#huntere

he’s fourteen and his throat is full of sweet water. boba spits it out, indignantly. a river is nothing compared to a planet-wide ocean. but it has slippery stones and strong currents too. maybe every river was an ocean once, maybe that’s why it should carry him away.

his knees sting as he gets up, the skin on them rubbed raw and bleeding from the sharp rocks at the bottom. this gets ignored, just like the soaked strands of hair prickling his eyes. the chill sets in immediately but this body doesn’t remember how to tremble.

“i know how to swim.” he reminds jango, jango who is so eager to forget kamino. maybe boba will remember just to spite him. the water on his tongue still tastes wrong but it’s familiar enough. 

his father says one thing and means another. he once said ‘home’ and meant anything else but the rain. today, he calls the river on this nameless planet an ordeal but his voice sounds like the clank of jail doors sliding shut. when boba slipped on that river stone, he saw his own hand reaching towards jango. maybe, he can’t be sure. should he care about that? or should he care about the fact that his hand wasn’t caught in time?

in the end, he supposes what really matters is that he can swim.

“i know how to swim.” boba repeats that and means the prison too. sometimes swimming means keeping your head above the surface.

jango stares at him with the weight of this one missed hand and boba can’t do anything about that. he just walks past it and wishes his father would do the same.

***

he’s forty-one and there’s a welcome weight to his step. where his skin was rubbed raw and bleeding, the armor protects it once more. 

his father waits for him in front of the ramp to slave one. he looks at him like boba is about to turn around and disappear again. he can’t blame him. but when his boots touch the ground and the pale sun hits the repainted plates, it’s obvious he’s back, finally back.

they stand before each other and jango is the first to reach out. when his dirt-stained fingers touch the wheat blade and seven moons of concord dawn they complete the insignia like the final brushstroke. this is their clan, soil and blood, alive despite it all.

“you’ve been through quite an ordeal, little one.” his father sounds dazed. boba hears the awe, he hears the relief.

laughter grinds in his throat. “i have.” he confirms.

now that he’s older, he knows that whether he can keep his head above the water isn’t as important as having something to swim towards. his head bows and so does his father’s, quick to confirm that he’s been waiting on the other side of the river again. their foreheads touch, jango’s hands cradle the dented helmet.

✴ ✧ ✴   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 : @huntere​

      “𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 a familiar face to many,” words betray no hint of emotion, a simple observation yet free of any assumptions, “was it worth it, i wonder, losing the gift of anonymity?”

@huntere​​

silence.

          perhaps, to the unknowing eye, it appeared as if the togruta were doing some form of meditation, perhaps hailing from her homeworld of shili-- however. this togruta was not from shili, nor were they meditating.

the helmet on his lap stares at him and he thinks it’s odd. both the mirror and the reflection. boba glances at his father, then at the black visor. he’s getting there, he realizes. not in the eyes, they’re still not-jango. but his jaw, his brows, he’s seen them before. boba used to think of this as an accomplishment, a prize that awaits him in the future. today, he knows what it signalizes. 

this is where his place should be, sitting next to his father who let the galaxy tear itself to pieces to bring him here. every single word, every single action is an invitation: here, in these times, in this universe, welcome. it’s suffocating to know how loved he was before he was even born. it makes his chest tight but this time, with no alarm. just the pure joy of safety. boba never had to do anything to earn this. he still doesn’t have to do anything to earn this. 

but he can’t stay here. and he thinks they both know that.

“i've wanted to leave for a while now. to hunt.” he admits, like a secret. this almost killed them before. jango tried his best to give him something else, but truth to be told, boba was lost the second he had to punch in the hyperspace coordinates all on his own. crying, yes, shaking, yes-- but making a decision. those years without jango, he hates them but he can’t pretend they didn’t teach him anything. they showed him how to be more than just an extension, they made him stand on his own. “i just-- didn’t know how to tell you.” 

he looks at jango, searching for the proof of his own ungratefulness. there isn’t any. just a gentle lack of surprise. like his father already knew this route, knew where the crossroads were about to attack them. boba grips his ( is it really his? ) helmet harder. he must be insane to want to leave-- but what awaits him here is just a comfortable sort of stagnancy. and maybe today, the son is the responsible one for admitting this aloud.

boba jams the helmet onto his head, too fast, too abruptly. like there are cues he has to cut off. what he wants to say is this: i don’t need a place, i have a person. but he doesn’t need to. the reason why jango lets him go is because he trusts him to come back. 

“i’ve always wondered--” boba starts and it sounds sharp. he even grips the hydrospanner with more intent than it deserves.

he’s not looking at jango, a faulty wire patch in the wall of slave one’s cargo hold seems more interesting to him than his father’s face. of course it is, he’s seen it a million times. lately even in the mirror. “--i’ve always wondered what made my cloning pod so special.” 

they never talk about this. about him in relation to billions of soldiers, dead or half-rotting by now. the empire pays his bills now and when they pluck boba up to their huge ships, he sometimes runs into limping remnants of the deal his father struck with the republic. when he sees them shuffling past the imperial officers, already broken, already ghosts in unfamiliar armors they haven’t chosen, when he sees them-- he’s glad the helmet hides his fleeing gaze. 

“i know why i’m here.” here, on this ship, on this planet, in this galaxy. boba is vaguely aware of people who spend their entire lives trying to find out why they have them in the first place. his answer is staring at him with arms crossed over his chest. he’s still not looking at jango. instead, boba chooses to repeatedly stab a patch job he messed up in the first place. “and you know i’m not done yet. i’ve been talking to the hutt lords, they’re interested in a full-time contract. then there’s also the crimson dawn job in the outer rim and after that--” 

something in the ship gives into his tension. a cord snaps, showering his hand with sparks. pins of heat immediately break through the fabric of his glove, biting at the skin. with a snarling curse, something vile in huttese, boba drops the hydrospanner to the floor. it clatters. loudly. his chest heaves, struggling to expand against the beskar plates.