Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After rounding up the rancor and getting it back to where it belongs beneath the throne room in the palace, Boba helps with the cleanup in Mos Espa- as well as he can manage, anyway, given the pain in the various spots where Bane had shot the beskar plating of his armor- until Fennec returns from Mos Eisley. They each have good news to give the other; the mayor, other crime family leaders, and head Pyke of the spice operation here on Tatooine are dead; the planet is safe again- as safe as Tatooine gets, anyway. Because calling it safe is a bit too generous. Their victory, he knows, is worth celebrating- later.

Djarin trails them back to the palace for medical treatment, his kid in a borrowed satchel at his hip. Krrsantan and the Mods hang back to keep things in order, to ease the last of the fear from the people of Mos Espa. Freetown’s people offer to help out too, though Boba’s quick to leave before they can come to him speaking of trade agreements or the like. 

He’ll have time for such things later. 

For the time being, a quiet lunch sounds most favorable- one less grand than what the droids will undoubtedly try to serve them. They- he and Fennec, that is- haven’t had a decent meal since before Djarin had shown up after his brief trip offworld. 

It really has been a busy few days- no thanks to Cad Bane. But Bane isn’t a problem any longer, never will be again. He’d made sure of that. For the Tuskens, and for Vanth- and for whatever other innocents Bane had wronged over the past several decades. That man had been on a silent warpath of his own, one that had consumed every grain of him.

Djarin doesn’t yet know of the Duros’s fate, and makes it clear as they trek down the final stretch to the open hangar. “What became of Cad Bane?”

“No one else will die by his hand.” Boba tells him. “I can guarantee that.”

Fennec gives a nod that he can only decipher as satisfied.

“Did you kill him?” The Mandalorian asks.

“Yes. You can find his body back in the streets of Mos Espa.”

“Good.” Djarin says, something mournful lingering at the edge of his tone.

He sighs, the deep sting of regret flowing through him. “I’m sorry. About Marshal Vanth. He should have never been taken out like that.” 

He’d never had the chance to meet Cobb Vanth himself, but it’s evident the effect the man had on those around him. His people had used his death as a rallying cry to back them in the fight against the Pykes, even after Bane’s warning. They could have stayed out of it. Boba wouldn’t have blamed them if they had. But, despite everything, they came. And they won. Boba owes him. He owes them all, for their sacrifice. He hopes that he can live up to that promise, to be someone they won't regret having chosen to support. He hopes that they'll see him as a friend, as an ally; as someone they can trust with their lives.

The hangar ceiling breaks the contact between them and the harsh twin suns, bringing relief from the heat and from the piercing light outside. It feels easier to breathe, now, out of public view, back in his own private sanctuary. Away from prying eyes, at last.

What little tension remains in Djarin's defeated posture eases away, and he exhales. His silver-helmeted head doesn't try to hold itself as high anymore. He looks on the verge of collapse, and Boba remembers his mention of taking on the rancor himself before the child had eased it into slumber. He could probably- no, definitely- use the bacta pod.

“Come.” Boba offers, jerking his head towards the passageway that leads away from the hangar and further into the palace. He hears him following, Fennec tagging along. “Would you rather eat or soak in the bacta pod first?”

The Mandalorian silently contemplates it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Others were injured, some far worse than I was. They should be cared for first."

“Nonsense. You fought a rancor.”

“I’ve fought worse.”

“Fine. We’ll eat first, then tell me you don’t want that open slot.” Boba decides.

“I’ll go tell the kitchen droids to get on it.” Fennec announces, splitting off from the group to head down that way, vanishing around a sandy, rock-walled corner.

He pauses, watches her go, then rolls his eyes and resumes his pace. Fennec will do as she pleases, and he knows better than to try to stop her. He’s too tired to anyway. She knows how to handle herself. 

It's Djarin that he's worried about. Because as clearly relieved as the man is about having his foundling back, the brutality and extent of the battle, as well as the news of what had happened to Vanth, have drained the life out of him. The Mandalorian isn't even trying to keep up with him. He seems lost, in the aftermath of the out of control hovertrain ride known as the peak- peak and, hopefully, finale- of the Pyke conflict. Comforting another sentient being was never a role that Boba had the chance to fill. Now that it’s available to him, he doesn’t quite know what there is that he can say.

That’s how he ends up with,“You look like you could use a drink.” And, oh, he can just feel the incredulous gaze on his back. He hides his wince. “It’s been a long day. I have some spotchka in the throne room.” As a half-defensive afterthought, he adds,“She’ll be awhile. The B'omarr Order decided to put the kitchens in the basement when they built this place.”

He expects Djarin to protest, to tell him that he doesn’t drink- he’d done that after letting Skywalker go with the kid after the events onboard Moff Gideon’s light cruiser those months ago. Absolute bantha fodder. He’s caught the man hovering over an empty glass before, helmet firmly set over his head in the aftermath. He’s surprised when, instead, there’s a long moment of hesitation in which Boba doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, and then- “Okay.”

Alright then. That’s happening.

Boba decides it best not to comment on it. The other man is already feeling down, no need to make him feel worse. That’s not who Boba is anymore.

The rest of the journey to the throne room is in silence, save for the clanking of armor with each step. Even under normal circumstances, Din Djarin is a quiet man, and, for the moment, Boba’s content to leave him to it. He doesn’t really wish to talk himself, not after the fight that Bane, the Pykes, the other crime families, and the Scorpenek droids- well, and his own rancor- had put up earlier. Like he said, he really just wants to eat and put an end to such a draining day.

It’s not long before they’re at the closed door coming in from the throne’s right- the right from when one’s seated on it, that is- and Boba hits a button on the old control panel that opens the ancient thing. The lights are as dim as always, the front door above closed and blocking out the sharp afternoon sunlight. The room is painfully empty without Fennec or anyone trying to seek an audience with him. The sound of the snoring rancor below is still something that he’s yet to get used to. 8D8, the former torture droid, powers on upon their entrance.

Boba climbs up to the throne and grabs a couple of glasses and the bottle of sloshing blue liquor from behind it, then sits down heavily in the seat. A sigh leaves him as his body is finally relieved from strenuous action. He sets his helmet down on the armrest and begins preparing the drinks as Djarin allows himself to collapse on the slab the throne sits upon, legs dangling down and spilling onto the floor.

“Atedee, have the medical droid prepare the bacta pod for our friend here.” Boba commands, lifting an arm towards the Mandalorian.

“I cannot do that, Lord Fett.” 8D8’s response catches him off guard. “The bacta pod is already in use by another.”

“What? By who?” He asks, befuddled. “I authorized no such thing.”

“I’m going to go check it out.” Djarin heaves himself up to his feet. He’s already halfway to the door, posture straight with purpose, before Boba puts aside the liquor, snatches up his helmet, and follows.

“I’m beginning to think this day is never going to end.” He mutters, matching Djarin’s stride once they’ve cleared the doorway. “Who do you think it is?”

The child at his hip is still fast asleep. His voice is terse. “I don’t know.”

“You think it might be Vanth?” He realizes.

“It could be.” The Mandalorian says, not even sparing him a glance. “The Weequay said that he had been gunned down, but he didn’t confirm that he was dead. He might still be alive.”

Boba’s brows knit together as he thinks over it. But this is a victim of Cad Bane that they’re talking about. Boba knows Cad Bane. Well, knew, now. He grimaces. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you.”

“You think he’s actually dead?”

“You don’t? Cad Bane only spares bounties that are required alive. And he wasn’t after Vanth for a bounty.”

“We fought a krayt dragon together.” Djarin growls, all but whirling on him. “A blaster shouldn’t be able to kill him.”

Ah. Denial. The first stage of grief is finally hitting the man.

Boba’s quick to catch onto it, and decides it best not to press harder against a grieving man with weapons such as Djarin’s. He seems like the type who’d fight to prove someone’s state of living, and Boba really doesn’t want to fight the Mandalorian over this. Though, arguably, he doesn’t want to fight anyone at the moment. He bites back a sigh. "Let's keep going."

He guides Djarin through the halls, and Fennec meets up with them before they reach the spiral stairs. She seems to sense their urgency, and wisely refrains from asking what it is that they’re in the process of doing. They ascend the stairs to one of the uppermost floors, and Boba leads them to the large chamber containing the bacta pod.

As quick as their journey across the palace had been, they’re practically creeping into the room, unsure of what exactly they’ll find. But, other than the activated bacta tank, the chamber is as empty as the throne room, the medical droid stirring at their arrival just as 8D8 had.

Boba squints at the bacta pod until he’s near enough to make out the features of the person within. Human, male, silver hair…There’s a black compression shirt holding one of the man’s arms tightly to his chest.

“Is that…?”

“Vanth.” Djarin breathes in relief. “He’s alive.”

Boba can hardly believe it. The Mandalorian’s stubborn hope really hadn’t been misplaced after all. The people of Freetown must have dropped the Marshal off on their way into Mos Espa, before they joined in on the battle.

But Fennec shakes her head as she passes by them. “Only just. Look at his vitals.” She points to the pod’s monitor. “He’s still dying. Just slower.”

Djarin steps up to the monitor, swipes at it so that it shows a set of body scans. His helmeted head turns back towards the form in the bacta pod for a moment, snaps back to the screen. He doesn’t sound too happy. “His arm…it’s been torn apart.”

He's right. 

When Boba's eyes land on the screen, he grimaces at what he sees. The shoulder hardly resembles a shoulder anymore. It’s like looking at a speeder wreck: the internal scans are an absolute mess, showing torn muscle and shattered bone fragments smashing up into everything within reach. There’s loose blood too, but not enough to kill, not yet.

The force of the shot Vanth had taken…Boba had been at the receiving end of Bane's blaster himself, and it had knocked him off of his feet. He had armor to protect him. But Vanth- Vanth hadn't had any. Saying that he’s lucky to be alive is an understatement. A big one.

“Bane knew what he was doing when he fired that shot.” He murmurs. He turns to the droid in the corner, which had wisely remained silent all this time. “Is there anything more that can be done for him?”

“I’m afraid that I am unable to give you a viable treatment option. The damage sustained is far too extensive for even the bacta to heal.”

“Well, that’s not good news.” He mutters. If bacta can't heal him…

The droid isn’t done. “I would suggest a medically-assisted death for the easiest transition.”

“No. He’s not going to die. The people of Freetown left him here because they think we can save him. We’re going to save him.” Djarin isn’t accepting defeat. His helmet’s voculator picks up the expelling of air as he tries to rein himself in. “Fett, you’ve been here for a while. Is there anyone who can help him?”

Almost immediately, a familiar face with yellow dreadlocks comes to mind. Boba winces, casting a glance at Fennec, remembering how he had once saved her. He sighs, then nods. “There’s someone.”

She catches on in an instant. “You’re kidding.”

"It could work.” He insists. Because, really, what other option is there? “You were dying when I brought you to him. Vanth isn't much better off."

Djarin glances between them with an air of suspicion, at a loss. “What could work?”

“I saved Fennec’s life by bringing her to the mod-parlor here in Mos Espa. We could do the same for Marshal Vanth. If it worked, the worst thing that could happen would be a full amputation and reconstruction of the arm.”

The Mandalorian looks uncertain, head turned toward the floor. “I don’t know…He might not like it.”

“We can’t very well wake him up and ask, can we? Not in his condition.”

“What if we asked his people?”

“We don’t have the time to.”

Then the droid speaks again, startling them as its voice cuts through the heavy air. “Marshal Vanth bears the Syndicate Star on his back. I would not advise doing anything against his volition. Stress will only create difficulties in the healing process.”

Boba’s teeth grind together at the news. “Fierfek. That’s just what we needed…”

“Syndicate Star…?” Djarin doesn’t know what the Syndicate Star is. Boba’s half-tempted to throttle him, here and now. The Mandalorian should have seen enough of Tatooine to understand the worst of its culture by now.

“He was a slave.” Fennec clarifies, her voice coming out without struggle. Boba’s not sure that anything phases her. She peers at the man in the tank. “That scar on his head is where his transmitter chip was.”

Djarin’s visor rises in understanding. His voice is edged with regret. “He never told me.”

“I don’t imagine it’s something he would want to talk about.” Boba gruffly points out. “No one decent ever comes from somewhere decent.”

“Is there anything else we can do?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

"The longer we stand here debating it, the weaker he gets.” Fennec pipes up. “I suggest you decide fast. Worry about what he wants later."

“How long does he have?” Djarin asks, sounding almost resigned.

“If Bane shot him directly after your visit, then he’s already been like this for a full day. I suspect that he has mere hours left at most, if we take him out as he is. He would be in pain.” Boba’s seen enough wounded beings to know how it works. “If we leave him in, perhaps he has a couple of days. Either way, Fennec is right. He’s running out of time.”

“We can’t do this to him.” The protest is weak, and even the Mandalorian seems to know that, wincing as soon as he’s spoken. His voice grows softer after that, and Boba thinks he detects a hint of guilt. “It’s not right.”

“It’s the only way he can possibly survive.” He returns, voice steady. “Sometimes tough decisions have to be made regardless of what the dying man thinks.”

Djarin swallows hard, but he doesn't object further, his head lowering to stare at the floor again. 

Boba takes it as the reluctant go-ahead.

He sends Fennec off with copies of the shoulder scans and a good number of credits. He knows that she’ll be able to convince the mod artist to come by. His only regret is that he’s missing the interaction in which the man recognizes her. That would be quite the conversation. But, alas, Djarin is still around and needs some looking after of his own.

With Vanth in the bacta pod, they have to resort to the spray instead, which only really heals the burns and open cuts. But it’s enough for now, and Djarin isn’t limping quite as bad as he was before. Under the circumstances, it’s the best they can do, and that’s alright. The man’s not on death’s door, and that’s all that matters, in the end.

After that, they finally head down to eat that late midday meal. They’re both rather famished, and Boba’s glad, for once, that the droids always cook too much food. Of course, more is still laid out on the table than they need, but they make quite the dent into it. Fennec would have been quite amused were she here.

It’s during this meal that Boba gets his first look at the face of Din Djarin- the true face, the one beneath the helmet. Fennec had seen him, back in the bridge of the light cruiser some months ago, but Boba hadn’t been there, staying out of the way until his recall pickup. Creed aside, he understands why the man keeps his helmet on, for his emotions play across his face unguarded, not unlike a body stripped of flesh. He looks as tired as Boba feels, and perhaps more so. Boba doesn’t comment on it, and wisely refrains from looking at him for too long. He knows that the Mandalorian is far from comfortable with his face exposed as it is. 

Neither say much during the extent of the meal, though they do finally get around to that drink they’d meant to have earlier. The child- Grogu, Boba learns his name is- remains in his slumber the entire time.

The droids are just beginning to clear the long table when 8D8 announces that there are guests at the main gates. Djarin goes as stiff as his old beskar spear.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No.” Boba replies. “Just the mod artist. And he’d be with Fennec.”

By the time they get up there, all geared up, sluggish in the aftermath of their meal, Boba realizes that they never really asked the droid who was at the door. Good thing Djarin is on a one track mind and doesn’t catch the same fact himself- it makes Boba look a little less a fool than he feels. When they do open the gates, they’re met with a couple of familiar faces from the group of Freetown citizens who had earlier saved them. They introduce themselves as Taanti and Jo, and Boba lets them in. They already know that their marshal is here. There’s no turning them away, not that Boba would try.

The trek back up the stairs is grueling, and Boba elects to stay on the top level for now, the thought of installing a lift lingering at the back of his mind. He tells 8D8 to redirect any more visitors to return the following day.

Between him and Djarin, they manage to explain Vanth’s condition to his visitors- keeping out the part about body modification, at first. Even Taanti, the Weequay, winces at the sight of the scans. Jo tells them what they’d tried back in Freetown, before they had brought the Marshal to Mos Espa with them, that they had figured they might as well because nothing else had been working. And now, they know why.

“He doesn’t look like he’s gotten much better.” Taanti observes.

“Not yet.” Djarin agrees.

Boba decides to break the news. “The bacta pod isn’t enough to save his life. We’re bringing in outside aid for him.”

The two Freetown citizens exchange glances. “What kind of outside aid?”

“Tell them.” Djarin says. “They deserve to know.”

He sighs, and, then, he tells them. He tells them how healing the shoulder is out of the realm of possibility, of how the only options are to amputate it or to reconstruct it from within. He tells them how he sent Fennec off to retrieve the mod artist. And, to help reassure them, he even tells them of Fennec's own modifications. He assures them that he wouldn’t have chosen this route if there were more options available for Vanth, and he hopes they know that he really does mean it.

When they’re still suspicious about the idea even after his full explanation, he doesn’t blame them. He would be too, he supposes, were he close to anyone in the same situation as Freetown’s marshal. Their caution is more than reasonable.

But in the end, they reluctantly agree, knowing that it’s the mods or nothing. That is what matters, for the moment. Well-being over want, just as Fennec had told Djarin. He’s relieved that Vanth’s own people can understand that too.

After it’s been sorted out and all that’s left is to wait, he settles himself in one of the back windows, leaning out over it, peering out at the odd, recognizable shape of Mos Espa not too far off. Perhaps, if he wanted to, he could squint his eyes and see Fennec riding back. He’s not interested in trying, though, his eyes as tired as the rest of him. Every time that it seems they’ll finally be able to call it a day and relax, something new has popped up. At this point, he’s really just trying to conserve as much energy as he can. It feels that he has so little left. Who knows what else the day has in store for them? Because a battle wasn’t enough…

“How do you think he’s going to take it?” He hears Djarin ask the Freetown citizens.

“Like a flying bantha.” The short woman, Jo, says. The Mandalorian must flash her a confused tilt of his helmet, for then he hears her clarify that banthas do not, in fact, fly.

“...And you?”

“He’ll take to it like Tatooine being flooded with water. It’ll take him time to adapt, but he’ll figure it out.” Taanti insists, to the contrary of his hometown companion. “The Marshal always does. He’s too stubborn to quit.”

“I’d say he’s proved that.” Boba rejoins them, turning back towards the room. “It’s a miracle that he survived as long as he did without proper treatment. He’s strong for his age.”

“Let’s hope he’s strong enough.” He doesn’t catch who says it, the sound of a speeder’s engines cutting through the air and capturing his attention.

Fennec’s back.

It takes a good quarter of an hour to get all of the mod artist’s gear up to the chamber with the bacta pod. Boba and Djarin work together to drag up a couple of the crates of supplies, given how they’re both struggling through even the simplest of actions- unsurprisingly, Fennec finds it amusing. Even Jo helps, though Taanti refuses to leave the Marshal alone and unguarded. They spend the next half hour waiting for the mod artist’s assessment of Vanth’s situation.

During that time, he says,“I’m assuming he’s safe to take out?”

Boba gives Vanth’s vitals another look over. They’ve not changed much. “He should be.”

The mod artist hits a couple of buttons on the outer panel, and the bacta pod starts draining with a hiss, the liquid gurgling just a little. In a matter of seconds, there’s only an inch left in the bottom of the tank, pooled around the Marshal’s body. The top of the pod pops, and air rushes into the tube as it’s opened. Vanth doesn’t stir, doesn’t even move. If it weren’t for the pod tracking his vitals up to this point, someone might even think him dead already.

The bioengineer carefully removes the compression shirt from his patient, slowly working it up from the left bottom hem up to the right arm, peeling it away bit by bit, doing his best not to jostle the remnants of what had been a shoulder.

“Huh.” That’s all he says before he switches out his hand attachment and starts prodding around at the grisly wound.

It really doesn’t look too great on the outside, Boba notes, more than aware that it’s undoubtedly more horrendous on the inside. The skin at the spot of impact is still charred a crispy black, not unlike the skin of a scurrier after sitting over a fire, out of place against shock-pale tan, with a deep purple bruise spreading out from beneath it and reaching for the collarbone. The whole joint looks broken and disfigured, moving limply and awkwardly beneath the mod artist’s touches. It's a gruesome sight, one that makes Boba wonder at the full extent of the damage done and assume that it's worse than what the scans have revealed. And he'd thought Fennec's gut shot was bad.

The mood of the room is tenser than it’s been yet, the mod artist being the only one mostly unbothered by it. He’d taken care of Fennec’s wounds, and surely he’s had other similar patch jobs to deal with. It's really rather unfortunate that his air of ease isn't very contagious.

“I can work with this.” He eventually says, pulling back and retreating to a pack of gear on the floor, beginning to switch out one of his arm attachments again.

“Does he require a full amputation?” Boba asks, steeling himself for the answer.

“No. He got lucky. Doesn’t need a whole new arm.” The tension eases, for just a moment, before the bioengineer snaps in a knife tool and speaks again. “But I'm going to have to redo most of that shoulder. Even with the tank, the bones will never heal, and those singed arteries aren't going to regrow. I can replace the damaged sections- bones and all. It'll be like he has a whole new shoulder under there. But, in his way of life, adjusting to it won’t be easy. He has a lot of target practice ahead of him. And resting time, first. Some of those bone shards are pretty deep in there. Can’t keep him in the bacta for too long after I fix him up. It tends to…complicate things. Just give it long enough for the bleeding to stop.”

“I guess I’m taking him desert hunting with me, once he’s able.” Jo chirps, more to lighten the mood than in the seriousness of it.

“He’d like that.” Taanti tells her, in full sincerity. “He misses it more than he lets on.”

Boba takes all of the information in. It looks like Vanth will be hanging around the palace for a while yet. Not that he minds; it feels empty without Jabba’s dancers. But he still has one more concern to add to the mod artist’s list of tasks. “Make a cover for it.”

“Look, I told you last time-”

“-His back bears the Syndicate Star.” Boba gives the briefest of moments to allow it to sink in, then picks up again. “This will be hard enough for him as it is. It’s an option he should be allowed to have.”

“Alright, alright. But after I save his life.” The man begrudgingly caves. “You really need to put the important facts first.”

The mod artist grabs a few last tools, drags himself to his feet, and returns to Vanth’s side, ready to start work on his patient. He doesn’t move for a moment, eyes unseeing, as if he’s mapping out a design in his head. Boba certainly hopes he has a plan.

“We’re sure this is going to work?” Jo asks, taking up the last chance to voice her skepticism.

“It’ll work.” Fennec vows. A glance in her direction reveals that she’s opened up the folds of her outfit that normally cover up the gaping void of cybernetics in her stomach. Blood, varying between red and blue based on oxygen levels, flows through clear tubes that intertwine with the metal parts. 

Some part of Boba compares it to looking at the insides of a control panel, and it’s at that thought that he tears his gaze away, unwilling to compare a living being to a machine- it’s something he’d once compared the soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic to, a comparison he’d come to regret making- but not because he’d ever come to like the altered clones.

Seeing what’s been done to save Fennec seems to settle the Freetown duo’s doubts for the time being, and they finally fall silent, accepting and giving unspoken permission for the mod artist to see through with his operation on Vanth’s shoulder.

When the bioengineer asks them if he’s good to start, there aren’t any objections.

Taanti and Jo remain by the Marshal’s side the entire time. Djarin takes his kid to go check in on Peli Motto, an acquaintance of his who’d gotten trapped in the battle herself. 

Boba ropes Fennec into joining him on a patrol of the streets of Mos Espa to check in on the cleanup and repairs. The people bow to him like he’s some sort of royal king, much to his distaste. After ensuring that Krrsantan and the Mods have everything under control, they return to the palace and settle back in the room with the bacta pod, Djarin stopping by shortly to alert them that he’s going to get some sleep- to which Boba has Fennec to show him to one of the many spare bedrooms left vacant after Bib Fortuna’s rule ended.

The mod artist ignores all of them, hardly even looking up whenever they speak quietly to one another or move about. If there’s one thing Boba knows about this man, it’s that his work- however unconventional he feels it is- takes precedence over everything else. It’s a good thing, too, especially when the occasional vital checks on Vanth reveal that he really is fading. 

The operation takes a good five hours, and both suns have long since set by the time the mod artist finishes his work.

“Well?” Boba inquires, hovering over the still form in the open bacta pod.

The mod artist’s eyes have a content gleam to them. “He’s going to live.”

Chapter Text

His breath hitches as he wakes, a flash of blue skin and red eyes cutting across the darkness and jolting him back to awareness. Fire ripples through his right shoulder and upper chest in an unusual, fragmented trail and his teeth dig into his lip as he fights to remain silent until it subsides. The sand-blasted ceiling is swimming in a pool of blackness.

“Marshal?” Someone says, sounding far away.

“I told you a sling wouldn’t have been a bad idea.” A second voice grumbles.

“‘M fine.” Cobb mumbles, panting, unable to focus, his tongue as heavy as a bantha. “‘S alright.”

He only has a second to wonder why he’s in so much agony if he’s on as heavy painkillers as he thinks he is. The stabbing pain doesn’t let up, and the shadows swallow him like something has covered both of the suns.

His next awakening is far more gentle, far more quiet.

He’s comfortable, tired, his mind foggy. The painkillers are finally working, he thinks, relief echoing through his chest. He doesn’t recognize the heavy blanket or mattress below him as his own, but he feels safe here- safe enough to keep his eyes shut, safe enough to stay still. He breathes softly, relishing the softness of the bed in which he lays, silently thanking whoever owns it for lending it to him.

“You awake?” He recognizes the soft voice as the Mandalorian’s.

Cobb hums an affirmative. “Hey, Mando.”

He hears a soft huff, catches that the man’s voice is unmodulated. “I never did tell you my name, did I?”

“You don’t have to.” He mumbles. He wants to say more, but the painkillers are strong. He wonders what they gave him, how bad he’s hurt.

“I want to.” Mando says. “Can you open your eyes?”

“M’be.”

His eyelids feel heavy at the mere thought of opening them, but he makes an effort to do so nonetheless, feeling how they drag down. It’s a long moment before he’s even able to crack them, another before he can get them halfway up. He feels a pang of gratitude that the lights in the room are dim, that any windows are covered. His vision struggles to settle, to even out, but he manages to catch a glimpse of tousled brown hair atop a pale face, resting on the neck sticking out of a familiar shine of silver.

“Howdy there, partner.” He manages, slurring as he speaks against the pull of the painkillers’ influence. “Think you lost s’methin’.”

The Mandalorian’s lips twitch upward- or, at least, Cobb thinks they do. “I don’t have to keep it on.” He explains. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Cobb says. He didn’t know Mando had to keep the helmet on to begin with. He wonders what changed. He’s been doing a lot of wondering, he thinks. “Y’look good.”

Mando glances away for a moment, then looks back at him. “My name- it’s Din Djarin.”

“Good name, Din.” He tries to lift his right arm, but something’s pinning it against his chest, and a sharp tug pulls at his collarbone. It hurts a little, but he grimaces, ignores it, and lifts his left arm instead because it is willing to cooperate. He musters what formal charm he can. “Cobb Vanth. Pleasure to meet ya.”

Din smiles at that, a light twinkle in his brown eyes, and shakes the outstretched hand. After they’ve reclaimed their respective arms, he speaks again. “How are you feeling?”

“Drugged.” He admits. There’s no other way to put it, really. His senses are too dulled to tell how the majority of him feels. But then there’s his immobile arm, the pain in his shoulder…“Wha’ happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Din promises. “You should rest.”

Cobb manages a nod. Everything feels so heavy, his eyelids are struggling- he might as well give in. His muse can wait. “Alright. Ain’t goin’ anywhere anyway, partner.”

The Mandalorian rises from his seat beside him and reaches for something out of Cobb’s view- his helmet. He looks at it, clearly debating whether to put it on or not.

“You can stay, if you wan’ta.”

Din shakes his head. “I got the kid back. I have to go check on him.”

Cobb frowns around the haze dragging at him. “His folk didn’t want him?”

“More like…They gave him a choice, and he chose me.”

Huh…The thin line between thoughts and physical words blurs, and his voice comes soft. “You’re my favorite Mando, too, Mando.”

The third time he wakes up, he’s drowning. And his first thought isn’t even how the hell does that work on Tatooine?

There really isn’t a first thought before the blind panic sinks in and he starts thrashing, his loose limbs- his right arm is stuck to his chest- cleaving through the almost gel-like substance converging around him. The toes on one foot hit glass, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to escape this cage anyway. Everything feels so off, and his mind is screeching at him to get out, get out, get out. Minus a couple of very bright lights on the other side of the transparent walls trapping him, it’s just so dark. He doesn’t like it. He really doesn’t like it. His chest heaves, and he can’t breathe-

He doesn’t even notice the respirator between his teeth until he spits it out into the too-thick water, and his eyes widen even further at that, the liquid beginning to trickle in. If he’d not been drowning before, then he certainly will now.

He struggles harder, but, submerged, it’s really no use. His fist doesn’t pound against the glass like he wants it to, like he needs it to. His shoulder feels strange, but he still claws at it to free his other arm, his stronger one, the one that has any chance at punching through to air, the one that can-

He hears shouting from the other side of the glass, hears a sudden gurgling hiss, and then he’s trying to get away from the surface he’d been laying on as it pulls everything in, drags it all down, consumes it…

The tank is empty, filled only by his quick, hefty gasps and the occasional cough as he expels the balm-like substance from his lungs. A broken sling hangs from his shoulder, and his arms shake beneath him as they hold him in his odd position above the bottom of the tank. He closes his eyes, realizing he’s not going to drown after all, and tries to tether himself back down to the world around him.

A heartbeat later, his eyes snap open, his head jerks up, when the glass case holding him- trapping him- in pops up, slowly raising higher into what he guesses is going to be a one-eighty degree angle. The outside air rushes in, washing over him, chilling his soaked form. A shiver runs down his spine and he does his best to ignore both it and the goosebumps spreading across his bare skin, to focus instead on the figures hovering over him- the familiar figures. With a light from behind him highlighting their features in the dark room, himself wide awake and his body his own, he recognizes them immediately.

“Jo. Taanti.” He’s safe. It’s now that he voices his confusion, the worst of his unease- and that’s the greatest understatement of his life, he’s sure- fading away with his body heat. His voice is clear, strong. “We still on Tatooine?”

Taanti grabs at his shoulders. “Lay back, Marshal.”

His reaction is immediate, his voice sharp. He shrugs the Weequay off without a second thought, slips from his grasp. “Not in this thing.”

“Marshal-”

“-Now, hang on. I just woke up, nearly drowned myself. Give me this. Back off of sorry old me for just a minute, would you?” He moves to raise his right arm to push Taanti back, but a sudden twinge of inexplicable, near-excruciating agony tears through it and he’s forced to lower it, to grab onto the edge of the open tube to regain balance, to blink away the burning sensation behind his eyes and shake his head to gather himself. He exhales harshly, and repeats himself, voice several levels weaker. “Just a minute. That too much to ask?”

Taanti must open his mouth to protest, because then Jo’s saying his name, cutting him off from trying. “Taanti.”

“It’s not a good idea.” The Weequay grumbles, reaching out to hold Cobb steady as he moves to climb out of the tank nonetheless.

Cobb’s bare feet touch metal-cool flooring and he winces at the feeling it sends through him, suppresses the shudder the best he can. He takes a couple of uneven steps, and he briefly wonders how much time he’s spent unconscious. He decides to wonder about that later, to instead comb a hand through his wet hair, to smooth it out- he’s sure he looks nothing close to presentable, dressed only in a pair of fluid-resistant boxers.

Jo has the decency to fetch a robe from somewhere nearby and to help slide his right arm through it- he’s not going to let himself think about the large numb spot or the soft whirring sounds that come from it with each movement, he tells himself it’s just his imagination, an aftereffect of the earlier drugs that he’d been under the influence of. He mutters his thanks as he pulls his left arm through the other sleeve and ties the front of the garment shut. It soaks up most of the remnants of the liquid on him, warms his shivering form.

He turns back towards the case that had held him captive, rolls his eyes at himself when he recognizes it as a bacta pod. Yeah, no, he really had been fine until he spit out that respirator. In his defense, however, he’s only ever been in a bacta pod on less than five occasions. They don’t have anything that fancy out in Freetown, scraping by as they do. Whatever had happened for him to be here- wherever here is- and need one, it must’ve been pretty bad. His shoulder is another pretty good indication of that. He’s not sure he wants to know the details yet.

He steps around the bacta pod, comes to stand before a large, open window. The pale moonlight casts shadows across the land- sand, he realizes with relief, they are still on Tatooine after all. He thinks he can see a crater in the near-distance, twinkling with the lights of a city that he could never mistake as anything but Mos Espa. It’s when he takes in the mountains that he realizes exactly where they are and pulls up short in his scrutiny of the landscape. Jabba’s Palace. “We really where I think we are?”

“Marshal, how much do you remember?” Jo asks, sounding as if she’s going to great lengths to keep her voice guarded- and for his sake over her own.

Yeah, he should probably confront that sooner rather than later, as much as he wants to put it off. Great, so, what the hell happened?

Cobb huffs out a sigh and lets himself think on it, lets himself dive back into his last clear memories, the ones before he’d woken up in excruciating pain and passed out.

He remembers the Mandalorian’s visit, his shiny new old starfighter- because, how could he forget that? He remembers watching that starfighter take off, remembers telling Taanti to gather up everyone able to fight.

He remembers the sudden cold washing over him the moment the ship’s out of sight, the inexplicable wave of dread making the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He remembers turning to his left, seeing a lone, dark-clothed figure advancing on the town, ominously appearing out in the Dune Sea without so much as a warning. He remembers telling Jo and a few others to get inside, remembers telling Scott to get inside. He also remembers Scott not staying inside.

Cobb remembers blue skin, piercing red eyes- a being of the Duros species.

He remembers rising tension.

He remembers turning his eyes to Scott-

A blazing pain tearing his shoulder apart.

“What the hell happened back there?” He murmurs to himself, admittedly bewildered. Sure, things aren’t easy out in the desert, defending a town as he does, but he’s never lost before, not like that. How did that happen?

He can still feel a bone-deep ache in his right shoulder, and he thoughtfully slips a hand beneath the robe to rub at it- and instead of feeling the warmth of skin, he touches something cold, something metallic, something not him. He freezes, retracts his hand to grab at the windowsill to hold himself up, his legs suddenly on the verge of collapse. That ain’t supposed to be there…

What happened?

He takes several deep breaths, trying to calm his mind, trying to unscramble it before he loses track of it completely, before he loses track of himself and falls into that same panic he woke up with mere minutes ago.

“He shot me, didn’t he?” He sounds as weak as he feels.

“Fett offered his bacta pod so that you could live.” Jo tells him.

“What’s all this, then?” He demands, voice rising out of some horrible feeling that he doesn’t even know how to describe. He gestures at his shoulder as he turns to face them. What did they do to me? What did they do to me? What did they-“What did they do to me?”

“They saved your life, Marshal.” Taanti returns, firm and calm, as steady as a rock. 

“You should see the scans.” Jo adds, far more gently. “We nearly lost you.”

Cobb scrubs a hand down his face, lets out a harsh sigh. His head drops to his chest for a moment as he deliberates over how he should feel. Grateful? Angry? Stars, he’s never felt this lost before. 

He shakes his head as he raises it back up, spins around towards one of the long strips of light in the wall, walks over to stand directly in front of it. He loosens the robe, slides it down his right arm. He takes half a second to steel himself, then finally looks down to see what Fett’s guys have done to him.

He probably shouldn’t have. He probably could’ve done without- he really could have done without.

The light reflects off of the metallic surface he recognizes as the substitution for a bone, the bright white line shining back into his eyes and making him squint against it. Flowing through clear IV tubes he sees blood, oxygenized and not, running its course through his body in a constant stream. At the edges of the metal…box built into his body- a protective case to keep his modifications separate from as much organic material as it can- he can see the ends of actual bones sticking into it, connected to the mechanical replacement.

Nausea tugs at his stomach and he feels sick. No one is supposed to ever see the insides of their own body like this. No one is supposed to have their body changed like this. What have they done to him? Was he really in such bad condition that they even couldn’t pop a stim in him and ask his thoughts on such a thing?

He doesn’t know how to ask any of those questions, so he doesn’t.

“He didn’t shoot anyone else, did he?” His voice comes out quiet, burdened. He remembers how Scott had been standing at the front of the building he’d been ordered to stay in, fingers wiggling like worms, ready to draw and fire, and something else in his gut jerks. Part of him knows, before he asks. “Is Scott…?”

“He didn’t stand a chance against that bounty hunter.” Taanti grunts. “Took four shots to the chest as soon as you went down. He was already gone by the time we got around to checking him out.” 

Cobb swallows hard, and his head feels impossibly heavier, his eyes falling shut under a wave of grief. Scott had been new in Freetown, sure, but he’d been a friend, someone who Cobb trusts- trusted, now- to have the people's backs when he couldn't. The mysterious figure, the bounty hunter, he'd taken them both down in a heartbeat. Himself, to send a message. Scott, because he was a threat. How did I let this happen?

“And the hunter?” He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to speak. “What happened to him?”

“I killed him.” A new voice catches him off guard, makes him jerk around halfway to face the entrance of the room, where a figure lingering just inside the chamber has gone completely unnoticed by him this whole time. 

Oh. For the hundredth time in the span of a few minutes, Cobb freezes up. His eyebrows raise as he takes in the suit of armor- the green one, freshly painted; the very same one that he had once worn himself, the very same one he’d protected Freetown with, the very same one that the bounty hunter had told him he shouldn’t have given up. 

The man wearing the armor has the helmet tucked under his arm, revealing a face that Cobb has only seen on the HoloNet: the face of a clone, one of the same who’d fought in the war several decades past. He tries to remember the donor’s name, but comes up short, tilts his head considerately. “And who might you be?”

The man regards him through a carefully crafted mask as he steps further into the room, and Cobb wonders what’s going through that head of his. Finally, he says,“I am Boba Fett.”

Fett. Right, that had been the donor’s name. Jango Fett. He’d been killed at the start of the Clone War. And Boba Fett, the very same that Djarin had told him about back in the cantina in Freetown, is one of those clones. Somehow, that revelation doesn’t shock Cobb as much as it probably should. Huh. Go figure.

“So, you killed him.” He nods, more than a little glad to hear of the death of the man who'd shot both Scott and himself and threatened his town. “How’d you manage to do that?”

"With great difficulty. He shot me twice before I stabbed him."

He allows the slightest rueful, upward twist of his lips. “The armor’s tough, ain’t it?”

"Yes. It has served me a great many years, and has saved my life on many occasions where I should have been killed." So, the armor- it originally belonged to Fett before the Jawas got ahold of it. That’s news. "It also served you well, while you were in possession of it."

“Now, how do you know about that?” He asks, genuinely curious, allowing some of it to filter into his voice, allowing his guard to lower just a little. Fett doesn’t seem to be a threat- not an immediate one, anyway- especially given that, according to Taanti and Jo, he’s the one to thank for keeping him alive. Mando trusts him- that’s gotta say something.

Fett answers with a name. “Din Djarin.”

Ah, that explains it. It’s also great confirmation that he hadn’t imagined that conversation. He finds that something eases in his chest at the blunt honesty, and it’s suddenly a lot less difficult to talk to this stranger in front of him. "And where is he?"

“Offworld. He had business to attend to on Nevarro. He didn’t leave until he was certain that you were going to make it.”

Cobb hums, hiding a grimace. “I suppose I owe you for that.”

“That debt has already been paid.” Fett assures him.

He frowns. He’d been unconscious, perhaps for even a few days. There’s no way that he did anything to help Fett in that timeframe. “How so?”

“After they brought you here, these two,”He gestures to Taanti and Jo, who’ve respectfully remained silent and let this conversation play out,“led your people into battle on your behalf. It is only because of them that we were able to chase the Pykes off of Tatooine.”

“Really?” Cobb turns to look at the pair himself, doing his best to suppress a grin as a strong wave of pride blooms and swells in his chest. It’s a welcome feeling, after all he’s learned in the past several minutes of consciousness, after the genuine struggle his heart has been thrown into. “Huh. Guess I missed out on all the action, then.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean that you were not owed anything for your bravery and sacrifice. Had you not been shot, you would have fought alongside us in Mos Espa.” Fett counters, and Cobb sees the faintest trace of gratitude slide into his features. “Saving your life was the least that we could do in return."

"Can't say I'm entirely pleased with the method you chose to go about it with, but...can't say I don't appreciate it." He nods to himself, because he is glad to be alive. He really is. “Mando was right about you. Not many folks here on Tatooine have an honor streak like that.”

"Djarin isn't the only one who follows a creed.” How cryptic. But it’s good to know.

“I’m glad.” Cobb voices aloud. He can see the faintest gleam of light on metal- his shoulder, he reminds himself- when he glances down toward his feet, and he readjusts the robe to cover it- because he’s not going to think about it. He’s not. When he feels eyes on him, he says,“Gonna take some gettin’ used to.”

“You’ll pull through.” Taanti assures him, Jo nodding along in agreement. 

Cobb has the briefest moment of shame, because he’s the one supposed to be looking out for his people, not the other way around. Still, he almost smiles. Almost.

Some things- most things, he knows, are easier said than done. This is one of those things. How wouldn’t it be? He has a whole new shoulder. He’s not sure how he’s going to adjust to it, of how he’s going to come to accept it as part of him.

“You should get some rest. All of you.” Fett tells them, switching over to business. “Vanth, Tuk is coming by at o-twelve-hundred tomorrow to check on that shoulder of yours, to make sure that it works properly. He has a cover for the cybernetics ready, too, if you want it.”

“That’d be nice.” He murmurs. He's referring to the cover, of course, not the poking and prodding he's certain that he's going to have to endure. 

He doesn't want to have to look at his chest for the rest of his life and think of himself as a machine, as a work tool, rather than the man he is. He’s spent enough of his life being regarded to and thought of as a work tool. He really doesn’t need to relapse back into thinking like that himself. Not now, not ever. 

He wonders if that’s why Fett mentioned the cover- the cover, which Cobb is definitely accepting, thank you- There’s little doubt that he’s seen the star-shaped scar embedded between his shoulder blades. It’s pretty big. Can’t miss it, unless you’re blind- and Fett definitely isn’t. 

He's grateful that Fett's somewhat anticipated how he feels about the whole situation. He likes a man who thinks of the effects that actions like that- like replacing part of another’s body- would have. It says a lot about him.

“We’ll let you settle in first, though. You need proper sleep if you are to heal."

Cobb nods. "Show me where to go."

Chapter Text

Tuk, the mod artist that Fett had replace Cobb’s shoulder, comes by as scheduled. He makes a few tweaks that ease the pain a little and tells him that the rest will fade with time, once his body adjusts and begins to heal naturally. He also tells him that he should stick around at the palace for at least the better part of a week before he does any traveling. 

Which means that he can’t return to Freetown just yet.

Cobb sends Jo and Taanti back in his stead, with the promise that he’ll have returned himself by the end of the week.

He’s assigned some physical therapy motions to help him get used to the new shoulder, and he goes through them to help ease his restlessness and quiet his mind more than anything. He needs to learn to be comfortable with the modifications done to him, and he’d rather confront the physical portion if it means he can put off the mental one. But it’s difficult on that first day, so he spends more of it resting than doing anything else, trying not to look at the edges of the flesh-colored, inorganic panel covering up the mechanics hidden within his body.

He’s introduced to Fennec Shand, Fett’s lieutenant and Master Assassin, a former bounty hunter in her own right. She recounts her own first meeting with their mutual friend, Din Djarin, and reveals her own life-saving modifications.

“Well, it looks like you’re lucky to be alive, then.” He tells her.

She cants her head toward him. “That makes two of us.”

“Guess so.”

He joins both her and Fett during the meals they’re around for- they’re quite busy, but that’s to be expected with their running a gotra- and he finds them to be pleasant company. They both appear to genuinely care about the well-being of Tatooine and its inhabitants, something that few in high positions have ever been inclined to so much as consider.

They catch him up on what he’s missed, to the best of their ability, and he fondly shakes his head when he hears the in-depth version of how Taanti and Jo had led a transport of Freetown citizens into battle. He makes sure to apologize for Fett’s believing he had been killed, and the Daimyo counters by telling him of Cad Bane’s- the Duros bounty hunter’s- efficiency and reputation of ruthlessness, by telling him that he’s very lucky that the hunter hadn’t had a reason to want him dead. Because, according to Fett, if he had, he would have killed him.

On the second day, Cobb begins to practice his draw speed, to bring it back up to what it was before he’d gotten shot. Of course, the mod artist had advised against quick movements, but Cobb’s already tired of sitting around and wasting time. He needs to be at his best when he returns to Freetown, and he will be.

He even starts taking up arm wrestling with Fennec- and target practice, to Fett’s dismay. His aim is off, sometimes by a lot, but he knows that he won’t get better if he doesn’t learn to adjust to how this new shoulder reacts to certain movements. He won’t let himself be outdrawn again. Practice makes perfect, they say, and Cobb knows it from experience himself; he hadn’t mastered gunslinging in a day the first time around.

By the third day, even his chest is sore. But he’s making more of his shots than he’s missing, and that’s all that matters. He begins to pick out riskier targets, even going for Fett’s helmet when the man’s on a holocall with Djarin. That one, he hits, and the helmet flies a good few feet from its resting place.

“Vanth!” Fett incorrectly assumes the helmet wasn’t his target. “I thought you said you were getting better.”

“Gettin’ better. It ain’t gonna happen overnight, Fett.” Then, he grins, jerks his head towards the fallen helmet. “And, look, I hit my target this time.”

The man turns to look at it. “You make me nervous.”

Cobb twirls his blaster in his fingers and turns away to pick out another target, rolling his shoulder. “That’s my job.”

“Mine, actually.” Fennec interjects from the sidelines, though there’s mischief in her eyes.

“He’s healing well.” He hears Djarin say, the Mandalorian having somewhat witnessed the exchange.

Fett sighs, but nods appraisingly. “He’s a good shot.”

“He is.” Djarin agrees.

Cobb is only a little smug when he goes back to his shooting.

By the end of the day, he’s more than tired and drained of all energy, but he’s hardly missing a single shot. He thinks he might even be faster- faster than before his organic shoulder had been obliterated. His only regret is that he didn’t have that speed before he got shot, that he couldn’t use it to protect Scott from the fate Cad Bane had dealt him. It’s a thought that he shoves aside when he tumbles into the bed in his borrowed room. He’ll do better from now on, and that’s a promise. For Scott.

He’ll never be too slow again. He’ll never miss again.

Two days later, Fett agrees that he’s in good enough condition to return to Freetown. Cobb’s shoulder is still a bit sore, and stiff, from all of the drills he’s been running it through, but he’s not about to spend another day away from his people. He can once again make every shot he’s faced with- he can protect them, again- and that’s all he needs. The rest will take care of itself.

He meets Fett and his lieutenant in the palace hangar, where a Firespray gunship that matches the Daimyo’s armor sits waiting, hatch open. But, as desperate as Cobb is to get back, he wants to go about doing it himself. He has relied too much on others as of late, and it’s time he takes his affairs into his own hands. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not helpless. He makes sure to voice it when Fett offers the ride he knew he would.

"You've done more than enough for me already. I'll take a bike in." He says.

"That's an overnight journey.” Fett points out. “Are you sure you're up for it?"

“Give me a survival pack an’ a waterskin, I can handle it.” Cobb assures him.

“Very well.” The Daimyo nods at Fennec. “Fetch him some gear.”

She returns the nod with one of her own and strides back toward the hangar entrance, where a handful of speeder bikes sit off to the side, perhaps half a dozen supply crates behind them.

Cobb can’t entirely help the wave of gratitude that washes over him as he watches her, and his eyes fall to the floor for a humble moment as he recalls all they have done for him. He doesn’t care that the town paid his debt back- he still owes them. While he might not be able to pay them back by deeds right now, he can offer a piece of his mind, something that’s burdened him since his awakening, something that they deserve to know.

“When Mando came into town askin’ for our help, I’ll admit, I was skeptical. Wanted to protect the folks back home, keep ‘em out of the action. But…it’s hard to deny a friend a favor. I was workin’ on arrangin’ a town meeting to see if anyone was interested when Bane strolled in an’ shot us up.” He raises his eyes to look at Fett. “If he didn’t shoot me, I’m not sure we would’ve come through with the numbers you needed to drive out the Syndicate.”

Fett’s head tips to the side as he takes it in, but he gives a small nod of acknowledgement before he speaks. “I think I understand that, to a degree. While you had my armor, I was living among a Tusken tribe in the Dune Sea. They took me in as one of their own, and I helped them fight their battles. I headed into Mos Eisley to negotiate with the Pykes after we stopped one of their trains, and they sent some men to wipe my tribe out while I was away. I still wonder if I could have protected them had I chosen to stay behind instead.” He says. “I hold no fault over you for wanting to put your town’s best interests before our own. I would have done the same for my own tribe.”

“You know, you’re alright.” Cobb tells him. “You’ve got my thanks for what you've done. You saved the lives of a lot of folks, not just mine. Tatooine's lucky to have you."

Fennec clears her throat as she returns with the requested gear and speeder bike, repulsorlifts active. “Done exchanging life stories?”

Cobb chuckles and glances at Fett, who appears just as amused. “Yeah, I think we’re good.” 

He takes the speeder bike and shoulders the survival pack. He throws a leg over one side of the vehicle and settles himself down on it, turning the engine over. As it begins to thrum with life, he twists his body to look at them. “If you ever need a hand ‘round these parts, come on by and grab me. I have quite a few connections out here, and I’m more than happy to help you out where I can.”

“Thank you. That same offer extends to you.” The Daimyo assures him, dipping his head.

“Appreciate it.” He offers one final smile and a nod to showcase his gratitude. “‘Til next time, then.”

Without further ado, he rights himself on the bike, takes the handlebars and pushes them forward. The bike leaps forth and surges toward the natural light of the suns at the open end of the hangar. 

It’s time to go home.

[20:09] FS: You dead yet?

[20:13] CV: Nah. Got a fire going.

[20:14] CV: You could’ve told me you put a communicator in my pack.

[20:15] CV: Had to figure out why it was screaming like a krayt dragon.

[20:15] FS: Telling’s no fun.

[20:15] FS: Glad to know you can read, though.

[20:16] FS: We weren’t sure.

[20:17] CV: Lucky we got a school out here, then.

[20:23] FS: Your Aurebesh is good.

[20:25] CV: Thanks.

[20:26] CV: You do know I’m trying to sleep, right?

[20:26] FS: ;)

After a cold night out in the Dune Sea, Cobb pulls his speeder bike into town. The twin suns have gained a bit of height by the time he arrives, are perhaps halfway to being directly overhead, and the heat is eating away at him, sweat trickling from his hairline despite the air currents he’d fought along the ride. 

The people call cheerful greetings to him, welcoming him back and expressing their relief of his improved condition. He responds appropriately, continuing on through town until he reaches his own dwelling and shuts the bike’s engine down right alongside his own old custom-built, race-engined jumpspeeder. He wipes his brow on the sleeve of his new shirt- Fett hadn’t let him keep the ratty old red one, what with the blaster hole in it and all- and stretches his legs. He leaves his pack- minus his new data-link reader- on the steps of his front porch and begins to make his way back down the road to Taanti’s saloon, massaging the stiff muscles around his right shoulder with his opposite hand as he goes.

He takes in the familiar view of the building fronts happily, drinking in the view of his home, of the place he has seen built up from the ground, of the people he once saved and continues to protect. 

They’d almost lost him. He knows that they’re capable of protecting themselves- they’ve proven it several times over- but he’s still their best line of defense. If he had died alongside Scott that day…He’s glad he’s still here to protect them.

He barely catches the joyful young shriek that pierces the air before something barrels into him and latches onto a leg.

“Whoa!” He staggers for a moment before catching himself. He tilts his head down to assess the situation and frowns at the sight of Jo’s nephew clinging to him. Gently, he pries the boy from his leg and crouches down so that they’re at eye level with one another. “Hey there, Tenn. Ain’t you supposed to be over at the school?”

The boy’s speech is good for his being only six years old. It always impresses Cobb. "I weren't feeling no good, so they let me go home."

"What're you doin' out here, then?" Cobb presses, keeping his voice soft.

Thoughtful brown eyes meet his own. "I saw you was back, and I wanted to see you."

He can’t withhold a grin. "Well, now you have. C'mon, let's get you home, now. Don't want to worry your mother, do ya?"

He straightens up and stretches his back- kriff, he’s getting old; he really should call it a day if he’s having to do this much stretching- before he bends over to scoop Tenn up. Out of natural instinct, he leads with right arm, and regrets it the moment he has the boy’s full weight in his grasp. Pain tugs at the spot where his collarbone meets up with metal, causing a groan to tear from his throat. But he pulls through it, settling the boy on his hip and holding him close.

“Marshal, are you okay?” Tenn asks, eyes wide in guilty concern.

Cobb manages a chuckle and ruffles the boy’s dark hair, playing it off, as he begins to cross the street to where he knows the child lives. “You’re gettin’ big.”

“Auntie Jo said a blue man hurt you.”

He barely suppresses a wince, barely keeps his feet from sliding out from beneath the two of them in a quick spark of surprise. Even the children know what happened. “The blue man ain’t comin’ back, Tenn, don’t you worry.”

“Zana keeps saying you wasn’t going to come back.”

“Well, if you see Zana before I do, you tell her I’m back in town and that I don’t plan on leavin’ anytime soon.”

“Promise?” Tenn asks, as they reach the bottom of the porch of his home.

“I promise.” Cobb says. And it’s a promise that he intends to keep. He’ll never let himself be gunned down in their defense again, not when they need him as much as he needs them.

He brings them to a halt just outside of the open door and gives himself that extra push to step within the doorway and lean his left shoulder up against it. The early hour it is, the shadows stretch out towards the street rather than away from it. It’s already quite warm outside, so he takes a brief moment to soak in the shade and expel some of the heat from his body. Tenn doesn’t seem to mind, and the main room of the home is empty. It’s a tidy home, especially for someone with a child. Better cleaned up than his own little place. He lets a quiet, peaceful moment go by. But, as nice as it feels, the marshal of Freetown can’t sit around in the shade all day- and definitely not in someone else’s doorway like this.

He raises a booted right foot and knocks the toed-end against the door. It’s not a loud sound, but, in this silence, it’s definitely an attention getter. “Ann, you in?”

“Cobb Vanth, is that you?” The familiar voice coming from the back of the home has a playfulness underlying the genuinity of the question.

“Yeah.” It’s not his fault that his voice is a touch strained; carrying a whole child is definitely not something that he should be doing this soon. Clearing his throat and matching her tone, he says,"Wrangled up a loose womp rat. Think he might be yours."

“You’re a womp rat.” Tenn retorts, though it’s hard to take seriously in his youthful tone.

Cobb huffs out a laugh. “You think so?”

“Uh-huh.” The boy nods.

“Then you’d be right.” He decides, happy to humor him. His own youth hadn’t been so pleasant, and he’d long since settled to ensure that the children of Freetown had it far better than he and the older residents had.

Ann pokes out from one of the back rooms, looking just as she had when he’d last seen her, her black hair pinned back out of the way by a beige strip of cloth, her brown eyes rolling in that motherly fashion of hers. She comes right up to him, stepping over a couple of children’s toys, and doesn’t hesitate to take Tenn when Cobb hands the boy over to her. She adopts a polite tone that he knows she uses to set an example for her son. “Thank you, Marshal.”

He gives a respectful nod in return, trying to hide the mixed wave of pain and relief that courses through his body with the extra weight out of his hands. Ann sets her son down and opens her mouth to scold him, but Cobb, knowing how mothers can be, beats her to it. “Now, you stay inside unless your mother says otherwise, you got that?”

Tenn's head bobs in a vigorous nod.

"Good." He jerks his own head deeper into the house. “Go on, now, and get some rest.”

The boy scampers off, eager to please, snatching up one of his offworld, wood-carved toys along the way.

They stand in a companionable silence until the back of the house falls silent, the boy settling down to do as told. Good kid. The children around town never can seem to say no to their Marshal. Makes him wonder what they’re taught in their history lessons. It can’t all be his amiable personality swaying their behavior, can it?

“You look a bit winded there.” Ann remarks, voice soft. “When’d you get back?”

He offers a lopsided grin. “Not quite five minutes ago.” He pauses, skips back to the first part of what she’d said. His lips fall to a light frown. “I look that bad?”

“Only to me.” She murmurs. Her face morphs into an expression of concern. She stretches a hand out and presses it against his new shoulder. "Jo told me what they had to do. Are you going to be alright?"

“It’s nearly healed already. Got my aim back up to par. Not much left to worry about."

“That’s not what I asked, Cobb.”

“I’m fine.” He sighs as she lowers her hand to the crook of his arm. That motion alone drags his heart from the soundproof box surrounding it and makes him drop her gaze. He can't lie, not to her. “I’ll be fine. Still processin’, I guess. Tryin' not to think about it too hard.”

"We were worried." She's so close that he would feel her breath on his skin if he didn't have his shirt on.

“I know. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare any of ya like that.” Cobb assures her. He pauses as a sudden thought crosses his mind. He tilts his head as he raises it back up. “Did you join ‘em in Mos Espa?”

“No.” Ann glances back toward the room that Tenn had vanished into. "I didn't want him to be left alone if something happened to Jo and I."

He can’t help the nod of approval he gives. “I’m glad you didn’t. Heard it got pretty rough up in there. Somethin’ about a couple of Scorpenek droids.”

“That’s what they’re saying here, too.”

“We lose anyone?” His voice is the quietest between them, now.

Her face twinges in regret. “A couple.”

“I shoulda been there.” Cobb sighs, guilt bubbling up. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot. Scott shouldn’t have gotten shot.”

The grip on his arm tightens comfortingly. “It’s not your fault. They all made their own choices, even Scott. You know, as well as any of us, that they’re proud of choosing what they did. You should be proud for them, too.”

“I am, I just…” He shakes his head, unable to properly express himself.

Ann gives his arm a gentle squeeze and releases it, reaching back for his shoulder to usher him back out onto the porch. “You should go on home and get some rest yourself, Marshal. You can't help anyone by moping about what's already happened. Think about everyone who did make it, everything that didn't go wrong. If you didn't do anything, where would they be?"

“Alright, I get your point.” He concedes, reluctantly backing out. "I'll head that way after I grab a drink at Taanti's. Want me to get you somethin'?"

"Only if it'll help you calm your nerves."

“You know it will.” Because you’ve dealt with me being like this more times than you should’ve and deserve far better.

“Desert plum wine.” She tells him.

Cobb finally smiles a little. “You got it.”

The familiar, nightmare-inducing roar of the krayt dragon raises him from his slumber a few hours after the middle of the day has passed. It’s not until he’s already halfway out his front door, blaster pistol in hand, that he realizes the ground isn’t shaking and that people aren’t screaming. He curses Fennec’s name, checks his textcomm messages, then heads out to help the miners bring in the day’s haul.

[15:37] DD: I heard you’re back in Freetown.

[15:39] CV: I am.

[15:40] DD: I’m sure they’re happy to see you.

[15:40] CV: Already carried home a whole kid.

[15:41] CV: Good to be back.

[15:42] DD: You’ve carried less than a whole kid before?

[15:44] CV: Have you?

[15:45] DD: Forget I asked.

[15:45] CV: With pleasure.

[15:51] CV: How’d you get my comm number?

[15:51] DD: Fennec.

[15:52] CV: Speaking of her…

[15:52] CV: Please tell me you know how to change the ping noises.

[15:53] DD: ...What did she do?

[15:54] CV: I've been hearing nonexistent krayt dragons all day.

[15:54] DD: I'll talk to Fett about it.

[15:55] DD: Here's an attachment to guide you through changing the sound.

[15:55] CV: Thanks, partner. I always could count on you to have my back.

As the day comes to a close and the town begins to settle down for the night, Cobb lets his feet guide him on down the road. His blaster sits in its holster at his hip, a welcome weight, and his fingers occasionally feel out for the familiar touch of the handle. It brings comfort to him, knowing he has it if he needs it. Not that he's expecting anything to happen- it really just is out of habit that he has it on him. Freetown doesn’t have any enemies at the moment, thank the stars. And Fett. Thank Fett, too.

A few wind chimes sing in the breeze, a beautiful sound behind the merry voices of the townsfolk wishing each other a good night’s rest. A hearty laugh tears from the cantina back behind him. It’s all music to his ears.

But, right now, all he feels is a longing to be as happy, as unburdened, as the rest of them. He’s spent the week healing from his injury, he’s spent the week getting better, but that doesn’t undo the ill that he’d been unable to protect his people from. Talking to Ann and resting in his own little dwelling had helped to ease that guilt just a little, but it's not something he's going to ever get over.

He recognizes the path his feet are leading him down, but he can’t bring himself to stop until he’s weaving through the tiny little graveyard at the edge of town and planting his boots in front of a new headstone with Scott’s name on it.

Cobb never bought into any of the Force or deity or afterlife stuff- after all, if there is any deity out there, they surely wouldn’t have let Tatooine go as horribly unmaintained as it had for so long- but he can’t help wondering if, maybe, someway, somehow, Scott can see him standing here in the fading light of the day and sense the heaviness weighing down on him. Maybe they all can, Scott and the few others buried around him. Maybe even those who’d never gotten a proper resting place- the threat of the krayt dragon had never really allowed them to have a proper cemetery before. The small handful of gravestones before him are all new, all laid down within the last year. They’re all people who went down fighting- against the dragon, against the Pykes, against Cad Bane. So many people for such a short amount of time. He owes them all for what they’ve done to protect the town. But, right now, his words are for Scott- and Scott alone.

“Really messed us up, didn’t he?” He shakes his head, a bitter smile pulling at his lips. "You were a fine deputy, Scott, but you should've listened to me. Shoulda kept inside like I told you to.” It’s laughable. “Not that I would’ve listened either, had it been the other way around. Guess that's what makes folks like us good at the job. Too damn stubborn to quit. You would've made a helluva marshal yourself, one day. I just wish I could’ve told you that myself.” 

He takes a deep breath, glances at the stars glistening in the darkening sky. Maybe he could let himself believe in this afterlife stuff for a moment. "You rest easy, now, Deputy. And thank you. I ain't ever goin' to forget what you've done for my town. We owe you our thanks, more than some of 'em'll ever understand. Take care of yourself for me."

Cobb stands there in silence for a moment longer, then heaves a weighty sigh and turns to head back to his own place, feeling no lighter than before. But he knows, now, that it’ll only get easier from here. It has to.

His communicator chirps.

[19:41] BF: My apologies on behalf of Fennec. I wasn't aware of her actions.

[19:42] BF: I'm sure things are hard enough for you as it is.

[19:42] BF: If you need anything, let me know. Business will always be open between us and your people.

Chapter Text

[06:53] CV: Hey, you up? Got a quick question.

[06:54] FS: Have you forgiven me yet?

[06:54] CV: No.

[06:54] FS: Ouch.

[06:54] CV: We both know it really doesn’t bother you.

[06:55] CV: So, the mayor, who's his replacement?

[06:55] CV: Since you hanged him and all.

[06:56] FS: Actually, we were wondering if you'd like to do it.

[06:58] CV: A small town boy like me?

[06:58] FS: Why not?

[06:59] FS: The people might resonate with you more because of your background.

[07:03] CV: I can't take it. I'm sorry.

[07:04] CV: It's quiet out here, and that's the way I like it best.

[07:04] CV: I'm sure there's someone else out there who’s qualified for the job.

[07:04] FS: Are you sure?

[07:05] CV: As sure as dehydration kills.

[07:05] FS: Any recommendations?

[07:07] CV: Try Issa-Or of Bestine. She works closely with their local lawmen. Helped them drive out the last of the Imps after the second Death Star blew.

[07:08] CV: She's got the experience and the guts. Won't let anyone play her like Mok Shaiz did with the Pykes.

[07:08] FS: We'll look into talking to her.

[07:08] FS: Thank you.

It’s both easier and harder than Cobb expects- throwing himself back into his work; having the people once again depend on him instead of himself on someone else; returning to being a marshal.

On one hand, it's exactly what he needs- a blanket to mask his darkest thoughts, to give birth to the beginnings of self-redemption over his recent failures. Helping his people, it feels good. But, on the other hand, it slows his recovery, both in mind and body. It distracts him, draws out the pain, subtly rubs salt in the wound. He’s not sure if it’s his spirit or his aging muscles that are making him slower. 

He pushes on anyway, because it’s his job to, because he’s too stubborn to give himself time, because he’s too stubborn to put his own self-interests above the needs of the people. Every job, every tiny task needed to be done, he volunteers to help out, regardless that the people aren’t aware the true extent his injury had been, regardless that the heat affects him more than it used to- he knows that it’s his modifications, knows that it’s the metal within him absorbing every ounce of the suns’ warmth and slowly roasting him from the inside out, knows he can’t do anything about it. The people matter more than he does- always have, always will. He lives to serve them, and no past slip up is going to keep him from doing so.

The elders tell him that they admire his everlasting persistence, the way he has always powered through even the toughest of times with little pause.

Ann advises him to rest, to take time to care for himself, that one day soon this facade of his is going to break more abruptly than the way Cad Bane strolled out of the desert.

Taanti doesn’t say anything on the days that Cobb downs a drink or two too many, but his eyes are knowing and soft-edged with concern.

Jo asks him to join her on a hunting trip, assures him that the town will survive a day or two with him out- they had while he was up at Fett’s. He’s so tired that he thinks what the hell and accepts it without a second thought.

At this point, he’s been back in town for nearly two weeks. Understandably, he’s a little miffed that he’s just realizing that his rifle isn’t where he remembers leaving it. Everything else is packed up, strapped to the back of his racing jumpspeeder’s seat. Even the freight hauler pull along is hooked up and ready to go. He double checks, triple checks his gear, makes sure he hasn’t somehow missed packing the rifle. He hasn’t.

After scouring through every inch of his little home, he returns to Jo outside, where she’s tying her own day pack to her speeder, where it sits alongside his. “Hey, Jo, have you seen my rifle?”

She pauses, a strange look of surprise-mixed realization on her features. Then, she smiles and gives a small nod. “I got it at my place. I’ll grab it before we leave in the morning.”

In hindsight, he probably should've guessed as much. Rolling his eyes at himself, Cobb settles down on the stairs between his porch and the sand. "What were you doin' with it?"

“Took it to Mos Espa with me.” She shrugs. “We didn’t have enough guns for everyone, and I figured that some piece of you oughta be there.”

Did they really think of him that much while he was gone, of needing something of him present with them even as he lay dying in bacta pod? A small, wistful smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, Jo.” Thanks for protecting the people. Thanks for thinking of me. Thanks for doing all this.

He catches her eyes as she returns his weighted words with a sincere nod. "Someone's gotta take care of you."

Cobb huffs out a laugh. "Guess so, huh?"

Jo finishes tying off her gear and comes to sit down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

For a moment, he’s not the ex-slave infamous Marshal Vanth of Freetown- he’s just Cobb, weary survivor of Tatooine's darkest times, a heavy soul seeking clemency. For a moment, he's free of everything and everybody, just one man among the trillions, trying to make sense of the galaxy around him. Just a man, sitting in the dying light of the twin suns with a friend at his side, his inner turmoil laid bare, no barriers between them. 

For a heartbeat, the galaxy is still, forgiving, kind. And it’s wonderful. Moments like these are what he’s spent his life fighting for.

"I saw a herd of jerba about half a day from here on patrol yesterday. Might have to do a little trackin', but they won't have gone far.” He says. “With any luck, we'll be back no more than a couple of hours after dark.”

She smiles. "That sounds like a fine plan."

“Good.” He heaves himself up to his feet, pats her arm along the way. “Don’t stay up too late, now. Ridin’ tired ain’t safe.”

He bids Jo a good night and heads inside, closes the door behind him. He blows out a single candle lantern, the only real source of light available with the window screen shutting out the trio of moons outside, and downs a pint of water on the way over to his cramped, off to the side bedroom, where he unclasps his blaster holster and tosses it aside with the faint, disinterested hope that the fall doesn’t jostle the weapon into a misfire. 

He settles himself down on the edge of his small alcove bed, pulls off his dusty old boots, neckerchief, and shirt, unclasps the panel over the inner workings of his shoulder and lays it on the bedside table- it’s not comfortable to sleep with it on, he’d learned that lesson quickly. His eyes catch on the blood-filled tubes for a moment, the consistent streams of red and blue, but he shakes himself and turns his gaze away from the sight. He won’t let himself get caught up in it, in the reminders of his failure to protect Scott. Not tonight, out of all nights, with the plan for a fun little outing to come tomorrow.

He puts himself to bed with little further difficulty, rises just as easily the following morning. It takes all of perhaps forty-five seconds to dress himself, the remaining fifteen of the minute to head out the door. What’s the point in combing back his hair if the air currents will do it for him on the ride? 

The sky is just beginning to phase out of the starry cloak of darkness, and he can see Jo making her way down the empty street toward him, his rifle in hand. 

He meets her halfway, and they stop by the cafe before they return to the bikes and check over their gear one last time. They start up the engines and begin heading out, telling Taanti where they’ll be in case they need to send someone out after them for whatever reason. While he sets his communicator to silent, Jo straps on a pair of protective goggles- because riding behind him means that she’ll catch some of the sand thrown up by his speeder.

And, then, they’re cutting loose on their speed, tearing off across the wild sands of the Dune Sea, air blasting, sand flying, well aware that they have a long day ahead of them.

Cobb leads them down the route he’d taken two days prior, and the suns slowly rise above the horizon, casting early shadows across the landscape and breaking the chill of the night. He can just hear the engine of Jo’s bike over the roar of the racing engine in front of him.

As the suns grow higher in the sky and the multitude of colors above settles to blue, the temperature increases- they can’t tell while they’re riding, of course, but they do take the occasional short break every couple of hours to hydrate. The gale feels great when they’re moving, and Cobb realizes that he’s really missed riding out like this just because. When had he let the joy slip from his life?

The twin suns are nearly directly overhead by the time he finally steers them to a halt at the base of a landmarking dune he’d taken note of when he’d first spotted the jerba. He powers down his engine, Jo follows suit, and they spend a minute just listening to the environment now that they can hear something other than rushing air and hungry engines. He catches the recognizable bellow of an agitated jerba in the distance and grins as he takes a generous sip from one of his waterskins.

“Right where I left ‘em.” He says, capping the water and swinging down to stand on his own two feet. He stretches his legs and back, feels his skin settle more comfortably over the bones beneath it. He unpacks some of his gear, relishing in the strength he feels in his modified shoulder now that the organic material around it has healed and he’s finally more used to the feeling of the mechanics. “Alright, Jo, I’m headin’ up.”

He can hear her rummaging through her own pack. “Right behind you, Marshal.”

Snatching his rifle and a pair of macrobinocs from the pull along hooked up to his speeder, he begins hiking up the dune with the knowledge that Jo will be quick to follow. The sand shifts beneath his feet, but there’s little struggle. It’s a still day, no breeze whatsoever. Another plus, knowing they won’t have to worry about being downwind of the game. It seems like this hunt will be easy, and he’s glad. Right now, he needs easy.

A couple of yards from the top of the ridge, Cobb sinks down onto his stomach and drags himself up the final length of the sandy peak, keeping his head down so as not to spook their quarry. He smiles to himself in mild triumph at the sight of a herd of numerous jerba below, their shaggy brown pelts brushing by one another as they mill about. Jo scoots up to his side as he reaches for his macrobinoculars.

“Which one we going for?” She asks, voice low.

He shrugs, holds the macrobinocs at eye level. “Gimme a minute.”

It’s a lot easier to observe the animals through the binocs than without them. He can see that a few have collapsed to the sand for a rest, he can see a few calves nursing off of their mothers, he can see a few of the bucks challenging each other over a mate. He’s pretty sure a couple pairs of mature ones are mating, though he’s decidedly not focusing on that. Most of the ones on the ground are hidden behind the ones that aren’t, even from this angle, and he skims the standing ones to see if any are holding still. He sighs. So much for easy.

That prompts Jo to speak. “Nothing?”

“Well, we could fire down into ‘em, but that guarantees either a bad shot or a messy kill.” He fights the urge to lower the macrobinocs from his face. “Go set up camp at the bottom of the dune. We might just be here for a while.”

“On it, Marshal.” He can imagine her flashing him a sharp nod in the split second of- as far as he knows- inaction before he hears the sand begin to slide in her descent.

Cobb leans forward on his elbows, distantly drops a hand to shift his rifle into a more comfortable position against his stomach, and throws all of his focus into watching the herd below, waiting, holding his patience close. He sat around for nearly a week up at Fett’s, he can do this.

And, so, he does.

Pretty early on into the wait, sweat forms and trickles down his face. Every so often, he has to tear his gaze away from the jerba to wipe at his eyes. The heat in his shoulder only grows more intense the longer that it goes on. He decides that he wants a breeze, after all.

After a while, Jo returns to his side and they make idle conversation as they look down upon the herd. He’s reminded of how much he’s missed their old outings, of how much they had used to go on hunts like this before the Pykes showed up on Tatooine. He’d probably feel a bit lighter about it if he wasn’t drenched in his own sweat just sitting there, if black spots didn’t dance across his vision every so often. 

Jo practically steals the macrobinoculars from him when she catches onto how bad it’s getting, and, when he protests, she sends him down to their makeshift camp by the bikes. He nearly passes out twice on the way down, and he’s frustrated that she’s right.

Down at the camp, he strips himself of his neckerchief and shirt so that a little less heat gets trapped within his body. But it doesn’t help all that much, and he dumps one of the spare waterskins over his head in a last ditch effort to avoid popping the panel on his shoulder. Of course, it’s Force-forsaken Tatooine, where no one has good fortune, and he ends up having to remove it anyway. It helps. Drastically. He can’t say he’s surprised. But he is a bit peeved. He rejoins Jo at the top of the sand dune so that he can avoid having to think about it.

“Anythin’?”

“Not yet. Looks like you’re right about how long this might take.”

“Well, we can’t do much ‘bout that.” There’s an itch on his chin, and Cobb reaches up to scratch at it, feeling how sand falls from the half-dried hairs of his beard. The hairs are longer and more in number than he remembers. Huh.

"Just realizing you haven't shaved in three weeks?" Jo teases, sparing him a glance.

He shrugs as he huffs out a response. “Somethin’ like that.”

“I should have that sister of mine keep a better eye on you, help you take care of yourself.”

“Your sister has a kid, Jo.” He doesn’t skip a beat. “And you better keep an eye on those jerba.”

She rolls her eyes in response, but Cobb sees a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she lifts the macrobinocs back up and turns back to the jerba herd.

They fall silent after that, letting time tick by as they again refocus themselves on the animals down below. They occasionally switch out who has the macrobinoculars, to lessen the strain on their eyes and take some of the weight off of their hands. All the while, the jerba continue on as if they’re not there, whinnying and nickering as they interact with one another. Good.

Cobb's shoulder starts heating up again, blood and metal bone replacements directly exposed to the sunlight without the cover. He tries not to shift too much under the uncomfortability spreading throughout his body, the warmth unable to be contained. It's starting to get to his head, too, based on the mounting pain pulsing between his eyes. Maybe he should’ve thought this through before he agreed to the trip. Maybe, Jo’s right about him needing someone to take care of him- or, well, someone to think of him for him. That’s a thought that makes him grimace and pull his attention outward once more.

Cobb shades his eyes with one hand when he glances up at the twin suns- to his head’s great protest- their positions in the sky suggesting that it’s perhaps a couple of hours after twelve-hundred at most. Yeah, we ain't making it back before nightfall.

He slowly blinks away black spots, ignores the tug of nausea growing in his belly, as he levels his gaze back down to the jerba herd. Nothing out of place. He sighs, pops his waterskin back, sighs again when he finds it empty.

“I’m headed down.” He begins to creep back from the top of the ridge. “You need a water refill?”

“Marshal, wait.”

Well, that's not the answer he’s expecting- it’s not an answer at all, really, but he obeys nonetheless, because there’s something in her voice that rouses his curiosity and draws him back to her side.

His eyes scan over the clumped herd, searching, probing, seeking anything out of the ordinary- and there it is, a lone jerba peeling off from the rest, frolicking in the sand. It’s a female, that much he can tell without even having to think about it. It’s too small to be male, though it is a decent size, and the fur is far too matted for it to be young. It’s as if the galaxy granted his wish for the day to go half well- or, it’s teasing them and they’re going to botch this. 

Cobb almost freezes at the abruptness of it, and he shakes himself to get his head back in the game, quickly abandons his empty waterskin to snatch up his rifle. “Finally.”

“You see her?” Jo asks, just to make sure.

“Yeah, I see her.” He replies, positioning his gun in front of him as she drops the macrobinocs and does the same. “We don’t have the angle to make a killin’ shot. Aim for the back end, knock ‘er down. We can finish her off after the rest clear out.”

“Roger that.” She hastily aligns her own rifle’s scope to one of her eyes, lines up an accurate shot as quickly as she can.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He hears the creak of the blaster’s trigger when she presses down on it moments later, watches as a jet of red shoots from the barrel and travels down toward the doe at lightning speed, the crack of the rifle rippling through the air. 

The animal doesn’t quite have the chance to move before the bolt hits home right where the pelvic bone juts out on her left side. She gives an ear-piercing squeal, more of alarm than pain, and makes to escape, only for her rear legs to buckle beneath her. 

The rest of the herd responds in similar states of distress, jolting from their previous activities in a panicked frenzy, bumping into each other with reckless abandon, kicking up sand as their hooves pound in their rush to get away. Cobb's pretty sure a couple of the calves nearly get trampled in the chaos. Despite it all, he grins. Oh, he has so missed this.

“Helluva shot, Jo, as always. Old Miyo’s gonna have a field day choppin’ this one up.”

She returns his grin. “I aim to please, Marshal.”

“That you do.” He refrains from rolling his eyes at the joke, groaning as he moves to sit back on his knees. Suns and stars, he really doesn't feel well. “Alright, you head on down there and finish ‘er off, I’ll pack up over here an’ meet you there.”

She nods her head as she gets up herself, much more effortlessly than he moves. “Will do. Take your time.”

“You callin’ me old? Better get down there before I prove you wrong.” He makes sure to add some dry humor to the words to hide the fact that he’s going to do just what she suggested. He can hardly breathe, his chest is that tight. Kriffing suns.

Jo laughs as she hops to action, adjusting the strap of the macrobinoculars around her neck and tucking her rifle under an arm as she begins to move forward, over the ridge. There’s no point in laying low anymore, not with the herd on the run in the complete opposite direction, the injured doe writhing where she lays, unable to get her legs beneath her.

Cobb takes a deep breath, a desperate attempt to gather air, the moment that Jo’s gone. He’s not all that surprised when it doesn’t do much to help- he knows the symptoms of heatstroke, knows he’s probably going to drop soon. It’s embarrassing, really, how much the heat’s affecting him. It’s infuriating, that the modifications which saved his life are making the rest of it so miserable. The chances that he doesn’t pass out before they get back are low.

That last statement is reaffirmed as he begins to rise to his feet, the dunes spinning around him, swimming in the dark spots that dance before his eyes. Nausea tugs at his stomach yet again, with a new vigor, and his feet slip from beneath him in his disorientation.

The sea of darkness swallows him before the sand catches him.

Cobb’s head is absolutely pounding when he comes to, but he’s no longer burning from the inside out. Instead, he finds that he’s freezing. It wouldn’t be so odd if the surface he’s laying wasn’t soft, rather than grainy. Tatooine nights are cold, but he’s not outside. But he can’t focus hard enough to put much thought into determining where he is. He’s not sure that he wants to even try to open his eyes.

His shoulder whirrs as he raises an arm to massage his temples. Something wet plops down onto his bare chest and he involuntarily shudders, falling still in his movements not quite halfway there. 

He finally decides to risk opening his eyes, redirecting his raised arm to hover over them, to make the transition easier. But it’s dark, aside from a small handful of candles, and he doesn’t really have anything to adjust to. He lowers his arm to his chest, feels out a damp cloth, and casts his gaze around the room he’s in. He recognizes it as one in Ann’s home and heaves a disgruntled sigh that makes his chest faintly ache. The haze in his head is too strong to break through for the time being, and he can’t quite remember how he ended up here. Nothing good, that much is obvious. Fierfek, she’s gonna lecture me, ain’t she?

Sluggishly, his left arm raises to reach for the glass of water on the bedside table next to him, dully hoping that drinking will ease the horrible throbbing of his skull. But, with the exception of his right shoulder, his entire body is off kilter, and he nearly knocks the glass to the floor instead when his fingers bump against it.

He’s not quite able to hold back the curse that leaves his mouth. Why is this more difficult than waking up with a whole new shoulder? It’s humiliating. Unbelievable.

“Cobb?”

The sound of Ann’s voice coming from the open doorway startles him and he violently jerks his arm back toward him, tries to raise his heavy head. But his vision spins and twists, and he gasps at the suddenness of the way his stomach flips. His head drops back to the pillow it had been resting on, the soft cushion cradling it as he moans. 

As the blood rushing in his ears quiets, he faintly hears Ann cross the room to his side, feels her hands hover above him before she actually touches him. She peels a cloth from his forehead and puts it aside, gently takes ahold of his temples and massages them. The agony recedes enough for him to let out a harsh breath of relief, for his chest to deflate a little.

“How’d you know?” He mumbles, throat dry, exhaustion settling over him as the sudden adrenaline rush leaks away.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve had a heatstroke, Cobb.” Her voice is soft, easy on his ears. “I know how bad it affects you.”

“Heatstroke?” He echoes, briefly baffled before the meaning sets in. He finds that he’s really not all that surprised. It just about adds up to how awful he’s feeling. “Huh.”

“Jo says that shoulder of yours tried to absorb the suns. She couldn’t even touch it.”

Something about those words begins to disperse the haze clouding his mind. Hold up.

He frowns, haphazardly lifts a hand to keep Ann from continuing, digs deep into the databanks of spotty memories.

Jo, he remembers seeing her.

His shoulder, he remembers it burning.

The suns- they were scorching.

“I should have that sister of mine keep a better eye on you, help you take care of yourself.”

“Your sister has a kid, Jo. And you better keep an eye on those jerba.”

The missing pieces of the puzzle click in as it comes back to him. 

He and Jo, they’d been hunting.

“Kriffin’ hell.” This time, Cobb readily lets the curse slip through his lips before he tightens his jaw. Out of all the times the heat had gotten the better of him, it had to be while he was out of town- it had to be while they were hunting. Of course it had to be. Sometimes, he really does hate those blasted suns.

“It’s alright.” Ann murmurs, one hand leaving its post to brush his hair back, to ease the bitter regret flaring up in his chest. “You both made it back alive, it’s alright. Don’t beat yourself up over it, now.”

“Why do you always say that when you know I will anyway?”

“Because you carry enough weight on your shoulders.”

“It’s part of my job, Ann.” He reminds her. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

"And you’re doing it well, Cobb." She assures him. "Better than anyone else ever could."

“I’d say that’s a bit generous.” He disagrees.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Ann fires back, reclaiming her hands and plucking the glass from the bedside table to hold it out to him. “Now, drink. You need to stay hydrated.”

Cobb rolls his eyes, taking the offered drink in his right hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

When he lifts his head and brings the glass to his lips, he focuses on the rim of it, blocks out anything past it. The strategy does exactly what he wants it to, keeps his vision almost completely steady.

He’s aware that they’ve almost certainly forced fluids down his throat while he was unconscious, but it feels something amazing when the water passes through his lips and down his parched throat. It’s a soothing sensation that chases away the fuzziness at the edge of his vision, lets a little more of the pain in his head ebb away, makes him feel stronger. It’s not all that difficult to ease his head back down to the pillow once he’s drained the glass.

All the while, Ann’s removing the remaining cloths from his body, no doubt picking up on the fact that his body temperature is no longer above what it’s meant to be, and briefly leaves the room to discard of them. 

When she returns, Cobb is setting down the glass with more balanced hand movements, and his eyes are just catching on a framed picture further back on the old table at his side. It’s a picture of himself that he sees, younger- much younger, hair brown and scraggly, the ratty red shirt that he’d favored more spick-and-span and loose on his skinny build. He wonders where she got the picture from, how long she’s had it.

“That’s old.” He comments. So am I.

Ann sits on the far end of the cot with a hum of agreement. “Oh, I’d say it is. We hadn’t even met, then.”

“You would’ve still been a kid, your sister would’ve been a tot.” Cobb gives a thoughtful sideways nod. “Because that right there,“he points at the picture,”I wasn’t any older than twenty. Already been worked more years of my life than not.”

“And you’re still working yourself just as hard.” She fondly teases, though he can see the solemnity behind it.

He lazily shifts a bent arm beneath his head. “It’s my own choice, now, it don’t matter.”

Her voice falls to that soft tone that always reaches the deepest parts of his heart. “Well, it does to me- and Jo, and Taanti, and the rest of the town. No one holds you accountable for what happened with that bounty hunter, Cobb. No one but you. You can’t keep going on like this. You have nothing to prove to us. So, please, slow down. Stop punishing yourself.”

He swallows, shakes his head. His eyes burn. "It ain't that easy, Ann. I can’t fail again.”

"And you won't." Ann reaches out to rest a reassuring, gentle hand on his knee. "No one's perfect, Cobb. Not even you." And, suddenly, she’s pulling back, rising from her perch on the cot, heading for the door. She stops halfway through the doorway, turns back into the room to look at him. “You get some rest. You’re not leaving until you do.”

Then, he’s alone, left with only her words, his mind, and the quiet, burning desire to do better.

[18:45] DD: Fennec thinks there’s something wrong.

[18:46] CV: They need me back up there?

[18:46] DD: That’s not what I meant.

[18:48] DD: She’s worried about you. She said that you seemed off the last time you spoke.

[18:48] CV: Was that before or after the heatstroke?

[18:49] DD: Heatstroke?

[18:52] CV: Nevermind.

[18:52] DD: What happened?

[18:53] CV: I’m fine.

[18:53] DD: You don’t have to lie to me.

[18:53] CV: I’m not.

[18:54] DD: You are.

[18:54] CV: It’s nothing I can’t handle.

[18:54] CV: Promise.

[18:55] DD: If you say so…

[19:02] CV: I’m thinking of buying a hat.

[19:03] DD: A hat?

[19:03] CV: Yeah.

[19:03] CV: One of those ones with a wide brim.

[19:04] CV: What do you think? Would I look good in one of those?

[19:04] DD: It would help with the sun.

[19:04] CV: Yeah, it sure would.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long morning for Cobb Vanth. After doing his rounds and helping out where he could, he now lays beneath his red and yellow jumpspeeder, stripped of his neckerchief and shirt, protective goggles over his eyes.

He’d made the trip to Mos Eisley a couple of days ago, to buy some supplies for himself and a couple of the other folks. Of course, he’d stopped by the palace in Mos Espa and caught up with Fennec and Fett- both of whom are, to his great amusement, struggling to get used to the grace period between enemies- in person before he’d began to head back, unaware that a couple of Jawas had tampered with his speeder while he was away from it. 

Which had led to him crashing on the trip back to Freetown, tearing half the engine apart and bruising himself up pretty good.

Luckily, he’d had his communicator with him and had textcommed Fennec to lend him a hand in gathering the pieces strewn throughout the sand and getting him back to Freetown. It had been the dead middle of the night when he finally made it back, and then he’d slept in a couple of hours late, though no one mentioned it after seeing his wreck of a speeder piled up in front of his place.

He’s still pretty sure he left a few parts behind somewhere. At least, he has his extra speeder bike from after his shoulder injury to take its place for the time being- and to take him back to one of the larger cities when he does find something he’s missing.

Other than the crash, it had been a quiet month following the hunting trip. Jo had managed to bring him, the jerba doe, and their speeders back in one journey that day, to his amazement and gratitude. He’s careful to monitor his body heat, now, to avoid repeating the incident. In fact, he’s been doing a lot better taking care of himself in general following his conversation with Ann. Yes, he still needs to look after the people, but he knows now that he needs to keep himself in top condition- physically and mentally, especially mentally- to do so. And things have been better because of it.

He actually did buy that hat he had told Mando about. Well, he didn’t buy it, so to speak, he just had someone in Mos Espa shape some of the jerba leather into one and make it all fancy. New him, newly crafted hat. It’s symbolically fitting, really. The hat sits at his feet now, out of the way, as he works to reassemble his speeder’s engine.

Reconstructing an engine, especially an old podracing engine like this one, is tedious work, but Cobb’s a fairly patient man. He likes to think he is, anyway. So, other than his frustration with the Jawas, he really isn’t too bothered having to piece the thing back together. It gives him something to do in his free moments, at any rate, and keeps him from lounging around in Taanti’s saloon. He’s more than aware that he still spends far too much time down there, even if he has cut down on his drinking habit as of late. The place brings him a certain comfort that he can’t find anywhere else.

Din’s supposed to come by today. They’d planned the meeting a few days ago, and Cobb is looking forward to it. The last time he’d seen him, he’d been half-unconscious from painkillers- and before that, the Mandalorian had been asking him to fight against the Pykes in Mos Espa alongside Fett’s gotra. Of course, the galaxy happens to love throwing sudden twists into the lives of those who reside within it, so there is a chance that Din won’t make it, but it doesn’t hurt to be hopeful. It gives Cobb something to look forward to, and he thinks he’s earned being able to look forward to something, for once.

But for now, while he waits, his crumbling jumpspeeder is his main priority. And, boy, is it going to take some time to get done.

He’s been at it for half an hour, and the grease is already embedded deeply into the lines of his skin and hidden far beneath his fingernails. He can feel it smeared dry in a couple of spots on his face, spots where the sweat doesn't touch. His body, still sore from the crash the other day, protests most of his actions, makes the progress slow. But progress is progress, and he's too stubborn a man to let the unsatisfactory speed deter him.

He works carefully around the exposed fuel line- really, it is a miracle that the engine didn’t explode during the crash- fastening and stabilizing some of the parts that hang around it. The right side is the most damaged, as that’s the side that had touched the sand and been torn away at first. Every now and again, he ducks out from beneath the racer and digs through the disorganized pile of battered and sand-beaten parts, searching for ones that are missing from the engine, occasionally even reshaping some of them with the combination of a heavy hammer and the raw strength of his cybernetic shoulder.

Cobb has to admit, he’s glad to have the modified shoulder, especially when it comes to the more grueling of the physical work. When the rest of him is dragging down and he needs to get something done, the shoulder is as reliable as ever. It’s faster and far more efficient than his left one, than even his original right one had been. Perhaps some good did come out of getting blasted to the brink of death. Not that he still doesn’t have his bad moments when it comes to thinking of the shoulder in that context- but he’s learning to numb himself to it, to accept his losses, and the moments that it truly bothers him are few and far between. He is glad to have the modifications. He genuinely is.

It’s the sound of a starfighter flying overhead that makes his arms slip, a sudden jolt of curiosity and unease leaping through his limbs. Of course, he happens to have a vibroblade in hand, out of all things, and manages to gouge into the side of the main fuel line. And it’s just his luck that the line is hooked up and that the valve leading into the tank is wide open. 

Long story short? He gets a faceful of podracer engine fuel.

Thank the stars that he’d thought to put the goggles on.

Cobb doesn’t even try to staunch the flow- he doesn’t have anything on hand with him that could. It’s also not the first thing that crosses his mind- that would be getting out from beneath the stream and backing off to process the whole situation. And that’s exactly what he does, spitting the foul-tasting liquid from his mouth, wiping it from his nose, letting it drip from his face and into the sand. 

Slowed down by the deep bruises marring his stomach and lower chest, it takes a bit longer than he likes, but once he’s a good two feet away from the speeder, he stares at it, curses, and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Great.” He says, and tears the goggles off. He hopes he has another fuel line somewhere.

He wipes at his forehead and chin- recently trimmed, thankfully- as he sits back in the sand and watches the puddle beneath the jumpspeeder grow. He supposes that he’ll have to wait for it to dry before he does any more work on the thing. Oh well. The day is still early.

Cobb turns his head, casting his gaze in the direction he’d heard the starfighter going. And, sure enough, he sees a familiar shine of silver on the far end of town, an armored figure climbing from it. His lips twist into a wry grin. Gee, partner, you didn’t need to give me an excuse to get me to talk to you.

The Mandalorian had a smooth journey, after all.

Feeling more fuel trickling from his hairline, Cobb drags the back of his hand across it and shakes his head. Din always has to make things interesting, one way or another, whether he means to or not. It’s painfully amusing. 

Not that he always entirely minds it when his day gets spruced up a little. 

He doesn’t mind today. Helping others with simple tasks and repairing his speeder aren’t exciting enough for him. Not that he’s pleased at the muddy pit beneath the speeder, either- that is a tad frustrating, but what can he do?

Wait. He groans. He left a couple of tools in that muddy pit.

Great. Better to retrieve them now rather than later, when they’re buried in dry sand. At least this way, he can set them out to dry on the surface and won’t have to sift through sand for a quarter of an hour.

So, he waits for the stream of fuel to subside, sighs, and drags himself back to the edge of the puddle and sticks his right hand in with a wince, using his left to hold him steady. Muddy sand is one thing. Muddy fuel sand isn’t any better.

Nonetheless, he digs through it slowly, feeling along the bottom of the slimey puddle, closing his fingers around each solid object they stumble upon, ignoring the floating grains of fuel-drowned sand that grab at his flesh.

He’s so invested in the task that he jumps a little bit when the incredulous tone of Din’s voice reaches his ears. “...What are you doing?”

Cobb’s own expression is somewhere between a smile and a grimace when he glances up at the familiar suit of armor. “Looks as bad as it feels, does it?”

“What happened?” The Mandalorian asks, nodding toward the pile of disemboweled speeder parts.

"Some Jawas messed with it when I went up to Mos Eisley the other day. Crashed on the way back from Mos Espa." He pulls a full hand from the puddle and tosses a small collection of drenched, sand-covered tools out onto the dry sand. He squints at the small pool and shrugs to himself, wiping his dripping, sandy hand on his trousers. He is so bathing tonight. “Hopefully that’s all of it. I am not stickin’ my hand back in there.”

“How did you get back?” Din wonders aloud.

“Hey, now, I have other friends.” Cobb feigns a moment of hurt, unable to help himself. He pauses to crack his back. “You know, Fennec an’ I are pals. She’ll do anything to help me out if I ask for it nice enough.”

"I know someone in Mos Eisley who could fix it for you." The Mandalorian offers.

"Nah, that's okay.” He finds it amusing that the other man is latching onto the ravaged old speeder. He plucks his hat from where it rests and sets it atop his fuel-plastered head as he moves to get up. “I think I know what I'm doin'."

“You got the hat.” Din observes, extending a hand out to aid him.

Cobb grins as he catches sight of a familiar pair of green, pointed ears sticking up from an open pouch at the man’s hip. He lets himself be pulled to his feet. “And you got your kid.”

The kid coos and peers up at him, large eyes wide in recognition.

“It looks good on you.” The warrior remarks, still focused on the hat.

“Yeah, well, it helps with the sun.” He says, reversing the roles of their last conversation over it.

Din’s voice modulator picks up his snort, and Cobb smiles wider, pleased to discover that the man does have a sense of humor beneath all that beskar.

“Heatstrokes, they really get you down.” He climbs up his porch and grabs his discarded shirt, pulls it over his shoulders. He leaves the front open. “I have no idea how you manage to walk around here wearin’ all that metal without passin’ out. You got a cooling system in there?”

“...No.”

“That’s too bad.” He hums. He jerks his head down the road as he rejoins the other. “C'mon, let's go get a drink, cool off a bit. The kid looks like he’s roastin’ about as bad as I am."

Din spares the child a glance, helmet briefly tilting down, and sighs. “Fine.”

“You didn’t come out here to watch me work on my speeder.” Cobb reminds him, as they begin heading down the street. “Gotta wait for the sand to dry, now, anyway.”

The sand crunches under their boots, and a few heads turn their way, eyes no doubt catching on Mando’s armor. But the man, as always, takes it in stride, stoically moving forward at Cobb's side. One might even say that he appears to be relaxed, coming out here on a leisurely visit without true purpose as he is. Cobb never really has seen the man off the job, has he? The visit after the modification surgery doesn’t really count, as he’d only been partially conscious himself, and the whole memory is a bit fuzzy. Meeting under the current circumstances feels good, it really does. They should do it more often.

“How have you been?” Din asks him.

“Aside from the crash…” He shrugs. “The new shoulder’s holdin’ up better than the rest of me is. Sometimes, us ex-slave types do get lucky enough to have a sun or two shine down on us every now an’ again. Things are lookin’ good around here. Everything’s in workin’ order. No one else has been shot yet, outsiders or otherwise. All's quiet, just how we like it."

“I’m glad.” Din pauses as the child chirps out a question. He snorts. “I am not asking him that.”

Cobb’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “You know what he’s sayin’?”

“I’m still learning. But, yes. I can understand him.” The warrior gives a small nod. He’s silent, and for a moment, Cobb is certain he’s not going to tell him what the kid said. Then, he speaks up once more. “He wants to know if I’m still your favorite Mandalorian.”

“I dunno, pal. Fett’s puttin’ up pretty good competition.” He gives a subtle wink to affirm that he’s only joking. “Am I allowed to have two favorite Mandalorians?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Din shrugs.

Neither of them mention that he only knows two Mandalorians.

The short remainder of the walk is spent in a comfortable silence, each quietly enjoying the other’s company. Being a marshal, it’s not something he’s able to do often- and especially not with Mando, who’s offworld more often than not, doing whatever it is that he does. It’s good to see him, and under such good circumstances, for once, with no underlying motives.

It’s funny, he thinks, that this is only the fourth time they’ve actually met. Third, really, the last time excluded.

Cobb feels that they each know the other pretty well by this point.

Ever the gentleman, he lets Din up into the cantina first, before following up the porch and through the door after him. He exhales a silent breath of relief as soon as the sunlight is off of his back and nods to Taanti, who's behind the bar, as he always is. The tables are empty, as they normally are at this time of day, so it's just the three of them. Nice and quiet.

“Mando. Marshal.” The Weequay greets.

“Taanti.” Cobb returns, Din giving a wordless nod of his own.

“How’s the speeder coming along?” The bartender asks, pulling a glass and a bottle of spotchka out from beneath the counter.

"My hand slipped, an’ I cut the fuel line." He can’t quite hold back a rueful smirk as he shakes his head, deciding it best not to mention why his hand had slipped in the first place. “The list keeps on growin'. But I'll get her fixed up soon enough."

"Good." Taanti grunts, sliding the filled glass over to him. "The sooner it's back up and running, the better for all of us."

Cobb hums in agreement, lifting the glass up to his lips and taking a generous sip. It feels nice to have something down his throat after spending the morning outside, even if it is alcohol.

“I’ll take one, too.” Din says suddenly, beskar helmet thumping down on the bar.

Cobb almost chokes at the abruptness of it as much as the surprise. It takes him a minute to remember to swallow down his mouthful, but he nods in response to the uncertain glance that Taanti flashes him. Might as well.

To Din, he says,“Knock yourself out.”

Taanti pours another glass, pauses when he catches sight of the child at the Mandalorian’s hip, and fills a third with water. “Here.”

"Thank you." Din says, taking the drinks. His voice is soft without his helmet on. He reaches down, grabs the kid, and places him on the counter, making sure he grabs his own glass.

Cobb inclines his head to the child, who peers down into his water with curious eyes. “What’s his name?”

The Mandalorian takes a small sip of his drink, grimaces at the taste, and then takes a moment to consider whether or not he wants to answer the question, his dark brows furrowed. After a few long beats, the expression on his face ebbs. “Grogu.”

The child makes a sound of surprised acknowledgement, his head popping up to look at Din, long ears raised as if listening for a command.

Cobb finds himself smiling right along with his friend.

“Fine name for a little fella like you.” He remarks, tilting his head as he watches the kid.

“I say it suits him.” Taanti gruffly agrees, having had no choice but to listen in on the conversation.

Grogu loses his interest and turns back to his glass of water, looking at it like one would a new puzzle. His small, clawed hands scrape at it awkwardly, unable to get a grip on the smooth surface, and Din sighs.

"Here." He picks up the glass and tilts it back for the child.

A sudden movement catches at the edge of Cobb’s vision, on his left, by the door, and he stiffens, turning towards it. He sees blue skin and a red eye peeking around the doorframe, and doesn’t think twice as he snaps his hand down to his blaster and draws it. He is not getting shot again, ever, and certainly not by someone who looks so similar to Cad Bane.

Before either of the others has the chance to catch on- before the stranger has the chance to fully raise his own weapon, his pale blue body takes a crimson bolt to the chest and violently topples over backwards, a smoking hole in it. 

The air tingles in the wake of the blaster’s discharge, and the air tastes acrid. Cobb ignores it, holstering his weapon and striding forward, jaw tight, eyes hard.

“Marshal?” Taanti inquires, voice laced with startled concern.

“Wait here.” He hears Din say, voice modulated once more, his armored footsteps heavy as he follows. His tone changes, raises to address Cobb. “Vanth, stop. There might be more of them.”

“No, they usually come alone.” He responds, passing through the doorway and stopping beside the body of the bounty hunter. 

Lifeless, pupilled red eyes stare into the sky.

Relief floods through him at the familiarity of the more-human shape of the fallen assassin. Not a Duros. Chiss. A dead Chiss, at that. His first shootout since Cad Bane, and he’d won- the training had paid off. Thank the stars.

“A bounty hunter.” Din pauses just behind Cobb as he kicks a discarded blaster away and kneels down to search the body. “He must’ve been after the kid.”

Cobb feels out and pulls a deactivated tracking fob from a pocket in the Chiss’s thick black overcoat. There’s a label on the base of it, a chain code. The sequence of letters and numbers on the label, he knows it. He knows it by heart.

He closes his eyes, chest heavy. But he can’t say he’s surprised. There’s the slightest strain to his voice as he replies, shaking his head and lifting his arm to hand over the fob. “Nah, he ain’t after your kid.”

“I don’t understand.” The frown in Din’s voice is evident. “Who was he after?”

Cobb opens his eyes and turns, locking his gaze on the Mandalorian’s visor. “He was after me.”