BobaDin Week

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Greef arrives late. Important high magistrate business, he says. Din listens patiently to details he barely understands, but still makes sure to hand Greef some qartuum jerky in the hopes that he’ll share with Grogu, thereby hastening the process of Greef leaving with Grogu so that Din and his next visitor can be alone. Time is not on their side.

“You ever figure out what he eats?” says Greef, looking down at Grogu’s wide, pleading eyes.

“Easier to figure out what he doesn’t eat,” says Din, most of his attention on preparing the red tea the villagers donated to his home alongside the plants, the dishes, and nearly everything else. “I’ll let you know when I find one.”

As Greef bloviates about local agriculture initiatives, the wind blows hard, making the black volcanic chimes dance in the window. There’s nothing to slow the wind over the flats, but Din’s new cabin bears it well. Manual blinds just under the roof permit some flow, and the walls themselves withstand the pressure without much noise. Din isn’t sure about the receiver or any other delicate extremities, but he’ll cross those bridges when he comes to them. And Grogu seems to like it. He’s always turning towards the breeze like it’s whispering secrets.

It’s not a bad environmental asset, too. It can disguise many other sounds. Like the roar of the Slave I touching down not twenty yards from the front porch.

All of the frogs scatter into the pond like nervous shock troopers, but Greef takes no notice, still blathering on about pasture rotations while Din watches the entire landing through the window. Grogu has noticed, but apparently he cares more about obtaining the maximum quantity of jerky than he does about greeting ba’vodu Boba.

Din watches Boba descend the ramp with his rifle in his hands. Prepared for anything, as always. Din smiles, but it quickly vanishes when he realizes that he has no idea how to get Greef out of his house.

“Uh.” He pours boiling water for the tea without taking his eyes off of Boba's confident stride. “School’s starting soon, isn’t it?”

“Not that soon, don't worry. And that speeder can hit sixty in under two seconds. Had it suped up by the Anzellans just last week. They added all-new—”

Din watches Boba pause several feet from the porch. No doubt he’s heard Greef’s booming voice; Din was supposed to be alone already.

He’s definitely also able to make out the three lifeforms with his helmet’s infrared. Din faces Boba and makes a short beckoning gesture. Greef takes no notice, but Boba holsters his rifle and resumes his path.

“And the mileage! You wouldn’t believe the amount of credits I save. Then again, we might not have to worry about fuel again for quite some time. I’m working on this deal with traders on Abafar—”

“Abafar,” comes a gruff voice. “What a skughole.”

A sweeping feeling unfurls within Din like the first day of spring after a merciless winter: Boba Fett, armored and whole, standing in Din’s own home. He stops what he’s doing and faces him, hoping that Boba will be able to read his feelings from body language alone. By the slow tilt of Boba’s helmet, his hopes aren’t in vain.

Meanwhile, Greef has gone ashen. It’s dramatic enough to distract Din from his heartfelt bliss. The silence turns awkward.

Din gestures lamely to Boba. “Greef, this is—”

“Boba Fett,” Greef breathes out. He doesn’t reach for his weapon, but Din recognizes the look of his old friend’s battle readiness. “You’re Boba Fett.”

“And you’re Magistrate Greef Karga,” says Boba as he removes his helmet, donning the chilled, mountainous presence of the daimyo of Mos Espa. “We did not meet when last I visited your planet.”

Greef blinks, then whirls to Din. “When Cara said you’d gotten help from two bounty hunters, she didn’t mention one of them was Boba karking Fett.”

Din blinks himself. “I didn’t know you’d heard of him.”

“If I’d heard—?” Greef looks at Din like he’s gone insane before turning back to Boba.

Din starts wondering if he should reach for his own blaster, but—after another few seconds of tension—Greef sets his jerky on the dining nook’s table and strides over to Boba with an open palm. “Boba Fett, in the flesh. It’s an honor. If I’d known you were visiting our little settlement, I’d… I’d have—”

“Just a brief social call, I’m afraid,” Boba tucks his helmet under his arm to shake Greef’s hand. His eyes fly to Din even before the handshake has ended. “Old warriors do love to swap stories.”

“Don’t I know it,” Greef chuckles, ignorant of the heat passing between Boba and Din. “Wow. It’s too bad the Hunters all left. They would have a field day. The stories you could swap then!”

“They’ve probably heard all the best ones already. My versions are always a little less exciting.”

“You have to allow me to invite you to dinner. Nevarro is going to be an invaluable trade hub on the Hydian way, and with your connections in Mos Espa I’m sure we could—”

“Another time, perhaps.” Boba’s strident yet patient tone overrides Greef in a way Din has never seemed to manage. “I promised I’d share a meal with this little one before I leave.” He moves and Greef steps aside to allow Boba to press a hand into the kid’s eager grasp.

Greef lets out a huff of laughter, hands on his hips. “Well, this is still a pleasant surprise. You’ll have to plan better the next time he visits, Mando.”

Din, staring at Grogu happily babbling to Boba while clawing at his glove, responds to Greef a full beat too late. “It was a last-minute… thing.”

Greef shakes his head like Din is his least competent child. He steps back to observe Boba and Grogu. “He’s taken a real liking to you, huh?”

Din can just barely make out the ghost of a smile on Boba’s mouth. “Just because he’s a Jedi doesn’t make him a good judge of character.”

Greef laughs, but Din is wary of this turning into the kind of conversation that goes on for far longer than it should. And Boba is no help; he’s stroking one of Grogu’s long ears while the kid coos and leans into his hand like they have all the time in the world.

Din clears his throat and sways from one hip to the other. “Well, Grogu has school to get to…”

Boba gives Din a look, clearly judging him for his graceless segue. But Greef starts and across at the holoclock. “Ah, you’re right. Mando here is finally letting the little guy—uh, Grogu, excuse me—letting Grogu enroll in the school.”

Din takes a step forward as if that might encourage Greef closer to the door. “He’s not enrolling. He’s just attending for the day.”

“Just for the day, huh?” says Boba, still staring at Din, who is too embarrassed to move further.

“Maybe more, if he likes it!" says Greef. "Kid can’t learn everything he needs to know through bounty hunting. Did he tell you that’s what he plans to do? Take the kid on some training journey across the galaxy?”

“That’s how I learned,” says Boba.

“Well… we can’t all be Boba Fett.”

“I also learned that way,” says Din. “And it’s not all just fighting. He’ll learn what he needs to learn.”

Greef addresses Grogu as he picks him up, “I’ll at least make sure they cover local New Republic ordinances, since your Dad doesn’t seem too well-versed in those.” As Grogu burbles, Greef adds, “Yes, Dad gets lots of traffic citations. Yes he does.”

Din begins strolling towards the door, wielding his shoulders in a herding motion.

Greef, blessedly, takes the hint. “Well, we’ll be off then.” He almost accosts Boba with one more handshake on his way out, then seems to think better of it. “It was a pleasure and an honor.”

“Honor was all mine,” Boba drawls, obviously loving this.

Din gets Greef around the barrier wall separating the front entryway from the rest of the cabin and, finally, outside. He passes a gentle hand over Grogu’s head, his thumb brushing the same ear Boba stroked. “Be good, okay, kid?”

Grogu gurgles some noises that doubtlessly mean no promises just as Greef leans forward to stage-whisper, “Seriously, Mando. Let me know next time he visits. I’d love to open up discussions for business opportunities over dinner.” 

“Well, next time Fennec might join him, so you can have your big dinner then.”

“Fennec Shand—?”

“Goodbye, Greef.” Din shuts the door in Greef’s face.

Boba has set his helmet on the nook dining table. He's scanning the plants hovering above, the pots dotting the windowsill. “You’ve made quite a home here already.”

“Most of it was here when we moved in,” mutters Din. “The townspeople have been very kind.” He immediately realizes that he’s let the tea over-steep and goes to the counter to remove the sachet from the pot. “I don’t have any milk, but would you—hgn—”

Boba presses to his back with such force that Din has to push against the counter to avoid bruising his hips. It’s a miracle he doesn’t knock the pot over.