first order more like -

if there ever was a moment to remove his helmet so they could see his eyes, it was now. his hands move but all they do is leave the panel he was inspecting. they don’t reach for the dented cage on his head. they just neutrally rest at his sides. 

he gets up. all the years he’s known kennedy, he can’t recall that level of seriousness in their voice. it’s not worrying, nor gripping. just different.

“you have my attention.” is all he says. his eyes behind the visor watch them closely as if he was meeting them for the first time. but he knows them. so after a pause, he adds: “all of it.”

He could have done better, he could have done a lot worse. Kennedy stays close to the ground for a little longer after Boba answers, looking idly at the open panel in the wall. They wonder is there any fault with it or was Boba just preparing for something to go wrong. He must be the best for a reason. Things go wrong for everyone, but he must be ready for every eventuality. He must to be the best one, they drill into their mind. 

boba looks at kennedy and he cannot recall if he did thank them or not. chances were low. he most likely offered a biting comment that could have been read as something approaching gratitude ( but always from a position of knowing more than the other person ). 

he doesn’t take offense to kennedy calling in a favor. boba owes them that and he is a man of honor. some carved-out version of it. he nods once and crouches to inspect the wiring inside of his ship’s cargo hold. “alright. what’s it gonna be? credits? or a job on the house?”

   “Boba.”

They have a hand on his shoulder, standing above Boba to take his attention away from the wiring. It’s rare enough that Ken needs to address Boba, how reflexively he can tell a shift in the room’s tension, how quickly he’ll look at them before they even think to command his attention. It’s rarer still they’ll call him beyond a comical Mr Fett. Needs must. Keeping their hand on his shoulder, Ken lowers to their haunches to crouch at eye-level with Boba. 

he doesn’t say ‘you’re welcome’. he just cants his helmet slightly to the left. 

then his shielded gaze drops to the wound on ruby’s hand. the mission was not a success and boba feels a sting of something. regret maybe. or just anger. whatever it is, it dies fast. he doesn’t let it get past his sternum. instead, he slowly unhooks the cape that hangs from his shoulderpad. 

“cleanest thing i got.” he explains. it’s a logical decision. a cut like that could get infected fast. and ruby has all this freedom to enjoy now. he hands him the brown fabric. it’s coarse to touch, many holes peek through the rough canvas, the edges are singed. but it will do its job. 

he glances at the still-burning building. it’s starting to get quieter, running like a timer for their conversation. the flames still crackle and so he stays, like he has something worthwhile to say. all he comes up with is an explanation. 

“didn’t want to approach you.” he saw ruby when he first walked into the trading post. but he stayed low and as inconspicuous as someone with an entire arsenal strapped to their body. he wonders how long has it been since ruby deserted the first order. “thought you wouldn’t want trouble.” boba gestures at the site of the explosion like it’s a punchline to some joke he withheld.

he’s not the right kind of attention for a former stormtrooper, he’s aware of that. boba won’t tell ruby he saw him two months ago and turned the other way. he might see it as something personal instead of practical.

Ruby gawks too long at the place where Boba’s cape used to hang, more shocked by this open wound than his own. Since the first day he met Boba, dents, scratches and all, this is the greatest change he’s seen in the bounty hunter’s immutable image. He can see embers floating past beneath Boba’s elbow, in a place he shouldn’t be able to see through, like a limb is missing. He takes the cape silently, his head lowered. He’s nodding, bowing, looking away out of embarrassment, reverence, just looking at the cape now, watching his blood seep through in a dark stain. “I hope that washes out,” he lies, laughing quietly.

Now that Boba’s mention it, Ruby realizes he doesn’t even know when Boba entered the building, what he was doing in the trading post, how long they were in the same room while Ruby was too busy battling with his borderline illiteracy. He frowns, watching the fire writhe and glow in the reflection of Boba’s helmet.

   “You’re not trouble,” Ruby says, dumbfounded. He hears how stupid that statement is when it’s laid over the creaking of a building falling apart in Boba’s wake, but it’s the plain truth as far as he’s concerned. He hears it’s stupid. He feels stupid. He’s missing something here. “Your job is, is uh... You’re not trouble...” Ruby rubs his brow when he feels the creases starting to stick, but it goes right back into a frown.

he should be scanning the crowd for his target but he stares at kennedy instead. they’re becoming a distraction, something wise but cold warns him. he shuts it out, this one time. 

he wishes he had jango’s warmth. he wishes he could take off his helmet and show them his father’s eyes, framed by the many laugh wrinkles. he wishes he knew a sharp comment to offer in return, something biting but completely harmless. then they would both throw their heads back and laugh while other partygoers smile at them. he’s seen it so many times with jango and zam. 

but he and kennedy are second-rate copies at best, boba realizes that now. 

their eye-contact is prolonged but one-sided. no eyes get revealed, the helmet remains where it was. and as he waits for kennedy to glance away from him, he rasps out: 

“i don’t do celebrations.” as a concept, they’re pointless. a waste of time that could be better spent preparing for the next mission.

but if the job goes well, i could humor you, he almost says but he cannot even rehearse these words in his mind.

a triumphant blip! goes off in the privacy of his helmet. boba breaks the eye-contact first. his head whips around and he sees the guest of honor finally enter the ballroom. a well-dressed blob of flesh situated on top of wobbling crab legs is making its way towards the center of the party, accompanied by excited greetings and hushed murmurs. his target laughs at the attention, at the fawning gazes and clapping hands.  

the bounty hunter straightens up, alert. 

“that’s him.” he motions at the still laughing guest and glances back at kennedy, gauging their readiness: “there’s two ways we can play this.”

Kennedy doesn’t know what to think when they stare down Boba. They try to get past the surface level, the obvious -- i wish i could see you just take it off this isn’t fair i just want to see -- and push through the condensed, succinct -- who are you?

But they can’t. Their whole life is lived through the skin. They can’t begin to imagine how things work in Boba’s head, what he sees when he looks at them through that visor. Then he looks away. And it’s a relief, for a second, not having to figure him out anymore.

It occurs to Kennedy again that they are out of their depth, but they’ve gotten so used to the notion that it’s barely potent enough to make their heart palpitate. They only skip one heartbeat -- two at most -- but manage to keep the panic on their inside, taking up a coy smile as they gaze glassily across the room, looking like they’re still looking for someone. 

   “You never thanked me for helping out.”

In all likelihood, Boba mumbled his appreciation at some point or other on the night Ken posed with him, but it’s a non-sequitur. They only want to break the silence that briefly fell between them. It was comfortable, and they did enjoy it while it lasted, but Ken has been picking their lips and fidgeting with words all eve, trying to find a way to introduce a tender conversation to a man who hardly speaks. It’s got to be gotten over with. There will be no easing into it.

   “I did you a favour. I need one back.”

I’ve not heard any complaints, Luke almost retorts.

He watches the porg, the stupid things he helped nurse and repopulate and then, in result, overpopulate when he first landed on this island. The porgs’ bodies are too fat to fly themselves far, far away. They couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. Leaving should be a choice. Luke does nothing to stop the ooze.

He came to this island to pull himself away from the Force. Now, in a moment of paranoia–of, yes, he’s humble enough to admit it: fear–he reaches out to the Force once more. It’s hardly reaching if this entity is already here, this close. He would be a harsh old man if he counted it at all. He does. He’ll confine himself to his hut for a whole day of meditation to make up for it. The first sensation he feels when he finds it–whatever it is–is expansive. Expansive not like a valley, expansive like a hole, a gaping hole. A hole which he can feel many have fallen into. A hole which will never be filled, no matter how many fall into it. He breathes in heavily and sways back, light headed, with a profound feeling of vertigo. He stumbles sideways and clutches a nearby boulder for support. Leaving, for those people, should have been a choice.

His expression is hard and stony, mouth frowning.

          “And now? Why are we meeting now?”

Something that is not Luke extends from within Luke himself, and something that is in Root but is not Root itself reaches out in return. It feels a pang in its chest. Something trying to pry the ribs outwards. To take a hand outstretched. Then it ends. The turmoil quietens, in an instant. And Root feels, as always, as if standing on a cellar door. There is no screaming beneath it, no scratching at the wood or snarling or crying, no sign of life at all beneath it. But it could be opened. It could.

Seeing Luke fall sideways, Root drops smoothly to one knee and cants its head to keep eyes level with Luke, continuing their conversation on the bias. It feels the feline reflexes of a grey-furred creature half a galaxy away prowl through its posture, keeping level despite a precarious lean. After spending so long watching the world glazy-eyed from a distance, it isn’t about to let an old man’s weak swoon ruin the view. The porg trills behind it, and the ooze slithers away from the bird in fast, periodic movements, like blood pumped through an excited heart.

   “I’m ‘exploring’,” it says with debonair insincerity, “Wandering the galaxy, winning people over to my point of view with, shall we say, hard persuasion, striking down the opposition for their inferior choices, all of our people gathering under one voice, one quest, you know... Jedi things.”