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Despite his initial awkwardness around her, Din finds himself enjoying Koska’s company. She and Bo-Katan are like two peas in a pod, each finishing the other’s sentences or subconsciously adjusting their postures to angle themselves towards one another. He’d been uncertain about her when they’d first met, but she brings out a side of Bo-Katan they’ve never seen before— a laughing, affectionate side, who seems to delight in every little surprise the world has to offer. It’s a little off-putting at first, though he’ll never admit it out loud for fear of ruining her unnaturally good mood.
Just like he’ll never admit the way he’d flushed bright red under his helmet earlier in the bar, when Luke had first spoken to Koska. I’m the boyfriend. Din’s. Hearing those words aloud had done something strange to him— not that he has the first clue what that would be.
“So,” Koska says conversationally as they all awkwardly gather in the entryway of Din and Luke’s apartment, silently gesturing for one another to enter first. “You’re Death Watch?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re pretty heavily traditional people, aren’t you?”
”Traditional enough.” He’s not sure where this conversation is headed; Death Watch is a controversial covert even among Mandalorians. They have a reputation for being harsh and unfeeling, misconceptions that have made it difficult for Din to form relationships with many of the more mainstream coverts in the city. Or… any of the coverts in the city, with the exception of Bo-Katan and Boba.
“Verd’goten traditional?” Koska says almost conversationally, and Din does a genuine double take. He hasn’t heard the word since… well, since he’d completed the coming-of-age ritual himself.
”Are you…”
She anticipates the rest of his question before he has time to finish it. “No, I’ve always been a Nite Owl. But I come from a long line of ge’ver’alore.” Din digs through his knowledge of the many complicated Mandalorian honorifics and comes up with a rough guess at what Koska’s family has historically done.
”Aides?” It’s not the best translation, but he knows Luke is listening in— he and Bo-Katan are systematically raiding the kitchens of their respective apartments in order to find dinner ingredients —and it’s the closest thing Din can come up with on such short notice.
”You could say that,” she agrees, following his gaze to where Luke is. “Right. Ge’ver’alore protect the leaders of their covert, as well as working alongside them in political matters.” Luke grins his thanks, and Din can’t help but return the smile under his helmet. Skywalker’s good moods are growing more and more infectious. “Since it’s such a demanding job, we’re required to complete a verd’goten even if the covert doesn’t practice the custom.”
”You still train for the five years?”
”Three and a half, really, but it’s political training instead of survival skills. And we don’t go as in-depth with the fighting. It’s mostly self-defense. You’re…?”
”All five.” Din can’t help the hint of pride that creeps into his voice. After all, there aren’t many chances to be proud of the years of work he’d poured into completing the test of every skill a Mandalorian could need. “My test was two weeks in the woods with two other foundlings, and a duel against both of our instructors.”
Koska whistles appreciatively, and Bo-Katan’s reappearance puts an effective halt to their conversation as she and Luke take the opportunity to tease them for slacking off. They’ve got everything needed to make a decent pasta dinner, apparently, and she and Luke aren’t about to let the other two get away with taking the easier jobs. “We’ll split into teams,” Bo-Katan says. “Me and Kos, and you two. Let the partners work together, right?”
Which is how Din and Luke find themselves assigned to cooking pasta while Bo-Katan and Koska throw together what Bo humbly calls “the best homemade pasta sauce you’ve ever eaten.” It isn’t until Luke dumps the entire box of spaghetti into the pot before even adding water that Din realizes they’re going to have a problem. “Luke. What are you doing.”
”Making…pasta?” The clueless look on his face tells all: he actually thinks he’s doing this correctly. It would be adorable, really, if he weren’t so damn appalled.
”How are you still alive?” His boyfriend glances guiltily at the pot, still clearly unaware of what he’s doing wrong. “You can cook, right?”
”Yeah?” He looks torn between being offended that Din is even asking and doubtful of his culinary skills, a strangely adorable look for someone who’s so unprepared for their dinner assignment that Din would consider tearing his hair out from frustration if it were anyone other than Luke making the mistake.
”And you know you’re supposed to add the pasta after the water is boiling?” Luke sheepishly pours the sticks of pasta out onto a stray cutting board. Din just sighs as he refills the pot with water, stepping in before the man can set it down on the stove as if that’s all a good batch of spaghetti needs. “Wait. We need to salt it first.”
Luke watches with growing apprehension as he shakes salt into the water. “Din, that seems like… a lot.”
”Trust me.” The Armorer’s idea of home cooking had typically included a mixed bag of whatever she could scrounge up from their garden, especially since most meals had been shared in the massive wooden building affectionately as the Karyai— Mando’a for the main living chamber of a Mandalorian household, used for anything from mealtime to training. But Din had taught himself, through years of trial and error, to replicate the flavorful meals typical of the Karyai on his own. The Armorer had quipped once that he’d been preparing for the move years in advance, ensuring he’d still be able to have a taste of home even now that he’s halfway across the country.
It may not be true, but at least he can make one hell of a pasta dish.
Luke watches in mild awe as Din walks him through the basics of making the perfect pasta, although it’s not exactly rocket science. Still, it’s just now occurring to him that Luke subsides mostly off of hastily thrown together sandwiches and cafeteria fare from the school he teaches at. So maybe this actually is new and interesting for him.
Or perhaps he’s just faking it for Din’s benefit. He’s never liked the idea of being pitied, but this feels like more than that. In the weeks since they’d moved in together, Luke has never once complained about him. He’s never had an issue with the Death Watch customs Din practices whenever he can, or gotten annoyed with him and Bo for switching to Mando’a mid-conversation. His roommate is making an effort to be considerate… and to Din, it’s surprisingly heartwarming.
Damn. City life is making him sappy.
He makes up for it by foisting pasta-cooking duty onto Luke, giving him careful instructions to keep the pot over the flame until the strands of spaghetti stick to the wall when thrown. He’s sure Skywalker thinks he’s crazy by the end of it, but at least he now knows one reasonable dish. Force forbid Din let his boyfriend starve after the mess he’s gotten himself into to get an apartment with this man.
The four of them have only just sat down to dinner when a knock at the door breaks through the happy thrum of chatter. “I’ve got it,” Luke calls before anyone can, perhaps trying to make up for his ineptitude in the kitchen. Din barely gives a second thought to whoever their visitor may be, automatically assuming it to be Satine stopping by to check in on them the way she does from time to time.
And then a familiar voice fills the apartment, and Din’s head whips around to the door. “I’m looking for Din Djarin.”
As out of place as she should look in the city, the woman standing in the doorway still manages to ooze authority. If Din didn’t know better, he would assume she belongs here, perhaps even that she’s lived in this building her whole life. Her confidence has been a source of his respect for as long as he’s known her, and he can still remember all those times as a youngling when he’d practiced his posture in the mirror for hours in an attempt to copy her poise.
He’s no longer that youngling, but the Armorer’s authority still intimidates him after all this time.
“Buir?”