth that is least likely to result in an all-out firefight. Din wants to speak to Vanth, first. Wants to understand what’s happened, needs to decide what the best course of action is with the most information possible.
“This is an Imperial outpost,” one of the troopers informs him. It makes Din tense, makes him straighten impossibly so.
“And there are still residents here,” Din continues. He can see people staring out of the windows of their homes, with so much hope in their eyes that the Mandalorian is here to save them. But they stay quiet, and stay still, because Stormtroopers aren’t known for their patience or consideration for life.
The two troopers glance at one another, before speaking again. “Who are you here to see?”
At least they’re smart enough not to dismiss someone dressed entirely in beskar steel immediately.
“The Marshal.”
It’s the soft chuckle that one of the troopers makes that has Din turning his head slightly in their direction. Din has been grateful for his helmet more often than not, for the protection and anonymity it offers – he’s grateful for it now, too, because were it not for his helmet, the sharp danger in his eyes would have given away too much.
Though the other trooper doesn’t laugh, there’s a clear amusements in his voice when he speaks. “There are no Marshals here. This village is claimed by the Empire.”
Din’s blood runs cold in a heartbeat, at the notion that Vanth might be—no. No, he isn’t. Din would know if Cobb was dead. He doesn’t know how he’d know, but he would. Or maybe that’s just lingering hope.
“Cobb Vanth, then,” Din corrects, managing to keep his voice steady, emotionless.
One trooper looks ready to threaten Din off, so entirely unconcerned by what irrelevant, useless citizen of this pathetic town the stranger is here to see. But the other cocks his head a bit, before he nods. “Vanth,” he says, and there’s recognition there. Din considers that a good thing. For a moment.
“Isn’t Vanth the one we made an example out of when we arrived?”
And Din goes still. Silent.
He fires his blaster square in the trooper’s chest before either of them have even realized Din’s hand has so much as moved.
It ends the way Din had hoped it might. With twenty-two Stormtroopers dead, before a single one of them can make a distress call. No civilian casualties, or even injuries. It’s a good day. When the fighting is done and the noise has all stopped, one lone man dares to venture out into the streets, as though to make certain they’re all safe. And when he’s determined that they are, the rest of the townspeople follow hesitantly out. Some cry in relief, some kick the bodies of the troopers, already taking armor off of them.
The lone man – Din recognizes him vaguely from the battle with the dragon – steps forward, to bow his head and run a litany of praise. “Thank you,” and “we weren’t certain you had heard the call, let alone that you would come,” and “those Imperial bastards have been ravaging the town for weeks.”
Din nods in his understanding, but his mind is elsewhere. He waits until the man has seemingly finished, before Din puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Where is Marshal Vanth?”
The relief and gratitude on the man’s face slips into something much more somber, and he drops his gaze to the sand. “Terrible business,” the man mutters, with a shake of his head. “Terrible, terrible business.”
“Where?” Din asks again, and it’s clear it isn’t a friendly query. The man points to a house that looks like many others around it, unremarkable and undistinguishable, and Din goes to it without hesitation.
The inside is as plain and simple as the outside. It would be nearly impossible to decipher who it belongs to, were it not for the red scarf laying across the nearby table. The house has so few rooms that it doesn’t take long for Din to find the single one that’s occupied.
Inside, Cobb Vanth lays on a bed on his side. An older woman, one Din doesn’t recognize, sits behind him, intently focused on the work ahead. When she hears someone enter the room, she gasps, and stands quickly, as though to give Din some show of respect.
It’s only then that Din understands what ‘being made an example of’ looks like. Cobb is shirtless, and his back is a mess of angry, bloody lash marks, some so deep that he thinks he might see muscle. They look a few days old, at least, and that they’ve been well-tended to, but they look painful. It takes Cobb a few moments before he turns his head over his shoulder, his gaze so defeated, like he’s expecting to see a Stormtrooper standing there to finish the job. But he doesn’t. He sees Din, and the way Cobb’s face lights up makes even the brightest sun in the galaxy look dim.
“You came,” he breathes, moving to sit up, but crying out in pain and laying back down when his back protests to the movement. Din moves forward instinctively, kneeling down by the edge of the bed, a firm hand resting on Cobb’s hip to keep him from moving further. Once Cobb catches his breath, he swallows hard, and turns his head to look at the woman. “Give me a few minutes, Retta,” he says, with that soft, charming little smile. She looks at him wearily, but it isn’t because she doesn’t want to leave Cobb alone with the Mandalorian. “I’m not gonna bleed out in the five minutes you’re gone,” Cobb offers instead, and she seems to relax more at that, before excusing herself from the room.
Though, when she’s gone, the first thing Cobb does is move. “Help me up,” he says, and Din would protest to it, if he didn’t know just how stubborn Vanth was. So he offers what help he can, until Vanth is sitting at the edge of the bed, and Din stays down on one knee on the floor. Cobb is pale, in pain, looks broken in all sorts of ways, but has that look about him that still says I’m the Marshal, I’m fine, wrap me up and I’ll be good to go. It wouldn’t surprise Din if those were the first words out of Vanth’s mouth after he’d been abused so badly.
“What happened?” Din says softly, hands resting on Vanth’s knees, rubbing slow, gentle circles with his thumbs. A soothing gesture, he hopes, and it seems to work, because a bit of the stiffness in Cobb’s shoulders seeps out of his muscles.
“Troopers came through the desert, looking for a place to set up a new Imperial base. I don’t give a damn what the New Republic says, those Imperial bastards are still everywhere, if you know where to look,” Cobb breathes, with a shake of his head. “Guess they thought it’d be easier to turn a town into their little outpost instead of starting fresh. So they came in and took over. Didn’t have the firepower to stop ‘em.”
Briefly, Din feels a stab of guilt. That maybe if Cobb had still had Fett’s armor, he might’ve been able to save himself and his town. But that isn’t true, and Din knows it. It took one, fully-experienced, fully-armored, pissed-off Mandalorian to take care of the troopers, and Cobb couldn’t have managed it alone.
“Played along, for a while. Didn’t want anybody getting hurt, or worse. But I been a thorn in their side since day one,” Vanth chuckles, and lightly, Din does, too. They’re both troublemakers, for the right causes. “Managed to duck ‘em for a few weeks. But then they started going after the little ones, trying to poach ‘em, get ‘em to train to be troopers. I wasn’t putting up with that. So when I tried to stop ‘em, they pulled me out into the middle of town and—” Cobb stops, gesturing vaguely to the mess at his back. “Guessin’ you can figure out the rest.”
Din exhales slowly, head dropping a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a few moments. But it only makes Cobb raise a brow. “For what, huh? Unless you sent ‘em here yourself, you got nothing to be sorry for.”
“I shouldn’t have left you vulnerable.” Whether that meant letting Vanth keep the armor (which Din couldn’t do), or staying behind to protect Mos Pelgo himself (which Din also couldn’t do). But there must’ve been something he could’ve done to stop this, and he didn’t. And it makes him hurt. Makes him hurt to see Cobb hurt.
Cobb brushes his hands down over the sides of Din’s helmet, pulls him in a little closer until Din can rest his head against Cobb’s chest lightly. “Ain’t your job to keep me safe,” he offers softly, because it isn’t. Cobb can take care of himself, thank you very much. And when he can’t, well—that’s life.
Another moment of heavy silence passes by, before Din reluctantly pulls away from Vanth’s touch, and goes to take his gloves off instead. “Lay down,” he instructs, as kindly and gently as he’s capable. And Cobb does without disagreement, because sitting up hurts too damn much right now. He lets out a relieved exhale when he’s back laying down, facing the stone wall ahead of him, listening to the Mandalorian shuffle around behind him.
“This’ll hurt,” Din warns, before he’s bringing the wet cloth the woman had been using to clean Vanth’s wounds to his skin. Cobb inhales sharply, but it isn’t an unbearable pain. “You even allowed to go taking your gloves off?” Vanth teases lightly, because Cobb Vanth could be broken and bleeding, but he’ll always be charming. Din doesn’t respond, but Vanth likes to think he can tell that the Mandalorian is smiling beneath that shiny helmet.
The movements are slower and more tender than Vanth ever expected a bounty hunter to be capable of. And when the water in the bowl has run red, and Cobb’s wounds are as clean as they can be, Din reaches for the cloth to wrap the wounds back up. His work there is just as steady, just as soothing, and Cobb’s eyes briefly flutter shut whenever he can feel Din’s skin brush against his own. “I’ve taken care of the troopers here,” Din explains as he works. “If you dispose of the bodies, I doubt anyone else will come looking for such a small outpost in the middle of a desert.”
And if they do? Din will make certain that he’s one call away. One signal, one click, and he’ll be there.
“Then I guess I owe you twice over, don’t I? For the troopers, and for playing medic,” Cobb hums, and he hates owing people, but he doesn’t mind owing Din.
“You owe me nothing,” Din says quickly in return, and he means it. He means it. And that doesn’t sound like the kind of tone Vanth was to argue with, so he doesn’t.
When his back is bandaged securely, Din runs his fingers over the layers of cloth strips, wishing he could heal it all with a simple touch. But he can’t. He can’t do anything to make this right.
But he can give Vanth something else.
With Cobb still facing away from him, Din’s hands go to his helmet. And Cobb holds his breath when he hears the thing come off, closes his eyes tight, even though he can’t see Din from where he’s laying, anyways. It just feels—respectful. Right.
Cobb is no stranger to touch, of course. He’s spent a few too many nights alone in the Cantina, after all, just looking for a good time. But when Din’s lips brush so lightly over Cobb’s shoulder, the first piece of exposed skin he can reach that isn’t bloodied, Cobb swears he could damn near cry. It’s such an intimate thing, so much more intimate in ways Vanth can’t even begin to explain.
“I’m sorry,” Din says again, his lips brushing Vanth’s shoulder as he speaks. Another kiss, then, to Cobb’s bicep. And as Din raises up on his knees, he can see that Cobb’s eyes are shut, and the warmth that fills Din is so overwhelming. Everyone he’s ever met has asked about the helmet, has all but begged him to see beneath it. And Din knows Cobb wants to see, too. But Din’s comfort and his Creed matter to Vanth, and he puts that before his own desire, even at his weakest.
Vanth is trembling lightly by the time Din kisses his cheek, and every part of Cobb wants to turn and catch Din’s lips, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t let himself push so far, because this intimacy is a gift he’s being given, and he knows better than to push his luck, or worse, be ungrateful.
“It isn’t my job to keep you safe,” Din agrees, so desperately softly. “But I’d like it to be.” And Din kisses Cobb properly, then, feels those rough lips against his own, and they melt into one another. But Cobb is still hurt, and Din is hyper-aware of that, so he pulls back long before either of them will need to start gasping for air, even when Vanth chases after the kiss in desperate for more.
No one’s ever offered to keep Cobb safe before. He’s always been something of a lone ranger, always keeping other people safe, always the first line of defense. And Maker, he wants to keep Din safe, too, but there’s really not much he can do for a man that’ll jet straight inside of a damned dragon without telling anyone about it first. Maybe the best that they can do is… protect each other. Or do their hardest.
“C’mere,” Vanth says, gesturing with his head to what little space is left in front of him on the bed. And armor and all, Din lays down with Cobb, and brings his hand up to brush over Vanth’s cheek. Cobb chases the touch like he needs it to survive, eyes still shut so tightly, just trying to get a feel for Din without really seeing him. He nestles in closer against all of that beskar, cool to the touch even under the hot suns. It settles and soothes him, makes him relax more than he has in months, let alone since the Stormtroopers invaded.
“Cobb,” Din half-whispers, in an attempt not to disturb the peace he’s created. “You can open your eyes.” Vanth recoils the barest bit, like he’s absolutely shocked, like even though he’s been given permission, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. It makes Din smile, and he rubs his thumb over Cobb’s cheek. “You can. It’s okay.”
So, he does.
And he studies Din’s face for a long, long time. Takes in every inch of him, like he’s worried he’s gonna have to memorize this now, because he’ll never be able to see it again. “Huh,” Cobb says, after a moment. “Brown eyes.” He doesn’t know why he’d been expecting green.
“Brown eyes,” Din chuckles softly with a nod, still so unused to being... seen. Once the initial shock of getting to see Din has left Cobb, the barest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “Knew you’d be too damn handsome for your own good,” he says, just to see if he can get Din’s cheeks to go pink. And they do, a bit. It’s rewarding as all hell.
And this time, it’s Vanth that kisses Din first. And he goes slow, takes his time, brings his own hand up to brush through Din’s hair. It’s soft. Perfect. Just like everything else about him. Cobb knows in that moment that he’d do anything Din ever asked of him, and Din knows he’d do the same in return. Amongst all of the blood, and the sand, and the pain, they’ve found… this. Whatever this is. It’s more than either of them think they deserve, but neither of them are going to complain about having it. And as much as they both wish it hadn’t taken a public lashing to get here, fate isn’t always the kindest thing.
When they pull away, Cobb’s panting a bit, and Din’s trying not to. Can’t let Vanth see him breathless, otherwise his ego might swell too big for his own good.
“Think I could get used to keeping a Mandalorian around,” Cobb smiles.
Din mirrors the expression. “Think I could get used to staying.”