Chapter Text
Din is on Tatooine, chasing a bounty. At least he was before his speeder broke down. He curses under his helmet and his hot breath fills the bucket and fogs his visor. Screw this karking planet, he thinks. He can’t see a thing, his helmet can barely filter the hot air and his flight suit squelches with every move of his sweat-soaked body. He wanted to get this job done quickly so that he could get off this planet as soon as possible, but he has little-to-no experience navigating on desert planets without the speeders map and compass. He could be stranded for hours.
Din sits on the ground and the sand shifts underneath his weight and settles in the cracks of his armor and flight suit. He drops his head into his gloved hands and tries to ignore the irritating sensation.
The sound of a land speeder, a working speeder, he thinks bitterly, cuts through the silence of his sulking. He rises quickly and looks to the sound with hope, waving his hands in the air like a suicidal idiot. Perhaps whoever it is will be kind enough to give him a lift back to his ship. Although it’s unlikely in this den of inhospitality.
The speeder, an X-34 model, slows to a stop in front of him and he catches sight of a shotgun slung over the stranger’s back. It takes every ounce of self-control in his body not to reach for the blaster he has strapped to his thigh.
The stranger, a man, is dressed in standard desert planet garb. Tight unders built for keeping sand out of sensitive places, light fabrics to stave off the heat, and sturdy wrappings around the hands and feet. He wears a bulky helmet over thick goggles on his head meant to shield his eyes from airborne sand.
The man is small. No more than 5 '8, at best, with thin arms and legs like a Spamel. He swings his awkward appendages over the bike and lands confidently in the sand.
Din’s focus is immediately brought to his posture. The local stands with the confidence of a younger man. The naive confidence brought about by the sudden privilege of adulthood. Boyish ignorance. Din stood like that once, but then he went out into the world and got his ass handed to him by professional bounty hunters and Imperial enforcers.
“Hello,” the stranger calls out in a cheery tone, the pitch of his voice only confirms Din’s hypothesis about his age. Din really isn’t that old, so commenting about this young man’s age feels a bit silly, but he is already a seasoned cynic which makes him feel slightly justified.
He nods, offering a silent greeting of his own. The stranger shifts on his feet and lifts his thin arms to his helmet and goggles. Soft hair spills over his face and the man shakes his head quickly to push it away. He opens his eyes and smiles at the Mandalorian.
It’s times like these that Din truly appreciates his helmet, for if the young man had seen his reaction he would have turned in disgust.
The sight of his face steals the breath from Din’s lungs. His eyes, blue as the pools of Concordia, are stark against the contrast of his sun-tanned skin. Yellow hair frames his soft features like gold filigree.
His gaze, however, stands out the most. Something in his eyes speaks to Din. He’s strong, with the eyes of a warrior, but he’s not dangerous.
The Mandalorian rarely takes much notice of ‘pretty people’, but this stranger has gained his undivided attention with not but a look. He doesn’t know what this feeling is, but he never wants it to end.
“My name is Luke,” the man says.
Din nods, not trusting his voice to hold out in the face of someone so beautiful.
Luke rolls on the balls of his feet awkwardly, “Do you need some help? You looked like you needed help,” he offers with a small chuckle. The sound worms its way through Din’s thick layers and burrows into his chest.
Get it together, Djarin.
“My speeder broke down and my ship is another two-three miles east,” he replies, his voice surprisingly steady, “Would you give me a ride? I’m willing to pay.”
Luke beams, “I’ll do you one better,” he says as he turns back to his bike and lifts a box from the back. He settles on his knees in front of Din’s speeder and looks up expectantly, “What you reckon the problem is?”
“I’m not sure. It got real hot before it broke down so it could be the cooling vents,” he explains. The younger man nods and opens his box. Inside are a number of tools, some seemingly homemade, and a couple of spare parts.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling out a strange-looking arc wrench and inspecting it, “she looks like a standard Repulsorcraft. An older model, though it’s not a bad choice. Cheap but sturdy,” he pats the hood with a gloved hand and smirks, “Problem is, Repulsorcrafts are built to be modified.”
Din sighs and places his hands on his hips, “What does that mean?”
Luke chuckles and blows an unruly strand of hair out of his face, “Repulsorcrafts are usually modified after they’re purchased to fit the buyer’s needs. Your landspeeder hasn’t been altered to handle Tatooine's climate. Of course the poor thing broke down, the suns were frying her insides.”
Din considers himself to be quite knowledgeable about mechanics, but apparently, compared to Luke, he’s an amateur.
“Would you turn her on for me?” Luke asks. Din nods reluctantly and leans over the side far enough to reach the ignition. The craft sputters to life and Luke places the side of his head utop the cooling vents. He holds out a hand, urging Din to remain quiet as he listens for… something.
“Well, that sounds like a burnout,” he says cryptically, “You can turn her off now.”
The Mandalorian does as he is asked, but not without gawking and swooning under his helmet. Competence is a desirable trait to many Mandalorians, apparently Din is not an outlier. He watches as Luke picks up the arc wrench from before and uses it to remove the cooling vent covers. Smoke billows out and Luke coughs as he fans it away.
He can’t smell it through the filter of his helmet but he knows the smell from past repairs he’s made on the Razor Crest.
Luke inspects the vent thoroughly and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. After a minute or so of thinking, Luke’s eyes light up and he turns to his box excitedly. In one hand he holds a mysterious spare part. In the other, he holds something that resembles a riveter made from an old droid repair torch.
"What's your name, stranger?" Luke asks as he solders something with his repair torch. A gust of wind, refreshing in its coolness, brushes sand across his face, the small granules sticking to the moisture that's gathered on his brow.
When the Mandalorian doesn't respond Luke sighs and looks up to him, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But we get all sorts here on Tatooine. I won’t judge you." A thick silence settles between them. Luke frowns slightly and turns back to his work only to be interrupted moments later.
"My name is Din," The Mandalorian confesses, much to his own surprise. He usually refrains from sharing his name, especially on planets like Tatooine, but something about Luke is reassuring. And the strange knowing look in the blond's bright blue eyes tell him that Luke will keep his name a secret.
Din can't put his finger on it, but Luke is shrouded in a cloud of otherness. Like something about him is different, or more than meets the eye. Whatever it is, it intrigues him.
"I like it," Luke replies with a smile before he resumes his tedious task, "It’s different."
"So is yours," Din says before he can stop himself.
Luke chuckles, "Yeah, I know. Most people on Tatooine have slave culture names, but mine is distinctly Naboo."
Din considers the young man with hidden allure, "I like it," he whispers, mimicking Luke’s response to his own name.
Luke smiles, brighter than the twin suns that shine above them. The older man’s chest puffs out and his stomach flutters in response. Suddenly, all of his worries from before, the heat, the exhaustion, the frustration, melt away and all that is left is Luke.
Just Luke, existing in his vicinity, and the easy silence they share as Luke finishes tending to Din’s unfortunate Repulsorcraft.