Chapter Text
Being a part of a Tribe that was not the one he was raised in, one he solely provided for over twenty-five years, had Din uncertain in a way he so rarely was.
The stares he could feel through his beskar'gam were intense, unlike any he’d felt before. It didn’t make him want to stand proud while walking around in the Outer Rim with that undercurrent of people seeing the credits he was worth rather than the person he was. Showing hesitation or uncertainty would only make one an easy target and Din had learned the hardest way what those wrought. So he was not unused to being stared at, or stalked a bit, or approached without warning, no matter where he went. Still, it had him wanting to duck his head to escape the attention like he was an ad with his buir on his first hunt.
“Beroya-ing,” his Buir answered when Din had asked about the scrutiny, already helmeted and following her around on jobs before his verd'goten, mimicking her like a tiny Mandalorian shadow. Buir thought it was hilarious and waved it off as an intimidation tactic to anyone who questioned a nine year old going on Hunts. Din could, and had, wrestled grown men to the ground by climbing them like a monkey before choking them out with his whipcord. She trusted him to hold his own out in the Wild, and he trusted her to protect him when he truly needed it. Still, he hadn’t understood why the entire Galaxy had their eyes on them, no matter where they went.
“They pay more attention to you, Din’ika, because you are young and to them, quick money. We are a dying species, perceived as easy pickings despite our fearsome reputation. You must think and act quickly, constantly. Posturing will only get you so far before a blaster is drawn, so you must prepare as if it as an eventuality instead of a possibility. Think of the worst thing they could do to you, imagine they are thinking it, plotting it, and you will always be ten steps ahead. When you are grown, you may not be as easy a target, but someone is always willing to pay a price.”
“For the beskar?” Din had asked, not understanding the hint he knew was there. She hardly said anything that didn’t have meaning during hunts. Buir’s silver buy'ce with the blood-red eyes above the visor tilted down at him, hesitating for what was the first time to Din, before quickly beginning to scan the area again like it had never happened. She had scared him for a long time, almost moving mechanically like a droid before he realized she was soft underneath her colourful metal plating. That was the first time he could remember her ever breaking out of that role with her buy’ce donned, for she was a softer person when they shared fleshy faces. Behind the metal, she was the fiercest and strongest of all the Mandalorians in the Tribe, and therefore an intimidating creature until one got to know her.
“For your beskar, your body, your life in chains bound to the whims and pleasures of others. Everything can be bought for a price, by anyone. But you are a Mando'ad, and your soul is mandokarla, Din Djarin. You are a smart, scrappy thing. I know you will fight and do what you need for your aliit, and arrive at a place of contentment. And if you must cetar— boot lick— get pleasure out of what you can.”
Din had understood what he could. He was already fluent in three languages at that age— his native tongue: Aq Ventina’s language, then Galactic Sign Language, then Basic—, and learning Mando’a from his Buir who knew more than Din did presently had sometimes been a challenge. There was humour in it now, long after she’s passed, because he struggled to cycle through so many versions of words in his head before actually saying something. Always careful not to mix anything up, always enforcing the facade of being confident with words. Just the same as she once did and he knew because she had never been slow and careful with her words when she was in good company. Din even understood better why she chose to not drink; it just made it that much easier to speak a sentence in multiple languages and make it unintelligible to most people. Code, numbers, were easy to him; talking naturally not so much.
He wondered after he was grown and alone if she had meant to say another word in its place. Cetar - literally, to lick boots. Din had learned the word from being out on a Hunt with her once, one of the early ones where they were learning the ebb and flow of being together. Din, grateful just to be away from the leader’s punishments and blatant animosity once she had claimed him. Rhordath, still uncertain of being a buir and if she was making the right choice in claiming him. The hostility from the alor only showed itself when she left him there alone, so he kept quiet and was on his best behaviour when with her. She had snorted and stopped while coming out of an alley into a market, causing Din to jump and look for danger from the sound and suddenness of her stopping without a hand signal.
“Udesii, calm, Din’ika. I want to teach you your word.”
Din had straightened immediately with undiluted attention. He loved getting words from his buir, knowing she tried to not overload him with too much Mando’a lest he get it confused with the varieties in other languages. Sometimes she threw tricky ones at him that made him grumble. His buir bent her tall body to place a finger on the toe of her boot and drag it up to where the collar ended up her calve.
“Cetar, noun, boot. Cetar, verb, is that—”
Then she had turned to point out a man at one of the stalls that was getting a kebob of some kind, dripping sauce down his napkin protected front. When Din had dragged his line of sight through his visor down to the man’s feet, he was forced to stifle a laugh before failing and laughing harder than he could remember at the three, small, dog-like creatures licking at his boots. They all worked them with a ferocity that was not deserving of how little sauce was splattering down, nosing each other out of the way to get a taste as their tails swung their bodies side to side in excitement.
Context, circumstance, and tone were all very important in Mando’a, with words being made from other words and combined on the fly to get the point across. Sayings that held meaning and history, combinations of words that taught lessons or held orders. Din preferred GSL in those days, preferring not to speak but to absorb and translate.
It was also a rare way of how Mandalorians apologized; Ni Ceta, I kneel. His buir had not said the word like it meant asking for forgiveness. He’d thought it a funny thing then, not quite understanding but being immature enough to find the image of someone licking boots gross, but entertaining if the someone was deserving. If his Buir had told him she meant he’d have to kneel, to submit, to be the dog scrambling for scraps at another’s feet, he might have felt differently. Those things did not come to him naturally, as he was and maybe still is, a smart, scrappy thing.
The Covert, the Alor, had taught him submission when he was Clanless and it had stuck within their walls. At fifteen, he learned what his Buir was trying to warn him of without saying the words, but there are some things that cannot be imagined until they happen. Sometimes the worst things can only be learned by experience for unlucky people. Only then can they be prepared for, but there was a cost to it, to Din. Din did not, could not, trust. Most of the time, there was no pleasure to be found. Grogu had been the majority of it in his entire career. A bright, distant speck of a star in the eternal black.
He struggled not to keep his hand on his blaster around all these unfamiliar people, to glare back instead of acting nonchalant to their constant staring. He was wound up tight like a compressed coiled spring, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. It was draining and Din was beginning to become desperate to change it. Maybe it was because it was other Mando’ade, why it unnerved him so much; the reason their scrutiny seemed to follow him everywhere he went eluded him, no end in sight but the nights in the quarters he shared with his children. The Haat'ade chased him around after he'd saved Jango from Death Watch, and Din thought they wanted to kill him. Now that they've asked him to join, he doesn't know what they want from him.
Though he was ashamed to draw comparison, it was how his Covert had begun to treat him after his buir had died, after his crime and punishment, and after so much time spent away from them, doing everything for them. It was a unescapable circle that kept getting wider, more distant, with nothing to be done about it as Din went round and around. The longer Din provided for them, the less time he had to reintegrate with those he was dedicating his life to. The youngest generation hardy knew him, hiding from him upon arrivals because they did not recognize him, some taught to avoid him by their buire. They treated him with less familiarity with each departure and return until they no longer spoke his name and was only beroya.
But at least with his Covert, he knew where he stood, knew his purpose. He was the Beroya, and being the only one left after so many years, they depended on him while they shunned him. Din never lorded it, but he knew he had a place of power amongst the Tribe if his sullied reputation could be ignored. Din’s own buir could have rightfully challenged for the alor position if the Stars hadn’t claimed her for themselves. Din could take the beatings for the ade relentlessly and the alor could not punish him past a certain point. It took him many years, and many punishments, to realize he still needed him functional enough to fly the ship off planet for bounties. Before the Child— Grogu—, that had begun to change, and he’d begun to feel the alor’s eyes on him.
Which may be why he was spinning in circles like a ship with one downed engine. This Jaster Mereel, his new alor, had his eyes on Din as well, but it was different. Very different. Before, Din had known he’d had a target on his back. Whether they planned to kill him or just make him incapable of being Beroya anymore, he’d known he wasn’t safe. The increase of lashes and electro-shocks over the last year before Grogu had shown that, countless undeserving punishments that the Goran could not shield him from.
Now, the only comparison Din had for anybody looking at him like how Jaster Mereel looked at him without his buy’ce was that he wanted him. Clients vying for a peek beneath the beskar or even his old battered durasteel set. Derelicts begging for an evening to push him around, or for him to push them instead. Being trapped under the gaze of far too many eyes with nowhere else to go— His Creed to never remove his helmet had lured out the most depraved, many of which he’d had the pleasure to kill once they’d tried to lay a hand on him. Still none of those seemed to fit Mereel’s bill, but at the same time, what other culmination could the man want from him? Between the gifts of his attention, dinners, knitted blankets and toys, there was only one conclusion. Add it with all the supplies, medical services, and the lodging for his aliit, Din owed him, and Mereel knew it. There were never any weapons or armour offered, so he knew where the line was drawn there. That was the only thing Din was certain and unsurprised of.
Paz had offered to find other ways to repay their accumulating debt, but Din wanted a fresh start, tired of waiting for his life to be in his control. Tired of owing, tired of repenting, of being undeserving of happiness. He was tired of being that dog scrapping for bits, that cold persona he had easily molded into with the loss of Grogu, vicious in his bitterness for meagre credits. An empty afterlife would not be as hard to swallow if his life did not also feel like a prison.
A Cin Vhetin would never be offered again to him by his Goran, whom he had every intention of seeing again after bathing in the Living Waters. Instead, he had filled his time ruthlessly hunting to forget the grief of giving up his son. She would have redeemed him, if he could have found the time to go to Manda'yaim without the hawk-eyes of Kryze watching him. Now, Din was stuck in limbo. A place where he was to be a transgressor amongst Mando’ade who performed his sin daily, thoughtlessly, because it was not a sin to them. They could not know what Din wouldn’t tell them, and he’s slowly learning that talking was a favourite pastime for the Haat’ade. He’d never heard so much idle chatter and Manda, the Gossip, amongst Mandalorians before. It is a jarring comparison to his Covert; there, Din had been an outlier in his selective muteness amongst those who were already soft-spoken. His buir had been the only one with a passion for languages and speaking in general. Unless she was hunting, her mouth or hands were moving a parsec a minute. This Tribe had hundreds like her, filling the base with voices, laughter, and good-natured fighting competitions at all times.
Here was an even more uncomfortable place than his Tribe without his buir. The pressure to do something, to somehow gain their trust so he could provide again, weighed on him. That pesky habit of lifting his hands, twitching his fingers and ready to sign instead of speaking aloud was developing again. His old alor had to beat it out of him when he couldn’t stop doing it in his presence. This place was one he feared he could not mold into, unsure of what he would be punished for and what was truly owing. Din would never forget that he had broken his Creed, but he would not burden those around him who did not understand his guilt. Not even Paz could truly relate, taught by their Goran in secret that other Mando’ade could choose to remove their helmets in front of others without it being a sin.
Din had dedicated his life to the Old Ways; he’d told his buir such when she gave him his buy’ce, crafted from her iron. Din noticed many things as a child; he learned a great deal by just listening to those rare, but always important, conversations. The unrest and anger at the new order from the Kyr'tsad alor, that Tribes members would be considered dar'Manda for showing their face for any reason was hard to miss. When Din made the effort to speak, he made sure to ask the right questions. He knew she was giving part of her soul to protect his head and the opportunity to begin his Vows early, even if they were just to himself, too young for his verd’goten. Din had asked what the exceptions were for the helmet before he put it on, and it ended at Gorane, medics and aliit. Din had stepped outside of those exceptions. Breaking that vow bothered him, never mind it being necessary for a child’s safety. Even a temporary absolution by his new alor until Din could get a chance to get to the Water under the mines for his own atonement would give him peace of mind. A clean slate here would provide him a chance to try and settle, and go when he had the opportunity for his true cleansing.
The kicker, really, was that Mereel was the first one he needed to repay where he didn’t mind paying it this way. Every time Din owed and couldn’t afford, there was always some reluctance to clear the debt. Jaster was a good man; one with all the great characteristics that made up Din’s type. Tough, but soft with kids. A warrior with a well-earned title of respect by their people, Mand'alor, and the more Paz talked his ear off about the man, the more invested— interested Din became. Those words his buir had told him stayed with him: Get pleasure out of what you can. For Jaster Mereel? It would not be hard to find.
The thing was he didn’t know how far it would go. He liked the man, but if he continued to wish for payment in this way, Din would have to put his foot down. For one, he did not want to earn his right to stay by doing that forever. An instalment plan was not something he was interested in. If it had been just him? Easy choice; Din was used to unfavourable deals, and what was pleasure without the pain? But with two mouths to feed and himself? More work than it was worth, especially running the risk he might get attached. Secondly, Din would die before being taken against his will and he’d vowed to take them with him, whoever they may be. Jaster didn’t seem like that type, but many didn’t until the moment came to let go. That didn’t mean that Din wouldn’t put his everything into the first time, if only for Mereel to see his worth. He would take that risk.
He doesn’t even consider that the man already sees him as worthy. That’s why whenever there is a plan with Djarin, it’s usually one that eventually goes tits-up. He’s felt inadequate at anything that wasn’t killing and hunting in ages, so why would he see himself as someone worth being courted? Even initiating any courtship felt taboo after feeling undesirable for just as long. He didn’t trust people’s leering; enduring Xi’an’s sexual teasing because he knew she was wielding the attraction just as she had her blades, and everyone else who flirted was shoved into the same category.
Jaster Mereel is probably the first ever to have his own box, separated from all the rest. Din trusted him more than the others, but to a point. It was all a Venn diagram in his mind where everyone overlapped as being a possible threat in the large circle that surrounded them. Still, Din paid his debts before they could become debilitating, and this man was no exception from that rule. One and done.
He had instigated it with a slight word to Jango that Obi-Wan would enjoy some company of someone his own age, knowing the outcome would be Jango showing both his adiike around their new base of operations. It was a guarantee he’d find Mereel alone and undistracted, the man’s schedule easily monitored by hacking into Jango’s vambrace and being surprised by the disturbing, excessive calendar for the boy’s buir. It updated daily, and never with anything for the boy himself. Din was impressed by the detail, skill of organization and time management, but would have to find some way to teach Jango how to protect such sensitive information better.
The bonus prize being the school’s current lesson for the day, one Din had helped orchestrate under the radar. A carefully planted suggestion here and there to the right people, and voila. If he had bribed Sonan with a supply of candy until his upcoming birthday, no one would know but the two of them. The kid was smart enough to see through Din had he tried to influence him to get the armour for the class without payment, so that was the option available and he wasn’t above bribing a child.
There was finally enough privacy for Din to pay it back and the way Mereel had been eyeing him had told him he was frustrated. Din could relate. Once he had a purpose here within their Tribe, he could Hunt away from their ever-watching eyes for a while. Not a single opportunity was granted, almost like the Haat’ade didn’t want him leaving, but didn’t want him working; telling him he and his ade needed rest. Sure, a good night’s sleep was nice, but two weeks of forcing himself into projects to contribute was beginning to wear on his patience. They did not trust him, so Din would make them.
Being of use to Jaster Mereel was a much bigger deal, and a bigger risk if he made a blunder. Din needed to separate what was an assignment, and what was his own personal longing. It was hard not to imagine himself beside him, helping raise his ade while Jaster returned the favour. Those strong arms holding him in support, the comfort of being loved instead of just wanted.
Din took a deep breath to steady himself, banishing the daydreams. It would never happen. He was just a Beroya, one that had gotten most of his Tribe slaughtered, and beneath the shiny shell he had paid for in blood, he was just a scarred nobody. But he was a Jack of all Trades, Master of Some. He knew over a dozen languages, and one was making a man cum.
He slid off his well-worn gloves, tucked them into a hidden pocket, and knocked on the door.