#Cobb’s new fancy arm returns!

[omaano]

if you're still doing the poly am sketches, love us a good boba/din/cobb for L1 👀

It is so funny to me that @lionsaint also asked for the exact same pose with this exact same ship! So I hope you both will like it (and that you’ve stuck around long enough Anon to see this), and thank you for requesting it!❤️ I've missed drawing Boba so much Q^Q

Polyamorous/platonic poses for sketching

and the other drawings I've made for them

[staranon95]

DinCobb Week Day 5: Sharing Cultures (SFW)

for @dincobbweek​ with a wedding!!

@astrangebird​ drew some fantastic art and i decided to write a piece about it. that’s that. that’s all of it.

AO3 Link

Wait For Me Here

“We should get married,” Din idly said one day when they were in bed, side by side to wait out the worst of the day’s heat.”

“Oh yeah?” Cobb asks. He’s on his stomach, pillowed on his arms. Din knows this without even having to look because he knows Cobb likes sleeping on his front, usually one leg tucked up a bit, sometimes one arm stretched out for Din as if he’s reaching for him in sleep.

“Think about it. We live together.”

“Mm.”

“We cook together.”

“Mmhm.”

“We fight together.”

“Mm.”

“And we have a child together.”

Cobb snorts. “Sharing custody of your child with a Jedi might be putting it a bit generous.”

“There are also the school kids.”

“’cause half the time I have to tell them not to get into shit they shouldn’t.”

“Still.”

“Still,” Cobb says and breathes in. Then he opens his eyes and Din turns on his side to face him. “Marriage, huh?”

“Mmhm. Unless if . . .”

“Unless?”

“I don’t know what marriage customs are like on Tatooine, and the ones I’ve been invited to were Tusken in nature.”

“Well, shoot, partner, I reckon we go just as hard with our wedding flair as them Tuskens do.”

“Is that so?”

Cobb nods tiredly against his arms and closes his eyes. “Two-day affair most of the time. Eat and drink late into the night, sleep a few hours, and then get up in the morning for the breakfast feast. Everyone comes out with everything. Real big community thing as well.”

“I, I might like to see that.”

“What about you Mandalorians though?” Cobb then shifts suddenly, rising up long enough to lie himself across Din’s chest and hold him close with a leg in between Din’s. “I know you’ve . . . I know it’s not easy for you.”

Din sighs. The fallout from the survivors of his clan is still fresh. At least they didn’t strip him of his armour, but he doesn’t think they see him as Mandalorian anymore. He saw to their relocation on Tatooine with Boba Fett’s help, and finally they can live without the fear of being seen or being caught. But they will not accept Din as one of their own, not anymore, not after he gave up the Darksaber, allowed his face to be seen, and nearly broke every Creed he had taken on as a young adult.

“Well, the weddings were mostly, they were short,” Din admits. “Usually it requires an exchange, especially if one member were coming from a different clan.”

“An exchange of what?”

“Equipment. Weapons or armour. I once saw someone approach the Armourer to ask her how to show them to make a knife for their betrothed. It’s meant to be personal to a degree. Either you got this weapon in battle or you’re offering up a piece of yourself, your beskar’gam.”

Cobb hums. “Sounds very official.”

“Marriage is a pact. You raise warriors. You grow the clan. You protect the clan.”

“Mm. I can work with that.”

Din smiles. “You’re a very agreeable partner.”

“I try.”

…

What starts out as a simple comment quickly turns into nearly a town wide event. Neither Din nor Cobb know how the secret got out. They were thinking, originally, a small affair with their closest associates. Boba is even willing to host at his palace, and Din is fine with that. But then word gets out, as it always does, that the Marshal and the Mandalorian are planning to get married, and now here they are, eating breakfast at Werlo’s cantina, getting approached by one of the mothers in town who’s there after dropping her kids off at the school, no doubt, casually talking like Din and Cobb know what’s going on.

“Marshal! Have you decided on a date yet?”

Cobb blinks and looks to Din before looking at the woman. “Excuse me?”

“For the wedding! Gaia said you and the Mandalorian were planning to marry.”

Din chokes on his caf.

“Um, well.” Cobb reaches out to pat Din’s hand. “We were planning a small ceremony.”

“Nonsense! I know you’re both busy men. We can handle all the logistics for you. All you and your fiancé need to do is show up to the day!”

“Well, Lee, thank you for the offer,” Cobb says, and Din can see he’s trying to be polite about it, but Din knows Cobb has a hard time turning down any of the favours the townspeople show him.

“It’s my pleasure, Marshal. It’s been some time since we’ve had cause to celebrate! We’ll be in touch!”

“Yeah, Lee. See you.”

Once she’s gone, Cobb looks to Din, and Din tries to smother his smile behind his hand.

“Hey, this is your town too,” Cobb says.

“I know. I guess a small ceremony is no longer in the works.”

“They were going to find out one way or another.”

…

From how Cobb explained it, Din thought he had a good idea of what entailed a Tatooine wedding from the settler-slave population. Good food, good drinks, good company.

“Have you thought about a house yet?”

Din looks to Jo as he’s elbow deep in a speeder. “What?”

“You know,” she says like Din should know. “A house.”

“Why would I—”

“Oh. You don’t know. Right.” She pops her lips. “It’s a Tatooine thing. ‘specially for freed slaves and poor settlers. It’s a thing of pride to be able to provide a place like a home. I know my dad worked hard to get an apartment for me and my ma while he also worked to get our manumission. Tiny one bedroom place ‘til I moved out here. But he was very proud of that place when he had it. Point is—what are you bringing to the table, Din?”

Din blinks and reaches for a towel to wipe sweat from his brow. “I hadn’t thought of anything.”

“Let me give you the one up ‘cause I know the Marshal won’t be asking’ for it himself.” She slides down from her perch on a workbench to lean over the speeder. “Man needs himself a proper house. And I’m talking a proper house. Most of the buildings here are temporary. They’re not built for long term which is why they require so much maintenance. Houses underground are the way to be. They take a while, sure, but when you’ve got a village.”

He frowns. “I thought that was for raising children.”

“Villages are for everything here, Din. If you want to give him something good, really show you love him, come find me when you’ve got free time. I’m pretty sure I can help you out with that issue.”

She then leaves and Din tries to return to his work at hand, but he’s stuck on the thought of a house. Of building a house for him and Cobb and for Grogu when he and his Jedi visit. Where they can host friends and not feel too crammed in Cobb’s home as it is. Where they can actually bring their lives and interests together in one shared space. A shared unit.

Cobb enters the garage looking like he’s dressed up to head into town, and Din stands to greet him. “Hey, darlin’!” He kisses Din on the cheek. Din wrinkles his nose.

“I’m dirty.”

“We’ve been worse to each other. Now. I’m headin’ into town for a bit. Told Jo to hold down the fort and you’re here for back up.”

Din nods. “You don’t want me coming with you?”

“Baby, I know you don’t like to travel to Mos Eisley. Take it easy. I’ll be back shortly after dinner.”

“Okay.”

He helps Cobb push out his speeder onto the main street of Mos Pelgo and kisses him once more before Cobb pulls his scarf up over his mouth and nose and pulls his goggles down over his eyes and offers Din a two fingered salute and then he’s off.

Din trudges down the street towards where Jo is leaning against the wall of the cantina. “So. A house.”

She nods. “Come on. Let’s talk logistics.”

…

In what they originally wanted to be a quick and short wedding turns into a several month-long affair as Mos Pelgo comes out in spades to support their Marshal and Mandalorian in tying the knot. They plan for food and for drinks. They send out invites to the local Tuskens, who also seem enthused that Din is getting married. They think it a good match, and well, at least Din has their approval.

The building of the Marshal’s new house is quietly under wraps. All Cobb knows is that a new house is being built, but he thinks it for one of the families in town, even comes by to watch Din at work in the staked-out pit, helping to dig down and remove sand until they come to the more compacted ground that they can put stabilizers against and hold in place before they’re pouring the plaster and concrete for the walls.

Whenever Din has a spare moment, he plans with Jo for the interior. A nice open kitchen. A large room for the both of them with an en-suite bathroom. There is not only one guest room but two. One that will largely be Grogu’s when he’s here to stay, and also one for the Jedi if he plans on staying the night. Sometimes he does.

Then there’s the living room, circular in design that could hold a dozen people comfortably, and knowing Cobb, he’ll like the opportunity to entertain more. Din thinks it’s perfect, and he finds as he puts the work into making a home, he realizes he’s looking forward to it not just for Cobb’s promised happiness, but also his own. He can’t remember the last time he’s actually had a proper home like this. Not since Aq Vetina anyway.

“You’re in a good mood,” Cobb says that night when they’re finishing the dishes after dinner.

Din shrugs. “Just happy I guess.”

“Good.” Cobb kisses him quickly on the cheek. “You deserve to be.”

…

One of the next steps for the wedding is the clothes themselves. For Cobb it means he’s getting a robe made for himself. White, flowing fabric with a fancy gold trim around the hems. It’s a standard piece of Tatooine marriages, and Din feels himself sort of bereft that he doesn’t have something similar.

So he plans a visit to Boba’s because they have a shared lineage, and Din can’t exactly walk up to where his old tribe is and ask, “Can any of you help me dress for my wedding? Even though you see me as dar’manda and probably wouldn’t accept my marriage to an outsider?”

Best not to think of it.

He rides with Cobb to the palace, but Cobb isn’t planning on staying.

“I got business in town,” he says. “Might be a while. You okay staying here tonight?”

“Of course.”

“’kay. Kiss.”

He tilts up for Din to lean down and kiss him before waving him off. Then Din heads towards the palace and is let in by the guards.

It’s one of Boba’s work days, meaning he’s not seeing court, which means he’s pouring drinks for him, Fennec, and Din to enjoy. He always serves the strong stuff, which makes Din’s throat burn, but he’s getting used to it.

“So how is it anyway?” Boba asks, reclined on one of the sofa’s where Fennec can press her feet against his thigh.

“Going well,” Din says, keeping his eyes on the dark liquor in his glass. “The house is coming along.”

“You still haven’t told him yet?” Fennec asks.

Din shakes his head. “I want to keep it a surprise for him.”

“Sounds like you got it bad.”

“And you don’t?”

Fennec chuckles and Boba smiles amusedly.

“Fennec’s not exactly my queen here,” Boba says.

“That’s right. I’m an empress.”

“Still. A house sounds like a good idea. Putting down roots. Settling in.”

“It’s about time,” Din says, taking a sip. He smacks his lips. “But it’s getting close to the day and . . . the seamstress offered to tailor me something, but I was hoping for something more—”

“Familiar?” Boba offers. Din nods.

“I think you can help with that,” Fennec says. “Despite what he might say, Boba’s become a real fashion snob.”

“It’s not fashion when you have to wear it to impress people who won’t take you seriously otherwise. The battle armour doesn’t always work.”

“Sure,” she says. “We’ll go with that.”

“I’ll see what I got.”

They eventually move to Boba and Fennec’s shared private quarters where Din can examine the clothing in front of a mirror.

“If you’re looking for something more Mandalorian,” Boba says from within his closet. “I’d suggest the lavalava. Especially if you’re aiming for tradition.”

“Bring out the blue one if you have it,” Fennec says.

Boba returns holding what Din first sees as a skirt, but recognizes the design of it when he was first living in the Fighting Corps’ barracks as a child. It’s meant to be a more formal piece of Mandalorian wear for more casual settings if one didn’t want to dress up in full battle armour. It’s meant to just sit on the hips.

Boba gets him to try it on right there. “You’d probably just wear a light pair of leggings underneath,” he says.

“Oh, and then,” Fennec says, rising to her feet and entering the closet. She returns with a lighter blue cloak and a red sash. “Tie it off with this sash here.” She wraps it around his waist. “And then the cloak like this.” She lets it sit on one shoulder and brings the two ends together to pin at his other shoulder. “You know, I might have a broach that could fit this. Din, hold this for me. I’ll be right back.”

He does as he’s told and looks at himself in the mirror.

“Not bad,” Boba says. “Colour suits you.”

Din turns a bit to admire himself in the mirror. He looks at Boba in the reflection and asks, with his stomach fluttering, “Have you spoken to the clan?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Last week I think.”

Din hums.

“They’ve settled in just fine. Getting along with the Tuskens just fine, but seems like they got more in common than they do the settlers.”

Din nods. “I had a feeling they would.”

“Have you . . .”

“Not since they relocated.”

Boba hums.

“Here we go,” Fennec says, coming back into the room with a silver brooch—in the shape of a Mythosaur skull.

“I didn’t know you had that, cyar,” Boba says.

“It was a gift from a long time ago. Guy who gave it to me certainly wasn’t Mandalorian, but I think it’s best to return it to someone it should actually belong to.” She fixes the brooch to the cloak and then turns Din to face the mirror directly. “There. Now you look ready to get married.”

Din runs his fingers through his hair. He might want to get it cut before the wedding, but he knows Cobb likes it when it’s longer and it holds its waves more. He should at least shave. The uneven scruff on his jaw isn’t all that appealing to himself.

“Stars, it’s going to be a mad house on the day of,” Boba says. “Seems like we’ll have to bring the good stuff, Fennec.”

“You’re telling me.”

…

In the days leading up to the wedding, Din sees to the final touches of the house, ensuring the furniture is in place with room for more when they make the final move. He plans on surprising Cobb that day.

They have a good celebration the night before at the cantina, drinks on the house, and then, in Tatooine fashion, the couple are separated the night before. Din is headed off by Boba and Fennec to Din’s new house, and Cobb is dragged away by his deputy Jo to his house.

“Rest up, vod,” Boba says. “You got a long day ahead of you.”

The next morning, Fennec helps him get ready for the day, making sure his hair is just right, and the cloak is sitting on his shoulders just so. Boba is there in his armour, and Din feels a sour note in his stomach that he’s not wearing any of his. He wouldn’t feel right after his expulsion from the clan.

“You still want the Mandalorian vows?” Boba asks.

Din nods. “If you can.”

“I’d be honored, vod.”

And then he’s led out with his friends on either side of him down the main street with everyone and then some—Tuskens, out of town friends, some of Boba’s closer associates—have come out in full force down the street as it’s been fully decorated for the day.

The ceremony itself is held at one end of the town where an arch of bone from bantha horns has been carved as a gift from the Tuskens. And that’s when Din sees him—Cobb, dressed in white with gold trim and with the hood up over his head, a red sash at his waist as if to match Din’s without even knowing. His back remains turned as Din walks up the aisle towards the arch and then he’s standing next to Cobb, shoulder to shoulder, with Cobb’s lifelong friend and impromptu wedding officiator Issa-Or standing before them. Din keeps his eyes forward for now, waiting for the right moment to face his soon-to-be husband head on.

“Now, I know ya’ll have come out and taken time off of your busy schedules,” Issa-Or says. “And we don’t have much time to dilly-dally like they did in the nicer districts in Mos Eisley and the rest. Time wasn’t a luxury for people like us, so we had to make do. Which is why we’re here to see that Cobb Vanth, Marshal here in Mos Pelgo, spends the rest of his days married to none other than a Mandalorian! Someone he chose to let into his life, his home, and share the rest of his time in this mortal coil with.”

Din feels himself blushing, feels a smile breaking out over his face.

“Cobb?”

He sees Cobb lift his head.

“Why don’t you take a look at your man?”

He feels Cobb reach for his hand and Din gently turns with a little prodding. And as he turns, he sees Cobb pushing back his hood, and Din feels as if he could cry at the sight of him.

He sees Cobb’s lower lip tremble before he smiles, as bright as Tatooine’s suns themselves. “Din.” Cobb lifts Din’s hand and holds it between both of his own. Then Cobb laughs despite himself. “First time I’ve been without words in a while.”

There are a few laughs among the crowd.

“Darling, my love. First day I laid eyes on you, I knew I couldn’t let you go. And I am a richer man for having you. Even if I don’t got much but my name and my reputation and the good will of the people before us, I hope to give you everything you could ever need.” Then he raises Din’s hand and kisses the back of it tenderly.

“At this point, we’d say a done deal and have a feast,” Issa-Or says. “But as it is, Din is a Mandalorian, and we want to respect that part of him, so he comes with his own vows.”

She steps aside to let Boba come up.

“If you’ll both repeat after me,” he says. “We are one together.”

“Mhi solus tome,” Din says, quietly, only enough for Cobb and Boba to really hear.

He watches Cobb smiles, the pink curl of his tongue before he’s repeating in Basic. “We are one together.

“We are one when parted.”

“Mhi solus dhar’tome.”

“We are one when parted.”

“We share all.”

“Mhi me’dinui an.”

“We share all.”

“We shall raise warriors.”

“Mhi ba’juri verde.”

“We shall raise warriors.”

“Oya, vod,” Boba mutters.

And Din finds himself feeling bashful, and that’s when Cobb pulls him closer by his hands.

“Now I consider that we’re well and truly hitched now,” he says, and Din rushes in to cup his face and kiss his riduur in front of an adoring and loving crowd.

…

The rest of the day is pretty much a blur of being at Cobb’s side, being dragged away from Cobb, of Cobb being dragged away from him. Dance until his feet ache and he’s dizzy. More food than he’s used to. More drinks than he can tolerate, and falling asleep in a tent when he’s imbued too much with a pink cheeked Cobb next to him.

A few hours of sleep later and they’re back at it again for a more restful filled breakfast and relaxed conversation before finally, the festivities are over and people begin to head back to their business.

“Do you want to go home?” Din asks.

Cobb stretches and yawns, looking exhausted but content with his station in life. “You have read my mind.”

They walk down the street together, their clothes in a state of disarray before Din is leading him elsewhere.

“Babe, where . . .” Then it dawns on him and Din can’t help but smile. “No,” he says.

Din nods. “Come on. Let me show you to our home.”

Cobb is speechless when they enter the new partially buried house. He’s taken by how large it is, how high the ceilings are now, and how cool and inviting it is. Then he rushes forward to kiss Din and hold him close. “Oh, you are full of surprises.”

“Jo told me it’s a custom.”

“Well, not always a custom, but we pride ourselves on being able to provide.”

“Then let me provide for you.”

They kiss again, deeper this time until Cobb pulls back to rest their foreheads together. “Mm. As much as I’d like to christen this place, I’m bushwhacked.” Then he’s pulling Din into the bedroom where they collapse onto the bed as husbands, as riduurs.

…

“Hey, Din. You awake?”

Din stretches out on the bed and opens weary eyes to find Cobb kneeling on the ground next to the bed.

“What time’s it?” he asks.

“Afternoon-ish. Just went out to get some things from the old place, and, um, I guess now is as good a time as any to give this to you.” He sets a bundle of cloth knotted off with string on the bed before Din, and Din rises up on one elbow to look at it.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Din says, tugging at the strings.

“Yeah, well.” Cobb rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic of his. “I felt like I had to for this one.”

In the cloth is an ornate dagger with its own leather sheath. When Din pulls the blade, he’s mesmerized with how the blade shimmers. A single piece that looks like it’s been carved from onyx.

“Cobb, I—” Then he sees the mark in the hilt of it.

The mark of his tribe. The Mythosaur skull. On the other side is the mark of the mudhorn.

He looks up to Cobb. “Where did you get this?”

“Well, I, I went to your clan.”

Din breathes out and sits up in full with the dagger in his lap. Cobb comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“When you told me about your customs, and seeing your armour just sitting in our wardrobe for months, I wanted, I wanted to confront your clan. I know things are rocky between you and them, but I went in there to just speak with them at first. Then next thing I know, I’m sitting on the ground drinking tea with your matriarch.”

Din closes his eyes for a moment.

“And I don’t tell her everything, I don’t ream her out or nothing. I know you hold her in high regard. But I told her I was intending on marrying you and I wanted to do it right by you. No one else. So, she said she’d show me how to make something. And each time I visited, she’d ask about you and I’d tell her that, oh, you were a guest speaker in the school today, or you had fixed the power generators. And she’d tell me my smithy skills were shit and tell me to begin again.”

Din laughs. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

“Then she asked me why I wanted to marry you. And I told her I wanted to spend the rest of my days making you happy, giving you everything you could ever need. And she said, he deserves it.”

He lifts his head to look at Cobb. “She said that?”

Cobb nods. “I think she misses you. She won’t say it, but she does. I think it’s just taking some time for her and some of the others to come around to this new world order of theirs. But next time I go, I want you to come with me.”

Din nods. “Yes. Yes, I’d love that. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He kisses Cobb several times and holds him close with the knife on the bed spread next to him.

They don’t plan the trip out to Din’s clan for some weeks yet. They have a house to settle into after all. But then one day, they’re setting out on Cobb’s speeder. This time Din is wearing his armour with the knife at his hip. And this time they are facing Din’s clan together as one.

[vipers-hat]

For Old Times’ Sake

An old friend and a stranger walk into Mos Pelgo, with varying results. AKA: BoBF Chapter Six Semi-Fix It, bc the Kenobi extended family and friends circle is broad, and Raza only knows so much. 

Ships: Robb, mentions of @geronimo-11′s Mina/Din, pre-Mazacobdi if you squint ;)

Raza sighed heavily to announce her presence the moment the Sheriff’s office door slid open. 

Cobb glanced up at her and leaned back in his chair, setting the datapad he had been examining aside.  “False alarm again?” 

“Couple of the Tusken kids were out that way playing with that anti-grav ball setup Pilos got them and tripped the sensor. Water reserves out there are fine. Ari fixed them up, we should be all good.” 

Cobb hummed in acknowledgment, then scooted his chair back so she could pick the datapad from the desk and check that even off the list. Things were getting busier around town now that anything and everything could be Pyke presence, so she had volunteered her services to help him and the new Deputy, Ari, out when Baer continued to run the bar. Though she did have a few ulterior motives, as did Cobb himself. 

True to that statement,  when she drifted close enough, he reached up in order to pull her into his lap, dropping a kiss on her shoulder when she more than happily settled there, then moved so they could both take a look at what else needed to be addressed. 

“I can take a swing by Meelo’s, see what’s up with his converters.” 

“What, so I  can go see what Ira saw the other night? You and I both know she didn’t see a damn thing.” 

“She could’ve. We have to be careful now.”

“Darlin’, I’m the first person who knows the danger of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. But she’s got an in for me, I’m telling you. You can do that.” 

“An in for you? She’s just short of in love with you.” 

“Exactly. Her and her damn wandering hands.” 

“Oh, so now wandering hands are a problem?” she countered, setting the datapad down in order to loop her arms around his neck- but not before running one thumb across his collarbone and across his neck. 

“Yeah, when they’re hers.” 

“Fine, then I’ll go. I’ll protect you from the little, completely non-threatening widow who’s going after what’s mine.” 

“Yours, huh? Now who’s the possessive, jealous type?” 

“Still you?” she countered.

“Yeah?” he leaned in- a challenge, though the lopsided grin growing on his face. 

“Yeah.” She met him halfway and hooked her fingers into his scarf when he closed the remaining distance between them, returning the kiss he gave her. 

Cobb practically tossed the datapad back onto the desk and got a better hold on her when she moved to straddle him. He sunk his fingers into her hair, tilted his head up to deepen the kiss, and- 

The telltale screech of the door opening again doused the fire that had started and the pair scrambled to look presentable again. It ended with Raza nearly falling clear out of his lap, and Cobb had shot his arm out to steady her. They looked up at the doorway, fully aware they probably looked like deer caught in headlights briefly. 

Ari was on the other side of the door, looking half sympathetic, half mortified. The poor man did have the unbridled talent of interrupting them during any moment alone they had- whether it was an ill-advised, very much non- professional moment at work, or even just a moment at the corner table at the cantina.  He opened his mouth, shut it- opened and closed it again. He finally settled for turning on his heel so he was facing the doorway again to give them some semblance of privacy. “Trouble. Got some sort of fancy speeder coming in, straight into town. Ain’t attacking, just… landing,” he reported before promptly heading out. 

The couple was silent for a moment before they both straightened out to fix their clothing that had gotten just disheveled enough for them to not notice til then. 

“Fancy speeder?” Raza wondered aloud. 

“Can’t be Pyke, then. Ain’t their style,” Cobb replied. He opened the desk drawer in order to get his gun and tossed her one of his backups. “Got your saber in case it is?” 

“Yeah.” 

They left the building, then promptly stopped short upon recognizing the figure currently climbing out of the fancy speeder. 

“Ain’t no threat at all,” Cobb mused. 

Their Mandalorian was back. 

Raza beamed and jogged down the steps, straight passed Ari who was already giving Din parking directions of all things. She reached Din, almost jumping the last foot of distance between them before she tossed her arms around him in the tightest hug she could muster. 

Din, to his credit, only floundered a moment before returning it- or his version of returning it, which was more just holding her sides awkwardly. She released him and squinted playfully. “Still not a hugger, huh?” 

“Don’t think I’ll ever be.” 

“Raza, you know this guy?” Ari asked, sounding as incredulous as ever. 

Raza sent him a stern look before looping her arm around Din’s elbow. “I don’t go around hugging random strangers, Ari. He’s a friend. The man can park anywhere, considering he’s the reason the town was even still around for you to get this job in.” 

Ari stared at her for a while. 

Cobb came up behind him and nudged him with his elbow. “He’s the Mandalorian the whole town talks about. One who took out the krayt with us.” 

Recognition dawned on Ari’s face and he nodded. 

Raza nodded back towards the office. “Go on. We’ve got it.”

Ari seemed more than happy to be rid of them. He made quick work of making himself scarce.

Cobb walked over to Din, clapping him on the back. “Sorry ‘bout the new guy. We’re working on the jumpiness.” He examined the speeder. “That a Naboo speeder?” 

“That’s what it started out as,” Din confirmed. 

“Peli?” Raza wondered. 

Din sighed, but nodded all the same. “Peli,” he confirmed. “Things in town alright?” 

“As alright as can be with spice runners on the rise. If you’re planetside, have you heard about them?” 

Din nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Among other reasons. I’m going to need lodging for a few days, if you have the room in town. I don’t want to impose if you don’t. I can figure something out.” 

“ ‘Lodging’?” Raza repeated and crossed her arms over her chest. “You hear that, Cobb? Lodging. Doesn’t want to impose.” 

Din looked away, feeling mocked, but Cobb merely offered a grin that was pure fondness. 

“The nerve of Mandalorians these days!” Raza finished.  before she got up and exited the bar. 

Din stared after her. “Uh…?” 

Cobb laughed, then nodded out the doorway to indicate to leave as well. When Din did as he was told, he spoke again. The pair of them stopped in front of Din’s speeder. “She means you ain’t stayin’ anywhere else but with us, Partner. She’s had the spare room in our place made up for you specifically since we got off Gideon’s ship.” 

“ ‘Our’ place?” Din asked after a moment. 

Cobb’s grin widened and held up his right hand, and sunlight glinted off a gold and blue band around one finger. “Basically moved in together a couple of days after we got off the ship.  Made an honest man outta me a couple of weeks after that.”

Din hummed, though he did sound pleased. “You don’t waste time anymore.” 

Cobb laughed and put his hand down. “Yeah, well, I’m getting old, we… were something far longer than we’d both care to admit, before you even talked some sense into me, so there was no sense in putting anything off again. Not to mention it’s amazing how your life can go topsy-turvy when some mystery man in a fancy tin can crashes into your life and makes you go through multiple near death experiences. Puts a lot of things into perspective.”

“I’d apologize, but…” Din trailed off. 

“Don’t you dare,” Cobb agreed. “Was supposed to a small little to-do. But this is a small town. Once word gets out, everybody knows. Next thing we knew Leia was just getting settled to start the ceremony n’ the whole town showed up to wish us well. Sent out an invite to you too, but you never responded.” 

“Invite must’ve been lost with the ship,” Din replied drily. 

Cobb’s grin grew again, assuming it was a joke, but when Din didn’t move a muscle or shift like he did when he was waiting for an answer the last time, Cobb’s smile faded. “The ship too? I thought Fett was just giving you a ride because he owed you something last we saw you.” 

“It’s… been a long few of months.” 

“Fine. Then you’re staying as long as you need. Even if my people say no to all this.” Before Din could protest, Cobb took the pack Din had stashed behind the speeder’s seat and headed into his house. 

Din followed behind, pausing in the doorway to take in the entryway of Cobb’s house as the man set his things inside somewhere. 

Cobb hadn’t been joking. He had been in his house briefly before, but even he noticed the place looked more lived in now. More like a home. A certain longing hit him in the chest at the thought, but he shrugged it off.  “Can I buy you both a drink?” 

“I wouldn’t mind one, but you ain’t paying for yours. Ever. Always on the house. Come on,” Cobb instructed. He headed for the cantina. 

Din hesitated, not exactly sure how to go about how to ask for what he needed. Still, if it was anybody who would hear him out, it was them. 

______________________________________________________________

Things had gone from amicable and light to business right quick. Din had caught them up on all they had missed since they last saw each other- and then the growing problem with the Pykes and how he needed the town’s help. 

Raza hadn’t exactly been thrilled to hear that Din seemed to be  just one step away from  in Boba’s pocket, but she trusted him to be smart about it. Most of the time. That said, she was less than thrilled that Cobb was deadset against it after everything they had been through. Even Baer had made his disapproval known. Raza had leaned over towards Din halfway through his pitch in order to show some solidarity, and the way Din leaned towards her in return made him figure that he had picked up on it. The absurdity of the subtle little team-up made her want to laugh. If the Jedi and Mandalorians from a few generations back could see them now. 

Cobb had left the table promising to think about it. Ari had followed him, and Baer had left for the back room to do inventory, leaving the pair of them alone. They were silent for a while until Raza shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry about him. I want - we want to help, whether he says it here or not, it’s just-” 

“You’ve got people to protect, I understand,” Din cut her off, and she took comfort that he sound like he wasn’t saying it just for her benefit. “Don’t think me ungrateful about the help, either. You lost people. You sacrificed. On a whim of mine, no less. This… has the chances of being bigger than the Dragon. Town like this could get wiped clean out, just like it could’ve then. But this one’s got more lasting consequences.” 

“I know,” Raza replied quietly. She reached for his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Give him a bit. Maybe I can talk to him.” 

“Please do,” Din nodded. After a few seconds of silence, he glanced at his hands. “I… that wasn’t all I came here for. There’s… another thing. A Jedi thing. I was wondering if I could talk to you and your mother about how… Jedi things… operated.” 

“Jedi things?” Raza cracked a smile. “Come on, Din. I know you can do better than that by now.” 

“Laws, or… rules or… something. I just…” Din trailed off again. “I went to visit Grogu. Your friend Luke…there was the other Jedi there, Ahsoka. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me. Apparently she and Luke have this... guideline. He said Grogu- and I had to choose. The Jedi way or the Mandalore way, and I just… something they said stuck with me.”

“What was it?” 

“Jedi forgo attachments. It makes them weak. That’s… apparently why I can’t see him.”

Raza opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, considering. What was that her father used to say? Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. And it all started with love. Or so that ancient saying went. Still, of all people Luke should know that was hardly a decent argument anymore. “Well, between my existence, my parents loving me, me loving Cobb, I’m walking talking proof that isn’t the case anymore,” she pointed out. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got for Din, though. “So is Luke. The only reason why he was able to bring his father out of Darth Vader was through love. The only reason they overthrew the Emperor is love. He loves Leia, he loves Han for some godforsaken reason-” 

“I have no idea who these people are,” Din cut her off. 

“I - not even Leia?” 

When Din didn’t even move, she sighed. “Just… important people. Loved ones. So that’s bullshit, and don’t let Luke tell you different. Forget talking to Cobb, I’m gonna talk to Luke first, what is that, what the Hell is he thinking about?” 

Din shrugged again. “That’s the modern take. Didn’t you say your mother was part of the Old Ways? What would she say?” 

“Probably the same, but she was the one who saw it from all sides. She’s out of town for a couple of days. You want to talk, you’ll have to wait. Guess it’s just as well considering you’re probably gonna need a day or two to get through Cobb’s thick skull.” 

Din laughed, but it sounded - off. A little too forced. The first and only time she had ever heard him laugh it was far lighter. Raza hesitated before reaching out with the Force to feel his mind, and sure enough, the man’s head was an ocean of emotions. And all of them bad. “Din, what else is going on?” when he merely tilted his head upward- his usual when he was trying to feign ignorance, she covered her hand with his to anchor him.  When he went to pull back like her touch burned, she relented, and her humoring him must’ve bothered him about his own reaction, because he stopped short when he would’ve been free of her so they were still making contact. He went quiet and still again, and Raza reached out to his mind a second time out of sheer frustration at his downright emotional constipation that was worse than Cobb’s.

Grief. Confusion. Little bit of hopelessness. And then there was a sudden break in the emotional tempest because of… pain? Physical pain?

The reassuring smile she had plastered on for his benefit dropped. “You’re hurt,” she accused. 

“What?” Din asked- feigned ignorance all over again. 

Raza gave him a Look to show that she had other-worldly reason to know about it and reached out a third time to locate whatever was hurting him enough to derail his thoughts. His left thigh. She leaned back to check it and saw the clean, messily sewn-back-together straight cut in his pants leg. She would know a lightsaber burn anywhere by now. Whatever he’s doing must’ve reached the skin.  “How did that happen? Did you fight someone?” 

“Technically he started it,” Din replied, startlingly honest. He must’ve figured the jig was up. 

 Her frown deepened. “Who did-” her eyebrows shot up. “Luke?!”

 “No, not him. I didn’t even talk to him. I saw him from a distance. Highly doubt he’s the type. I got it before I saw him. That was from this thing.” Din motioned at the Darksaber hilt at his belt. “One of my own people. Or... former people.” 

“What? Why?”

 “It used to be his ancestor’s. Apparently, people with Jedi lineage take their laser swords being passed down very seriously,” he countered, tilting his head pointedly, and then he saw her own passed-down-lightsaber at her hip and instead straightened out to look her in the face again. 

She shot him a warning look, then leaned bac toward in order to pick up the basket in the corner. She turned it over and dropped it down on the ground. She pointed at it. “Leg up.”

 Din obeyed with a grunt of pain. He knew there was no arguing with her.  

Raza knelt in front of him and held out her hand. Din hissed when his wound thrummed for a moment, then an odd feeling passed over it- not pleasant, but not outright painful. After a few seconds, the pain was ebbing away slowly. “What’re you doing?” 

“Force healing. Guess you could call it whipping your cells back into shape so that heals faster.” She looked back at his leg, watching “You said one of yours did this?” 

“No. It was me. Brought it back too close to my leg in a fight.” 

“It’s a learning process,” she offered. “I had a few close calls when I was starting out.”

 “Your father let you use yours as a child?” Din asked, and he felt bad at how scandalized he managed to sound. This Obi-Wan person had sounded wise- a little strange, but he wouldn’t have figured he was the type to give a child such a dangerous weapon. 

 “Not initially. We used wooden swords until I could avoid, well, that.” She motioned at the wound.

Din hummed in acknowledgement, wondering if he should tell her all about his troubles with the Darksaber, too. Maybe she had the same problems. Did all lightsabers get heavier by the second? Still, there was another bantha in the room - figuratively, thankfully, though judging by the Krayt ribcage that now decorated the room, he wouldn’t put it past any of the townsfolk to try.  “He’s not mine.” 

“Hm?”

 “The man I fought. He’s not… he’s not one of mine anymore… or I’m not one of them.” 

Raza’s hand stilled as she waited for an explanation.

 “The Armorer renounced me. I went against the Way. I’m no longer Mandalorian. I took my helmet off in front of people.”

 “Me…?” Raza asked after a moment. 

Din’s heart clenched at the memory of her watching him wearily as he took his helmet off in front of her after they had left Gideon’s ship. She had trusted him with her secret of being a Jedi and he had kept it, and at the time, he needed someone to see him, not the helmet as his world was crumbling around him. And considering his company at the time, she had been the best bet.  It had been an even trade back then- a life-threatening secret for a life-altering secret. Still, she hadn’t been the first, and probablu wouldn’t be the last. And of course he had worded it so she felt guilty. “No. There were… a couple of times before you. I was in a bind shortly after we met. And then Gideon’s ship.” 

“Din, I’m so sorry.”

 “I’m… not. I think that’s what’s bothering me the most about this.” He went quiet again, and Raza squeezed his knee nearest hers reassuringly. 

Then, from the other side of the window they were sitting beside, Cobb cut in: “Y’know this is the second time I’ve seen you two in a compromising position. Should I be worried?” 

They looked at him, and when he offered a teasing grin, before nodding pointedly down. And well, yes, maybe Din facing the interior of the place and her kneeling precariously on her knees and just out of view was compromising - and worse than the last ‘compromising position’ where they had just been talking quietly, shoulder to shoulder. Idiot. 

“Jealous,” Raza accused again, and Cobb winked before looking towards the outskirts of town. His smile dropped and he walked out of view.

Din looked back at Raza. “You’re married now and he’s still like that?” 

“Think it’s just with you and me, honestly. Only person I ever made friends with as quickly as I did with him is you.”

“Well, with all due respect, I’m not interested. And he should know that by now,” Din added, loud enough for Cobb to hear the last bit. 

Raza slapped her chest overdramatically .”Ouch, that hurts my very happily married ego.” Then, as only she could: “Speaking of, how’s Mina?” 

Din took the sudden arrival of a small crowd of townsfolk as a blessing and a reason to mull it over. He hadn’t lost her now, had he? He wasn’t certain. He began to reply, only to see a reflection of somebody off the side of his speeder just outside the window. And the someone wasn’t Cobb. Further investigation had him noticing that the entire square was suddenly empty. He leaned over to check for Cobb. The other man was standing just a few feet back, staring at something - the owner of the reflection, by the look of it, hand set firmly over his gun- waiting like he was about to draw. “Something’s wrong,” he reported before bolting for the door. Raza followed him. 

The pair of them reached the doorway at the same time, and Din caught the red glint of laser fire out of the corner of his eye and caught Raza around the shoulders and yanked her back to keep her from getting hit. 

Ari, directly on the other side of the door wasn’t so lucky. The rounds hit him and he crumpled to the ground. 

Once Raza heard another round of gunfire go off and that same red light headed straight for Cobb she threw one hand out to Force push him back. It had been a second too late and the round caught him on the shoulder, and the Marshal hit the ground hard with a yell. 

There had been an indignant “What?!” from the other side of the square. 

Raza drew her lightsaber and ignited it, closing the distance between her and Cobb, then faced the direction the gunfire had come from -and froze the second she set eyes on the newcomer’s silhouette.  She knew that silhouette. She used to know it well. “Cad?” When she saw Din come up behind her and level his gun for a shot at the invader, she moved the blade into his eyeline. “Hold on.” 

“He just shot Cobb!”

“I’m well aware,” she hissed. “Cobb, you okay?” 

The man hissed around a groan, but that was better than nothing. “Ow?” 

“Help him,” she instructed Din, and Din did as he was told, keeping his gun trained on the gunslinger all the while. He got Cobb to his feet, hardly surprised when Cobb tried to stumble upright on his own. Din retrieved Cobb’s gun from the ground and pressed it into the man’s free hand. 

The gunslinger across from her who had been focusing very intently on her lightsaber and looking visibly more angry by the second paused, squinting at her face for a few loaded moments. The snarl on his face immediately dropped once it came into focus. “... Torchbug?” 

“Raz…?” Cobb murmured, the obvious question going unasked.

Cad turned his attention back to Cobb. When it looked like his hand twitched towards his gun, so Raza stepped closer to Cobb and brandished her saber again. 

Cad took the hint and looked at her. “What’s a Kenobi doing out in the middle of nowhere, Kid?” 

Din looked between the pair of them. He had learned several things during his visits in town, and one such thing was that only a small tiny handful of people knew that was Raza and Selene’s true surname. Because apparently, that name came with a lot of risk on top of the risk from being a Jedi.  “If he knows you’re a Kenobi is that good or bad for us?”

Raza shushed him, then looked back at Cad. “Probably the same thing you were since we’ve seen each other last,” Raza pointed out. 

“Been a long time,” the gunslinger mused, then nodded at Cobb. “You putting your lot in with nobodies like that?” 

“That’s my husband you just shot. This is my town.” 

The bounty hunter’s snarl changed in favor of looking full-on confused. “Husband? You’re old enough to get married now?” 

“Been a while,” she parroted him. “I’d love to catch up the second you put your gun away.” 

“Can’t do that just yet. Trigger Happy over there’s your husband?” 

“Other one.” 

“Might’ve known. Sweet talker. Seems more your type  Ain’t he a little too old for you?” 

Cobb groaned again, and Raza wasn’t sure if it was from pain or the comment. 

“How the Hell do you know what my type is?” Raza asked. 

“Kept tabs on you for a few years. Bounties on your heads were good for all of you.  Not quite good enough, though, with all the trouble your father caused me.” 

Well, that was just vaguely threatening enough. She made a show of getting a better hold on her lightsaber. 

Cad looked from the saber, to her, then at Din when he sidled up beside Raza to line up a better shot with his gun, waiting. He looked him up and down, clearly noting the Mandalorian armor, then looked back at Raza. “Where is your old man,  Kid? You all laying…” he looked around at the buildings. “This low?” 

“Didn’t you just say you kept tabs?” 

“As I said, money wasn’t good enough the last few years. More important targets. I lost track.”

Raza froze and stared at the bounty hunter, looking for any trace of that statement being a low blow meant to distract her. His kind had a hell of a poker face, but he always ended up giving himself away. His face remained neutral, waiting. He didn’t know? She asked as much to test the waters.

“Figured with all that went down with your people you’d be long gone. With our history, I thought that was a good thing. For the both of us. He in town?” 

“Why? Did the price go up?” 

“Not yet. I’m only here for business with the town. And there’s no prices on your husband’s head yet either. So long as your husband listens to our offer. Just would like to see your old man. Have a chat for old time’s sake.” 

Raza didn’t like the implication there. If there even was one. She could never be sure, even as a teenager. Cad was a lot of things, but someone who would use her father against her probably wasn’t one of them. She de-ignited her lightsaber and let her hand fall to her side. A serious risk, but Din was as good of a shot as any if he tried anything, and he hadn’t put his weapon down when she did.  “He’s dead, Cad,” she replied. “Died helping take out the Death Star. Darth Vader killed him.” 

Cad’s face fell. 

She had seen Cad angry, antsy, skeptical- this was the first time she had seen him look conflicted. He was still for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped, and he took his turn to holster his gun.  He was silent for another few seconds, taking a very vested interest in the rock at his heel. Then: “Vader? Anakin? After all that?” 

Her heart lurched. She had forgotten Obi-Wan had been honest with him one of the last times Cad had been in Tatooine. She had just been a little girl then. Cad had strolled into a shop, ready for an argument, ready to taunt and had noted Anakin’s absence, and Obi-Wan had told him he had joined the Dark Side. Maybe it was to throw him off, maybe it was just because her father had needed to say it out loud himself. Still, leave it to Cad to simplify the worst part of that entire ordeal. Cad didn’t move for a while, apparently still thinking the news over, and she and Din took the moment to help Cobb to his feet carefully. She crossed to his injured side in order to hover her hand at his shoulder blade to try to start the healing process. 

Cad remained unmoving for another few moments, and the silence grew deafening. He looked around, then spotted the bar through the cantina window.  “I need a drink,” he announced before heading into the bar. 

Raza watched him go, then went to follow him in, but Cobb caught her elbow, shifting enough in his effort that Din had to stumble to catch him without hurting him. “Raz, you ain’t goin’ in there. I- shit, Ari.” He looked towards the Deputy, who was out cold at the steps of the bar- or worse. “Who the Hell is this guy? How do you know him?”

“It’ll be fine. We go way back.”

“And how the Hell can you be certain of that after he just tried to gun us down?” 

“He knew my father-” 

“Everybody in the goddamn galaxy knows your father-” 

“No, not just knew of.  As in knew directly. They were… I don’t know. Enemies. Rivals. Something. He saved my dad’s life once. Tried to kill him a few more than that. Called himself my uncle back in the day but it was just to annoy my dad. It’s a whole thing. But if that stops post-humorously, well…”

“Then all the more reason for you to follow him in-” Cobb went wide-eyed in a panic. “Baer. Everybody. I just told everybody to get in the bar. Is he-” 

“Cobb, calm down. Cad’s only gonna go after the one he’s getting paid to go after. Right now, that doesn’t seem to be any of us, or we’d all be dead.  Din, get Cobb out of here, and get Ari help.”

“You sure?” Din asked. 

“Positive, go.” 

“Din, do not-” Cobb hissed, but Din was already hauling him away, motioning at Jo and a couple of others who had heard the exchange and had scrambled to get Ari up. “First sign of trouble you holler.” 

“I will.”

She walked into the Cantina, where Cad had sat dead center at the bar. Baer had apparently already poured him a drink, but when she looked the bartender’s way, he shot her a panicked look. ‘Go’ she mouthed, and he was more than happy to follow the order. The others who had been inside followed suit.

Good. At least now people were safe. She wished her racing heart would get the picture though. 

Cad waited for him to leave before he spoke again. “His own apprentice. That’s what you people called it, wasn’t it?  What a way to go. Thought for sure your father would’ve outlived me.”

“For what it’s worth, he probably thought the same.” 

“You’ve inherited his sense of humor.” 

She allowed a smile, then squared her shoulders. “What’re you doing here, Cad? You work for the Pykes now? What, they’re sending you after people who don’t fold for them?” 

“They pay nice.” 

“Come on. Spice? Doesn’t seem your speed.”

“Times change, Torchbug.”

“Not enough for you to drop the nickname, though.” 

“I said times. Not habits. You’ll always be that golden-haired little runt stuck to your father’s side in Anchorhead.” 

“Then out of habit, you know I can’t abide those people trying to take over my town. We’ve been through enough.” 

“I’m just the messenger for now.” 

“Don’t make us your enemy.”

“I ain’t doin’ anything yet.” 

“So don’t. Work for us instead.” 

“Don’t know about that. Working for a cold-blooded killer with Empire ties ain’t my speed.”

“Says the cold blooded killer,” Raza answered without a second thought, and Cad snarled at her,, but said nothing. She continued. “ They’re a gang. Play your cards right for us, you can have Tatooine’s bounties all to yourself. One’s a temporary gig with good money. One’s constant money til you’re all set to retire.” 

“I just shot two of your people.”

“One’s been through worse. And the other one was a loose cannon, it was bound to happen.” It was a far colder response than she felt, but at this rate, she knew what to say. “Might have to make a case for yourself if he doesn’t pull through.” 

Cad continued this. “And your Fett man will… be willing to do business? Never was the entertaining type to me.” 

“If he’s not, I can rig the game, remember?” she waved her hand pointedly. “So, a temporary arrangement with a gang who’ll just have infighting in no time, or a planet where you’re the top dog? Besides, money wasn’t entirely everything to you, if I recall. You like usefulness. You’ve got a Jedi, probably the second best sharpshooter aside from you if you didn’t just wreck his arm, and a Mandalorian. You ever need muscle for a favor, you’re in good shape.”

“Compelling argument. You didn’t get that skill from your father.” 

“That one’s all my mother. Well, and the guy you just shot.” She straightened out. “So, what’ll it be?” 

“How do I know I can trust you?” Cad narrowed his eyes. 

“You don’t. Same as I know I can’t trust you.”

Cad looked away. “It would bother your father something fierce that we’re working together…” 

“Right now, I think I have to make that sacrifice.” 

Cad eyed her again, though she could see he was thinking hard about something. She knew when a man was running numbers in his head. “Then you’ve got a deal. For old time’s sake.” He reached over and took the bottle of liquor and the couple of glasses Baer had abondoned on the counter, poured the pair of them a shot and slid one her way. He raised his own a moment later. “To your father,” he had announced before towning his, and she followed suit, but not before one thing came to mind: and may he forgive me. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, the news that they had teamed up with the very person who had just shot the Sheriff and Deputy of Freetown had made quick work around town. 

Din hovered near Raza nonstop after Cad had left with the promise that he’d be in touch ‘and know if you crossed me.’  He knew more than anybody what teaming up with such an enemy did to people in dire times, and he wanted to be there as much as possible. Even if that just meant staying nearby when Raza had stayed in the medbay as the doctor patched up Cobb and ‘did what they could’ for Ari. Cobb had a good chance of pulling through, the Deputy… less so. 

Rumors had already been flying in the few hours since. ‘Did you hear what Raza did?’ ‘She’s supposed to be the brains of that operation.’ ‘She just doomed us all the rest of the way.’ ‘Now we’ll definitely be taken over.’

Raza had taken it all in stride, ignoring everything, and if anybody had confronted her, she’d promise to handle it.  It was nightfall by the time Raza had assured Din enough that she was safe and could handle things if Cad showed up again. She had suggested he get food, and Baer, who had also been eager to check up on her, had volunteered his cooking for the job. He had accepted the meal, and then headed right back to Cobb and Raza’s house, where the town doctor and a few people had set Cobb up. It occurred to him then that he hadn’t been beyond the living room of the place, and so when he went searching for them, he felt like he was intruding. 

He followed one hallway til there was light reflecting off one wall and followed it to a doorway.

The other two were there, and the sight to behold was just a swap of what it had been months ago. Raza had nearly died helping him on Gideon’s ship, between the fight with Gideon himself and her volunteering to take as many Darktroopers on as she could to buy time before Luke had come in to save the day. She had been an exhausted, bruised and bloodied mess, more so than him by the time the ordeal had finished. He remembered checking up on her that night on the Slave I, hardly surprised to see her out cold in her bunk, with Cobb crammed up into the tight space between her body and the inner corner of the bunk, head propped against the wall at a weird angle like he had been holding himself up before he lost the fight against sleep. Because he had been. At the time, Cobb was vaguely aware that the Kenobis and Fetts had some sort of bad history and he didn’t trust Boba not to come after Raza at her weakest.

The sight that met him was just about the same, but the roles were reversed. Cobb was out cold and she was all but wrapped around him head facing towards the door, and her lightsaber was on the nightstand beside them, just a hair out of reach. 

That same yearning hit him square in the chest once again. He really did need to check up on Mina, if only for his own peace of mind. At least the rich and powerful didn’t have some law against doing so. 

Raza stirred, and Din announced himself so she wasn’t in for a shock when she found him hovering. “He okay?” 

“He’ll be fine. It’s the ‘be’ that I’m worried about. I healed him as much as I could so he should be in good shape, but rest is key to keep it that way. You want a motivational speech to get our people on the job, you’ll get it, but that’s as far as I’m letting it go for now.  He’ll probably try to get back to work by tomorrow if he had his way, especially now that we got a direct threat. Go figure. Cad showing up might’ve been the motivation, as much trouble as he was.” 

“You sure he’ll play nice?” Din asked. 

“No, not at all, but… I know him enough. If we look competent enough, he’ll stick with us. If not, well, a word to your friends and he’ll be done within the week.” 

“Not if I get him first.” 

“Hey now, there’s a line, and I’m up front,” she countered. When she heard Din huff out a laugh through his helmet’s modulator, she smiled, but it faded. “I just.. I do know what I’m doing with him. I’m not trusting him, I just… Cad’s a dangerous man, but he does have a code… somewhere under that stupid hat of his. If he was entirely sold on being on the Pykes’ side, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I did just now.” 

“You don’t have to defend yourself.  I trust you,” it was nice, Din realized, finally being able to say that out loud and meaning every word. “Fett and Fennec trusting you and this plan might be another story.” 

“Yeah, well, being like my father might be a selling point for Cad. Not being entirely like him might be a selling point for Boba. They both essentially want a throne. We’re just lucky it’s not the same one.” 

“And what happens when it is?” 

“Not Cad’s style, but if it ever did come to that, not our problem. They can kill each other off for all I care.” 

“Hell of a thing to say about your uncle.” 

“I never called him that. He did. No relation at all. Think it’s just a mock spiritual title.”

“Your family makes less and less sense the more I hear about them.”

From beside Raza, Cobb grunted and cracked one eye open. “Try marrying into it and having to get the low-down that way.”

They had all made small talk after that, occasionally fussing over Cobb, and the marshal himself repeatedly announced how he didn’t need to be fussed over, all while physically all too pleased about it. 

The next morning, Selene had returned to town. Within a few minutes, the local gossips had filled her in on all the goings on, and she had all but marched to Cobb and Raza’s place. She immediately went to work scolding Cobb once the man had practically sprung up out of bed and started to show just how capable he was of getting back on the job by finishing a few odd-jobs around the house and then arguing that he absolutely had to do rounds this morning if they all had a fight to be prepared for. Selene had practically cornered the man in his own house to the point he had stumbled back straight onto one of the couches, and she had gone on about how a rested marshal was far better than a dead one, a burdened daughter was much better than a widowed daughter, and other comparisons. 

Din had also filled Boba in about the details with Cad, and while the former bounty hunter was less than thrilled, he was more than happy to have another decent player in their ranks, and he would agree to sending jobs entirely his way- with the added clause that he could put Cad down at the first sign of trouble, which was wholeheartedly agreed on with the others.

Din had loved every second of it, and he was hardly surprised. Toughest man this side of Tatooine could keep calm staring down a deadly bounty hunter, but would immediately fold to the orders of a mother figure. It was… very Cobb.  

It wasn’t until the evening that Cobb had negotiated just what Raza assumed he would- a conversation with the townsfolk to see if any of them were up for the fight with the Pykes. 

Things had gone from promising to rocky the moment Cad had come strolling into the bar, at Raza’s request, unbeknownst to anyone else. The townsfolk had been deadly quiet at the sight, and Cad had made his new outlook known: “Your Lady Leader here and I made an arrangement. I’ll be in your corner. Just don’t get in my way.” 

The townsfolk had been extremely skeptical, but Cobb and Din had recalled their fight with the Dragon, and it had been enough to bolster them. 

By the time the meeting had cleared out, it was just Din, Raza, Cad and Cobb still in the bar. 

Din had taken Selene aside to ask his questions, Raza had gone to help Baer close up, and that had left Cad and Cobb. The bounty hunter had sidled up to Cobb, who went borderline rigid at the presumed conversation to come, making a show of putting his hand over his gun. “Hey, no hard feelings about the…” he made a gun motion with his thumb and pointer finger. “Just business, you see.” 

“Oh, hard feelings absolutely felt and not relenting anytime soon, Pal,” was Cobb’s immediate response before he had taken a bottle of whiskey and walked back over to Din. 

Cad shrugged. He didn’t mean it anyway. Still, that was his part done. He pushed off the bar and turned to leave, only to nearly collide with another woman entering the bar. 

She was older, human, golden hair was greying. Almost looked like…  he couldn’t help the crooked smile that grew on his face. Of course. Raza had said ‘we’ for a reason. “Selene Rand. “Of all the cantinas in the galaxy, you walk into mine.” 

The woman looked his way, and offered a look that matched his own. “Cad Bane. I  heard you were in town. And it is Kenobi. It has been for all the years you’ve known that fact. I’m a widow, not a divorcee.” 

“Eh. it’s apparently been a while. Man can dream, can’t he?” 

“You never did know when to quit.  Is there a reason you’re back in my daughter’s bar?” 

“Your daughter’s?” he repeated. “This is hers? Willingly? You sure she’s Kenobi’s kid?” 

“He wasn’t always the stick in the mud you made him out to be.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re dodging the question.” 

“Seeing as your husband’s gone, your family name still owes me a Hell of a favor. I trust you and the kid to honor that. Seeing as this might just be the way to keep it, here I am.” 

“That sounds far more like you. And here I was thinking you were doing it just for old time’s sake.” 

“You give me far too much credit, Selene.” 

Across the bar, the other three were staring at the exchange with extreme apprehension. Cobb was finally the first one to speak: “Raz, this could just be the bloodloss talking here, but I’ve got no idea what the Hell is going on. Is… is your Ma flirting with the guy that shot me, or is she about to stab him? Because I’m really hoping for the latter but I can’t tell, and that’s concerning. And I’m fairly sure I should be insulted.” 

“I’ve got no idea, and it passed concerning for me the second he said her name.” Raza admitted. “Hey! Closing time!” she called. “Especially for people from out of town.” 

“Message received, Torchbug,” Cad replied. He backed up, tipped his hat at Selene, then went on his way. 

“I hate him,” Cobb announced after a moment. 

“He’s not entirely terrible so long as you’ve got something to offer him,” Selene replied as she approached them. She was met with two skeptical looks and a very precarious helmet tilt. “Oh stop, he’s still rotten regardless. And you.” She hooked Cobb’s good arm, relenting only a little bit when he hissed and flinched like the movement had traveled to his other side. “Are out far later than promised, and it’s my turn to take a look at that shoulder.”

“Aw come on, Selene, I’m fine. Maybe I just need to be on my feet to get the blood flowin’ right-” 

“Now, young man.” 

“I - yes, ma’am.” Cobb shot the others a defeated look before he let Selene pull him out of the place. 

That left Din and Raza, and Din followed her to the door, and the pair watched as Cad disappeared into the horizon. 

“I hope this works. For all your sakes,” Din pointed out. 

“It’s gonna be a damn mess, but… we’ve got a pretty good team so far. I think it will.” 

“Any other family connections we should know about?”

“I mean, I could get Leia involved in the whole thing, that would shut it down right quick, but… that’s bound to cause an interplanetary incident. And she’s got a lot more to worry about.” 

“... Which one is she again?” 

When Raza turned to look at him and he gave a half-hearted shrug in response. “Leia? Princess Leia? General Organa?” 

Din looked away pointedly. 

“You’re hopeless.” 

“I’m starting to learn that’s a good thing.” 

She laughed then, then nodded back towards the house. “Come on. Let’s get some rest. Got a feeling that we’re going to have a very long, angry holo-chat with Luke in the morning.”

Well, he hardly found any fault in that.

[captainkappa]

Fanfic:: In Other Hands

When Din and Cobb go to take care of some slavers, Cobb is disarmed and has to improvise with the weapons that have fallen off Din’s utility belt.

Din/cobb, post-season 2, canon-typical violence

Shout out to coffeequill for betaing!

Link to AO3

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As Cobb picks off another slaver running in fear of his life, he realizes how regular this is becoming. And it has all started with a meeting with the new self-proclaimed ‘King of Tatooine.’

He has invited all kinds of authority to Jabba’s old palace, now his. Even though Mos Peglo isn’t on the map anymore, Cobb wakes up to a stern-faced woman at his front door all the same. The conversation on the ride over hasn’t been great, but it does confirm the rumor that floated around Tatooine in the past few weeks.

The new king is the Boba Fett.

He has heard stories about Boba Fett, who hadn’t? Late enough in a cantina in Mos Eisley, it wouldn’t take long before someone started talking about their buddy who had family who had a friend who got taken in by the famed bounty hunter, never to return.

So yeah, Cobb is man enough to admit that, as he’s led through the dark, old palace, he is a little on edge. At the door, no one even asks for his blaster, which is a clear enough message as he’d ever heard.

His heart damn near plummets when he faces the man himself though.

Because if he is the rightful owner of the suit of armor Cobb had, he is properly fucked.

And damn did he ever look better in it, all polished and properly painted. He could see the glint of what might be his old armor behind him, on proud display.

Cobb tries to shake himself out of his fear and take in the rest of the room. The woman who led him there takes position on the other side of Fett. There are other people in the chamber, clearly all from Tatooine, looking just as scrappy as he. He tries his best to look his most mayoral as Fett starts talking about his plans for the planet. It is… far more humanitarian than he expected, with plans laid out for wiping out the slavers who take more than they give.

Cobb instantly likes Fett way more.

Then he is asking they introduce themselves and when the line gets to Cobb, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m Cobb Vanth, marshal of Mos Pelgo. And I hoped Mando mentioned that I wasn’t the one to destroy the jetpack.”

Boba looks at him for a moment before letting out a laugh that echoed in the chamber. He turns around to face the suit of armor.

But then it moves.

He can’t help the words coming out of his mouth, interrupting the new king.

“Mando, is that you?”

And with that, the entire meeting is thrown into disarray. Cobb barely pays attention to the others as he meets Mando halfway up the steps to clasp his hand in both of his, making sure he’s real. Questions are flying out of his mouth a mile a minute; where’s the kid? When did he get back? How the hell do he and Boba know each other?

Mando and Boba share a look and with a shrug, the king dismisses them, the other authority figures looking confused as Mando leads him back into the palace, where they can catch up in peace.

Cobb tries not to think about how Mando’s hand doesn’t leave his until they’ve arrived at the room.

It’s been a couple of months since they first met, but Mando keeps making his way in Cobb’s memories. He tries to play it off as simple appreciation, he can appreciate the pure physicality of everything Mando had done, that was normal. But the longer he thinks about how Mando handled his son, the affection that could be stored in shoulders and head tilts, he has to admit that he’s harboring something else fiercely in his heart.

But those thoughts leave temporarily as Mando describes everything that happened since he left and Maker, if it doesn’t bring a tear to his eye seeing the restraint to which he described being separated from his son. Cobb can tell he’s not telling him everything that happened that day, but he doesn’t mind. Thankfully, Mando has managed to get contact of the Jedi since then, so he can see him and visit occasionally, but it’s just not the same.

Cobb is considering putting his hand on top of Mando’s when there’s a knock at the door and Boba, helmetless, lets himself in. He’s just as intimidating a figure with or without it, scars telling enough of a story as to the character of the man who proclaimed himself king.

Conversation flits between business and pleasure, stories about Boba, Mando, and Fennec on Tatooine. It’s clear the three of them have been planet side for a couple of weeks, if the body language between them is anything to go by. Cobb lets himself feel a little offended before letting it go. Mando clearly had some shit to parse through and Boba and Fennec had been there for him.

Any anxiety Cobb had about meeting the king has left. He leaves the palace with a scheduled date to take out some slavers near Mos Pelgo.

-=-

And now here Cobb is, a couple missions in, ducked behind some crates, picking off slavers one by one as they run out of the cave where Mando has since been let loose. He’s almost sad to miss seeing how Mando fights, especially if the terrified looks of those who thought they’d escaped are anything to do by.

It’s just them on this mission. He takes small pride when Mando vouched for his skill in front of Fett, letting him know they didn’t need any more help. It’s nice to know he’s earned Mando’s trust.

Ducking behind the crate, he’s swapping out power cells when Mando gets thrown out of the cave, rolling with a low grunt. He’s quickly followed by three of the biggest guy’s Cobb has ever seen, human all of them.

“Mando!”

He gets a hand waved at him for his trouble as Mando staggers to his feet, pulling out the spear on his back. At one point, Cobb had wondered if it was just decorative, but seeing Mando fight with it, as it sings in the air, the impact it makes on arms and heads, reveals it to be anything but.

But his fancy fighting with the goons isn’t helping him in a three on one match, especially with how long they’ve been at it already.

He takes another solid hit and goes flying farther away from Cobb, items from his belt going spinning into the sand.

Cobb shoves the battery pack in the blaster and tries to take a couple shots at the slavers before the trigger clicks.

Jammed.

“Dank farrik,” he yells, slapping the side of the blaster. All that gets him is a stinging palm.

He glances up to see all three goons going for Mando. Thinking quick, he fishes the knife he keeps stored in his boot and chucks it at the closest guy, only it goes lower than expected and pings off the armor.

Shit.

Cobb quickly scans for any weapon available as he hears Mando continue to get his ass handed to him. There’s a knife, but Cobb doesn’t trust his aim a second time, but it’s the thing beside it that catches his eye. It looks like a hilt, with what must be a spring-loaded blade inside, even if the size seems wrong for such a weapon.

As if he can tell what he’s thinking, Mando yells from across the way, “Don’t touch it!”

Well, with an invitation like that.

Cobb knows he’ll only have one shot at this. He vaults over the crate and scoops up the hilt. He gets a brief glance at it, figures the best place to hold it without hurting himself before charging in.

He takes a running leap before latching himself around the closest guy. He pulls his arm back for a swing.

He pushes the button and instead of a vibro-blade, a jet-black beam of light cuts through the man’s head as smooth as bantha butter.

“Fuck!” Cobb yells, falling off the man as his other arm screams in pain. He scrambles off the man’s back as he falls forward, dead as a doornail.

The blade stays there, letting out a faint humming as it lies in the sand, partially buried from where the man fell. The sand bubbles around the blade, heating up impossibly fast as it sits there, looking like a hole to the middle of the planet against the glare of the sand.

Before he can comprehend the power of the sword, a noise in front of him told him Mando still had trouble on his hands.

Cobb struggles to his feet, trying to pull out the blade as cleanly as possible before walking forward.

“Hey!” he yells, throat going dry as he catches a glance at the state of Mando, shoulders heaving and armor not looking terribly pretty.

That at least gets one of the goon’s attention, who looks at the blade in his hand and at his dead buddy.

“Leave ‘im alone.”

The guy doesn’t appreciate that and gets out his own blade, long and curved like a machete, before charging.

Cobb has never been a swordfighter, so he tries to go with motion that felt natural, a two-handed grip as he raises the sword to block the incoming attack.

He’s not expecting the blade to cut through the knife like it’s nothing. His balance thrown off, he tries to use the momentum to shove into the other man, forcing him to stumble back.

The other man looks just as surprised as Cobb feels, but he has a slightly better grip on the strange weapon. He takes the slavers hesitation to lunge with a swipe to the chest. The man goes down quick, a visible molten line through his armor.

It’s at that instant the smell of burn hair and flesh hits him. He falls to his knees, blade slipping through his fingers. He hears it sizzle and pop against the sand, but he can’t bring himself to right it.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at what lay before him.

“Cobb?” His head snaps up as he sees Mando blocking one of the suns. His armor is littered with blaster residue and a pauldron is hanging to his arm by a thread.

He should ask if he’s okay, if he’s handled the other guy.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks instead, pointing to the black blade.

Mando’s shoulder’s drop in a way that makes him expect a lecture, but then the Mandalorian stiffens, rushing to his side with a speed he wouldn’t have expected after that fight.

“You’re hurt!” And Cobb looks down at where he is looking before quickly looking away.

His left vambrace has been cut in two. Cobb only gets a glance at the wound before he has to look away, gut clenching. There is a huge gash on his arm that already looks cauterized.

“Easy, easy,” Mando says quietly, head suddenly right by his shoulder. “C’mon.”

“I can still walk,” Cobb says. He can tell he’s not convinced as steadier hands help him to his feet.

He swears he can hear Mando laugh as the wind kicks up and he feels his scarf be pulled up over his nose.

The last thing he hears before he passes out is Mando’s low voice saying, “We’ll be back at Boba’s soon.”

-=-

When Cobb wakes up, his head feels like it weighs as much as a bantha.

He puts two and two together when his head lolls around and he glimpses at the dim room around him, at white bandages around his arm. With no room looking nearly this nice at Mos Pelgo, he must be in Boba’s palace and he must be pumped full of drugs after the fight.

There’s movement close to his arm and he looks up and Mando is right there, beside him, fidgeting with something.

“Hey,” Cobb says, hoping the feeling of cotton in his mouth will pass.

Mando sits up straighter, visor turning to face him. “Hey, how do you feel?”

“Like my arm has been trampled to death, but it’s attached, so I can’t be too mad. You alright?”

He gets a head tilt at that. “I’m not the one in the medical wing.”

Cobb waves him away with his good arm. “Yeah, yeah, but you still took a beating from those guys.”

The helmet ducks down, and Cobb bites his lip to avoid blabbing about how cute the gesture is. “I’m fine.”

Cobb clicks his tongue. “Now don’t you go looking like that.”

Another head tilt, but Cobb continues, “If you feel bad about what happened back there, don’t. I won’t hear of it. You told me not to touch the laser sword and I still did. And I’d do it again if it meant saving your hide.”

He blanches, having wanted to keep that last part to his chest.

Mando, to his credit, doesn’t comment on it. He reaches down and unclips the hilt from his side and ignites it. Cobb can’t help but flinch back into the bed as it comes to life, humming in that eerie way as it did in the desert. It’s somehow more striking here, the glowing outline more obvious in the dim light of the room.

“It’s called a darksaber, Mando begins, “I won it on Moff Gideon’s ship by accident. It… it’s a symbol of authority and power for Mandalorians.”

“Oh, is that all?”

That gets him a huff of a laugh from Mando as he extinguishes the blade and slips it back on. A quiet descends into the room. Now, Cobb can handle silence and he can handle being still. He just can’t handle both at the same time.

“I hope Boba doesn’t charge me for room and board.”

“He was impressed, said you could stay here as long as needed.”

Oh. The knot of worry that had appeared out of nowhere unravels in Cobb’s chest. He’d been at least expecting a debt of some kind, hackles still raised even if he liked the man, the distrust of authority running deep.

“We’ll probably get called for more jobs after you’re healed, though.”

“That sounds like the opposite of a problem,” Cobb says with a smirk.

A sudden tiredness floats over him like a blanket and he closes his eyes for what feels like a second but could be any amount of time.

There’s a moment where he thinks Mando has left the room, before he registers the feeling of soft fingers on his hand. He cracks open an eye and sees Mando still sitting where he was, his gloves off as he runs his thumb over his knuckles, catching in scars and pocket marks Cobb had collected throughout the years.

Cobb shifts and Mando’s hand stills. Acting on instinct and ignoring the feeling that floods through him, he holds Mando’s hand as tightly as he dare with the bandage.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Mando says, voice quiet.

“I just woke up.”

Mando lets out a huff that might be considered a laugh. “You were only asleep for half an hour.”

“Alright, then you gotta go to bed too.”

“Cobb…”

“Mando…”

“It’s Din.”

He swallows down his feelings once more, not trusting himself in this drugged up state to say more. “Alright, Din, go to bed. You got roughed up too.”

“Alright,” his voice trails off but then he’s clearing his throat and saying, “Thank you. I- I haven’t had the chance to say that yet.”

This time, Cobb is able to keep the words close to his chest as he drifts back to sleep.

Anytime, partner.

[harrylee94]

The Tournament - Chapter 14

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: Jo stared them, and then up at him for a few moments, before flinging herself into his arms. He winced from the sudden pressure on his bruised body but he held her tight as she thanked him over and over and over again, and he spun her around on the spot to elicit a laugh from her before setting her down again. He’d had no idea how much this would mean to her, but from the way he was still stunned over it himself, he probably should have guessed.

Notes: Not quite so exciting a chapter this time, but still a little emotional.

Chapter 13

——————————————————————

“Welcome to Clan Krayt Dragon.” - Cobb

“Arm out straight,” the tailor said, holding their measuring tape out as Cobb complied, muttering to themself as they held it from his shoulder to his wrist, then batted his arm back down to write something down quickly before returning to his side. “Stand to attention.”

Cobb made a face as it pulled some of his tender muscles, but smirked a little at the snicker he heard from the corner where Jo was sitting.

It felt like he was in a dream. He’d beaten Jaonar, won the Tournament and revealed his face, but then something that hadn’t even occurred in his wildest dreams had happened. He was a knight. He was Ser Cobb Vanth of Mos Pelgo. The head of his own Clan; Clan Krayt Dragon! And then Din, the Prince, had accepted him and offered him the honour of being his Protector.

He had to pinch himself to make sure it was real.

He’d been sent off to see the physician in quick order after that though, and they’d poked and prodded him all over, forcing him to have a quick wash before rubbing oils and salves into his bruised skin and the abrasions he’d suffered. They’d wrapped his shoulder and warned him not to strain it too much for the next few days to make sure the muscles recovered properly, and then they’d handed him over to the tailor.

And Jo.

Apparently she’d been sent there by the Armourer to get his measurements at the same time as the tailor, to make sure everything was done efficiently.

“Measurements for what?” he’d asked as the tailor positioned him in the centre of the room.

“For your armour, of course.”

“Armour? But I’ve already got armour.”

She’d snorted and looked at him like he was an idiot. “You’ve got second hand crap that doesn’t fit you and only works for jousting. You need better armour.”

And so he found himself here, with someone he barely knew and was afraid to ask the name of running their fingers down his back to measure him for who knew what. Almost every inch of him had been measured by this point (though thankfully they’d gone around the delicates); around his neck, chest, biceps, wrists, thighs, ankles, the length of his foot, floor to inner thigh, floor to hip, hips, waist… The list went on and seemed inexhaustible.

“I’ve got everything I need,” the tailor said at long last, and Cobb sighed in relief, ready to sit down, but then Jo pulled out her own measuring tape and he groaned.

“Can’t you just get the measurements off of them?” he asked, hoping for more than just a moment of rest.

“I need different measurements,” Jo said with a grin.

“Why does that sound like a lie?”

The Armourer’s apprentice shrugged, and that’s when he knew it was a lie.

“Now, I will be working on your wardrobe, Ser Cobb,” the tailor said as Jo got started on her own measurements, simply using nudges and prods to push Cobb into place rather than telling him to move.

“My-- my wardrobe?” Cobb spluttered. He’d never had more than a few changes of clothes before, enough to stuff into a bag at a moment’s notice if necessary, but they were expecting him to have multiple changes of clothes? “I really don’t think-”

“You’re the Protector of the Prince, soon to be Witch King of Mandalore,” Jo butted in with a light slap to his good shoulder. “You need to dress the part.”

“I…” he started, but found himself stuck on the thought that he was the next Protector. Again.

“As I was saying,” the tailor continued as they brought out a pad of paper and a pencil, quickly sketching something as they talked, “it’s my role to ensure that you have the appropriate clothes for your life as a knight and as the Protector. I’m aware you are more used to the practicality of what you wore in the stables, so for now I will keep from suggesting skirts or gowns, though I did design a few for Mand’alor the Beloved that she said were still quite practical when it came to unexpected combat…”

“Uh, yeah, no dresses, please,” Cobb said, not sure he’d be able to handle so much fabric all at once.

The tailor hummed and continued to scribble on their pad. “I can find a few things you could wear until we’ve managed to sew a few garments for you, but your outfit for the coronation has to be perfect!” They turned the pad around to show him. “Thoughts?”

“Uh…”

The sketch was quite simple, and yet deceptively detailed in the way some of the lines were drawn; it was of a figure in a form-fitting doublet with a high collar over a shirt with long sleeves, and a belt around the middle. High boots had also been drawn, and what must have been hose on the legs, because those did not look baggy enough to be trousers. There was also the scribble of a design on the doublet’s chest and collar that he couldn’t quite decipher, and lines that hinted at a cloak or cape of some sort.

“That means he likes it,” Jo said before he could formulate any real thoughts on the matter, and he glared at her.

“Wait, wait, I didn’t say that,” he said, pointing at her, then turning back to the tailor. “It’s… I like the… the shirt, and the boots.”

They smiled at him encouragingly. “Okay, that’s good. What about the doublet?”

He winced. “I’m sorry, but I’m not used to anything that… fancy. I don’t think I’d be comfortable wearing something like that.”

The tailor nodded thoughtfully, pulling the pad back and turning to a new page. “Why don’t you tell me what sort of thing you like to wear, and we can work from there.” They paused. “What did you wear to the funeral?”

Cobb looked away, frowning at the memory of standing at the pyre all day, of the smoke that still clung to what he’d worn. “I wore a red shirt, and a red scarf.”

The tailor was silent, probably waiting for some elaboration, but when he didn’t give them any more details they nodded and went back to their sketches.

“You are so helpful, Ser Cobb,” Jo said sarcastically, her tape wrapped around his middle and a pencil of her own stuck behind her ear.

“Don’t call me that,” Cobb huffed. “It’s still Cobb. Just because I have a title now doesn’t mean I’m any different.”

“I know that,” she said, giving him another nudge to push him into another position, “but you’ve got to get used to hearing it. Ser Cobb Vanth, head of Clan Krayt Dragon.”

“It’s not much of a Clan without people in it,” he muttered, but then he caught her hand before she could write her latest measurement down. “Would you join my Clan?”

She blinked at him in surprise. “I’m… not sure that’s how it works.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re like a sister to me, so why not make it official?”

“You…” she started, but turned to the tailor, who had paused in their sketching. “Can he do that?”

The tailor frowned in thought and Cobb held his breath. “I haven’t heard of it happening recently, but I believe it’s the head of the Clan who decides who does and does not make up its members. So, yes, if you are both in agreement, then he can make you a part of his Clan.”

Jo stared them, and then up at him for a few moments, before flinging herself into his arms. He winced from the sudden pressure on his bruised body but he held her tight as she thanked him over and over and over again, and he spun her around on the spot to elicit a laugh from her before setting her down again. He’d had no idea how much this would mean to her, but from the way he was still stunned over it himself, he probably should have guessed.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes! Cobb, oh stars, I want that!” she declined with a tearfilled smile. “For people to know that we’re family like that…”

He nodded. He understood completely. “Well then, Vod,” he said, holding out his hand and waiting for her to grasp it, “welcome to Clan Krayt Dragon.”

She beamed at him and quickly stepped in for another hug, this one a bit more careful but no less warm. It was a wonderful moment, one that Cobb wanted to bottle up and return to on rainy days, but they both had tasks to perform and he carefully pulled her away after what was probably a good few minutes.

“Alright now, let’s get these measurements done,” he said, and she nodded, quickly wiping at her cheeks and eyes.

“You’d better adopt Peli, too,” she said with a look of warning as she remeasured his middle. "She deserves it after everything you've put her through."

“I plan to,” he said, holding his arms out a little to give her room. “What’s a family without a terrifying matriarch? Not that you aren’t, Jo.”

The woman gave his good shoulder another whap with her palm and continued her work.

“I have a few more designs,” the tailor said, and Cobb nearly jumped out of his skin, having almost completely forgotten they were there. “Would you mind looking at them and telling me what bits you like and what bits you don’t like?”

“Sure,” he said with an embarrassed cough, ignoring Jo’s amused giggle in an attempt to retain some sort of dignity.

For the next half an hour he gave his opinions and feedback on the sketches the tailor made, eventually being able to sit down once Jo had finished with him, and they started to discuss in earnest what sort of things he’d be comfortable wearing, and what sort of things he’d be able to endure for the occasions where style was more important than comfort.

They ended up with paper scattered all over the table in the corner, Cobb’s shaky handwriting and heavy handed lines scribbled on several of the drawings (after making sure that it was okay for him to deface the sketches), others with Jo’s hand as she incorporated various pieces of armour into some of the designs, while some drawings were discarded altogether. There was a list of colours on each page as well, and there were some swatches of fabric that had been produced from a bag, but Cobb was starting to get a bit annoyed at how detailed everything had to be.

Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted them before he could let it go anywhere, and he almost sighed in relief when it opened to reveal the Prince.

“My Prince,” the three of them said as they rose to their feet to offer a bow, the man stepping into the room and nodding to each of them in turn but his eyes lingering on Cobb.

“I hope I’m not disturbing,” he said.

“Not at all, my Prince,” the tailor said with a smile. “I believe we’ve just about exhausted the options I can offer given the tight time schedule.”

Din nodded at them before turning his gaze back to Cobb. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal you away, Ser Cobb.”

Cobb smirked and bowed his head again. “I’m at your disposal, my Prince.”

Din said nothing, but his eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief as he turned and left the room. Cobb gave Jo a quick hug (carefully ignoring the way Jo whispered 'royally screwed' into his ear) and shook the tailor’s hand before following after him, giving Saruk a nod when they waved him to the spot at Din’s left as they walked down the hall.

“How are you finding being a knight so far, Ser Cobb?” the Prince asked as he led the way through the corridors to a place that Cobb couldn’t fathom.

“Well, it involves a lot more people poking and prodding you than I expected, my Prince,” he replied, and the man beside him chuckled. It rang against the stone, and it had to have been one of the best sounds in the world.

“Having a title tends to come with people wanting to take care of you, or at least bother you,” he said, “and please, we’re to be closer than brothers; call me Din.”

Cobb blinked at him in surprise. To be given permission to call the Prince -- the future Witch King -- by name was yet another honour he hadn't been expecting. “I… Then you can’t keep calling me ‘Ser’, Din.”

Their eyes met and held for several seconds before the small curve of Din’s lips grew into a full smile.

“Cobb,” he said with a nod as they pulled to a stop. “Well then, Cobb, I have a question for you.”

“Oh?”

The Prince hummed and pulled a key from his person, fitting it in the lock to the door beside them and pushing it open. Cobb’s mouth opened in silent shock for what had to have been the tenth time that day.

The room was filled with weapons -- swords, axes, spears, glaives and more -- racks of them across the walls, in the middle, barrels of arrows sitting near unstrung bows. There were several suits of armour -- both steel and leather -- set carefully on stands, side by side, and various signal flags and banners hanging limp on poles. This had to be the armoury.

“While the Armourer works on your sword,” Din said, drawing his attention, “which weapon would you like?”

——————————————————————

Mando'a Translations:

Vod -- brother/sister/sibling

Chapter 15

[crystallinecrimsonmoth]

Moon City Don't Judge - Chapter 1

1983, NSAS Headquarters, Edinburgh, Scotland

“So this is for the newest Jamestown mission, then? What number are these Yankees on now?”

“Jamestown 85.”

“Oh, well I sure am flattered to be allowed in this late in the game. What did they tell you?”

“They’re trying to look international after the Russians had that mission with the French.”

Heather McKay snorted at that, taking the folder from Marcus and flicking through the pictures of the recent mission that had been broadcast on TV for the whole world to see just how friendly Russia were now.

The image of two astronauts with contrasting flags on their arms made her smirk a little. Since unilaterally declaring independence after World War Two, Scotland had become a far more passive nation, leaving larger countries like the US and the Soviet Union to sort out their own scraps unless they were absolutely needed to step in.

“So, they want to make nice with a passive country.”

“Exactly. I’ve been chatting with Molly Cobb, she’s head of astronauts now over at Houston, expecting one Mr McKay, second Scot in space.”

Heather laughed, nodding as she set the folder down and grabbed her water bottle from its resting spot on Marcus’ desk.

“I thought that was just a trick we played on rookie engineers and astronauts, not seasoned professionals.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and shrugging.

“Messing with Americans is just as fun, even if they are fellow astronauts.”

“Seekers of independence from the crown playing pranks on each other. How mature.” Heather grinned, lifting her jacket from the back of her chair and shrugging it onto her shoulders.

The folder was still open on the table as she gave it one more scan, sighing.

“That’s early as hell to be rising, Marcus.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead, you know that better than anyone, astronaut.”

“Sure do, desk jockey.” The younger woman smiled at him when he gave her a deprecating look, offering him a fist bump as a goodbye.

“Have fun in Moon City, kid.”

Flying to America commercially felt like being stuck in a tin can for hours on end, though Heather was sure if she’d tried to fly it alone, she would have fallen asleep and crashed by now. She spent the time with her seat leaned back a fraction and a personnel file in her lap for the people she’d be working with. She knew Margo from a few years before when she had advised her on how to deal with a young Aleida Rosales and they had kept in touch since, so she passed by her file with ease and moved onto the astronaut section without realising she’d skipped the profile of her newest colleague, Molly Cobb.

With so many names to memorise and personal facts to store away in her head to be used at a later date, Heather barely had the energy to look at Cobb’s profile, her closing eyes skimming the information about the death of Wubbo Ockels before finally shutting as she passed out from exhaustion.

“Mrs McKay? Mrs McKay, we’ve arrived at Houston Intercontinental, it’s time to depart the plane.”

Heather came around to find a made-up flight attendant peering at her and shaking her shoulder gently, lacquered brown eyes focused on hers.

She flinched briefly at the sight before nodding when she took in the woman’s words, sliding out from her seat and looking at her once she’d grabbed her carry on from the overhead bins.

“What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon, Mrs McKay, you’ve gained six hours.”

“Not Mrs, please, I’m not married.” Heather smiled kindly at the woman, nodding when she excused herself and exiting the plane into the fresh air.

At least, she had hoped it would be fresh. Instead, it felt like the Sahara compared to Edinburgh; the heat turned right up in Texas during June. It made her glad the man who put her through security knew who she was and went out of his way to help her through quickly.

She had a feeling that would be a rare thing in a country where nationalism was rampant. If you weren’t an American in the United States, you weren’t worth anyone’s time.

Luggage claim took longer than security for once, chewing the Scot out fifteen minutes later back into the hot Texan sun where a man in a secret service type suit stood beside an entirely black car with tinted windows.

“Miss Mickey?”

“It’s McKay. You would think with a fancy car service, the ability to say my name correctly would be included in the package.”

“Apologies, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to take you straight to the hotel.”

Heather nodded, giving him her suitcase and guitar to load into the trunk before sitting in the back of the car, relaxing into the comfortable leather after hours upon hours in a spiny airplane seat.

With tinted windows surrounding her, the sun was blocked out to make the rest of the journey easier with less heat, so she was fine to actually talk to the driver when he took off from the airport.

“I didn’t expect so much security around my arrival. It’s almost as if I’m a cosmonaut.”

“No, ma’am, the president was only concerned that the Russians may attack you to start a war with your passive nation.”

She sighed in the back seat, shaking her head as she leaned against the headrest behind her.

“I don’t believe they would. Scotland is no enemy of the USSR.”

“I meant no offense, ma’am, only to say that your head of state agrees with the president. He knows the danger too.”

Heather rolled her eyes at the mention of the Scottish leader, remembering the twelfth head of state from a meeting a few months before. She had much preferred the man who saw her off into space six years before.

“The head of state’s a misogynistic prick.”

The driver didn’t say anything in response, only smiling to her in the rear-view mirror which she found amusing. He obviously agreed but chances were there was a wire in the car to make sure he didn’t criticise his own government. How confident that made her feel about being in one of the two most controversial countries on the planet.

She’d researched the distance between the airport and the space centre before she left Scotland, wanting to make sure she knew her surroundings and not exactly thankful that there was an hour between them.

She had a feeling she’d be relying on her driver a lot during this trip if she were to get anywhere other than the space centre.

The rest of the journey was quiet, what Heather would call typical American scenery of square buildings and grey roads passing them by until they finally reached the hotel. She could see the space centre in all its glory across the road, large and looming over the water beside it.

“Much less attractive than NSAS headquarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“No pretty castles to convert in this country, ma’am. We make do with concrete and glass.”

“Looks like a bunch of grey shoeboxes to me.” Heather scoffed as she took the suitcase and instrument from him, slipping on her sunglasses and hat to avoid the sun above them.

“Maybe you can give them some design tips tomorrow, ma’am.”

She nodded, grabbing her backpack from the seat and throwing it over her shoulder with her guitar case, following him into the hotel once the car was locked and sifting in her bag for the hotel information Marcus had given her so she could check in.

“I have a copy of your booking if you can’t find your own.” She looked up at her driver to find a fresh sheet of paper in his hand and grinned, taking it and handing it to the receptionist when they reached the counter.

“Fucking bless you, boy.”

“Of course, ma’am. If that’s everything you need?”

“Yes. No, sorry, do you know where the Outpost is? My head of astronaut affairs gave me that name for the local pub, but I’m all turned around here.”

“The Outpost is across the road and five blocks to the left, Miss Mickey. You can’t miss the sign.” The receptionist spoke up before the driver could, causing the other woman to nod, taking off her glasses now that they were inside and smiling at both of them.

“Thank you. Kid, I meant to ask what your name is. I hate to have you driving me around when I don’t know who you are.”

“Liam Russett, ma’am, at your service and surely older than you so there’s no need to call me kid.”

Heather snorted at that, shaking her head as she hooked her glasses on the collar of her shirt.

“Well, if that’s true, you should get yourself a new job rather than driving around child astronauts.”

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am, really. You have my number for when you need driven somewhere. Have a nice night, Miss McKay.”

“You too, Liam.” She waved to him and grinned when he waved back, turning to talk to the receptionist.

“Hi, sorry for making you wait.”

“I’m used to it, don’t fret. Okay, Miss Mickey,”

That pronunciation wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“…you’re booked in for the next week and two weeks after your return, courtesy of NASA, but you can stay for longer after your mission if you should wish to set that up. Here’s your key and if you’re joining us for the full breakfast tomorrow, we start serving at 8am.” The woman behind the desk smiled kindly, getting another bright smile from Heather as she shifted her bags into the elevator to the side of reception.

“I’ll probably catch a donut at the centre tomorrow, but I will keep the breakfast thing in mind for another day! Thank you!” She called over her shoulder as the doors shut and she started going up to the sixth floor.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt like a cat dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair was sticking to the side of her face with the sweat, the hat plastering part of her fringe to her forehead when she took it off. Her cheeks were red from the sun too and it occurred to her that she’d need sun-cream if she was going to be stuck in America for longer than a day.

As she stepped out onto the right floor and shifted open her hotel room door with a bit of struggle, the phone on the table started ringing.

Heather groaned, shutting the door behind her once her stuff was inside and picking up the call quickly, putting the receiver to her ear.

“Heather McKay, who’s calling, please?”

“Heather, you got there okay, good. How was the plane trip?”

“Hell, I’d honestly prefer a fucking Saltire shuttle.” The young woman expressed to Marcus on the other side as she flopped down on the mattress, glad for the comfort.

Her fellow astronaut laughed on the other end of the call, leaning back on his own armchair.

“Christ, worse than Saltire? Aren’t I glad I volunteered you for this mission and not myself?”

Heather rolled her eyes, staring out of the window that stretched her wall. The sky was a perfect blue with the sun shining down on the city, reminding her of decent summer days at home when she’d kick up sand on the beach. It was a relaxing memory to think about after the long journey.

“Yeah, aren’t you fucking lucky? I’m gonna head for the Outpost tonight with my guitar, try and make friends before I show up tomorrow.”

“Your social skills have come a long way since I met you.”

“And as soon as our leader and their leader aren’t bastards, I’ll be much more sociable!” She sighed, sitting up and going to the window to look across the roofs of the shoeboxes across the road.

“I don’t believe that but you’re Molly’s problem for the next month, not mine.”

Heather grinned at his words. She knew what he meant. Out of the first two Scots in space, she was far more foul-mouthed and quick-witted than Marcus, and it had definitely been a problem in the past.

“Don’t you worry, Marky, I’ll make you proud. Say hi to Laura and James for me.” She bid him goodbye before hanging up, returning the phone to its holder, and skimming through the tourist information book in an attempt at finding a place to eat after the hellish plane ride.

In the end, she had settled for a burger from the van outside NASA headquarters, sitting on a stone wall in front of some flower beds and enjoying watching so many engineers and scientists pass by, chatting away about their work.

Science was one half of her busy life and she loved it. Being at NASA was just the cherry on top of her career now, even if she wasn’t a fan of the politics the agency let itself get caught up in.

She listened to the chatter until her burger was a mere wrapper crushed in her hands and was surprised by the time on the clock outside the hotel. She sure hadn’t realised she’d been sitting there for that many hours but keeping a low profile and being jetlagged clearly passed the time faster than she thought.

Heading back up to her room, Heather changed into a fresh t-shirt and flannel before wandering over to the Outpost bar once she ran a brush through her hair. She could feel people eyeing her as soon as she walked in, clearly sticking out like a sore thumb as someone who they’d never seen before.

No one recognised her yet, thankfully. She didn’t need “socialist Scot scum” comments when she just wanted to drink and play her guitar. She let herself look at the astronaut souvenirs in the glass case by the door then approached the bar, smiling at the woman she certainly recognised as Karen Baldwin from the file about her husband.

“Hi, what can I get for ya?”

“A dram of your best Scots whisky, please.”

“Taste of home coming right up. Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m new, start tomorrow. Thought I’d show my face and try to make friends before going to the moon with this lot.”

Karen nodded, the recognition clicking in her head as she slid the whisky to the younger woman.

“McKay, right? Ed was talking about you. First Scottish woman astronaut, and you changed the law on gay rights, didn’t you? Pretty ballsy.”

Heather shrugged, sipping her whisky and relishing in the burn going down her throat for a moment before speaking.

“And yet folks here in Texas would probably see me hung for it, at the very least fined 500 dollar for kissing a lady in public.”

“Some people never want to let go of their traditions, we’ll get there.” Karen smiled, nodding to the guitar strapped to her back with a slight grin.

“If you’re looking to make friends, you should play. They like music.” She told her with a wink before moving along to serve the newest patron in the door.

The young Scot looked around the bar once before taking her advice, sitting at a table in the corner near the counter and starting to play.

“Ring of Fire, good idea.” Karen mouthed to her from the bar, praising her choice of an American song as the front door opened again, none other than Molly Cobb walking through it and smiling at Karen, giving a brief wave.

“A beer, please, Karen.”

“Love is a burning thing… and it makes, a fiery ring…”

She could feel eyes on her, practically every pair in the bar turning to look at her eventually while she played. Usually, the attention didn’t bother her but the distraction of feet approaching her made her fingers tremble slightly on the strings.

Heather didn’t like being such a close focus of attention. She was used to the crowd having boundaries, being on a stage or a higher platform where they couldn’t reach her, but as she finished the song a few minutes later with every person in the bar staring at her, she could feel a wave of nerves run through her.

Molly was right there, sitting right there with her beer in hand and sunglasses pushing her hair back from her face, blue eyes focused on Heather.

“You’re good.”

“I practice.”

“Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Heather laughed in a light tone, strumming the cords of her guitar slightly. This woman had no idea that they were colleagues, that they had first woman of her nation in space in common. She was looking right through her.

“Oh, I just like the astronaut knick-knacks at this bar, plus I thought I’d try to impress the great Molly Cobb with my playing. Did you like it?” She tilted her head, acting as if she were simply an awestruck citizen and not reporting to duty for the woman the next day.

“Well colour me impressed, though that may just be the alcohol.”

“I’d like to see you do better. Your skills seem singular to flying.” She smirked, wondering how long she could get away with her secret identity.

Taking another sip of her whisky, Heather watched the other woman over the lip of her glass. She sure looked a lot more attractive in person compared to the photo in her information folder, but she wouldn’t act on that fact. It would put them both in danger for her to flirt in public here.

Even friends could turn on Molly if she got that close to another woman, Heather knew that.

“Yeah, and what other skills can you boast, sweetheart? Lemme guess, you can play two instruments.”

Oh, you bitch.

“First impressions aren’t your thing, are they? Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll report for duty first thing tomorrow morning in your office, even if you’re a smug bitch. My name’s Heather McKay, by the way.” She held out her hand for Molly to shake as an introduction and smiled kindly when the older woman sighed, shaking her hand.

“Heather McKay, first Scottish woman in space. Marcus told me you were a Mr.”

“Wee trick we like to play on new recruits from other countries, he thought it would be funny to play it on a Yank.” Heather downed what remained of her whisky before ignoring Molly and waving to Karen as she left the bar.

“See you tomorrow, boss.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

A Grave Life Part Thirty Five

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Notes: Not beta-read. I hope everyone is having a lovely week and staying well!   (Side note: the gif I chose is from The Divorcee from 1931; I love it. It’s a great pre-code Hollywood film and Norma Sheerer is amazing in it) Warnings: Alcohol consumption; angst; unhealthy coping mechanisms Summary: “Have you seen this?” Matilda asked, holding up a copy of that week’s Witch's Home Companion up. The headline read, ‘The Only Capable Witch On the Upper West Side’. “I’ve tried not to,” I laughed, watching Iona’s photograph bat her eyelashes on the cover.

It was all over the papers: my name, Matilda’s, William’s, Iona’s. Neither Matilda nor I had given a single interview; Iona gave about twelve the day she was released, and Merlin knows how many after that. The headlines were ridiculous:

Darling of the Wizarding World Takes Down Drug Lord!

Ingram Heir Narrowly Escapes With Her Life!

“Have you seen this?” Matilda asked, holding up a copy of that week’s Witch's Home Companion up. The headline read, ‘The Only Capable Witch On the Upper West Side’.

“I’ve tried not to,” I laughed, watching Iona’s photograph bat her eyelashes on the cover.

The last month had been a whirlwind. We’d been able to nail down Cobb’s high-ups, and the rest of the dealers under him. Wesley had fessed up to taking hush money from multiple dealers and had given them up as well. He’d also admitted to breaking into William’s apartment, looking for the ledger in order to find other users to shake down for cash. The supply chain that we’d thought was contained to the upper class was actually city-wide, class indiscriminate, and we were breaking it down, piece by piece. Picquery had been able to hand the news of the bust to the International Confederation while she’d been in London.

“How’s your side?” Matilda asked, setting the magazine down and leaning back against her desk, folding her arms. I didn’t answer for a moment, trying to pass it off as focus. The night before had gotten a little hairy- I’d nearly been on the fatal end of a Expulso curse; it had left me with some nasty bruising and a gash on my left side. When I looked up and found Matilda staring down at me expectantly, I shrugged.

“Oh, fine,” I answered before returning to my report.

“Mm, medical cleared you?” Matilda pressed.

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t go to medical, did you.”

I shot Matilda a guilty glance before looking back down at my report.

“I’m alright, ‘Tilds,” I insisted. She rolled her eyes.

“It won’t do for you to be bleeding at that fancy party they’re throwing,” She said, “If I have to go to it alone, I’ll never forgive you.”

“You’ll have Thomas with you.”

“Yes, but you already know those people,” She pointed out.

“Yes,” I matched her tone, “But I’m sure none of them will want to talk with me that they know I’ve been betraying their trust.” --

Maybe it was for the sake of saving face or saying they’d been on the right side the entire time, but these people had never been so welcoming - not even when I’d been on Eugenia’s arm at the Christmas party. They were coming up to me and Matilda in waves, shaking our hands, asking about the case, about what was going to happen to William; telling us how thrilling this must all be for us and what a wonderful job we’d done, uprooting this evil that had taken a stranglehold over their children.

Matilda and I did were meeting this praise as politely and with as much enthusiasm as we could muster, but after the first hour, it was almost tiring. Luckily for us, Thomas could see when Matilda’s patience for flattery was wearing thin. He’d gently excuse us, steering Matilda out of the throng, who would, in turn, take me by the hand and tug me behind like an errant toddler that would get lost otherwise.

Thomas Pembrook was an architect. He came from what Eugenia would consider a ‘good’ family: in good standing with the Wizarding community, not a black mark against their name, and not terribly rich, but comfortable. He had a subdued charm, a tendency to snort when he laughed too hard, and a love for Matilda that made him aces in my book.

“You’re a lifesaver, Pembrook,” I muttered, leaning against the wall beside a large vase.

“Funny, that’s what Mrs. Hallewell was just saying about you,” he said before turning to Matilda.

“Another drink?”

“Please,” She said softly.

“And for you?” He asked, turning to me. I shook my head, adding, “Thanks, though.” He nodded, pressing a kiss to Matilda’s temple. She watched him go, a small smile on her face. When she turned back to me and took in my smug grin, she schooled her expression.

“Shut up,” She said flatly.

“I can’t help it, you two are adorable,” I cooed. She sighed heavily, looking around.

“Where do you think Mrs. Graves is?”

“Not sure,” I frowned. There had to be a hundred people in there, but Eugenia was the type to stand out in a crowd.

“And shouldn’t Mr. Graves be here by now?” Matilda tacked on.

‘Who cares?’ Was my knee-jerk reaction, and the very reason I had turned down Thomas’ offer for another drink; I’d already had a couple and I needed to slow down. I didn’t know how much longer we were expected to stay, and I couldn’t get sloppy in front of the society snobs.

“Who knows?” I answered, “He’s a busy man, maybe he got held up at the office.” —

God, I’d wished he’d gotten held up at the office. Hell, I wished that Expulso curse had found its true aim finished me off. It would far less painful that whatever the hell this was.

We’d found Eugenia (with Ermentine of all people - she’d made the journey from upstate for ‘such an important occasion’ - she and Eugenia had the same straight nose, the same dark eyes, but where Eugenia had let her hair go grey, Ermentine had dyed hers a bright red that could probably be seen from the top of the Woolworth Tower) in conversation with Picquery. We’d all made civil conversation for a total of five minutes, until Graves had come over with a drink in hand for his mother.

That hadn’t been a problem, of course. He’d greeted everyone, been introduced to Thomas. That had been fine.

What had thrown me was the dazzlingly stylish, raven-haired woman that wormed her way into our circle, slipped her arm through Graves’, and intertwined their fingers as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Graves hadn’t looked confused, upset, frustrated. No, this was apparently perfectly normal.

The woman had been introduced around as Clara Howard. Her hand had been ice-cold when I’d taken hold of it; she had held it out to me like I was going to kiss it and not shake it; she had this soft, dulcet voice as she lowered her eyes and murmured, “Charmed.” But her eyes, clear and forget-me-not blue, had drifted up to Graves and not me.

I couldn’t bring myself to meet Graves’ eyes, or Eugenia’s. Not when Graves told Clara that what Matilda and I had done was "incredibly brave"; especially not when Eugenia muttered to me that I looked a little drawn.

“She’s right, you’re looking a bit ill,” Matilda murmured as the conversation moved on (Picquery regaling the surrounding party with how pleased the International Confederation had been with our progress).

“I just need some air. Excuse me,” I mumbled, stepping back and lightly gesturing for Thomas to close the space that I had vacated.

I didn’t need air.

I needed a drink. — “What a bash, huh?”

Iona was alone on the balcony, a shawl tightened around her shoulders. I grunted in turn, setting my drink down on the wide stone balustrade (I had gunned one inside after ducking behind a large fern before I’d gone back for another and found my way outside).

“How are you handling the spotlight?” I asked, glancing at her. She threw me an amused look.

“I was born for the spotlight, darling,” She informed me. I chuckled, shaking my head a little and looking out over the city.

“You look like someone spit in your cider. What’s with the sourpuss?” She asked, nudging my foot with hers. I didn’t answer for a moment. If I could trust anyone not to look too deeply into the question I was about to ask, it was Iona.

“What do you know about Clara Howard?” I asked. Iona scoffed.

“Little miss perfect,” She rolled her eyes, “She was in my older sister’s year at Ilvermorny, in Puckwudgie—  Stayed on for four years instead of two like the rest of us. Well, and you, but you’re not really one of us, are you?” Iona’s laugh wasn’t meant to be harsh, but it felt it. I managed a quiet one of my own, and drowned the rest of my sound with a sip of my drink.

“That it, then?” I asked, “Is that all you know?” My pressing just made Iona laugh again.

“So impatient. Well, the Howards are incredibly rich. Very well-moneyed, very well-known. Clara’s always managed to keep her head down and her nose clean... No beau’s lasted for more than a week, but apparently she and Mr. Graves have been cozy for nearly three months now.”

Three months. Suddenly Eugenia’s words from weeks ago were ringing in my ears: “And he…Has been in the company of some new friends of late as well. Quite the change of pace.”

She’d tried to warn me. I’d wished she’d beat me over the head with the truth instead of talking around it just this once, like everyone inside did. I rested my elbows on the ledge, putting my head in my hands.

“Y’alright?” Iona asked, concern, coloring her tone. I lifted my head, looking out over the city.

“Iona?”

“Mm?”

“Whaddaya say you go grab a few of your friends and we get out of here?” I cast her a sidelong glance and found her grinning wolfishly.

“Auror or not, I knew you couldn’t be purely square.”

She stubbed out her cigarette, hurrying inside. I picked up my glass, draining my drink. Matilda was going to kill me for disappearing like this, but I’d deal with that later. I couldn’t take another second of looking at Graves and ‘Little Miss Perfect’ Clara Howard.

It wasn’t even her.

It was them.

The fact that there was such an ease in there being a them. When I had gone to that party with him, I’d spent the entire evening stiff, worried about my posture, worried about what I was saying and how I was saying it. The only respite I’d had was when Graves and I had stepped outside, and had a moment to ourselves. I remembered what it was like to have Graves’ hand in mine when he’d walk me home; how warm and safe I used to feel when I was tucked into his side; the feeling of him cupping my cheek; the way he’d duck his head to kiss me; his murmurs of, “Dearheart”--

“Ready!— Hey,” Iona’s hand rested on my shoulder, “What’s eating you?”

In her absence, I hadn’t even noted growing shake of my shoulders, the trembling making its way down to my fingers. I clenched my hands into fists before I steeled myself, rolling my shoulders back and pushing a smile on my lips, the way Iona had that night at the Emille. She’d never know how much she’d taught me.

“Nothing, darling, really,” I said, turning back to face the small group that Iona had pulled from the party.

“You all know the place by the water front?” I asked. The group let out murmurs of affirmation.

“Let’s go. Hold on to me,” I nodded Iona closer. I didn’t spare the party another glance before we were gone. Tag list: @myplaceofheavenorhell ; @britishfajita ; @terrainhead ; @xespressopatronumx​ ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ;  @elishamoon13 ; @rvgrsbrns​ @maaaaryx​

[dovebuffy92]

https://www.fanbolt.com/113723/for-all-mankind-season-2-review-cold-war-friendships/

For All Mankind Season 2, created by Ronald D Moore, reveals that man’s journey to the moon both turns the Cold War piping hot and brings people with disparate points of view together. The second season takes place a decade later, in the 1980s.

Ed Baldwin is now the chief of the Astronaut office; his wife Karen owns The Outpost bar, and they have an adopted seventeen-year-old daughter, Vietnamese American Kelly. Ellen Wilson is about to return home from a long stint as the commander of the Jamestown Base on the moon to become a NASA administrator. Tracy Stevens is a super-star astronaut who wears fancy dresses on talk shows while her ex-husband Gordo drinks away his depression. Molly Cobb is secretly flooded with radiation on the moon after an hour outside during a solar storm rescuing Dutch astronaut Wubbo Johannes Ockels. After being benched for a decade, Danielle Poole is itching to go back to space. All the astronauts struggle to find their place in this new decade.

The sexual affair between Karen Baldwin and Danny Stevens makes zero sense. Karen and Ed’s marriage has been struggling since their eleven-year-old son Shane died in 1974. The fact that Ed was not home when Shane died nearly led to their divorce. They stayed together to raise their Kelly. Kelly is a senior in high school applying to the Naval Academy at Annapolis because she wants to be like her father. Ed has been staying home all these years because of his guilt over being on the moon during Shane’s car accident. Kelly and Karen permit him to return to the moon after seeing how eaten up he has been staying home all these years. Karen can’t deal with her husband risking his life for the Pathfinder Mission. She sells the Outpost Bar to Sam, so all of her tethers to her everyday life are cut away.

So, it does make sense that Karen has an affair, but with a stranger, not Danny. First off, Danny was best friends with her son Shane. Karen raised both boys since Danny’s parents Tracey and Gordo, are active astronauts. In the 1970s, Tracey could no longer stay home with her son after school because she started training. So, Karen and Danny have more of a mother-son relationship than a friendship. Secondly, Karen hasn’t shown any romantic attraction to the twenty-so-year-old young Naval Academy cadet for most of the season. Danny works as a part-time waiter at the Outpost, and he is only a couple of years older than her daughter Kelly, and he must remind her of Shane. If Ronald D. Moore wanted one big push to implode the Baldwin’s marriage, then she should have had an affair with a customer at the bar or just broke down over Ed returning to space. Danny’s crush on Karen makes sense, but not her feelings for him. Danny and Kelly having sex even one time is genuinely bizarre.

This season of For All Mankind dove deeper into the Cold War, the Apollo-Soyuz mission is a perfect vehicle for that exploration. The Apollo-Soyuz mission is based on an actual historical 1975 event that marked the end of the space race when the two modules docked together, and the Soviets and Americans shook hands. In the fictional and actual world, the mission is designed to promote peace between the Soviet Union and the United States. Throughout the second season, Danielle desperately tries to make the mission happen. As a Black woman, Danielle feels both the responsibility and desire to command a mission since she sacrificed her career to help Gordo hide his mental breakdown.

The Apollo-Soyuz is primarily a ceremonial mission but is her only opportunity for command. Danielle bonds with the cosmonauts over beer, burgers, cheers for lost comrades, pride over their space programs, and Laika, the Soviet dog who died sacrificing for the people she loved. Even though these cosmonauts and astronauts are supposed to be enemies, their common humanity wins out. Danielle puts up with being locked up in Star City, USSR. The Soviet Union officials kept the astronauts as hostages after a Soviet jet shot down a South Korean commercial airplane full of American passengers, including the head of NASA, Thomas Paine. The Soviets keep the astronaut’s prisoners to stop the Americans from retaliating. Calm heads win out. A secret agent lets her out after discussing how the mission could change the world. Apollo and Soyuz are stuck rotating Earth’s orbit when the modules finally launch because, supposedly, the Soviets have some mechanical error. The two crews speak together through the radios.

Meanwhile, the reasons for the delay become apparent, the American armed spacecraft Pathfinder and Soviet spacecraft Buran fly to the dark side of the moon, ready to launch missiles at each other if the other acts aggressively. The United States preps for a nuclear strike. Margo orders Danielle to land back on Earth, but she refuses. Instead, Apollo and Soyuz, against orders, conduct their mission of peace. They all shake each other’s hands after connecting the modules on national television. All of them are smiling in real celebration. Regan warms at the sights of the cosmonauts and astronauts shaking each other’s hands and calls for peace. Nuclear war is avoided. Moments of real friendship through collaboration can lead to understanding.

I would recommend For All Mankind Season 2 for lovers of alternative history and space program fans. The more extensive introduction of the Soviet Union this season explores the fundamental tensions of the cold war and the explosive “warm” space race that we narrowly avoided.

[a-king-reciting-hamlet]

Blood Money

Cobbs Pond and Samuel Grant have spent more years than some get in a lifetime together. It’s true what they say about how some things never change. A strange, haphazard imagining of what Samuel Grant and Cobbs Pond's past might have been like. Also on A03 for your (hopeful) viewing pleasure. http://archiveofourown.org/works/13449000 Huge thanks to @littledozerbaby for their inspiring art and general awesomeness and @alighiery for their encouragement and patience. Come find me and send me Samuel Grant/Cobbs Pond talk, headcanons, and prompt!!!

                                                   Blood Money To whom all comfort is a dream; Cold is likely a bright shadow, Heat a darkened sigh, Art a vivid delusion, Love a distorted ‘mine’.

  Mr. Grant smiles at the thin blue line of the horizon, which at this point has been changing hues with the rising sun to settle into a steady shade of bruised-knuckles blue. Mr. Pond is not watching the horizon.   "Not a bad morning." Mr. Grant says it almost admiringly, but to the shock of their companions, Mr. Pond laughs as if it were a joke. It's a silent laugh, marked only by a sharp exhale through his nose.   They have been traveling alongside these hired voyagers for three days now, down river. On their way to a trading post for business interests, they have another, longer journey onto Montreal ahead. The sun glints mercilessly off the water. Around them, men row. The trappers have learned not to assume their gossip cannot be understood by the American pair.   Every conversation they have in English is to each other, and half of the ones in French might as well be, for all their subtle smiles and glances. Mr. Grant eyes the horizon with the easy calm of a tourist, masking his watchful disposition with grace. Mr. Pond is more open about his intentions, but his gaze keeps wandering. He keeps listening to the wildlife and watches Grant watch the scenery go by.   This is a trip down memory lane. They will not return here for quite some time. Perhaps they may never return, if things go particularly well or especially wrong, and Samuel Grant and Cobbs Pond have quite a lot to remember. Younger men went into the valley looking for riches than came out. Pond breathes in the scent through his nose and Grant watches light pass over the water.   “I’ve heard of you.”   These are the first words he ever speaks to Cobbs.   Cobbs Pond walks out of the woods surrounding the Hudson, emerging from the dour greenery as if coming into being fully-formed, and greets him with a little bow. His every move is economical and polite, clearly practiced. Still, there’s something around the eyes, something almost feral. When he smiles he bares too many teeth.   Samuel already knows he’s been watching their traveling party for days- it shows in the sureness of his step, in the way he doesn’t fail to make and keep unwavering eye contact, in the steady, practiced sound of every word that leaves his mouth. He’s been rehearsing, Samuel thinks, and it’s almost a charming thought. How long has it been since he’s had company out in these woods?   “Cobbs Pond.” The man offers his hand and Samuel takes it. The voice is sweet like rosewater, the hand worn smooth with work. Samuel decides not to think about what kind of work. “A pleasure to meet you.”   He hadn’t expected a noted killer to be so dainty.   It is the carefully constructed bonds he forges which get him out of Kentucky.   What a man without money still has is his charm and his wit, and young Samuel is not lacking in either. He doesn’t sit in the collecting dust of an empty, abandoned home, devoid of life. He cannot- the wooden construction that has been his whole world is sold by the authorities to cover for his mother’s burial, to account for legal fees, and so those who might take him in could have the chance to pocket the rest. Still, hunger makes him agreeable. A solemn child with a distant, introspective face that brightens when he smiles- it takes time, but he makes politeness and unassuming grace a survival tactic.   He leaves the care of those who he won with pity as a boy into the arms of those he's conjured respect from with practiced skill. His choice of words is artful. He secures himself passage away from the sweet, hot hell that birthed him.   When he wanders into the woods of the Hudson Valley, it's not as a trapper but a man of business. He's an attache to a party which includes the son of the company's founder, a young man he's since befriended who couldn't have understood Samuel's thoughts and proclivities if he tried, but who has an affinity for collecting around him the bright and hardworking. It's not the largest company, nor the most successful, and that suits Samuel fine.   He watches the river and not the boy, Arthur Haynes, whose money he would very much like to spend. He knows that this will be noticed. When Arthur announces, in the dim light of dusk, that he enjoys his company, Samuel is not in the least surprised.   "The others are always looking for me to drop coin their way." The youth rubs his nose clean with the back of his hand. His eyes are sharp with uncomfortable sincerity. "You know you'd make it either way without me, Grant. Hell, I know you would. That's why we're friends, isn't it? Because we can be." Samuel says nothing, but smiles.   "That's why I want you to come with me to visit my father in New York. There's got to be more you can do than keep books for the rest of your life." Samuel gives him a strange look and embraces him. "Thank you." He says, very softly. It's the right move to make, even if it makes Samuel uncomfortable. He can feel the breathing slow in the chest pressed against him. They part quickly, but the young man is satisfied with his choice.   “It’ll be good to have you with me.” He grins.   Samuel tries to not think about how utterly alone those words make him feel.   Years later, he seeks out Cobbs Pond when the time is right for the help he knows he can provide. How easily convinced Cobbs is surprises him. It is not something Samuel has to try at. The whole thing takes on a natural feeling, as if they had always intended to carry out this plot of his, as if the plan had long since been agreed upon. As they float downriver, Cobbs Pond’s movements and sentences take on the quality of a man who fancies he might be dreaming.   "I fought in the American war, you know.” Small words, said in passing, likely meant to be ignored. Birds chirp louder than Cobbs Pond speaks.   "I bet you looked rather dashing in uniform." Samuel smiles. It’s a foolish thing to say, but something keeps him from berating himself about it, keeps him comfortable.   Cobbs feels the tips of his ears burn in a most satisfying way. "I hope you would have thought so."

   “Arthur.” Samuel calls to the rich man’s son when the boy’s had one too many to drink. “You’ll drown yourself in it before dinner if you don’t stop now.”   Arthur smiles guilty, a bit abashed. He goes to taverns hungry for girls. It’s taken a year for the two of them to become close enough for Samuel to be invited along. It is here he learns to nod and smile, to say things like ‘a fine-looking woman’. One more reason he’s become so close with Arthur so quickly- he’s never any competition.   Samuel never takes him aside and says ‘this one is not for you, this one is mine’. It’s important for the heir of a small fur trading company not to feel penned in by his compatriots.   Arthur has light-auburn hair that shows when it’s dirty. He looks decent when he smiles, Samuel thinks, though it might be the kindness the man has shown him that makes him think so. Samuel politely defers to him in all things- the best whiskey, the best fashions, who is an insipid fool.   “That one?” He pronounces shyly, as Arthur watches him select a coat. Friends of rich men must look the part, after all. Samuel finds himself nervous he’s enjoying this too much- Arthur must think him dull, or worse, awfully silly. They’ve been trying on different articles of clothing for hours.   “Definitely.” Arthur nods sagely. “You’ve got a good eye. Now, a few more clean shirts and we’ll have you ready for the trip looking like one of the most eligible bachelors in New York. Besides me, of course.” He grins.   “I’ll be too busy reading over finance papers to be casting any shadows, not to worry.” Samuel smiles, all grace.   “You’d better be. Lord knows my father will want to know what I think of the books, and you’ll have to tell me what I think this time. I’m not risking that again.” Arthur massages his temples with one hand. “I swear, Grant, I don’t think there’s much worse than reading. Why would anyone want me to waste my time cooped up, smothering myself with a book when I could be out making a real difference in the trade? It’s the money that matters, not all the little numbers.”   Samuel says nothing. He pretends he is too busy examining his reflection to hear. In truth, he thinks, there is something to be said for all this; rich fabric feeds a strange hunger in him, one less for sustenance and more for decadence. He knows now he wants to do more than simply survive.   “Grant, did you even hear me?”   “Hmm?”   “I said all that paper stuff is terrible.”   “That’s what you have me for, isn’t it?” He smiles, more at himself in the looking glass than at Arthur standing a good foot behind him. “For all the fine print and book-balancing and when you need the odd bit of poetry quoted for a girl.”   “Now now, don’t sell yourself short.” It’s a sharp, barking, uncomfortable laugh. “I know you don’t mean it, Grant, but you’ve got a bad habit of making everything sound so clinical.”   “I’m sorry.”   “It’s alright.” Arthur’s hand finds his shoulder and Samuel nearly bites through his own tongue in shock and discomfort. “We’re friends, after all.”   There are far cleverer women in this world than Arthur will ever be, Samuel thinks, watching with a kind of sideways glee as barmaids pick Arthur’s pockets and talk circles around his love-drunk head. Sometimes, when they take too much, Samuel reaches out a hand to stop them. He makes sure Arthur sees him do it. He likes the feeling he gets when Arthur looks at him, grateful.   “You’re a good friend, Grant.” Arthur bursts out three months after he’s finally been allowed to join their little skirt-chasing escapades, a little tipsy. He’s a sentimental sort and alcohol doesn’t calm him the way it does Samuel. “That’s why my father likes you, you know. You look after me.”   Samuel knows this is not the time or the place to tell him that his father actually thinks he’s a swindler and an upstart who should have been left to rot in Kentucky, and that they really ought to do something before his vague annoyance boils over into actual action. Instead, he tentatively threads his arm around Arthur’s shoulders with all the deep, primal discomfort and guiding grace of the blind leading the blind.   “Don’t you forget it now.” He laughs. The pit in his stomach is only growing deeper. There’s something all of Arthur’s kindness and affection cannot fill.   By age six he is an orphan in Kentucky, staring at the bloodied ground that marks the spot where his baby brother's head once laid. He does not tell the story as any kind of emotional ploy, and yet Cobbs says 'what difficulties you have endured' in that soft way of his, like lukewarm bath water. This Samuel does not expect. He blinks at him.   "What?"   "It must have been difficult for you." There is none of his characteristic mocking delight in his tone, only something like remorse. His brows are raised in the first sign of pure concern Samuel has ever seen the man wear.   "I suppose it was." Samuel's gaze seems a bit distracted now, less present, as if he is trying to peer through river fog. Cobbs watches him drift farther away and settles a hand on his shoulder. He has never dared to reach out and touch him before.   Samuel looks at without flinching. He does not say what he sees.   Everything is such an awful blur. The trip up to New York, the trip back, the ugly way Arthur’s father’s bookkeeper looked at him once he knew who he was, the vague disdain, the caustic threat of dethronement from another fortune-seeker, this one hand-picked by the father himself- the way the whole world seemed to threaten to swallow him whole. He’d spent a long night in his rented room, alone, the door sturdily locked and without the candles lit, weeping at the thought of being forcefully shipped back to wherever they thought they would get rid of him, whiskey he couldn't afford by himself making him sick to his stomach, visions of his mother’s face and the clear, haunting pitch of his brother’s cries ringing in his ears.   He can almost hear Cobbs Pond as well, warm arms enveloping his tired body, voice like the trickle of a stream. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.” He says, they way he knew he would. “You should have brought me with you.”   He falls asleep like that, red-eyed and lonely, and wakes the next morning with a plan.   They bring him a razor and water to wash with, unscented soap so he can clean without marking himself to the wildlife. Cobbs holds the straight razor to his own cheek.   “What do you think?” He asks.   Samuel, unsure that it has anything to do with him, shrugs. “Keep it. It makes you look...” He’s trying to find the right word.   Cobbs watches him intently, close-lipped.   “Formidable.”   Cobbs smiles.   “I just wish he’d leave me alone.” Arthur fumes quietly in the back of the room.   Two years have told Samuel that his rival fortune-hunter isn’t going anywhere. Samuel wonders what it feels like to be chosen by a father for success. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s elbowed out, Arthur be damned. His father will call for him, and Arthur will not be able to resist, and Samuel will be left here, fenced out from wealth and friendship by the slow persuasion of time and distance.   “Your father-” He begins calmly.   “Fuck my father.” Arthur’s blood, impotent as it is, runs hot. “The whole company is basically mine anyway. The man never leaves New York. He can drop dead for all I care.”   “Fair enough.” Samuel shrugs. The fortune-seeker is his own problem. Let Arthur take care of the larger issues himself. Less damning that way, really.   He downs drinks Arthur has paid for and leaves the tavern to wait.   "He's being obnoxiously stubborn."   At his words Cobbs flashes him a rather pleased smile, like a cat who has just bitten into the backbone of a particularly stubborn rat. The look, as might a rat, falls to Samuel's feet, heavy with meaning.   "Not tonight."   There is a pleasing sensation that comes to them both as their eyes meet in the darkness, their slim faces lit up and then shadowed by the fickleness of firelight.   "You know, Mr. Grant, I am beginning to find you quite exciting."   "Only beginning?" He laughs.   It's that kind of confidence that keeps Cobbs up at night.     Samuel recalls, once the struggle was over and the upstart was dead, coming down with an ugly fever. He hadn’t wanted to see it happen, hadn’t wanted to know, intimately, that his rival would not rise from the earth. The sickness held out in him for four days.   Sweating through his sheets, he knew half of it was nightmares, the kind of skull-haunting visions of death and decay that had fueled his late mother’s paranoia. The other half, Cobbs explains, is an infection. In the fragile darkness, he doesn’t know what he sees. Cobbs Pond sits by his bedside and brings water to his lips when he wakes.   “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” His voice is quiet and Samuel is grateful- loud noises hurt his head and fill his mind with fear. “I didn’t think…” He looks vaguely distracted, guilty, as if he’s finally connected the symptoms and strain to the reasons why. “No matter. Just focus on getting well. It’s going to be alright, I promise.”   He’s clear-headed quickly enough, but Cobbs doesn’t stop reading him poetry and bringing him food and helping him dress just because the fever’s stopped. In fact, he never does. He only explains, years later, what Samuel already knows- it was never about illness or delicacy in the first place.   “Where’s-”   “Your coat? I’ve got it locked in the wardrobe.” Cobbs smiles at him, full of calm delight. “That way no one else could get their hands on it.”   “And my-”   “You had money in the pockets, I know. That’s locked up in the desk with the rest of your funds.”   “I’m sorry to have troubled you like this.” Samuel means to concentrate on looking shamefaced, the way part of him feels, but he can’t help but marvel at how his devoted caretaker has overlooked nothing.   “You don’t have to apologize.” Cobbs pronounces sweetly. “There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.”   Samuel looks up, expecting to read the joke written in his expression, and instead finds only care and sincerity. He’s been lying for so long there’s something blinding about looking into the eyes of truth.   “Just try and rest, Mr. Grant. I’ll take care of everything.”

   Arthur is delighted to see him again when he arises, feeling somehow stronger, from his lengthy sickbed stay.   The man’s full of words when they meet, explosive with news. “My father- that is- I went to see my father. And he said I spend too much time with the tribes, and that I needed to spend some time in New York and find myself a wife.” Arthur cocks his head back and laughs, though not for the reasons Samuel might. “I told him I wanted to stay with the company and that I wanted to marry a native girl- better for trade anyway, and who wants a snotty New York bitch?” He sneers with the comfort of a man who is used to being agreed with. “He tried to tell me no, so I did something about it.”   The two are quiet for a moment. Samuel tries not to shut his eyes, expecting the worst.   Arthur takes him by the shoulders and Samuel nearly flinches. “The men sided with me, Grant. They chose me over him. I made the play and it worked- the company’s mine now.”   Samuel stares at him, dazed. “What do you mean?”   “What I mean is you don’t have to worry anymore.”   Samuel does close his eyes now. It’s something between a wish and a prayer- oh please, that it would only be that simple. Please.   The memories blur.   Cobbs Pond on his back, in a bed or elsewhere, a smile that's entirely teeth, a lolling head. A laugh born on the tip of his tongue. It's feral and divine.   Samuel Grant, whose mouth is raw from drink, moves over him as if to kiss him. New York cold shudders between them in their breath, and even now this isn't as new as it feels. An agonizing courtship of two bastards. He's bruised a knee.   Cobbs’s eyes watch him, gleaming in the darkness, like the eyes of owls. He looks up at him delighted and a fit of giggles breaks over him. He's a punctured casket of wine, overflowing richly and red. His bottom lip is swollen from an off-color bite, which, as Samuel has already remarked, looks striking. He's flattered sick.   "Who would have thought?" That soft voice, like a whisper of smoke, dares not to call too much attention to itself. A fragile hope. "Who would have thought that Mr. Samuel Grant-"   This is part of the test. Samuel knows. He's been a lonely, frightened boy with a love of men too, he almost says, he knows what it is that they're doing. If he lets him finish his sentence, if he doesn't kiss or otherwise silence him, the damning words will be spoken.   "-That Samuel Grant would care to go to bed with a boy like me.”   It's a statement in and of itself. He lets the words hang in the air and he smiles. “I couldn’t imagine better if I cared to.”   Cobbs kisses him. Really kisses him. With knowing reverence Cobbs leans upward into him deeply and runs a hand through his hair. He gently, centimeter by centimeter, wraps his legs around Samuel’s hips.   “I’d do anything for you- you know that, don’t you.” Cobbs says it when their lips part like it’s something a whore might say, but Samuel knows he means it. He means it in the great and terrible way only Cobbs Pond can. The weight in his words makes Samuel’s blood run cold, then burn.   “I’d do anything you asked.”   “Who's this?” Arthur raises an eyebrow as he walks in from the rain, locating Samuel’s spot in the back of the tavern. Odd words coming from a man who hasn’t spoken to him in a week, but not entirely unexpected.   “Ah, yes, I see you’ve noticed my associate here.” Samuel smiles at Arthur the same way he always has, only it likely seems a good bit more transparent than it ever did when they were boys. He’s been sitting warm and dry for an hour. “This is Mr. Pond. I thought he might act as a bit of a mediator between the two of us, calm our heads.”   Arthur sits. “And what hole exactly did you drag this trapper out from, Grant?”   Samuel is quick to open his mouth with an answer and a sharp, protective glance at Cobbs, but Cobbs gives a slight bow of a nod instead. “Mr. Grant and I met some years back while traveling, Mr. Haynes.” He holds out his hand carefully, and the richer man shakes it.   “I assume he’s given your friendship with him the same dishonest care he’s given mine.” Arthur snorts. “One minute he’s for you, the next minute against, Mr. Pond. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”   Samuel can feel his cheeks burn, and not from the whiskey.   “Oh, I think I’ll handle him fine.” Cobbs pronounces it with all the sweet cordiality his voice can muster, but he smiles for a fraction of a second in an eager way Samuel remembers very clearly. It reminds him to be confident- he has the upper hand.   “It’s our relationship that needs discussing, Arthur.” He chides. “I want to put this misunderstanding behind us.”   “Not much to misunderstand.” Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m mismanaging the business.”   “I know it can’t be easy to hear that-”   “Easy? Fucking easy? I never expected this from you, Grant. I always figured our friendship was stronger than greed." “I wish it was just greed, Arthur, I really do. Greed I could ignore. But in truth I’m worried about you.” Samuel makes a point of sighing heavily. “I don’t want to see you throw away everything you worked so hard for.”   Arthur is sullen in silence.   “I was there, you know, from the beginning. I know how hard you worked. Your father-”   “Don’t bring him into this.”   Samuel blinks for a minute. It’s become baffling to him that the man from which he’d learned his fine manners could be so much more rude and tawdry than him. Had Arthur always been like this, and he just hadn’t had the sense to see it? Had he really outgrown him in five years time?   Cobbs shoots him a glance, and Samuel continues. “I won’t, Arthur. I just want you to understand, I’m trying to help.”   “Sure you are. Helping yourself.”   “I wish you wouldn’t-”   “Quit playing games with me, Grant.”   He blinks again. He can almost feel Cobbs Pond tense in the seat next to him.   “Alright, I won’t play games, Arthur. I know you don’t think I have your best interest at heart, but you deserve honesty. Maybe being straightforward with you, no matter how painful, will show you I care more about you than any greed you now believe has motivated my actions. I respect you too much to shield you for my own benefit.”   Arthur frowns. This was not what he had expected.   “I know you have been working hard on forming agreements with several other companies throughout the valley. You’ve met with tribal delegations and company heads alike trying to forge ahead, as have I. We’ve worked on advancing together.” Samuel let himself breath for a moment and then let himself savor his next words. “But Arthur, believe me when I say you are single-handedly poisoning our trade relations. You can’t just make offers without my say-so. When you aren’t sure what we can and can’t offer and don’t know which side we’re on, you make more enemies than friends.”   Arthur turns the color of his insides. “We’re on our own side, you self-centered little prick. I’m on my side.”   “So am I.”   “Not anymore.” Arthur stands. “I’m writing you out. You are no longer my beneficiary.”   “You what?” Samuel’s feels the color drain from his face. “Who knows about this?”   “I wasn’t sure until now- I decided I was coming here tonight to make up my mind. But damn, if seeing you like this, sitting here as bold as brass trying to tell me how to run my company doesn’t sell me on it, I don’t know what will. Goodbye, Grant.” Arthur sneered. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure but I wouldn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”   Samuel stares at him emptily. He watches five years of hard work and friendship walk out into the inky black.   It only takes a little while for Cobbs Pond to find him.   Arthur Haynes’s legal representation has, upon the burial of the deceased, no trouble finding the necessary paperwork for the transfer of company ownership. It’s all sitting neatly on top of his desk, in fact, as if placed there to be ready and waiting.   It’s all delirium once Arthur is gone. The company is renamed to their taste, soon growing to overshadow anything it might have been. For the first time, Samuel and Cobbs have nothing to consider but themselves.   The memories from this point on are sweeter. A honeymoon- a half-joke that, once told, fast becomes a fact. It’s not the first step they’d taken in their life together, Samuel agrees with Cobbs in hindsight, but the time they’d spent luxuriating in the sum of their choices. A brief crime ten years or more ago gave them the space in which to become comfortable. When they make their way towards Montreal, it’s in silent reassurance.

[communistcountryclub]

One morning in mid-August, Americans woke up in what felt, to some, like an altered country. The week’s most notable political event had begun with hundreds of Americans carrying torches while chanting “Sieg heil” and “Jews will not replace us.” White supremacist radicals like these had been active and energized throughout the presidential campaign, but much of their energy had been restricted to the internet. The rally in Charlottesville was markedly different. It confronted America with an unlikely question: Was it possible the nation was seeing a burgeoning political faction of ... actual Nazis? People we should actually call Nazis?

“Nazi” is a remarkable example of the very different routes a word can take through the world. In this case, that word is the Latin name “Ignatius.” In Spanish, it followed a noble path: It became Ignacio, and then the nickname Nacho, and then — after a Mexican cook named Ignacio Anaya had a moment of inspiration — it became delicious, beloved nachos. In Bavaria, a much darker transformation took place. Ignatius became the common name Ignatz, or in its abbreviated form, Nazi. In the early 20th century, Bavarian peasants were frequent subjects of German mockery, and “Nazi” became the archetypal name for a comic figure: a bumbling, dimwitted yokel. “Just as Irish jokes always involve a man called Paddy,” the etymologist Mark Forsyth writes in his 2011 book “The Etymologicon,” “so Bavarian jokes always involved a peasant called Nazi.” When Adolf Hitler’s party emerged from Bavaria with a philosophy called “Nationalsozialismus,” two of that word’s syllables were quickly repurposed by Hitler’s cosmopolitan opponents. They started calling the new party Nazis — implying, to the Nazis’ great displeasure, that they were all backward rubes.

That original, taunting meaning of “Nazi” is now long gone, replaced forever by the image of history’s most despised regime. This is precisely why the word has resurfaced in American conversation, aimed at the white supremacist arm of the so-called alt-right: It is perhaps the single most potent condemnation in our language, a word that provides instant moral clarity. Not everyone, though, is entirely comfortable with this new usage. The New Yorker’s Jelani Cobb finds “Nazi” insufficient as a label for American racists, because when we use it, he writes, “we summon the idea of the United States’ moral victories, and military ones” — references that make little sense when we’re talking about American-made moral failures. Lindsey E. Jones, a Ph.D. student of history in Charlottesville, tweeted that a long history of American racism is “conveniently erased” when figures like the white nationalist Richard Spencer are reduced to “Nazis.”

But if “Nazi” isn’t quite the right word for the fringe groups now attempting a takeover of national politics — if it’s sloppy and inexact and papers over just how widespread some of these bigotries are — then “Nazi” will, in a way, have returned to its roots. It began as a broad, imprecise and patronizing slur. Then it became a precise historical classification. (One that, you might argue, “conveniently erased” widespread anti-Semitism throughout Europe and America.) Now we find ourselves arguing over whether it can serve as a general epithet again — a name for a whole assortment of distasteful ideologies. Nearly 80 years after Kristallnacht, we are not exactly sure what a Nazi is, or should be.

Not so long ago, it seemed as though “Nazi” had lost much of its frightening power. A person with an abiding fervor for flawless syntax could quite casually be labeled a “grammar Nazi.” A comically exacting chef on “Seinfeld” could be called a “soup Nazi.” On right-wing radio, any woman with a challenging opinion could be called a “feminazi.” Some of these were jokes, others pointed accusations. But in each case, what the word described was a kind of outsize zealotry — a person who was too stern, too demanding, like an order-barking villain in a World War II movie.

This tradition has unexpected roots, too: It begins with surfers. Shortly after World War II, some surfers started toying with Nazi regalia, mainly out of a desire to offend. By the early ’60s, some young California surfers had begun wearing a Nazi-themed pendant called the Surfer’s Cross. (One teenager told Time magazine he liked it because “it really upsets your parents.”) Despite condemnations from the surfing press, this strange association eventually resulted in the term “surf Nazi” — which, oddly, didn’t describe beachside fascists but cultishly single-minded surfing fanatics.

Actual Nazism remained in circulation, becoming one of various extremist ideologies on the international fringes. In that sense, a Nazi was a very concrete entity. A Nazi was a believer in a very specific mythos. A Nazi was someone who murdered members of my distant family. At the same time, the word was also a frivolous way of comparing decidedly nongenocidal behavior — like using “whom” correctly or being persnickety about etiquette — to the best-known example of human wickedness. This double life was possible, in part, because professed Nazis had very little public voice; identifying as one disqualified you from mainstream conversation, a reality racist communities remain well aware of. As Wired’s Ashley Feinberg discovered, some members of the white supremacist forum Stormfront were concerned by the symbols used by marchers in Charlottesville: “Some were carrying swastikas and that isn’t good for our image, because of the propogabda [sic] embedded into everyone’s minds,” wrote one.

Hence one rhetorical strategy of the alt-right, which constantly gestures toward Nazism without actually assuming the designation. Just after the election, Richard Spencer told a crowd, “Hail Trump, hail our people, hail our victory,” and was saluted with outstretched arms in reply. Online forums have concocted an imaginary alt-right country called Kekistan, whose flag is basically a Nazi flag, only green, with a cluster of Ks instead of a swastika. This winking take on fascism has helped mainstream the alt-right, bringing us to a point at which President Trump might say that there were “many fine people” among the demonstrators in Charlottesville. (It has also brought us to the point at which there can be earnest argument over whether we should consider a sitting president a Nazi sympathizer.) This is one of the most remarkable results of the alt-right’s emergence into the national dialogue: Talking seriously about Nazis is part of the new normal.

It has long been a standard of political argument to liken your foes to the Third Reich — enough so that, in 1990, an annoyed attorney named Mike Godwin proposed what’s now called Godwin’s Law: “As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving the Nazis or Hitler approaches 1.” This was intended as a critique of the level of argument on the internet. Now, as we half worry that swastika-wavers might seize some contemporary political power, such comparisons don’t seem quite as fanciful, as evidenced by a recent tweet from Godwin himself: “By all means, compare these [expletive] to Nazis. Again and again. I’m with you.”

One problem with calling American extremists Nazis is that the word carries an inevitable outlandishness. Nazis have a unique place in the cultural imagination; their image is a singularly terrifying and ridiculous thing. Applying that label to the alt-right runs the risk of making them seem like exotic cartoon villains. But the men and women marching in Charlottesville weren’t exotic; they were people’s neighbors, colleagues and study buddies. The racism of the Nazis wasn’t particularly exotic, either: The uncomfortable truth is that Nazi policy was itself influenced by American white supremacy, a heritage well documented in James Q. Whitman’s recent book “Hitler’s American Model.” The Germans admired, and borrowed from, the “distinctive legal techniques that Americans had developed to combat the menace of race mixing” — like the anti-miscegenation laws of Maryland, which mandated up to 10 years in prison for interracial marriage. At the time, no other country had such specific laws; they were an American innovation.

What term, then, is the right one? None — fascists, white nationalists, extremists — fully encompass the men and women in this mass. Watchdog groups like the Southern Poverty Law Center have spent decades tracing the intricate ideological differences among various fringe sects: neo-Confederates, neo-Nazis, Klansmen and so on. Yet when these impulses collect into one group, it’s impossible to arrive at a simple, low-syllable explanation of their particular ugliness.

But that’s precisely why “Nazi” was, originally, such a useful word. It was never intended as an incisive diagnosis. It was a snappy, crude, unfussy insult, repurposed and wielded by people the Nazis intended to dominate, expel or kill. It contains a larger lesson, which is that we do not have to engage in linguistic diplomacy with people who want to destroy us. We don’t have to refer to them with their labels of choice. There is a time for splitting hairs over the philosophies of hateful extremists, but there’s also great value in unambiguously rejecting all of them at once with our most melodious, satisfying terminology. “Nazi” is not careful description. But careful description is a form of courtesy. “Nazi,” on the other hand, has always been a form of disrespect.

[yishaireno]

Recent Activity

Another casual update as to what’s going on in my general purview!

To start it’s likely worth mentioning that I have just gotten to work (for my first time) with Rob Noble’s show series Manifest and (for my second time) with Michael Manahan’s Cascadia Festival on their recent collaboration show, The Hive. We used the hexagons with lycra fabric and netting from Bass Bees and Frequencies as decoration, and a ridiculously strong projector to make them pop. Sadly, the event seemed a little mismanaged, and there were enough flubs to make me uninterested in working at another Manifest unless I had a more influential role and could guide the shows into a more successful pattern. Rob did mention that the collaborative effort left something to be desired in terms of communication between the two of them, so I’ll see how his next Manifest goes before making a judgement call on his work ethic. At the very least, he had the common decency to compensate me fairly well, so I’ve no real complaints, just see many ways it could have been made better. Mr. C was the headlining act, but I didn’t particularly feel anything particularly brilliant from him. My friend Jellyfyst played a great set, tho! (https://soundcloud.com/jellyfyst)

I also happened upon work with a brand new talent agency, Calypsa, that’s been building contacts and a talent base for the last 3 years. I saw Kiki DeVille, the self-proclaimed “plug” for the talent, while she was getting started as a dancer back in my early days of clubbing post-college, around 2013. We never interacted, but as I made more professional female friends it became clearer who the main source for new women performers in our local scene was. One of these friends (Jellyfyst’s girlfriend Luma from Luma Fire and Flow) invited me to participate in Calypsa’s premier event, Drum and Lace, which ended up being a lot of fun and a great professional growth opportunity. Plus I got to see Dubtek, so that was pretty cool.

My old friends in Olympia, Cobb and Jobi, have been making big moves with Paragon Productions moving into their new venue space called The Studio, which they now hold two events in every month, along with renting it out to yoga teachers, bands, and other event promoters. I held down the door for a while at their latest iteration of Reboot, featuring my good friend Ovoid as the headlining act and local homies Pilz Beats and Shermgerm back from their west coast tour (repping ShadowTrix Music). It was a magical evening, promoting the well-being of a culture that has been cultivated successfully after many years of struggle. I’m so proud of all of the artist who performed and organized that night, it means so much that everyone was local and the show still broke even.

Finally, I dipped back into EntsinTents to see what was up, and they welcomed me back into the fold with open arms. Their new venue space, Terrarium, looks amazing, with a fancy cyclo wall and a turbo/funktion system in place for future parties. They’re only looking to lease for the month of May right now, but it could become something much bigger. The intention is to try to hold onto the relationship with the venue owner until at least September, when the big artists from the Eclipse gathering in Oregon will be looking to perform in the US before returning home. For now, they’ve put up DRRTYWULVZ, Somatoast, and Detox Unit, so they’re doing a pretty good job by my estimation. No flyer art though, shame!