Chapter Text
It was the last time Cobb was ever going to Bestine. Nothing good ever came of Bestine. He had been sent to what passed for the administrative centre of the planet to update the records of the population. The line had been long and hot, and he had spent most of the time thinking that this whole day’s excursion could’ve been solved through a phone call. Next time would be Issa-Or’s turn, for certain.
He wondered if he would risk travelling across the Dune Sea by night or seek out somewhere cheap to spend the night. He was making his way to the nearest and somewhat less shady than average cantina out in the middle of town to deliberate with a drink in hand, when someone called his name. He kept walking and hoped he didn’t show any recognition, but the voice called out again, more insistent. Cobb sighed and turned, bracing himself for whatever this person wanted.
“Ahoy there,” Cobb said cheerfully.
He saw two Mandalorians standing in front of him. Their sets of armour were mismatched and multicoloured but not as pitted and corroded as his own. A pang of longing for his own Mandalorian spiralled in his chest as he hoped they might be with him, until a vambraced arm pressed across his collarbones and pushed him into the nearest wall.
“Chakaar,” he said. Cobb fought against the force on his front, pushed him off and lodged his heel down onto the attacker’s foot. He reached for the pistol at his hip, but, a second too soon, whipcord curled around his wrist and pulled his arm away from his side by another Mandalorian. He struggled in vain until the first Mandalorian wheeled on him again, tripped him to fall to the floor and knelt over him.
“How about we start with you two telling me what it is you want?” Cobb said, breathing heavily where his back had hit the ground. He always found that he worked best pretending he was in charge, even if he was on his ass in the sand.
“You wore beskar. You are not one of us,” he said. His vocoder in his helmet was more crackly than Mando’s had been. A rougher sound.
Fuck, Cobb thought. He should’ve known perhaps that someone less pleasant than Din would have some great problem with his little stint as a Mandalorian. He hadn’t even pretended to be Mandalorian, he only wore the armour.
"Fellas, I don't even have the armour. It's gone, off and returned to its rightful owner - by my own will, I might add. No harm, no foul."
"The insult is wearing it at all."
That was probably true, but he wasn’t about to get his head kicked in for it.
"Well, you see. The thing is,” he gently tested the other Mandalorian’s grip on his arm. “It was all for protecting the town, the kids, you know?” He stopped and tried to remember how Din had said it. “Mandokarlo."
"Only a Mandalorian, by birth, adoption or marriage can wear beskar’gam."
Well, that’s the story we can tell. Din wouldn’t know. Probably.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you folks. I got the, uh, riduur? Riduur. Silver fella, the skull of a horned beast on his pauldron. You might know him? He was looking for you to help his kid."
They’d laugh about it over spotchka on his roof one night. A simple oh, hey, Mando, did I ever tell you about that time I got out of a bad situation by telling them we got hitched?
"Mand’alor Yaim'ol? Din Djarin isn’t married,” the Mandalorian said.
“He’s private about his business,” Cobb shrugged. “You close enough to braid each other’s hair and talk about boys? He never mentioned you to me.”
The helmet in front of him tilted in confusion. He looked up to meet the visored gaze of his companion, who shrugged.
“Enough,” he said. “We’re heading back to Mandalore tonight. Djarin can decide your fate himself.”
Well, shit, there goes his funny story to tell one day.
“I don’t think this is necessary, you seem like reasonable enough guys. I’m here because I have important things to see to, and he knows that.”
“Does he?”
Cobb jutted out his chin and said firmly. “Yes.”
“I think you’re talking a load of shit.”
“What, am I not husband material?” Cobb interrupted.
He repeated and continued without acknowledging the question. “I think you’re talking a load of shit. My creed says I should kill you for the insult of the armour, but on the off-chance that you’re not a lying bastard, I’m not about to risk potentially killing the Mand’alor’s riduur.”
“I’d agree that letting me go is certainly in your best interest,” Cobb said.
“If you are lying, the Mand’alor can deal with you himself. Come on.”
He hoped to the moons above that whatever crumb of affection had brought Mando back those months ago would surpass whoever these people were to him. He and Din were square, he knew that. The armour was in the past for them, a resolved issue.
They let him use their text comm system on the ship. Iss. Off to see Mando. K.F. Cobb. He hoped the combined code for kidnap and fine would be sufficient without needing to go into the detail of I fucked up, but they aren’t overly hostile since I told them I married Din, please don’t laugh.
He regretted more than usual that he hadn’t found the courage to ask Djarin for his comm the last time he’d shown up without a kid or a ship, tracking sandy boots into his living room. Just getting the name, a secret whispered in the moonlight as he sipped some spotchka under his helmet, felt like a win as far as Cobb was concerned.
They prepared the ship, and Cobb had accepted he was on his way to Mandalore. It was a bit of a rust bucket, designed for a crew much bigger than two plus a questionable prisoner, but he thought it would make it there in one piece. He hadn’t thought he’d ever make it off of Tatooine before, but life was full of surprises. It would’ve been better to see the galaxy under nicer circumstances, perhaps, but he could only hope he would be met with a friendly visor when he arrived.
Drun, he found out the first Mandalorian was called, with his friend Darmil, didn’t speak to him much as they prepared to take off. They spoke to each other in Mando'a. It was a little odd to hear it spoken so fast. His own learning had been mainly in writing, and he couldn’t imagine how ridiculous he would look if they knew he’d been mispronouncing burc’ya in his head.
The ship was readied, and they pulled up into the sky, higher than Cobb had ever gone with his jetpack. His stomach flipped when they punched into hyperspace.
He wondered what Din would say. Din had told him that the last time they met, he was going to Mandalore. He understood, when Din left, that he was burdened by some duty. Cobb couldn’t argue with that, but he was glad to have seen Din again all the same. It was the coming back for him at all that had settled something warm and bubbling within him.
He wondered, idly, how the lights of hyperspace would dance off the curve of his helmet. He settled down in a bunk and tried to get some sleep while his mind only raced at what he would find when he got to Mandalore.