Boba likes to consider himself a man ready for anything the galaxy might throw at him. His life has been unpredictable to say the least, and Din Djarin is just a new chapter in the turmoil. A very handsome, sweet, surprising chapter, but still, Boba thinks he’s ready for whatever Din could throw at him.
He is wrong.
Din is standing at the end of the ramp staring after the rest of the group. Boba knows exactly where he’s looking because he isn’t wearing his helmet. The lack of helmet also means he can see just how fucking shellshocked he looks. The child is gone. Dank farrik. Boba waves Fennec off and makes his way down the ramp.
“Din,” he calls. Nothing. Din doesn’t even blink, just keeps staring off into space. “Djarin.” Still nothing. Boba checks over his shoulder, making sure the rest of the group has gone up into the ship. They are alone. Boba takes his helmet off and sets it down. “Din,” he says again. “Are you hurt?” At this, Din startles, sucking in a sudden breath and turning to Boba. “There you are.”
Din glances around , gaze darting in and out of the ship before settling somewhere around Boba’s chin. “I… Grogu. The child,” he manages. “I… the Jetii, it’s where… he’ll be safe there.” Oh, no. “I… Boba, I…” A tear streaks down Din’s face. “I gave him to the Jedi,” Din manages. Another tear. “He’ll be safer there, he said so, I can’t take care of him, I, I, I, he’s gone, Boba, my ad’ika, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone-” Din’s voice breaks and the tears come faster.
Boba steps forward, slow and careful, letting Din get used to the space between them. Then, with just as much care, he wraps Din in his arms. Din’s taller than him and it’s a little awkward, but Boba is determined and Din falls against him easily, tucking his face into the gap between Boba’s neck and his shoulder plating. He’s sobbing in earnest now and Boba reaches up to pet his hair, pausing when Din freezes and resuming when he pushes his head back into Boba’s hand, crying harder.
“Okay, it’s alright,” Boba soothes. “Udesii, udesii. Breathe, Din.”
“You don’t understand,” Din continues. “I, I, I’m, I should be dar’manda now, I took off my helmet, I gave up the child, I broke everything-”
“No, no, no,” Boba murmurs into Din’s hair. “It’s alright. You knew he would be safer with the Jetii.” The word’s sour in his mouth, but Boba manages not to show it. Grogu is not his child. He has no idea how to raise a Force-Sensitive. His only job right now is to care for Din. “You’re not dar’manda, sweetheart, you could never be. Nothing you’ve done is unforgivable.”
Din has nothing to say to this. He just collapses further into Boba’s arms.
After a few moments of this, Boba hikes Din up higher, almost back to his feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed, alright?”
“No,” Din mumbles, stiffening again.
“Why? What else is there to do? We have to leave.” Boba closes his eyes for a moment and tries to push away the looming disaster. They’ll be on the run from Imperials now more than ever. They have to find something to do with Moff Gideon that doesn’t involve stunning him every time he wakes up. They have to find a place to drop Bo-Katan. They have to do a million things, but now is not the time. “You need to rest.”
Din shifts. “I can’t rest,” he says. “Not now. I have to, have to…” He trails off, once again at a loss for words.
Boba hugs him tighter. “No, Din. Not now. Later, but not now.” After a long, tense moment, Din nods and lets Boba pull him upright. “Let’s get your helmet back on, yeah?”
Din nods, pliant and silent as Boba pulls his helmet back on and then dons his own. Before they make their way back into the ship, Boba takes Din by the shoulders and brings him closer, pressing their foreheads together. Then, slowly, they make their way back to Boba’s room.
Boba lets Fennec and Dune take them into hyperspace, giving them the instruction to take Bo-Katan wherever she pleases and leave her there. Then, he locks the door to his room, turns off his comms, and waits for Din to get out of the ‘fresher.
Din’s piled his armor neatly in the corner. Boba takes his off and stores it in its compartment, taking the opportunity to place Din’s in the space next to it. The fresher turns off and Boba hurries to change into his sleep clothes, hoping he’ll be able to convince Din to lie down with him.
Boba needn’t have worried, because Din is all but asleep on his feet by the time he opens the door to the ‘fresher. With his hair damp and sticking up at odd angles and his armor traded for a soft sweater and sweatpants, Din has never looked more appealing. Unfortunately, Boba can’t take advantage of this moment, because Din’s also looking severely disoriented. The shower seems to have dissipated the last of the adrenaline, leaving him at the mercy of whatever wounds he didn’t want to tell Boba about. He’s squinting against the dim light of the sleeping quarters and listing dangerously to one side, and Boba can see the beginnings of several impressive bruises peeking out from the sleeves and collar of his shirt. He stands, crossing the room just in time to catch Din as he stumbles.
“‘M fine,” Din protests, batting clumsily at his hands.
“Yeah, and I’m one of a kind,” Boba grumbles, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of Din, taking his hands and looking up into his bruised, exhausted face. Stars, but he’s beautiful. “Let me see your eyes.” Din relents, letting Boba tip his chin up and check him for a concussion. “Your pupils are huge, cyar’ika,” Boba says, rubbing his thumb over Din’s cheek. Din closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “Did you get hit in the head?”
“A little,” he admits. “I’ll be alright.”
“Hmm.” Boba stands, running his hands through the hair on the back of Din’s head, feeling for any bumps or bleeding. “Back of your head feels swollen.” Nothing’s soft or bleeding, though, so Boba moves to Din’s torso, checking over Din’s shoulders and ribs, rolling his shirt up to make sure there were no breaks hidden among the bruising and fractures. “Nothing a bone-knitter won’t be able to fix,” he announces, smoothing Din’s shirt back down and sitting beside him on the bed.
“Not t’night,” Din protests, slumping against Boba’s shoulder.
“No,” he agrees, “not tonight.”
Tonight, he has to hold them together. Tonight, he has to be the one thing that doesn’t fall apart or explode or disappear or switch sides.
He lays Din down and lies down next to him, pulling the covers over them both. Boba’s between Din and the door, the last line of defense when Boba hits the lightswitch by the headboard and plunges them both into night-cycle dark. He lets Din get comfortable, waits while he tosses and turns and finds a position that doesn’t aggravate his ribs. Then, he tucks Din’s head under his chin and throws a leg over his hips, pulling him as close as he can. He tangles his fingers in Din’s hair and closes his eyes, willing the hot tears soaking his shirt not to keep Din up all night, willing them to let him sleep for once.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
“Night.”