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The circumstances that cause one to think of the past is a liar and should be shot at first sight.
Nostalgia, for all its romanticism, holds none of the sweet promises that’s been bagged by the mouth; it’s a rotten thing that lingers and rots in your brain from the inside out; a smelly, smelly concoction worth of longing and missed opportunities that whispers out of the pocket of one’s mind despite how hard you try to stomp it down.
Unfortunately, whatever force he’s applied to such inconvenience doesn’t work; he thinks it’s some sort of immortal bug, one that’s planted in his brain by himself, for himself, within himself. All because he’s feeling a little sentimental. All because nowadays, for some reason, he drifts to places that shouldn’t be humoured with in the first place.
Rumbustious sniggering; white walls and barking laughter; aliens with far too long appendages, large empty eyes, heartless and black — the boys used to say that they hold an inkling of a black hole, that they’d suck you in if you disobey orders because you are in their disposal, the metaphorical chain snagged by the neck, ownership in your very existence if not on flimsi; they’ve made you to survive, and they can take you back.
Others laugh again; a child’s disbelieving cackle, a teenager’s rolling exasperation. No, no, d’ikut, he would hear from afar, because he’s still a boy himself then even if he’s not allowed to be near them.
Buir doesn’t like it when he plays with the other boys.
You’re better, His eyes are solemn then, his eyes are solemn now, hardened by what fight he’s gone through, by what life he’s forced to face — they’re seared behind his own, a crisp scene of a holonet replaying over and over and over. I’m going to make sure you’re better than they are.
As a boy, Boba doesn’t understand why his father holds this contempt hot against his chest when his face is borrowed by many others; are they not his children, too? Should they not call him buir as well?
He learns early that he shouldn’t say such things to Jango Fett; he remembers how the night thunders with his father’s voice when he’s been told to drop that hot coal of an accusation.
But between those boys, the teenagers, and the men— those are all lies, they’d say, and they’d scoff about their makers, back rod-like straight as protocol insists they follow the rules that are programmed in their DNA. They’re bred that way, after all. Long Necks aren’t gods. Long Necks don’t have divinity for that.
A Jedi, though, one of them crows then, his voice almost too far away that has Boba straining his ears because he doesn’t want to miss this, he wants to feel included in their speculations and outright lies even if they don’t know he’s listening in. A Jedi can be a god.
The scuffle of outrage is silenced when they turn around a corner.
Boba couldn’t laugh then, but he can laugh now if he wanted to; the Kaminoans are as much of gods as they wish to be. Those boys aren’t wrong, exactly.
Jango usually avoids Kaminoans unless they need him again. He doesn’t care for them, but he knows what they’re capable of, even if they don’t exactly fight, not when they have troopers for that, not when they're raising armies for the Republic.
Millions of sentients have been brought to life because of them; science is magical in such where it’s touched by the divinity of the one who makes them because these men have souls — each of them unique, each of them yearns in a way that should be considered as defective if those long-necked babysitters aren’t nearly as considerate as they have been.
Even that’s not enough; the boys turn to each other in the end, after all.
Perhaps he didn’t play with other boys; perhaps he’s been following his father’s shadow for a long time; perhaps he’s still taking shade from the enormous canopy of Jango Fett’s care that it haunts him until now, having protection, but prevented from being as coddled as any normal boy would have.
Perhaps he’s lying to himself; Jango Fett never actually left him. Boba only needed to look into the mirror, to watch the way people have fallen under his trigger, to see he’s there.
Jango Fett is a ghost that haunts his conscience, and it’s only this time Boba almost acknowledges it again instead of outrightly ignoring how it sinks its claws deep into the back of his skull.
“You alright?”
Fennec doesn’t know about his past as much as she would like, Boba sees this in the way her gaze bores into him as if that would make him stutter, as if he’s the prey she’d hunt after whenever time requires her of its attention. He doesn’t, and he wants to scoff at her audacity before he takes a closer look at what she’s willing to offer on the table.
She’s being kind about it, at least; those dark eyes aren’t as searing as they usually do whenever they want information, as if she’s holding back enough to give him a chance. A bottle is switched for a cup when the spotchka remains dead as an unoccupied river — she sits quietly on the large armrest, a warmth that hovers by his side, an assurance that tells them about their loyalty to each other.
Does debt play a role in their relationship? Perhaps. Even if he thinks that’s no longer necessary. He thinks devotion doesn’t fit quite right, either, a piece that’s been left upside down on the wrong puzzle board.
But then, you know it belongs on there, somehow, even if it isn’t the right board or the right piece.
The puck pulls his attention towards the blue-lit face of a bounty; Zygerrian. Male. A scar jagged down his lips. Face deformed from the snag of a rancor. A lord of sorts. Slaver scum. Half a million credits. “Why do you ask?”
The careful scrutinisation that lays waste to his own scars almost prickles needlessly. “You spaced out for a moment,” She almost sounds curious. “I was wondering if I had to snap my fingers in front of your face when you didn’t hear me call you.”
Boba doesn’t allow himself the novelty of reacting to such statements; he doesn’t know why he’s sunk deep into old memories at such an alarming rate. It does harmful things to his life when he doesn’t pay attention — to daydream, as if he has such rights, as if he’s shrunk back into the body of a child; Jango would’ve made him Bayleg bait again to teach him a lesson. “I was just thinking.”
“Do you mind if you share?” There’s camaraderie in her tone, light and nudging for answers, and maybe Boba should pull himself out of the webs of time and pay attention to what’s been laid out in front of him.
But maybe he should also trust her, trust in where she stands, because right now she’s a partner, a friend. They’ve saved each other and by the other. He knows he shouldn’t pass it up just because the thought of talking about what life he would’ve had sits tight and forgotten like rotten blue milk.
“My past,” He finds himself pleased at how easy that comes out; just because it’s a storm inside his chest, doesn’t mean she has to know how it exists.
He accepts the other cup of rancid blue alcohol after she stretches after it on the platform behind them. “The people who many have called ‘brother’,” Boba continues.
Vod! The boys, the teenagers, the ten-year-old men; they have that kind of luxury to hold onto when they own next to none. Boba hasn’t envied them ever since Jango showed him what they can do on their own, the possibilities that are offered when you’re not tied down. Vod, you gotta see this— Vod’ika, vod’ika, you gotta listen to me— Don’t talk to me like I’m some kid, you sack of bantha fodder—
Boba swallows the memories away with a tilt of his head; the alcohol burns down his throat with an ease that he wishes would happen on these recycling visions.
“The clones?” He forces himself to not look away as he holds onto the slight confusion she wears. “What about them?”
That’s the thing, isn’t it? What about them?
What is it that Boba thinks of them now, more than two decades later, when there’s nothing to remind him of them in the first place? He’s not looking into the mirror at this precise moment, but regardless, his face doesn’t have the slick and span face of a Shiny, the splendour of it lost to him before he even had the chance to wear it, because he’s sculptured himself from Jango Fett’s legacy and has been picking onto his face with that same knife until he’s formed into what he desires.
But vod, vod, vod rings in his ears as if he’s back on Kamino with a fresh uniform on his back and the reluctance of the inexperienced heavy in his heart.
“No reason,” He looks away from those eyes and focuses on the Zygerrian — even the slaver looks judgemental at his obvious diversion. “Other than how I’m probably one of the last there is out there.”
There’s silence on that subject when they continue to discuss their plans; it’s easy to slip into the professionalism they’ve acquired for themselves when it comes to the work they go through on a weekly basis. Every hit and blast of their weapons shakes and loosens the uneasiness that threatens to settle in his skin, making him slip into the familiar self-assurance he carries with himself.
He doesn’t have the estate for such feelings.
Fennec doesn’t bring it up until they’ve opened another bottle, her legs tangled with his, his ankle hooked with her bare foot.
“You’re not the last.”
Boba watches her through hooded eyes, fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of their salvation, the sheets tangled around their waists, the cold wall of the palace a balm against Tatooine’s fading evening heat. “You lie about this, and I’ll kick you out.”
“You wouldn’t,” She’s right, of course. “And I don’t lie.”
She’s right about that, too.
His other hand finds itself smoothing over raven hair, and she lifts her head to breathe against his jaw. “All the same,” Boba can feel her rolling her eyes even if she doesn’t do it outright. He smirks. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope you’re not afraid,” she shoots back, hand gripping his shoulder, and he seizes the groan that threatens to escape when she slides up his bare abdomen with her own. “When all of that fear is just in here.”
Her thumb rubs against the side of his head, over one of his many scars, her eyes blazing, and he doesn’t know what that look means when everything else is already fire to his body. There is no sort of dignity left when he lets the bottle clatter upright on the bedside cabinet and holds her tight in the circle of his arms instead.
“I’ll tell you where they are,” she says, much later, where she’s sprawled lazily over him. Her ear is pressed against his heartbeat, listening to the truth there even if he doesn’t speak of it.
He counts the specks on the ceiling. He looks at her again. “Why?”
This time, something softens in the lines of her face when she meets his eye. “Because you need it.”
They have a house away from the town of Lothal.
Serenity exists in the way Boba has to walk through the tall grassy lands that stretches acres wide around him. The skies are clear of any clouds, and he quietly hopes it stays that way until he goes through the required half an hour hike to Slave I.
It’s for his own good that he leaves his ship as far as he can without it causing much problems when the time comes. He makes sure he parks Slave I between towers of rocks, using their tall structure to mask the ever familiar paint of his ship — he doesn’t want anyone to get any ideas, if he can help it.
Pebbles flow under the soles of his feet with each step, the tall grass rustling against his knees and his fingertips; he doesn’t know what to expect, he doesn’t know what to say to the people he’d meet under Fennec’s resources.
She shakes her head when he asks her to follow him; he doesn’t have to say a word before she’s refusing him, but something must have shown on his face for her to give him a small smile. “You need to do this on your own.”
“Would it be better if you come with me?” Brash, something in him hisses; Jango would’ve disapproved of such needy implications.
“You’ll be fine,” she says simply. And he believes her with this, too.
The evening sun slashes across the farm in the backyard, and Boba takes in the way it’s protected with a fence, several rows of ploughed dirt spreads across the ground, with numerous types of vegetables with different colours; he won’t be surprised if they grow everything on their own there. Wooden, he picks out the fence with some distaste; has their training been wasted on the simplicity of gardening?
The window of the house connected to it winks at him brightly, the dome roof a dark brown and the walls a homey off-white, a sturdy structure that would’ve looked cozy and modest if it isn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere.
It just looks hostile, standing there on its own, with no neighbours to act as its guard, incisors hidden behind pressed lips, waiting to be bared at any unexpected prey.
Perhaps training has taught them this, to isolate to become safe. Perhaps not, and they have chosen this on their own. Vode have always lived in groups, like the wolves that once crawled over Lothal lands, dependent on teamwork and pack that Boba almost, almost doubt that they would have an easy time living alone and away from others.
But, they’ve been outcast for decades — they should already get used to the white noise that creeps up on you when you least expect it.
Peering around the other side of the house, there’s a road that leads him to urbanisation; he knows there’s a couple of speeder bikes parked on their front lawn, just like he knows if he isn’t careful, he might resort to letting them explode out of sheer necessity.
A scarecrow with a long neck and a long stick nailed to its hand grins wolfishly at him in greeting. Its big, soulless black eyes vaguely remind him of the self-proclaimed gods that came from Kamino.
Maybe it’s good taste to have them as an entity to scare off potential thieves, the little ones that will steal their stock.
Boba doesn’t use the front door, walks through the small dusted path that leads to the entrance at the back, potted hai-ka flowers standing vigilant on each side. He eyes them for a moment, doesn’t know what to make of them when they look entirely too normal, blooming innocently under their owner’s care.
And then, he stares at the door.
Well? Jango’s words hold the same steel that Boba currently wears. Me'copaani, adi’ka?
For the first time since he’s crawled out of the mouth of a cavernous worm, he doesn’t know what he wants.
Conflict rolls and growls inside of him, and he considers the possibilities that could either get him killed, or where he would have to kill. He’s thought hard on this already, slept through his nagging mind for a week before he hauls himself to this house, to the people who live in this place, and how they hold the last of his homeland.
He considers knocking, considers just walking in, but he doesn’t have a chance to do either when the door suddenly swings forward, and his hand immediately twitches to the blaster by his hip out of instinct, sheer training drilled into his very core by the Mandalorian who fathered their genes.
The man steps heavily into the porch with his own rifle clutched in the wrap of his fingers, and it has relief prickling against the back of his head when Boba least expects it — at least, he thinks, they aren’t completely senile, no matter what their wooden fence tells him. They’re sane enough to know that they’re still being hunted, despite how long it’s been, and how they’re considered obsolete in this time of the century.
They have a Kaminoan scarecrow with a wooden jetii’kad taped to its hand, for kriff’s sake, they’re fine. Boba doesn’t know why this bothers him so much.
One sharp amber eye considers him critically, despite the white cataract ring tracing around it, and Boba doesn’t like how it only pulls him back to white walls and blue uniforms, all the same. “Decided to visit now, hm?”
The mild tone only has Boba take in the mustache, tempted to pull down into a scowl, and the worn lines at the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t realise I was supposed to.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Wolffe snorts, and he doesn’t move away, deliberately reminding Boba of his rifle when he rests it on his shoulder. “You’re the Chosen One, and apparently, don’t owe us visits unless it’s to kill us.”
“Killing you would just be wasting my time and energy,” Boba says smoothly, and he expects this, of course, the hostility that exists in his batchmate. He thinks Wolffe never quite forgave him for aging like any other human; for being Jango’s protégé; for being normal.
“I can’t find myself to be surprised at that kind of statement,” Wolffe replies dryly.
“Who are you harassing now, Wolffe?”
“Just a long lost vod’ika,” Wolffe hums, and Boba snaps his gaze towards the figure walking up behind him. “I think he’s finally making his way home today. But I’m not too sure. He looks like he wants to bite my finger off again.”
“Oh?” Rex muses, and Boba thinks the universe is cruel for forcing him with a soft heart when he mainly doesn’t want to do this, with any of this. But, nostalgia is to blame mostly, and this is just the first and one of the many levels of Sith’s Nine Hells he has to go through. “With a rifle, though?”
It’s watching more of them age faster than he has; Boba remembers how he wants to grow up as fast as they all did, how he didn’t want to get left behind. They’re all the same age and younger, where they can grow taller and older and have a blaster of their own at the age of nine, maybe eight, before they’re shipped off for their first campaign.
Rex looks at him with less suspicion than Wolffe does, but that doesn’t mean he’s far from being careful. The beard is new, so to speak. Boba remembers him to have a stick up his shebs about regulations and thinks of the irony of this.
But, the Republic’s long gone, the Empire as well, and the Kaminoans no longer care about them — it seems, regulations are thrown out of the window now. They’re free.
Whatever Rex is thinking, it has him leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Boba.”
“For the record,” Boba starts smoothly, something pinching in his chest at how tremendously different they look than what they should be. “I’m older than both of you.”
“By thirty seconds,” Wolffe scoffs, and Boba doesn’t like how vaguely amused Rex looks, as if he’s remembering a memory with the same words being uttered out loud.
“Why don’t you come in?” The former Captain consoles, the easy tone mostly aimed at Wolffe when the offer itself is tossed at Boba’s visor. “Can’t have you stand outside all day.”
“He absolutely, karking can,” Wolffe replies curtly, and he’s not wrong, not when Boba has the same endurance they all have.
“Would be rude,” Rex shoots back, giving Wolffe a brief glance before he turns around.
Boba expects the glare Wolffe weighs down on him, and doesn’t hesitate to brush it away with a step forward that the other man is forced to make way for him.
The first thing he notices is how lived in the house is, and that’s considering he’s only in the kitchen. Mugs of almost every colour are stacked in behind framed transparisteel cabinet doors. A kettle is left on the lit stove. A datapad is left on the counter. Child-like drawings are stuck to the surface of the conservator, silly looking magnets keeping them up.
He doesn’t know who drew those for them, when he doesn’t hear the patter of small feet running around the household; perhaps a neighbour? A friend’s child?
There’s a printed ‘graph there too, old and fraying; Boba lets his eyes sail over white plastoid with blue and yellow settled easily on the people wearing them and refuses to look at it too hard.
The domestication of this life they’ve made almost suffocates him, because Rex is pulling out meat and fresh vegetables from the conservator and spreading them over the counter; because Wolffe, despite the rifle on his shoulder, is picking the empty glassware from the living room, separated by the dining room that sits in the middle of it all.
There are more holographs of other people on the cabinet in the dining room, and it’s funny, because they own a runner that’s clearly a gift, because they wouldn’t know such things. There’s a small chest, shoved at the back of it, and the holos allow the lit faces of the people to smile into the space in front of them.
The feeling of his blasters are familiar when he presses them tight to his hips, something to hold onto while he spirals into this hole that shines far, far too bright. There’s love in these walls, he can feel that now. He knows this is how a home looks like, because he’s had too many bounties that had to be finished in their homes, and he knows how content swirls in the air, a leftover feeling that settles on his shoulders, before he breaks that with his presence and his bounty’s fear.
He doesn’t kill in front of their family; he tries to be as civil as he can, and the moment his bounty attacks, when their family attacks for them, he’s forced to retaliate.
But, he doesn’t kill when there are children watching with wide, fearful eyes. He makes sure they hide in their closets when he completes his job.
He knows that now, this homey feeling he’s feeling secondhand — he hasn’t thought it’d be possible these clones would live the life none of them wouldn’t have dreamed of having in the first place.
“Wolffe, put that thing down,” Rex has a knife and a chopping board out to slice the meat. Bantha, if Boba has to guess. It’s far too red and large to be anything else. “And make yourself useful here.”
“Bob’ika’s there,” Wolffe gruffs out, eyes on a datapad, and Boba doesn’t let his words touch him. “Let him help.”
Rex turns to him then, eyebrows arching. “Think you can chop up some vege?”
The words are out before Boba can stop them, far too perplexed by the whole thing that’s streaming around him. “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” If Rex thinks he's being odd, he keeps it safe behind a casual look. He nods at the vegetables beside him. “Well?”
It’s bizarre. Boba thought he’d have to punch out someone’s teeth, or shoot them down if they came too close. The least he’d expected himself to do would be combing through the house for some sort of hint and for his own self-satisfaction, just to settle this unease in his chest, before leaving when he finds there’d be no one in the house.
This isn’t even on his list on what to expect. Making dinner with them, he means.
He decides kriff it, it’s not like he has anything else to do. Fennec made sure he’s getting the closure he needs by practically forcing him onto his own ship, while she’d be taking over the Underworld for the time being. He takes a moment to appreciate the thought of her and her adamant way of caring for him.
Boba tugs off his helmet.
“Shit,” Wolffe lets out a low whistle, taking that moment to step into the kitchen, rifle swapped with the empty cup. “That’s gotta hurt like a bitch.”
“It did,” Boba watches the way Rex lets his shocked eyes snap around his face, hands freezing over the still bloody slab of meat; ge’tal, ge’tal, ge’tal drips into the sink.
Boba sets his helmet on the counter that separates the kitchen and the dining room, easily sidestepping the open gawking of his scars. “If anyone wonders if there’s a physical manifestation of hell going around somewhere, bring ‘em to Tatooine and push ‘em into the sarlacc pit.”
“How the kark did you even get in there?”
“Skywalker,” Boba tries not to sound too bitter, already tugging off his gloves. “In my defense, Solo and Organa happened to be there, too. So, it’s bound to end up in flames.”
“Or getting digested in some giant worm’s acid,” Rex comments, and it’s not pleasant, when you have squishy, hard-rock flesh trying to kill you. Boba hides a wince at a memory of his desperation to live and his near-miss with death. “And Skywalker? Luke Skywalker? With Leia?”
“Who else?” Boba eyes him for the familiarity in his tone. He can see the large expense of the farm through the window as he washes his hands. “Bugger’s been prancing around the universe with everyone who’s anyone’s blaster aimed on his back, but that doesn’t stop him from being all,” He wipes the water off with a hand towel. “Jetii.”
“I think it’s in his blood,” Rex is back to slicing the meat. Boba wonders what he’s making. “It’s the name. Skywalker. It carried the whole stinkin’ stench that reeks trouble. And if trouble doesn’t come to them, they’ll be diving headfirst into the Lower Levels of Coruscant for that.”
“They don’t need to go that far to find trouble. It’s all just him being a karking jetii,” Wolffe huffs, pulling out plates from one of the cabinets. Boba notes how it’s more than the three of them need. “You know how they are. Buncha show-offs. Just beggin’ us to give them some attention as if they’re those loth-cats we usually see at the market. If they’re not careful, they’d be taking someone else’s attention, and that usually ends up in them almost getting killed.”
Boba pushes down a snort, washing the vegetables under running water. While he hasn’t been near a Jedi for a long time, the description sounds about right.
“Is that what you thought of General Plo?” Rex teases him, before he’s ducking from the flick Wolffe aims at the back of his head when he passes by him. “Am I wrong?”
“Yeah, you are,” Wolffe rolls his eyes. “General Plo is much more dignified than that. If anyone’s like a loth-cat, it’s General Kenobi. Or General Skywalker. In fact, Ahsoka’s like that, too. The whole kriffin’ lineage of ‘em.”
Rex shakes his head. “I’ll be sure to tell her that later.”
Huh. That revelation shouldn’t surprise him that much, even if Boba does manage his reaction to such news with only a tilt of his head. “She’s still kickin’?”
“Like a newborn taking her first breath,” Rex snickers, but there’s no mistake of how fondness settles around his shoulders like a warm blanket in the quirk of his smile. “Just. Her doing karking jetii stuff, like you said.”
“Speaking of,” The mustache is really something, Boba thinks. He doesn’t know how Wolffe is able to keep that dead womp rat above his lip. “Is she coming over for dinner?”
“No idea,” Rex shrugs, and Boba lets a single creek of relief stream down his nape, even if the rest of his wariness is still intact. “She said not to wait for her, though.”
If Boba’s lucky, he’d be able to leave before their jetii makes an appearance. While he doesn’t hold any grudge against her anymore after putting him into the Judiciary Centre all those years ago, that doesn’t mean he wants to make conversation with her. It’s bound to happen the moment she catches him in this house, and has him sit in the same space.
As if he can feel his thoughts, Rex gives out a noncommittal hum. “You are joining us for dinner, right?”
The direction of that question collides against the side of his head, and it’s far too pointed for it to be a question anymore than it is a quiet reprimand, as if Rex knows he’s already making an extraction plan. Boba ignores it in favour of cutting the vegetables into bite-size pieces. He thinks the meal for tonight is stew. “We’ll see.”
“You’re helping with dinner,” Rex continues, as if he only half hears what he just said. “‘Least you could do is eat it with us.”
“Yeah,” Wolffe aims that same critical look at Boba again. “You just got here. Don’t tell me you’re already leaving when it's the first time we’ve seen you after almost thirty years of total silence?”
“Careful,” Boba warns, and he almost doesn’t like how the almost-insistence they both have on him has him tightening his grip onto the knife, the same wariness that stands at the back of his mind now hovering close. “It almost sounds like you missed me.”
“You’re the one who came here, vod’ika,” Wolffe rumbles out a low chuckle. “If anyone’s missing anyone, it’s you.”
The evening sun is warm against his cheek, a caress against his skin, far different than the stab of saber-like sun streaks that blazed from Tatooine skies and hissed on top of its sandy grounds. There’s even a breeze humming in through the window, chilly Lothal wind nipping against his nose, a little hello against his ear, and he almost takes a deep breath to keep it all in his chest to bring it back to the palace.
He can feel their questions even if they don’t immediately speak of it; they want him to start first, they want him to slip up and spill everything out without doing much of the work. Boba knows that trick of course, has done it a few times himself where he doesn’t even need to speak before his bounty sputters everything out.
As Rex tells him to toss in those chopped vegetables, Boba realises he is making stew.
The tension that settles on top of their heads as they eat, chatter, is heavy enough to be noticeable, but it doesn’t make this as difficult as he thought it would be. It could be, Boba thinks, if he decides to be far more unfavourable than he is then, when he’s only crouching to the ground and waiting for the right time to strike.
They’re not even halfway done when someone breaks, and Boba makes sure it isn’t him.
Rex rests the hand that’s holding onto a piece of bread against the edge of his bowl. Boba quietly steels himself. “What’re you doing here, Boba?”
It’s not an accusation. That first is clear. “I can always leave.”
“That’s not what I meant,” A frown makes an appearance between his brows. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Does Boba want to tell the truth? It awfully sounds like he’ll expose himself to the type of vulnerability that has him wanting to hold onto his weapons, just to have a sense of security. He’s not usually one to fidget. He scoops the pieces of meat with his spoon. “I know what you’re talking about.”
“Then, you’re gonna give us an answer?” Wolffe looks at him as carefully as Rex is, as if they’re wary of him.
Perhaps. Boba is as close to Jango as they can get, even if both of them are trained by the Mandalorian himself, back then. They don’t know him as much as Boba does, don’t know him as well, and that keeps them on their toes.
“You just gave yourself an answer.” Boba watches confusion flicker across their faces and almost smiles. Instead, he leans back in his chair, letting his gaze drag from one vod to another. “Almost thirty years of total silence, remember?”
“So, this is just, what, a social call?” Rex almost looks curious, already shoving his piece of bread into his mouth. “Just a lil’, ‘It’s been years, and I thought you’re all dead, but then I found out you’re not and now I’m here’ kinda thing for us?”
“Should we be honoured?” Wolffe chews slowly. “Should we hold a party for you?”
Boba studies him. “I know why you’re angry.”
“Thirty osik’la years, Boba,” Wolffe growls. “I know you think we’re beneath you, but we’re brothers, haar’chak. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Wolffe,” Rex cautions quietly.
“We’re batchmates,” Wolffe continues, ignoring him. “Me, you, Fox, Bly, Cody,” Boba watches the way Rex clamps down on his flinch at the last name. “And then, Rex came along. And we’ve been us. And then, you left.”
“You know Jango took me since day one,” Boba tells him softly, but it makes Wolffe lock his jaw all the same. “He let me play with all of you, later. You grew up, I stayed the same. You went to fight a war, I followed him through it. And then, he died. If we’re pointing fingers, I’d say we parted on the same terms.” He stops, looks at his food. “I didn’t abandon you.”
“It seems like it.”
And Boba hates how the flat statement cuts through him as if he’s a thin piece of flimsi, because that’s how they feel like it, isn’t it? Even if it isn’t his choice that Jango chooses him as his son, that Jango makes sure Boba is different from the rest, is a normal baby instead of one that aged too fast. Even if, despite how badly Boba buries this secret deep in him, he still misses his vode , his many brothers every time he stares at the stars that reach into Slave I.
“But I didn’t,” It’s Boba’s turn to glower back at him. “Don’t be pissy at me about it, and don’t tell me you’re beneath me. Not my fault he wanted an heir to Jaster’s legacy as if we’re next in line to the karking Mand’alor.” He smiles sharply. “The new one’s so much better than the old one, by the way.”
Din’s not going to forgive him for this; he’d accuse Boba of spreading lies because Din thinks he’s incompetent in taking the throne, given to him at a second notice as if they’re trading moonshine under the table instead having a planet worth’s of history in his fist.
That’s too bad, Boba thinks. Din’s not here to tell him off, not about how he’s easily one of the respected men Boba has the honours of meeting, despite their rocky start.
And he thinks he’d like nothing more than to have the thought of Bo-Katan be eternally pissed off at how her most sought goal has been yanked right under her feet.
Boba doesn’t know where Din currently is, but he guesses the man is hiding from massive responsibilities and being miserable on some backwater planet, all while trying not to think of his small, green son.
Skywalker’s doing, again. One of these days, he’ll have to answer to Boba for making other people’s lives a living hell just because he thinks he has a right to do it.
Both brothers stare at him. Wolffe scowls. “There’s a new Mand’alor?”
“As far as the Darksaber’s concerned.”
Rex arches an eyebrow. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Boba smiles again, just because he likes to see how easily disgruntled they get nowadays when they don’t get what they want. “But, I know him. And he’s a good man.”
“Can’t be worse than having a Sith Lord on it,” Rex mutters, reaching for his cup.
Wolffe snorts. “I still can’t believe you went through that shitshow. How the kriff did anyone let a dar’jetti of all things to rule over that dust ball?”
“None of us can help it that Pre Vizsla was all cocksure in getting his place on the throne before Maul beat him to it.” Rex rolls his eyes, clearly still miffed about the whole Mandalorian Civil War incident. Even Boba heard about how the 332nd aided the planet, and how everything went to absolutely hell the next day. “Whatever it is, if the new Mand’alor is as good as Boba says, then I guess it’s fine.”
“Right,” Boba tries not to roll his own eyes when Wolffe is back to looking at him as if he beat his ass on the training mat. “Whatever it is that our vod’ika says.”
Then, the bell rings throughout the whole house. Boba is already pulling his blasters out of their holsters when Rex brightens up, pushing his chair away from the table as he makes his way out of the dining room to greet their new guest.
Wolffe pins him down with one scarred eye, daring him to make another move, and Boba only sneers silently back at him as he tightens his grip onto his weapons, the sudden spike of adrenaline prickling at the back of his head.
Gods, he hasn’t been this jumpy for a long time, and he hates how coming to this damn house has unraveled every single training that’s been embedded in him since he was a child as if it’s nothing.
He hears the doors slide open after Rex presses onto the panel.
“Ahsoka.”
There’s a delighted chuckle, and Boba peers over the cabinet to see her wrapping her arms around Rex in greeting, a smile stretched wide and filled with elation. It has him holding onto her tight right back, face buried into her shoulder, as if it’s been so long since they last saw each other, since they’ve parted ways. Boba wouldn’t be surprised if they had, and if she’s done something that would have Rex worried out of his mind.
Ahsoka laughs when Rex lifts her off the floor with a quiet grunt, sunburned hands holding tight onto his shoulders.
“What took you so long?” He huffs, grinning, his arms still winded around her waist as he puts her down. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
“Jedi shit, as you would say,” she replies with a shrug.
Boba looks back at Wolffe with one eyebrow twitching up. The other man only smirks.
“If you came any later,” Wolffe calls out, pulling her attention to him. “I’d finish your portion.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she retorts, but the same smile is still lingering on her lips. She smacks a kiss onto Rex’s cheek before stepping away from him. “You’d have to cook me more, if you did. I have two house husbands for a reason.”
“I don’t hear a vow, and I don’t see it written down.” Wolffe clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Try again.”
Boba doesn’t bother looking away when he sees her pause at the sight of him, surprise flitting across her eyes before she keeps it hidden behind a wall that’s made of beskar itself. He tilts his head in her way in response. “Tano.”
He watches how guarded she’s become as she takes in his face. One of these days, he’s gonna charge everyone who ogles him. “Boba. It’s been a while.”
“You could say that,” he answers dryly, his hands still not leaving his sides. He watches her stride smoothly across the dining room to make her way towards Wolffe, and greets him with a peck onto his own cheek. “You were dead until Din told me otherwise.”
The smile turns strained. “I can’t say I’m surprised you know him.”
“Din?” Comes the echo of Rex’s confusion.
“The new Mand’alor,” Ahsoka snaps her gaze at him, not bothering to hide her surprise this time. Boba allows one corner of his mouth to curl up, forcing himself to unclench his fingers from his blasters and rest his hands on the surface of the table. “You haven’t heard.”
“Can’t say I have,” She sits on the empty chair beside him, scooping some stew into her bowl. “I’ve been occupied since he left Corvus.”
“Since you rejected teaching his son, you mean,” Boba shrugs when she levels him with an even look. “I’ve heard things. And I know how Skywalker’s taken him as his padawan now.”
“Really.”
Boba feels a flicker of confusion before smearing it across the floor. “I assumed you were the one who nudged them into his direction when you couldn’t train the kid.”
“Maybe I did,” she muses, and that doesn’t help, really. The Jedi serenity hasn’t helped Boba then, it’s not helping him now. But, of course, Ahsoka Tano has always been a little more different than the usual Jedi, despite receiving training from the Temple. “I was hoping they’d find someone else than me, I didn’t exactly tell them who to find.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” There’s utter perplexity on Rex’s face as he holds out his hand. “Are you telling me the new Mand’alor has a Jedi kid?”
The amusement in her eyes is dim enough for him to miss. “From what Boba just told us, then yeah, the Mand’alor has a kid Jedi.”
“Do you know how contradictory that is?” Even Wolffe looks bewildered at the thought. “A Mandalorian ruler with a Jedi kid? Every dead Mand’alor before him is marching back to the living to beat his shebs to hell, I can feel it.”
“It’s a first,” Boba agrees. “But he loves his kid, and did everything he could to bring him back from Gideon after the bastard stole Grogu for experimenting purposes. Only now, Skywalker’s taken him to train him to become a Jedi.”
“And the Mand’alor? Did he go back to the planet?”
“I don’t think so.” Boba knows so. “There’s nothing to rule. I assume he’d be finding supporters and fighting off challengers.” Unlikely and debatable enough; there’s no way of knowing whether other Mandalorians have gotten a whiff of current news.
Rex glances at Ahsoka thoughtfully. “Does Ezra know about this?”
“When we parted, he was on his way to see Luke,” She allows a quirk of a smile, and Boba realises she’s as old as he is when he sees worn lines at the corner of her eyes. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
Sitting back, Boba loses time. It’s hearing Ahsoka's adventures with Rex and Wolffe, what work the two of them have gone through throughout the last few months around town, within the nearest neighbourhood, or even at the Rebel base that sits at the other side of the planet.
It’s not until Boba glances at the chronometer sitting on the wall that he realises he’s been there far longer than he thinks its possible, where time passes through them like the running stream of Naboo, endless and quiet until he dips his hand into the water and finds the sun has moved and the moon has come out.
They walk him out, all of them; three people that have their warmth seeping through his armour as they pass the farm, the long-necked scarecrow, and the wooden fence. He can hear crickets, chirping in the moon’s light somewhere within the growing vegetables. Otherwise, it’s quiet; the wind’s nowhere to be heard, a stillness in the night that settles a weight onto his shoulders when he turns to face them.
“You gonna come by again next time?” Wolffe asks, like Boba expects him to.
“We’ll see.”
Making a promise seems far too explicit for this; Boba doesn’t know he’ll be able to see them again when he has a feeling it won’t be soon enough. There’s something out there that demands his attention, and he doesn’t know if he can spare that for them.
“I’m counting you on that,” And it surprises him when Rex steps forward and settles a hand on the back of his helmet, pulling Boba forward until his forehead touches his. “The least you could do is call us from time to time, yeah?”
Boba hasn’t had anyone of his vode to give this sort of affection, and it surprises him. It’s been far too long, even before Jango died, and it’s causing the floor to shift into waves that he feels like he’s going to lose his own footing. “‘Lek,” he says softly.
When Rex pulls away, Wolffe steps into Boba’s space, gripping onto the back of his neck and tugging him forward. “Make sure that you do,” he says, and it has to hurt, from how Wolffe pushes his own forehead to Boba’s helmeted one, his fingers digging into his clothes and seeping into his skin; a reminder, he can’t help noticing. “We’re way past our expiring date, vod’ika. We don’t know how long we have left.”
Boba almost wants to take off his helmet. He closes his eyes behind it instead. “I told you. I can’t make any promises.”
“I heard,” Ahsoka begins, and Boba looks at her as he leans back from his vod. “About Tatooine.”
“How you kicked Bib Fortuna in the ass and took his place?” Rex smiles easily, as if they’re seven and eight again and he’s gotten so much taller than Boba had when they’re that age. “Yeah. We know.”
“You gotta try though,” Wolffe gives a tight smile of his own; Boba recalls him having that same smile when he had to leave with Jango, hand in hand, in the earlier part of their years. Wolffe has never really been good at goodbyes. “When we’re the only ones left that know each other, you gotta try, Boba.”
Boba remembers white walls and blue uniforms; He remembers large, toothy grins; he remembers piling on top of them and he remembers how training with them has been going home, their loud laughter a memory that still runs in his mind, unrestrained and free.
He remembers his vode. Here and who have marched far away.
“K'oyacyi,” The gruff of his voice has both of them grinning. “And I will.”