Chapter Text
There was a deep seated satisfaction in Boba’s chest that he usually associated with a hunt that went near perfectly, without any fuss or unexpected adversaries.
If his father noticed anything different, he didn’t say anything. His father, thank ka’ra and any gods that might be watching him, had never asked or questioned him in regards to partners Boba might have had. Any curiosity there, he knew, and his father wouldn’t be quite so forgiving of his transgressions as he usually was.
He sank deep into his chair, happy to forget whatever lay in the past and remember, with pleasure, of the boy he had coming around his fingers not an hour earlier. It was almost enough for him to get drunk on, to forget and fall into a satisfied trance where the political mutterings of the room around him no longer mattered.
But the door to the hall opened, black capes cut their way through the chatter, and Boba remembered that he had to keep his thoughts guarded. No thoughts or memories of having the prince squirm and come around his hand could leak from his usually still front. Force sensitives were dangerous, he knew that, he’d been taught it since the way he knew how to walk on his own, and the father of the young man he wanted to dream about was by far one of the most dangerous of them all. Boba, for all his shortcomings, didn’t plan on starting a galactic war with the Empire as their enemy.
And he was absolutely certain that, with his helmet off and thoughts flowing as freely as the alcohol generously provided by the Mand’alor, that the Emperor’s right hand would know just exactly what had happened in the corridor. There were many things Boba wanted to avoid. A confrontation with a man known to be as vicious as Vader was one of them.
When Vader sat at the high table, he was next to Bo-Katan but domineering, all black plastoid armour and shadows that sat between him and every possible enemy. He ruled with an ease that wasn’t born out of respect or hard lessons learned in the art of caring for a people. His rule, heavy and dark, was born from a violence that had brewed in him probably longer than Boba had been alive. He didn’t know the Emperor’s hand, his father didn’t either, but from all he’d heard, he knew Vader was a man who’d sprung from the night at the end of the war, tipping it over into the Empire they all knew today.
This was why, despite all his bare desires, Boba tried his damnedest to not look over at the prince sat at the ruling table.
The twins were at the table, he knew as much, sitting in stiff black robes with a blue crystal clasped at each of their throats. He assumed it was some sort of Imperial uniform, a ceremonial get up to remind everyone that they were the closest thing to galactic royalty anyone would ever get. They were more royal than Vader himself, holding titles where their father was a warrior of deadly precision. He didn’t particularly get why they held a title while Vader didn’t, but it wasn’t much of his business to understand the intricacies of Imperial royal politics in the first place. He had no reason to know beyond who sat on the throne — who was a potential threat to his home.
It was quiet in the hall, far from what he remembered most Mandalorian gatherings to be. He knew why, of course, but it bothered him somewhere deep in his chest to see his father’s people so subdued by someone who was never them.
He remembered vaguely a chant his father’s warriors taught the clone vode. They’d stood together, shoulder to shoulder, shouting something he could barely understand at the time, their Mando’a accents so different to the dialect his father spoke. But they’d seemed so cheerful then, happy to be a part of something larger than they were, brothers bound together by more than just their shared same DNA. Boba had never understood them at all.
He wasn’t about to let his mood be soured by memories of a past he could barely recall, however, and he wished someone here would start up a similar chant or dance to liven up the somber, half afraid mood that tainted the air around him. He was almost tempted to helmet himself again, to secretly listen to a radio station from the holonet or catch up on an audio drama he usually left on the ship. His father would know though, and Boba didn’t want to face his disappointment in front of the Mand’alor herself and the pretty prince near her. He didn’t think he could handle humiliation like that with any sort of grace.
But this was getting uncomfortable. Even his father, usually so good at concealing what he truly felt, perfectly lukewarm at the best of times when he wasn’t one on one, had a deep frown creasing his brow.
“Well, this is unpleasant,” Boba muttered.
“Don’t be rude,” his father replied, like a reflex. “But you’re not wrong.”
“What do we do?”
Jango tipped back a glass of tihaar, coughed slightly, “Nothing. We’re just here to sit nicely and play nice.”
Play nice was one way to put it, Boba thought to himself. He’d certainly played with something very nice already.
He quickly, suddenly, remembered exactly who was in the same room as him and every thought he had was shoved down under distinct boredom. There was no reason for him to risk his head, not for something so inconsequential as fingering a pretty boy in a corridor, no matter how badly Boba wanted to play with him again and get far more than just his fingers inside him. If Vader (all bad temper and no qualms about murder) caught wind of what had already transpired, there was no chance of more happening during this trip.
“How long are they staying?” Boba asked his father, tipping his own cup in the direction of the prince and princess.
“A week, perhaps,” replied Jango. “Depends how long it takes for them to deal with whatever they’re here for.”
He stopped then, gave Boba a funny look and frowned deeper.
“Don’t go around getting any ideas.”
His father didn’t tell him off often anymore, not now he’d breached his thirties, but he suddenly felt far more scolded than had in a long time. It wasn’t as if his father knew anything. That he’d already gotten ideas in his head and acted upon the beginning of them, and that he completely, utterly, planned on finishing his goals. Jango had raised him far better than to quit halfway, after all. He still felt that telling off though, deep in his chest, and he almost, nearly, felt guilty about going against his father’s guidance.
But Luke was pretty and he had those big blue eyes. What man could resist chasing him? Boba was, after all, still human under all his years of skill and experience.
He spared a glance over to him then, just to see exactly what the prince was doing. To his surprise (and perhaps relief, though he wouldn’t admit it to Luke if he asked), the prince looked just as uncomfortable and bored as Boba felt.
It was with luck then, that one of the warriors sat at the Mand’alor’s table stood up, their boots and weapons clanking slightly as they climbed on top, encouraging the warriors around them to do the same. It took Boba a moment to recognise them, to realise who it was. Their armour was blue, like the Mand’alor’s, but their helmet was rife was colourful swirls and entwined patterns. After a moment, he remembered that they represented the flowers that once covered Mandalore’s surface, and Boba knew exactly who this warrior was.
Korkie Kryze began to chant, stamping out a rhythm that reverberated in Boba’s chest. The hall grew louder then, full of armed fists beating against beskar chests and wild words not usually spoken in front of those they might consider an enemy.
And as Boba looked at Luke again, daring to find out what this prince might think of the culture he was raised into, he saw that he was joining in. The prince picked up the rhythm quickly, Mando’a still foreign to him but, as Boba knew, that could always be learned. Luke was strong, eager, he could see every bit of a warrior underneath the finery decking the prince’s body.
He was sure then, more than anything he’d been sure of recently, that Luke was more than just a passing titillation. There was something about him that Boba knew he’d fight for, even fight with — he’d be damned if it ended at all.
A Mandalorian, he knew, always got for what they want.
✦
Wanting to do something was one thing, but actually achieving his goal was another. Boba had known that getting Luke alone would be difficult, maybe even near impossible, but he hadn’t realised that the prince was quite as well guarded as he was.
It wasn’t even Vader or the rows of white clad troopers that got in the way. Boba was fairly certain he could find a way to get Luke alone to speak to him, to encourage him back to his own bed and room and find out more about him and his elusiveness. Escaping guards was easy enough, he’d had enough experience of that as a child, he was certain Luke knew exactly what to do as well. No man who suffered the endless presence of a guard and his father hadn’t learnt how to hide and sneak in an escape — especially not a man who’d grown with power at the tips of his fingers.
So it wasn’t the guard or Vader who were making Boba’s present life more difficult, though he was sure they could if they knew what he was up to, but he was good at keeping his thoughts to himself and his language unreadable. He’d been alive as long as the Empire had been around, after all. He’d had a father who’d survived two wars to teach him.
It was the princess, Luke’s own sister, who was the current bane of Boba’s existence.
Leia was stuck to Luke’s side tighter than a tooka’s claws in its prey. If he didn’t know better, Boba would’ve thought that she was watching out for him on purpose, keeping him away from her brother like she was his keeper. She was good at working the crowds of Mandalorians, he noticed. Engaging them in debates and asking the right questions regarding their homeworld without putting anyone on edge. She was, he realised, an almost perfect diplomat. Whoever had taken time to train her had taught her well, even Bo-Katan cracked a smile while they talked, their conversation clearly covering bases the Mand’alor hadn’t expected from the princess and daughter of a man who might as well be her enemy.
Luke was by his sister the entire time, clearly listening. He didn’t say much, Boba noticed, commenting here and there but not involving himself directly in whatever was being discussed so intently. He wondered then, if Luke had had the same education as his sister. Did he get taught diplomacy and politics, or did his strengths lie elsewhere? He be able to find this all out if he could get anywhere close to the man without his sister – or father – getting in the way.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was so much simpler to be chasing a bounty instead of a man he desired, politicking and people skills had never been his strong suit.
“What do you want with my brother?”
In hindsight, he knew he should’ve been more aware and on his toes at such a large gathering, but, he also knew, was there anything that could really stop the daughter of a man who wielded the Force?
He opened his eyes and looked down, only a little, but the princess’s height was enough to make him feel tall. She was staring up at him with her lips pursed, hands folded together under the stiff, long sleeves of her formalwear. She had a fire in her, this one, and if he wasn’t so taken with the lake blue eyes and dreaming future promise he could see in her brother, Boba was sure he might have been at least a little interested in her.
But he wasn’t, and so he replied, “Your brother, princess?”
“Don’t play all coy, Mandalorian,” she frowned at him. “You’ve barely been able to keep your eyes off him all evening.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
Boba winced internally. He’d been so sure he’d been calm about these things, that his curiosity and desire towards Luke had gone completely unnoticed.
“He’s a prince,” he said quickly. “You both have the eyes and ears of everyone focused on you here.”
“Clever,” she replied.
Perhaps he was getting foolish with age and ease, but he hoped for a moment that she might leave it at that.
“However,” Leia continued. “My brother doesn’t come dashing back to our suite, all flustered and as if he’s afraid of getting caught for no reason. And you should remember, Mandalorian, that we are twins.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“Your point?” He asked her, trying his best to hold down any confusion or mild panic that might leak its way out of his thoughts.
Leia raised her eyebrows, “We tell each other almost everything. There’s no secrets between us, Boba Fett, so tell me what you want with my brother?”
There was a careful line Boba had to walk here, one he wasn’t quite sure about. Leia’s steady gaze never him, conquering his usual ability to avoid a topic or bludgeon his way out of a situation he didn’t like. She wasn’t going to let him go easily, nor gently.
He paused, shuffled the helmet tucked under his arm.
“I want to talk to your brother,” he said.
“Fine by me,” Leia shrugged. “You don’t seem stupid enough to make a mistake.”
✦
Luke was sitting on the balcony edge when Boba saw him again. Sundari’s light lit up his face, glowing golden and settled around the same colour of his hair. He was staring out to the city, straight beyond to the dome that protected each citizen from the harsh climate that burned outside.
“I didn’t know much about Mandalore before we travelled here,” Luke finally said.
Boba stepped forward, hands on the balcony rail next to the other man.
“There’s only so much the average person wants to know,” Boba leant forward.
“It’s sad.”
“Hm?”
“That you can’t leave these domes. That there used to be a world outside that your people could live on. Now you rely on imports and artificial farms.”
There was a real sadness in Luke’s voice, not something Boba expected. Why should he? This prince was the son of a man who’d killed in the thousands, who’d slaughtered children in their beds and could destroy Boba’s own life and world with a single order spilled from his too handsome mouth. Why should Luke, the son of all that, a younger, still too beautiful man who’d led armies into battles Boba had only heard of, feel any sort of sadness for a people he didn’t know?
Then again, why did Boba care? For his father? For his history? He thought to himself that, perhaps, his father’s decision to raise him on their farmstead had worked.
“Not all Mandalorian worlds are like this,” he finally said.
“Really?” Luke asked, perking up.
“My homeworld,” Boba started, it still felt strange to refer to Concord Dawn as that, despite the two decades having passed since he was on the stormy cold world he was born on. “It’s not perfect, a lot of it is damaged, but it’s mostly farmland.”
Luke turned to face him then, his gaze soft and something quirking at his mouth. He shuffled closer to Boba, threaded one hand between Boba’s fingers.
“I’m supposed to be here,” he said. “The Force is guiding me.”
“To Mandalore?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
Luke’s face was so close to his, Boba almost forgot how to breathe. Lake clear eyes in front of him and something, a promise maybe, a new sort of future, gazed back at him a surefire sort of intensity.
“Mandalorians,” he said carefully. “We always go for what we want. We don’t really take our time. If you get what I mean.”
“I might,” Luke breathed, breath hitched.
Boba pressed his lips to Luke’s, gently, tenderly; fresh spices and the faint taste of wine still tangible in his kiss.
“Yeah?” He whispered.
“Yeah,” replied Luke. “But I need a reason to stay. Neither my father or the Emperor will let me go lightly.”
Boba kissed his forehead, kissed his mouth again. He knew exactly what action he was going to take.
“I’ll see what I can do.”