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The balance of power in the universe changes in a single rotation of the moon.
The shift can be felt even in the Tusken camp, where Boba is more than a prisoner, but less than he ought to be.
Escape is still on his mind. He has places to be. Bounties to collect. And bad news to deliver to Lord Vader.
Camped on the outskirts of a mining village, the abrupt departure of brightly-lit Imperial ships in the night’s sky is jarring. One after the other, they lift off and launch out of the atmosphere.
Something has happened.
Something big.
The tribe Boba is with wants to take advantage of the mayhem. They form up a raiding party to unleash upon the village.
But the Tuskens aren’t the only ones ready to make a swift strike.
They clash with a mining coalition, which descends upon the village intent on enslaving it anew.
In the chaos, Boba steals a speeder and flees. The dry sand caking his body is a blessing, hiding the glimmer of his skin under the starry sky.
He doesn’t try to head for a busier space port at this hour, like Mos Eisley. He lacks supplies to make it that far across the desert. And, regrettably, he’s still too weak to fend off potential assailants, even if he did make it there. The injuries from the sarlacc compound with the injuries from his captivity. Boba Fett will not be waylaid by raiders, Jawas, or other scum. He will survive. Just as he always has.
He sails across the dunes and arrives at a somewhat familiar location. He recognizes the telltale signs of shelter hidden in the rocky crevasse. It’ll do. He observes no lights shining from within. If it’s occupied, Boba may have to relieve it of its dweller. But he’s not here looking for a fight, just a place to rest his head. To recover. To get clean and hydrated, maybe fed, hopefully armed.
The door is locked but easily broken into. Dim electro-torches on the walls automatically spark and splutter to a soft orange glow. Stepping across the threshold is like stepping back in time.
Dust covers every surface. No one has been here for a long time.
There are signs of a scuffle though, with less of a dust covering.
Boba remembers.
He’s been here before.
He’d been on a personal assignment from Lord Vader, chasing the wunderkid that blew up the first Death Star. He’d tracked him here, to this lonely hut, far removed from even the most rural of mining and farming towns. They’d fought.
He hadn’t been expecting to battle someone with a karking lightsaber.
The kid fought with impressive desperation. But he’d been untrained. Inexperienced. Boba blinded him and got in a few good licks. Drew blood.
But the kid’s damned droid had come to his rescue.
The last thing Boba saw was a metal box flying towards his helmet. And then he was out for the count.
He’d limped back to Vader without a body but with a name: Luke Skywalker.
An anxious apology for not successfully killing the Rebel pilot was on his lips—disappointing Lord Vader was not a ticket to a long life—but Vader surprised him. He rounded on Boba, choking him against the wall with the Force. “I want him alive!” he’d ordered, pointing a menacing finger at him. Boba is not easily intimidated, but he’d been momentarily terrified. What drama had he stumbled into?
That had been only the beginning.
At least the pay had been good.
And he’d been able to score the bounty on Han Solo in the deal.
If only he’d slipped out in the morning, before the barge departed for the Pit of Carkoon. He’d had a bit too much celebratory drink, enjoying his new wealth, then had to deal with a feisty Princess chained to his bedpost. Thanks but no thanks, you dirty, disgusting slug—Jabba, not the Princess. She was perfection. Deadly perfection. He gave her some advice and something to wear, at least for the night.
Apparently, the whole thing had been a ruse. The Princess. The droids. That bleeding-heart smuggler, Calrissian. And Luke kriffing Skywalker.
The kid had somehow escaped Vader’s clutches. Boba had been impressed yet again. And now the young Jedi had entered the slimy beast’s lair with an overconfident swagger and barely a grasp over his burgeoning powers.
Still, he’d taken on Pateesa and come out unscathed. Poor rancor. And poor Malakili.
Fuck—poor Boba.
He’d just been following the old slug’s orders when he rushed across the barge to put an early end to the fight that had broken out. Jabba knew he’d had a reputation for taking down Jedi. This one shouldn’t be any trouble.
He was trouble.
The whole battle was a sloppy mess.
Betrayed by his jetpack, falling prey to a blind smack by the same lousy smuggler he’d just captured…
The crunch of his armor as he flew into the hard shell of the barge.
The way the hit dazed him…
Knocked him even more senseless than the hangover curling pitifully in his stomach.
And then down, down, down.
Rolling to his doom.
Dark. Viscous. Choking.
Time to stop reminiscing.
Time to start finding out if this old hut has running water.
It does. What’s more, it has an actual water shower. Incredible. Whoever lived here had his priorities right. The place might be humble, but this is a luxury.
Boba strips down, not that he’d been wearing much to start with. He steps under the water and tips his head back, opening his mouth.
Blessed water rains down on him.
He drinks it in every sense.
The heavenly hydration renews his spirits. Yes, he’d gone out like a chump. But he is still kicking. He’d been shoved out of his element, out of his father’s armor with its tools and tricks, and he’d still persevered. He still breathes and walks on his own two feet.
When he steps out and looks in the mirror, he looks more like himself—like his father, more accurately. Still rough, but less gaunt, and the pale sandy coating has been peeled back, revealing his natural skin tone again.
Nude, he collapses on the single bed.
He’s out within seconds, sleep taking him into her welcoming arms.
Da-dump-thump.
Boba ignores the sound. It must be the vaporator rattling, rusty from disuse.
Thump. Da-dump-thump.
He shoves a pillow over his head to dampen the noise.
But when he hears the latches of the door slam shut, he stiffens. Someone is here. Maybe another scavenger, like him. Well, bub, this hut’s taken…
In the twin sunlight of morning, he sees no obvious weapon in the bedroom. So he kicks and rips off a bedpost to use as a staff. He’d gotten quite good with the gaffi stick when allowed to wield it, and he’s ready to whack any intruder over the head.
His state of undress is no hindrance. It’s irrelevant. Well rested and properly cared for, his body is a honed weapon.
Only, it isn’t today.
He’s damaged. His injuries are lasting. He discovers this as the jagged stick in his hands is seized out of his grip by an unseen force.
Is he this clumsy? This broken from his ordeal?
His hands curl into fists as he faces off his opponent, whose face he can’t see beneath the hood of a sand-covered cloak.
“Stop!” the cloaked man shouts, flat palm held towards Boba in the universal sign. “I mean you no harm. This is my… uncle’s house. I came here to…” he trails off, not finishing his statement of what he came here for. “I didn’t know it was occupied.”
Boba isn’t buying it. He lunges towards the scavenger. He’s not going down without a fight. Not this time.
The stranger deftly ducks out of his path.
Boba punches him. He ducks again.
Boba kicks. The stranger is a blur of defensive motions.
Boba either has sunstroke or the stranger is moving unnaturally fast. As he spins away from Boba’s reach, the cloak flares out, and a glint of a metal cylinder gleams from his belt.
And that’s when it hits him. The cloak. The preternatural speed. The lightsaber.
A Jedi.
And Boba is out of his armor. Hells, Boba is stark naked without a weapon. Maker, this is how he meets his end. A final encounter with a ghost from a race of sorcerer-warriors whom he’d help hunt to extinction. It’s fitting.
As he freezes with that sinking realization, the Jedi finally moves.
Boba is pinned down, arms twisted behind his back in a clever hold that has more weight to it than can be explained by the Jedi’s slim physical presence. Boba knows what it’s like to be held down by the Force, to be choked by it, pushed by it… this is the same.
Except it’s not the same at all. This is a…caress. He’s held, but not down. Just…held. Limbs heavy, he lies there, panting, the Jedi on top of him. It’s going to be a mercy kill. Boba never showed any Jedi an ounce of the same…
“Would you please just… stop? I’m not trying to hurt you, but you’re making it difficult.”
“I’m usually more difficult to kill. You’ve caught me at a bad time.”
“Yes, with your pants down.” The Jedi sounds amused, as if Boba was making a joke.
“I don’t have any pants,” Boba says inanely. The whole conversation is ridiculous. Just let him die fighting, that’s all he asks. With dignity, this time.
“Yes, I can see that.” The Jedi chuckles and repositions himself to fully sit on Boba’s back, flattening him to the ground.
“Just finish it,” Boba growls, mad that it’s taking so long. The Jedi clearly has the advantage.
“I told you, I’m not here to hurt you,” the Jedi says.
Sure. Jedi are pacifists, right up until they’re tapped as generals and lob off your head.
“I don’t even know who you are,” the Jedi continues.
“I’m Boba Fett,” Boba tells him. There, now the Jedi will know his kill is righteous. Boba was meant to die in the sarlacc. Death has been lurking around the next dune ever since his miraculous escape.
“Boba Fett?!”
It’s nice to be recognized by his killer.
“But you died!” the Jedi exclaims. “I saw you fall into the Pit! The monster belched after it sucked down your armor with you in it!”
“I know. I was there,” Boba says, thoughts rapidly putting together how he could have possibly missed a second Jedi during the fight. There’d been only one lightsaber-wielder: Luke kriffing Skywalker. So if this cloaked intruder had been there… “Skywalker?” he tries.
There’s an abortive sob, and then the Jedi is scrambling off of him.
The hood has fallen back.
Their eyes meet, blue on brown.
They stare at one another.
“Luke Skywalker, here for revenge. I get it, kid. Do your worst.” Boba sighs and gets back into a fighting stance. He’s wary, and weary, but the third time’s a charm.
“Revenge?” Skywalker mouths, as if it’s in a foreign tongue, not Basic. “I’m not here for you.”
“No?” Because only a Jedi could track him down like this, finding him armorless and helpless in the middle of the desert. People knew Boba by his armor. Its reputation preceded him. But a Jedi could see past that. A Jedi could hunt him by his very soul energy in the Force. “Then why are you here?”
Skywalker’s eyes dart around the place. “Same reason as you. Refuge.”
“From what?” Boba asks, flexing his hands. Holding them in fists so long just to talk is wasting energy. But he’s damned curious. “S’far as I can tell from the kerfuffle last night, the Imps are down and out. You should be celebrating.”
“I was,” Skywalker says shortly, then more softly. “I was celebrating. But I’m also…mourning.”
“Don’t tell me you’re broken up about Vader’s demise,” Boba says, chuckling darkly.
“I—” Skywalker’s voice cuts off abruptly. His voice is pained.
Boba is confused. Hadn’t Vader been hunting the guy? He’d known there was something going on between the two of them, but hadn’t expected this much of it. After all, Vader had made a career of hunting Jedi. He had personal beef with many of them.
“How do you know he’s dead?” Skywalker asks.
And he sounds suspicious as hell.
“Don’t get your cloak in a twist. He doesn’t keep that close of tabs on me.” Boba isn’t exactly getting pinged by the hour by the Dark Lord of the Sith, though he likes to be paid as such. “It’s a guess.”
“It’s a good guess,” Skywalker supplies, sitting back into the nearest armchair with a huff. “He has passed on into the Force.”
“Good riddance.” Boba isn’t sentimental, especially over employers who would just as soon have snapped his neck rather than pay him if he failed.
Another sob.
Oh fek, it must be complicated.
Blue eyes glassy with unshed tears find Boba’s own. “He saved me. In the end, he saved me. And because of me, he’s dead. As are so many. Hundreds of thousands. I helped orchestrate their deaths. And we won, but it hurts. I needed somewhere to be alone, away from the cheers and medals and pats on the back.”
Boba blinks and lets his hands fall loose. He looms over the Jedi, who just sits there in his melancholy, looking up at Boba with grief in his eyes and a desire for something like absolution.
Skywalker reaches out, reflexes shockingly fast, and his palm is resting on Boba’s cheek faster than Boba can duck away.
“But you,” Luke breathes, and Boba can feel the puff of the word on his face. “You lived. My actions led you to fall into that pit—led to the entire barge exploding in a fiery pit of wasted lives. But you… Boba Fett. You’ve crawled back out. You’re the only one to survive the destruction I’ve caused everywhere I go.”
Boba is stock-still, spellbound by the Jedi’s speech and the reverent touch on his face. No one has touched his face in anything but violence in so long. Foolishly, he closes his eyes. The Jedi is a witch and has bespelled his guard down.
Another shock, and this time it’s the Jedi’s lips crashing into his own.
Boba gasps, and Skywalker takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss.
The sand-covered cloak is abandoned somewhere pooling on the floor, and Boba is pressed up against simple black fabric.
He should fight back—not swoon like a princess, not that the princess he most recently had the displeasure of meeting had done anything like swooning. Everyone in this galaxy was battle-hardened and looking for blood, except the man currently wrapping two hands around his neck and pulling him in like he held all the answers to the universe’s questions.
Boba has no answers.
His mind is reeling. He subdues it by returning Skywalker’s kiss.
It feels good, in a way that nothing has felt good in a long time, except maybe the shower. This is better than the shower. Where the shower was cool, refreshing, and relaxing, this is needy, desperate, and demanding.
Boba has trained his mind to resist Jedi mind tricks, but he hasn’t trained to withstand an onslaught of lust and grief like this. Skywalker is pouring it into him lips-first, but also with wandering, scrambling hands that pull and pinch at every inch of Boba’s exposed skin, flayed from his usual shell.
Maybe that’s why it hits different.
Or maybe it’s the emotional catharsis of some of the roughest days of his life.
Whatever it is, Boba is kissing him back, returning his anguished ardour twofold.
Skywalker whirls him around and shoves onto the cushioned armchair, following to straddle his thighs, settling on his lap and crawling closer still. His tongue works its way further from Boba’s mouth, exploring other parts of him—his ear bitten, his neck sucked, then lower—and Boba groans.
Only when Skywalker dives for his cock does he protest.
“I tried to kill you.”
That should bring reality crashing down. That should end things. That should keep Skywalker from taking his dick in his mouth—
“You failed.”
The head of Boba’s cock is laved with a sloppy, greedy tongue. His rigid length is gripped tightly, but not too tightly by a hand that doesn’t feel quite like a normal hand…
“You failed, but so did I,” Skywalker says, finding his eyes from his spot kneeling between his legs. “I failed to kill you. And I’m glad.”
And then Boba lets out a guttural shout as Skywalker opens his mouth and takes him all the way down.
Boba jerks forward into that tight, willing heat. He doesn’t mean to grab the sandy blond hair, but he can’t control himself. He’s given up his control to the Jedi sucking his dick in some sort of commemoration of mutually-failed destruction.
Skywalker is destroying him now in another way, bringing him to the brink of a little death, one he can’t stop himself from falling into just as he couldn’t stop his fall into that Force-forsaken pit.
“Sk’walk’r!” he cries out, but the name doesn’t roll off the tongue with pleasure as well as with menace. So he tries, “Luke!” and that gets him more, so much more in response. It gets him sharp, blown eyes looking up the long line of his cock, gets him suction that pulls him thrillingly out of his body, gets him a softly murmured two-syllable exhalation that might be his name. “Luke, finish it,” he begs, and he’s not asking to die anymore, not unless it’s like this. Just like this.
There’s tight pressure in his balls like lightning, and his legs throb, and his belly seizes. His release is pushed out of him like a blow to the gut. It’s so good it almost hurts, a mishmash of conflicting feelings and desires, all subsumed under an overarching climax that saps him of everything.
But only for a moment.
He’s rounding on Skywalker, lowering the younger man onto his back on the floor, covering him with his body. He licks his neck, which is salty-sweet and too carnally divine to be the taste of a Jedi.
“Boba!” Skywalker thrashes.
He undoes Skywalker’s belt and trouser fastenings, making sure the damned saber is far to the side. He’s intent on unwinding the Jedi, not slicing him or himself in two.
“Boba!” Skywalker shouts again.
“Shh, Luke, I’ve got you,” Boba soothes him with his given name, even as he ramps up his touches, stroking the hot brand of Skywalker’s hardness which juts out from a nest of light curls, stretching needliy towards Boba, begging to be sucked or fucked or both.
“I don’t deserve—”
“If you came here for penance, you came to the wrong man,” Boba growls. “I’m going to worship you. I’m going to make you scream my name. I’m going to—”
Skywalker must have been close, because he’s already coming under Boba’s hand, shaking in a mess of flailing limbs and hitched breaths, dick pumping out his release in pearly strings that coat Boba’s hand and naked chest, splashing him with droplets of liquid heat.
There’s also liquid in the corners of his blue eyes, welling up, so Boba kisses him there, ending the tears before they start.
“You’re a reckless idiot, aren’t you?” Boba purrs in his ear, petting him as he continues trembling.
Skywalker doesn’t deny it. He just lies there in Boba’s arms.
It’s satisfying to hold the Jedi this way. It feels like the answer to an unasked question. A resolution. Boba is tired and energized all at once. He feels like himself again. He feels in control and out of it at the same time. Skywalker isn’t the only reckless one, nor the only one whose choices have had grave consequences for himself and others.
Perhaps a belated response to Boba’s comment, Skywalker’s eyes hone in on the discarded lightsaber beside them. “I’m a Jedi, like my father before me.”
“And I’m a bounty hunter, like my father before me.”
“Where’s your armor?”
“Missing. Where’s your entourage?”
“Waiting for me.”
Boba sits up and wipes the drying come from his chest. “Then go to them, Jedi.”
“What about you?”
And he’s cute. Fek, he’s cute. The shy peek from under his lashes. The way he quickly hides his softening, spent cock back in his pants.
Boba grins. “I’ll be here. In fact, I think I might take over, if you say Jabba bit the dirt, too.”
“That was my sister’s contribution, actually,” Luke clarifies, returning Boba’s smile but softer.
“Sister?”
“Princess Leia.”
“So does that make you a prince?”
“Nope. Just a farmboy.”
“And now a Jedi Knight,” Boba says, nodding and placing the hilt of the saber in Skywalker’s hand. It feels significant. It’s a peace offering. Boba would be willing to do more, particularly with Skywalker’s other hilt, but the mood is gone, replaced by this. He’s not sure what this is. It’s not like any afterglow he’s ever hung around for.
Skywalker’s fingers tighten around the saber and around Boba’s own fingers still grasping the hilt.
“May the Force be with you, Boba Fett.”
Fek off, Boba almost says. Instead, he nods.
The Force will definitely not be with him. But his beskar-strong will and his gumption will be. And soon, his armor reclaimed, new allies, and a throne big enough for an ego twice his size. It will suit him well.
Skywalker disappears into the fresher for maybe five minutes, tops, then he’s recloaked and gone in a flash of brown and silver.
Boba will have to keep his ear to the holonet.
He’ll want to keep tabs on that one.