Chapter Text
The thing about being the son of one of the most renowned bounty hunters in all the galaxy means that Boba is offered a little more respect than any other fifteen year old normally would be. The thing about being fifteen is that that respect isn’t actually always warranted, as much as it grated Boba to admit it. He wasn’t his father, no matter the fact he was a literal clone, and he was, at the end of the day, still a teenager. He’d started to wear his father’s old armor when he took jobs now, but it was a bit big on him, and the helmet slipped a bit too much for his liking. Actually, it slipped so much that it nearly got him killed on this last job, and Boba was beginning to wonder if it was even worth it.
But then he’d pass by a few clones in blank, white armor, Empire issued. And he couldn’t even see their faces, because none of them ever took off their helmets anymore, not while on duty, but Boba knew that their eyes would be blank and empty. He wasn’t sure if they were blank enough to not recognize him. So Boba wore the helmet, to avoid trouble, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that he and all the rest of the clones share a face, but it was one of those things that were best left alone and forgotten about. Less headaches that way.
(Boba was secretly glad that Tipoca City was destroyed, as much as it pained him. It was his first home, after all, and, while he might say otherwise, he did mourn all the clones who died as the city sank. But still, he was glad that it was gone, because he feared that the Empire might want more clones otherwise and turn to the one last untainted source left of Jango Fett.)
Regardless of all of this, Boba was in something of a mood coming off this last job. He’d nearly gotten himself killed because his karkin’ helmet was too big for his karkin’ head, and there was some kind of twisted irony behind the idea of his father’s armor actually being the reason he ended up dead that made him wholly uncomfortable. On top of that, he was sore from the fight, and the credits he got for the stupid job would barely even buy him enough supplies to get to the next system, so all of this was basically a waste anyway. All said, marching back to the landing bay his ship was docked in only to find someone in the process of stripping it was enough to send Boba into a right fury.
Immediately, he pulled his blaster and marched for the engine’s panel, where he could hear the rustling and clanging of the idiot in question trying to unscrew something valuable. He reached in without even bothering to check first, found something that felt like an ankle, and tugged.
“You skivving rat!” Boba growled, throwing the intruder out and onto the ground. He lifted his blaster, ready to kill the person right there, but stopped short when he saw who he’d actually caught.
A kid. A human boy, maybe about eight or so. He’d yelped when Boba had thrown him, landing hard on his shoulder and skidding his knuckles against the ground. He didn’t seem to notice though, as he immediately threw his hands in front of his face and cringed against Boba’s blaster. “Hey, I’m sorry, alright!” the boy said, hunching in on himself. “I haven’t taken nuffin’ yet, I’ll put it all back. I swear!”
Boba stared down at the kid, and after a moment, he lowered his blaster. He was still damned karking mad, but he wasn’t going to shoot a kid. He did consider giving him a good kick, though.
“Dank ferrik,” Boba swore. “What’s a brat like yourself doing here?” Corellia was crawling with street kids, but they didn’t usually come out to these hangers. There were usually even scummier folk using them, and no use getting caught up in a rival gang.
Or a bounty hunter.
The boy looked up nervously at Boba, and when he saw that the blaster was put away, he slowly lowered his arms. “Jus’ looking for sumfin’ good,” he mumbled. “All I took out was a compressor,” he said, and he pointed to where it sat on the ground. “I can screw it back in real quick.”
“You’re not touching my ship.”
The boy glanced nervously between Boba and the ship. “Then…what do I haveta do?”
Boba crossed his arms. “What?”
“Well, you ain’t killed me or beat me, so I’s gotta do sumfin’, right?”
Oh kark. Boba glared down at the kid, even if he couldn’t tell with the helmet. The boy had a ratty shirt on and ill-fitting pants. There were wraps in place of shoes, and he had unkempt, brown hair atop his head that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. And he was staring at Boba with some kind of look in his eyes, still a bit frightened, but mostly just resigned to whatever fate Boba decided to give him.
“Who do you work for?” Boba asked, because on Corellia, there was no such thing as a random street urchin. Everyone worked for somebody.
The kid flinched and lowered his eyes.
“Tell me who you work for,” Boba repeated, his tone dropping as he took a step forward, one hand going to his blaster.
“Sh-Shrike,” the kid said. “Garris Shrike.”
Oh. Him. Yeah, Boba was familiar with him. Shrike had tried to add him to his little collection of orphans once. Of course, Boba nearly killed him for it.
“Osik,” Boba hissed, then reached down to haul the kid up by the scruff.
“Hey!” he cried, squirming against Boba’s hold, but he was still small enough that he couldn’t break away.
“C’mon, brat.” Boba dragged him into the ship, deposited him at the tiny table set next to the kitchenette, and then dug around for a ration bar. When he found it, he dropped it in front of the kid and went to retrieve a water pack. “Here,” he said, setting that down too, and then he sat across from the kid and crossed his arms.
The boy glared at him suspiciously.
“Eat,” Boba huffed. “I know you’re hungry.”
The boy shifted. “Whadda want for it.”
“Oh for kark’s sake- just eat the damn food,” Boba said. He stood abruptly from the table, startling the kid. “I need to go fix that mess you made. If I find even one thing out of place, I’ll cut your fingers off. Got it?”
The boy nodded rapidly.
“Good.” Boba marched back outside and went to check on the engine. The kid wasn’t lying, it wasn’t actually that bad. Crawling inside the panel to make sure nothing was loose was a pain, but he got it done in a decent amount of time, and reattaching the compressor was easy enough. When he was done, he reattached the panel and then headed back inside.
He was very surprised to find the kid still there, not moved an inch, and the ration bar and water pack completely untouched.
“What the- what are you still doing here?” Boba demanded. He thought he’d been obvious enough, going to go fix the ship to give time for the kid to run off.
“I…” The kid looked at him, confused. “But I haven’t paid ya, yet?”
“Paid for what?” Boba demanded.
“Not beatin’ me.”
Boba threw his hands up in the air, bewildered. “You were literally trying to steal from me, and now you’re concerned about paying me back?”
“But now you knows it was me,” the kid said, very matter of fact.
And, oh. Now, he was starting to get it. Kid wasn’t willing to risk Boba coming after him after he tried to steal from him.
“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Boba said. He wouldn’t stoop so low as to hurt a kid. Give it a few years, and maybe he would beat him, just to teach him a lesson, but not now. Kriff, the kid still had baby fat on his cheeks, or he would if they weren’t so sunken in.
The kid scrunched up his nose and frowned at Boba. “Why not? That’s what Garris-” He cut himself off.
Boba gave him a sharp look. “What?” he demanded. “What does Shrike do to you?”
The kid shrugged and hunched in on himself. Boba didn’t really need an answer, anyway. He already knew what Shrike did when things didn’t go his way.
“Kriff,” Boba sighed.
“It’s why I came here,” the kid muttered. “He sends me to go thievin’ and picking pockets n’ stuff. But I didn’ get a whole lot today, so I thought…I thought I could find sumfin good here.” He glanced around nervously and said, “And now I’m prolly late. Garris’ not gonna like that neither.”
Osik, did Boba hate that sad tooka look in his eyes. “Is there…” He hesitated. “Is there really nowhere else for you to go?”
Another shrug. And then, suddenly, the kid got a contemplative look on his face, and he said, “Hey. You could take me somewhere!”
“Excuse me?” Boba cried.
The kid had a grin now, nodding as if he’d figured it all out. “You’ve got a ship! You can take me somewhere.”
“And I’m just going to do this for you?” Boba asked. If he were in a better mood, he might even be amused by this kid’s gall.
“I can do jobs for ya!” the kid insisted. “I’m real small and can do lots of stuff! I’ll pay that way. You jus’ gotta take me offa here.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” the kid said, a determined frown on his face. “I don’ care where. Jus’ not here no more.”
“That’s a dangerous thing,” Boba said, crossing his arms. “I could drop you off on an empty moon in uncharted space.”
“Eh, that’s too much work. You’ll jus’ dump me in the next system, most like.”
Well, the kid was a clever one.
“I haven’t even said I’ll do it,” Boba reminded him.
And then he got the tooka eyes again. “Oh, please Mister? I promise, I’ll be no trouble!”
“I doubt that,” Boba grumbled to himself. But really, it wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? The kid was right, he just had to take him a system over. Shrike wouldn’t go looking past Corellia. And then the kid could…well, he’ll still be out on the streets. But at least it will be somewhere a little bit kinder. Hopefully.
“Fine!” Boba said. “But we’re leaving now.”
“That’s great!” the kid cheered, throwing up his hands. He scrambled after Boba and followed him to the cockpit. “I can bet lottsa help! And you can have what I got today from the picking pockets.”
“I don’t need your scrap money,” Boba sighed. Though when he started the engine and saw how low his fuel was, he did reconsider for half a second. Not that this kid’s pickpocketing money would be remotely enough to fuel up on, but he was dangerously low on credits, and his last job hadn’t been the best. Resisting the urge to groan, Boba reached up to pull off his helmet, then rubbed at his eyes.
“Hey!” the boy said. “You’re jus’ a kid too!”
“I’m not,” he snapped. “In my culture, we reach adulthood at thirteen.” That wasn’t completely accurate, and Boba never technically got to do his Verd’goten, but the kid didn’t need to know that.
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him. “You look like the big kids back on Garris’ ship.”
“Look, you wanna get out of here or not?”
The kid’s mouth snapped shut.
“That’s what I thought.” Boba finished the launch sequence and then the ship rose into the air.
“Whoa,” the kid murmured, leaning in close to watch as Boba cleared Corellian airspace.
“Alright, Brat,” Boba huffed, pushing him away from the controls. “You got a name?”
“Han.” He tried to get closer anyway, fascinated by the whole process. “Han Solo. What’s your name, Mister?”
“I’m Boba.” He hesitated before adding, “Fett.”
Han grinned at him. “Nice to meet ya, Boba! Can I fly your ship?”
Boba was already regretting this.
The intention was to drop Han off at the next system. This did not happen. In fact, Boba wasn’t entirely sure what happened, just that one moment he was a lone teenager, trying to make his way through the galaxy, then the next there was a small child running about the ship.
Maybe it all started when Han asked what his ship’s name was.
“Slave l,” Boba replied, curtly, trying to ignore the little lump of human sitting in the copilot’s seat.
Han’s face scrunched up. “That’s a bad name.”
“My father named it.”
“Well he named it bad.”
Boba’s grip tightened on the steering console as he tried to ignore him.
“You should give it a new name.”
“No.”
Han pouted. “Why not?”
“Because this is my father’s ship,” Boba said.
“Oh, so he jus’ lets you borrow it?”
You don’t hurt kids, you don’t hurt kids, you don’t hurt kids-
“No. My father is dead.”
For a normal person, that would have been a pretty clear indication to end the conversation, or at least to offer some sympathy. But not for Han. Not for the kid who probably never even had parents. For him, it was just an invitation to say, “So that means it’s your ship, and you can rename it!”
“I’m not renaming the ship.”
Han huffed and crossed his arms, staring gloomily at the floor. “Why’d your dad even name it that, anyway?”
Boba…didn’t answer that. He knew. Well, he knew parts of it. Not the whole story. But he understood, generally, why his father picked such a name. But, again, he didn’t tell Han any of this. Instead, he said, “It wasn’t always called the Slave l. It used to be called Jaster’s Legacy.”
“What’s that?” Han demanded.
“Jaster…Jaster was my father’s father. He named his ship after him.”
“So why don’t ya jus’ use that name?”
Because I can never live up to his legacy-
Sometimes, Boba wondered if his father would have ever wanted a son, if not for his buir’s death. Sometimes, he thought that when Jango looked at him, he didn’t even see Boba. Just…Jaster’s Legacy.
“I don’t like that name.” And his tone was sharp enough that Han finally stopped asking about it.
He refused to call the ship the Slave, though. He started calling it the Legacy, over and over until even Boba started to call it that too. He wondered if it was intentional or not that Han left out the ‘Jaster’ part of it. Surely a kid that young couldn’t be that perceptive, right?
So maybe it was when the Slave l suddenly became the Legacy. Maybe that was when Han went from a temporary nuisance to a permanent fixture in Boba’s day to day.
Or maybe it was when Han saved his life.
They were two systems over from Corellia. Boba had taken another job, another basic one that didn’t pay much. There were a few people who owed the local crime lord some money and, for some reason, he couldn’t send one of his own goons to do it. That was fine enough for Boba, since it was an easy gig and it meant getting paid, despite the absolute pittance amount of credits it was. So, Boba suited up in his father’s armor, told Han to stay in the ship and to not touch anything, then went out to shake down a few poor souls for the last of their life savings.
Good, honest work, right?
Well, it turns out that the reason why the crime lord couldn’t send one of his own guys to collect was because there was a current gang war happening throughout six of the planet’s major cities, and now Boba was caught up in all of it. He found himself in the midst of a shootout, surrounded by a number of thugs from at least two other gangs, trying his best not to get shot through by someone lucky enough to find the weak points in his armor.
“Did Wic send you?” someone was shouting. “Was it Wic? Who do you work for?”
There was a lot of other shouting going on, and Boba didn’t know who Wic was--the guy who hired him was called Gri’tarn--but he didn’t think any of these thugs actually cared to hear what he had to say. They just wanted to kill him.
It was, admittedly, looking a bit hopeless for Boba. And then a speeder exploded.
These gangs didn’t have the kind of firepower for something like that. And even if they did, they wouldn’t dare use it. The Empire left them relatively alone with just their blasters and their underhanded fighting with each other, but once things start blowing up is when you attract attention. Everyone immediately fell into chaos, trying to figure out who caused the explosion, who needed to die first to prevent something bigger and far more powerful from crashing down upon them. Boba was quite nearly forgotten about.
“Boba!”
He whirled around to find a small, grinning child, with grease on his face and soot in his hair, running up to him.
“Han?” Boba cried, so shocked that he didn’t even react at first when Han grabbed his arm and started to pull him away from the fighting.
“C’mon! While they’re dis’tacted!”
Boba glanced back, where he could still see the fire from the explosion. “Did you cause this?”
“Uh-huh!”
“How?”
They made it well away from the commotion, and Boba could now see that the soot in Han’s hair was definitely ash.
Han shrugged. “It’s easy,” he said. “I jus’ cut the fuel line and then made a spark trap, then when they turned it on, the speeder ‘sploded itself.”
Boba stared at him. What was Shrike teaching these kids? “I told you to stay with the ship,” he sighed.
Han frowned, his brow scrunched up. “But you needed help?”
Boba resisted the urge to groan and shook his head. “Whatever. C’mon, Brat, let’s go. There’s still a job to do.”
He brought Han with him back to the dingy little bar that served as Gri’tarn’s base of operations, because he didn’t trust sending him back to the ship on his own, and kept him right next to him while he finished the job.
Gri’tarn nodded, didn’t even glance at Han, and said, “I heard there was some trouble in West Shore-”
“I just need my payment,” Boba grunted, not interested in spending any more time here than necessary.
Gri’tarn looked annoyed, but he paid Boba, and then the pair of them were on their way.
“Told’ja I could be helpful!” Han told him cheerfully as they made it back to the ship.
“Well, you’re something alright.”
So maybe it was when Han saved Boba’s hide, though Boba still insisted that he would have been alright in the end. Regardless, though, the kid was useful. And he wasn’t half-bad to have around either. Or maybe Boba had just been so desperate for company that he didn’t mind hanging out with an eight-year-old. It was better than being alone.
And somewhere along the line, Boba found himself tugging Han along with him from planet to planet, struggling to keep him out of trouble. He eventually managed to get it through Han’s skull that he couldn’t come with him on jobs, at least not yet, and now the kid usually occupied himself while Boba was busy with working the streets and running small scams or picking pockets. He made enough that way to keep the kitchenette stocked up, at least, and allowed Boba to get Han some proper shoes and clothes and a jacket for when they visited colder planets. He did wonder if this was terrible of him, letting the Brat run around wild out in the streets while he was working, but it wasn’t anything worse than what he was doing before. And it kept Han busy, and distracted enough, and he was pretty smart for his age and knew when he was in over his head.
It was…comfortable. Too comfortable. Han jumped around the ship while they were traveling, excited to learn every detail about it, begging Boba to teach him how to fly and getting into anything he could. He gave easy smiles and would grab Boba’s hand without a thought, usually to show him something, or drag him somewhere. He proudly showed off his haul whenever Boba got back from a job, giving grand stories about his adventures and surely exaggerating the events to make it all more interesting. Then he’d wait with eager eyes for Boba’s response, and he’d usually say, “Good work, Brat,” or “Not bad.” And it wasn’t much, but Han would light up every time, and his grin would stretch across his entire face.
It hurt. Boba didn’t like it. He’d thought it’d be strange, or weird, but it disconcerted him how easy it was. He’d catch himself wanting to reach out and ruffle Han’s hair, or pull him into a wrestled, one-armed hug. He called the kid ‘Brat,’ thinking that would help keep him at arm’s length, but Han never seemed to mind it, and one time, he shouted at a guy for calling him the same thing.
“I call you Brat all the time,” Boba said as they walked away, said guy left beaten to a mild pulp in an alley behind them.
“That’s different,” Han grumbled.
And Boba felt something drop in his gut, alarm bells ringing in his head. Not good, not good.
Very early on, Boba realized that Han didn’t really read. He could stumble his way through Aurebesh, but not well, and the only other language he really knew was the local Corellian dialect. And Boba remembered that he was only eight, and he probably had never been to a proper school in his life, so he dug around the ship until he found his old datapads that he did his own schooling on, and started to teach Han some of the basics.
He has to know how to read, Boba would justify to himself. And if he was going to be a pilot someday, which he talked endlessly about, then he’d have to be able to do hyperspace calculations, and he’d need some basic engineering skills to run a ship, and anyway, he’d be no help to Boba at all if he could barely even speak properly. So, Boba taught him, but he found that it wasn’t so bad. Once Han could read adequately well on his own, he was able to teach himself without much interference. He breezed through Boba’s old work books, faster than he ever did when he was that age, and seemed ridiculously excited just to learn things. But one day, he called Boba over. He had a question about one of the courses on the datapad.
“Boba, what’s this language?” he asked, holding it up for him to see.
And Boba was frozen. “That’s…Mando’a.”
“What’s Mando’a?”
“It’s…my people’s language.”
“Oh.” Han looked at him, not quite a question in his eyes. Just waiting.
You could teach him, a voice in Boba’s head said. You could teach him Mando’a-
“Just skip that course,” Boba said, then walked away.
It was important, to keep Han a bit distant from him. He wasn’t…he wasn’t Mandalorian. Truth be told, Boba wasn’t even sure if he was Mandalorian. His father was. And his father raised him to be one. But the other Mandalorians would never accept him, he knew. And he spoke Mando’a, sure, but he barely knew the traditions. He knew about the Verd’goten, because his father always said that he’d take his one day and be a proper adult. But Jango died before that could happen, and now Boba was just…Boba. He knew Mandalore was in turmoil, as the current ruler, Bo Katan, desperately tried to keep the clans together and the Empire at bay. But more and more of them were breaking off and forming their own sects, going to ground, or simply joining the Empire for their own survival. Mandalore was a broken world, with constant in-fighting and grabs for power. Boba wanted nothing to do with it.
Jango would have stepped in-
But would he? He also had left the planet to its own devices, either in a self-imposed exile or simply because he didn’t want to be involved anymore. But he used to tell stories to Boba, stories of the old Mandalore. Stories of when Jaster was still alive, and how much he wanted to bring those times back. He’d never quite said it, but Boba was pretty sure Jango meant for him to do such a thing. To restore Mandalore and bring the clans together.
Jaster’s Legacy-
A truly ridiculous thought. Who would follow Boba? He was just a clone, one of millions. And besides, he wanted nothing to do with that. Even when Jango was alive, he hadn’t cared about any of that. He just wanted to be with his father, and learn from him, and find their own little pocket of the galaxy for them to be in. It was a difficult thing, because if Jango had never gotten involved in the politics of civil war and the struggles of the Jedi, then Boba wouldn’t even exist. But also, if he had never gotten involved, if he’d simply let go of his lust for revenge, then he’d still be alive today.
So Boba didn’t teach Han Mando’a. And he didn’t talk about Mandalore, or his father, or the fact that he shared a face with some of the stormtroopers that they ran from. The clones were being phased out, anyway, from the Empire’s garrison. Boba was pretty sure that some of them were starting to wake up, or at least doubt who they were currently serving, and the Empire didn’t want to deal with a host of highly trained pissed off clones who suddenly realized that they were being controlled for the past three years.
And time went on.
Boba turned sixteen. His father’s armor was still too big on him. It’s caused more than a few problems on the jobs he went on, and even Han took notice of it.
“Why do you wear it if it doesn’t fit?”
“Because it was my father’s armor.”
“Oh.” But Han didn’t look like he understood. “But it doesn’t fit?” he repeated, a little quieter, after a moment.
Boba sighed. “He would want me to wear it.”
Han still seemed dubious about the whole thing, but didn’t question it further. He occupied himself with other things, like finding higher and higher level course work for him to learn from and growing out of clothes at a ridiculous rate. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was getting proper meals every day for the first time, but he seemed to grow another inch every few months. Boba started to teach him to use a blaster, because you could never be too young to defend yourself. And once he got enough meat on his bones, he taught him some hand-to-hand as well. Han learned everything quickly and eagerly, ready to do absolutely anything that Boba set out for him. If Boba were a little older, or maybe a little more perceptive, he might have thought it was because Han was afraid of messing up and getting kicked out, or making Boba mad. And that thought might have driven him to do things a little differently. But he was only sixteen, and he didn’t really know what you were supposed to do with a child, except what his own father taught him.
Boba still called Han a Brat. It never worked like he hoped it would. Han got cockier, more confident, and started to tease Boba back. He also started to try and convince Boba to take him along on jobs.
“You’re nine,” Boba said.
“No, I’m ten now!” Han grumbled.
“...Are you?”
Han shrugged. “I think so. Maybe. I dunno.”
Boba couldn’t believe he’d been with this kid for nearly two years and never realized that Han didn’t know his own birthday, or even how old he was. He hadn’t really thought about it. Boba never celebrated his own birthday, not anymore. His age was something distantly noted each time it changed. For Han, though, he was still young enough that a birthday should be significant. Something to remember. Finding his original records on Corellia was basically impossible, so Boba had Han pick a random day for his birthday.
“Today!” Han declared. “So I get a present, now, right?”
Han ‘turned’ ten. Boba gave him his very own blaster. An old DL-44 he rarely used himself. Ten was probably a little too young for it, but Han could clean and operate a gun better than most people Boba ran into. He was so excited about it that Boba ended up taking him to a small, sparsely populated moon so that Han could practice with it.
“Hey Boba, when’s your birthday?”
“It’s passed already,” Boba tried to brush off. But Han kept insisting, so he eventually told him, then forgot all about it.
About eight months later, Han proudly presented him with a brand new scope for his helmet. His old one had gotten destroyed during a job, leaving a dent in his helmet that he couldn’t seem to get out.
“Happy birthday!” Han declared. “I know the helmet’s still too big, but you can at least fix this!”
Boba didn’t reply. He stared, face blank and his eyes wide, at Han’s beaming face. Then he turned around and shut himself in his cabin for several hours, and struggled to breath properly, and thought that he was ruining all of this. That Han shouldn’t do this, not for him, and all of this was getting too close.
He remembered his father teaching him about the Mandalorian Way. About foundlings and family and who you claimed as your own-
When Boba finally came back out, he forced himself to apologize to Han, because the Brat didn’t deserve his issues.
“It’s fine,” Han shrugged off, but he wasn’t smiling anymore, and he wandered off pretty quick to do some of his coursework.
“Thank you for the scope,” Boba said, but he didn’t think Han was listening anymore.
Han didn’t get him any more birthday presents.
And that was how Boba turned seventeen.
The Empire was an ever-growing force across the galaxy. More and more worlds fell to its power, and more and more of the work Boba picked up ended up having some kind of imperial connection, regardless of who he went to. Han stuck his nose up at it, but now that he was twelve, he was old enough to help with a few of the easier jobs, and he came along because he was bored of working the streets of whatever planet they ended up on.
“I don’t like the Empire,” Han told him, grumbling about taking a bounty from an imperial governor placed on the planet. “They just make things worse.”
“They do,” Boba agreed. “But they’re the ones in charge, and we have to play by their rules or get killed.”
“Someone should do something about it,” Han said.
Boba was silent. He knew there were whispers of a rebellion. Hints of people organizing together to do just that. But he didn’t want anything to do with such a thing. He saw what getting involved did to his father. What it did to the Jedi, what it did to the entire karking galaxy. He wasn’t getting involved with this.
“Maybe,” Boba eventually conceded. “But that’s not for us to worry about. That’s someone else’s job.”
Han didn’t seem content with the answer, and Boba felt something because of it. It took him a long time to realize that it was terror, and even longer for him to realize that he was terrified of Han getting involved. He didn’t want Han to become part of a hopeless war. He didn’t want Han to suffer and die for some idealistic cause that would probably end up losing anyway. He didn’t want to see what happened to his father happen to Han.
So Boba took Han to the far reaches of the galaxy. He stopped taking jobs that had anything to do with the Empire, even though they paid more. He had made quite a name for himself, anyway, so he could charge premium rates without anyone scoffing and calling him ‘boy.’ His father’s armor quite nearly fit him now, so he even looked the part.
The lack of imperial contracts, though, inevitably meant he ended up taking most of his jobs from the Hutts. Which was, arguably, even more distasteful than taking jobs from the Empire. But they ruled the outer rim, and keeping on their good side meant that Boba had some form of protection from those who might be interested in the son of Jango Fett.
That meant Han had some form of protection, too, but Boba absolutely prohibited him from helping with any Hutt jobs. And, of course, Han hated it.
“You can’t just go off on your own!” he argued. He was thirteen, nearly fourteen now, and all gangly limbs and unkempt hair that he refused to keep groomed.
“Yes I can, Brat.”
“Stop calling me that!” Han snapped.
Han had never gotten upset about that name before. But he was glaring at Boba now, his arms crossed and some kind of look in his eyes that he couldn’t read.
“You’re staying with the Legacy,” Boba said, making it clear that this was final, and he wasn’t going to argue with him anymore.
Boba maybe should have rethought about leaving Han on Tatooine. The job was on Tatooine, so he hadn’t considered it being that big of a deal. He’d be gone for a few days with the speeder bike and be back once the job was done. But Han wasn’t with the Legacy when he got back. Boba immediately thought the worst, and he panicked for a few hours. But once he’d managed to calm down, it was easy enough to find the Brat.
He went racing.
Of course he did. Boba had finally started to teach him how to fly, and Han was obsessed with it. Of course he got into an illegal canyon race, and of course he won, the smug bastard . Boba had no idea where he got the speeder from, but no one came after him in revenge, and it disappeared after the race, so it must have been some kind of bet. Boba shuddered to think what kind of collateral Han had put down to let him borrow it.
It didn’t stop on Tatooine. No matter where they went, Han managed to find some kind of race to join, or just trouble in general to get himself into. Boba found him hanging around with local gangs, even picking up some minor jobs if Boba was gone long enough.
“You have to stop this,” Boba finally told him, firmly, after dragging Han away from a pirate crew that was definitely trying to recruit him.
“You could take me on jobs,” Han shot back, shrugging. He’d sprouted up another few inches, and it bothered Boba to know that he was very soon going to be taller than him.
“You’re not getting involved with the Hutts.”
“You let me get involved with other jobs,” Han reminded him. “Even the Empire!”
“That’s different.”
“How though?” Han demanded. “They’re all a bunch of sleamos no matter where they’re from.”
It was different. The Hutts…the Hutts weren’t like the rest of the crime syndicates that Boba took jobs from, or even the Empire. Because they weren’t really a crime syndicate, and they weren’t an organized controlling force. They were gangsters, the most powerful gangsters in the galaxy, and they’ve managed to bully the Empire into keeping away from them, and even the Republic before that. They didn’t play by anyone’s rules but their own, and there was no way to truly trust them. Boba was in decent standing with them, since he did jobs for them and did them well, but they didn’t have a shred of loyalty towards him. He was safe with them for now, but that could change in an instant.
Boba would have taken less jobs from the Hutts, if he could. But he was already avoiding the Empire, and that left his pickings rather slim. Especially since the other crime syndicates didn't really like the fact that he had a little tagalong with him. The Hutts never cared, so long as the job got done. Boba tried to keep Han out of it, but it was getting harder and harder as he got older. And if it was either this or the Empire...
Boba was twenty-two now. Han had just turned sixteen. In many ways, Boba had to conclude that this was his own fault. He knew what happened every time he left Han on Tatooine, but he just didn’t see any other options. He had to take the Legacy for this job, and he didn’t trust leaving Han somewhere else. So he found a room for him, and made him swear not to join any races, and tried to get through the job as quickly as possible.
He really should have been smarter than this.
“Hey,” Han said, shrugging. “You said not to join any races. You never said anything about finding work.”
Boba was furious. “You took a job from Jabba?" he hissed.
“It was on-planet. And pretty simple. All I had to do was-”
“You can’t take any jobs from Jabba!”
Han rolled his eyes. “You do it all the time.”
“That’s different. I-”
“It’s not different,” Han grumbled, staring Boba down. He was eye-level with him now. No longer that tiny kid who tried to strip his ship.
Boba took a breath. Forced himself to let it out slowly. “You will not take any more jobs from Jabba. Or any Hutt. Do you understand me?”
And then Han got mad. “Don’t tell me what to do!” he snapped. “What makes you think you can tell me what to do?”
“I-” Boba stopped himself short. The question seemed intentional, just daring him to answer. But he couldn’t say anything.
Han scoffed. “That’s what I thought.” And he stormed off.
Boba decided to let him cool off for a few hours. And maybe use that time to get his own head on straight. Because who was he to tell Han what to do? He’s never made any claim towards him. He was just someone he shared space with, someone who helped around the Legacy and made trouble for Boba.
Han came back a few hours later. Boba wanted to know where he was but knew better than to ask. He just hoped he wasn’t hanging around Jabba’s palace.
Boba had hoped it was a one-time thing, but of course it wasn't. Han kept taking more jobs, not necessarily just from Jabba, but wherever he could find them. As soon as they touched down on a planet, he’d disappear, immediately finding the best paying gigs and only coming back once Boba had concluded his business there. He didn’t come on any of his jobs now, not even when Boba expressly asked him to join. He said he always had “something else going on.”
He had to grow out of it eventually. Han couldn’t play this game forever. Right? That was what Boba assumed, anyway. He should know by now that he was only ever going to be proven wrong.
Han was eighteen. He was taller than Boba by several inches, and was starting to look like a man, now, not a boy. He dressed like a spacer, and hung around unfortunate crowds, gambling or racing or placing bets. He always seemed to come out on top, though, his charming smile working on just about everybody he met.
He wasn’t smiling when he came to Boba, one day, and said, “I’m leaving.”
Boba resisted the urge to groan, then said, “I was just finishing up here. How long are you going to be gone?”
Han shook his head. “No. I’m leaving. I…I got my own ship.”
That got Boba’s attention. “What?” he demanded. “What are you talking about? Where did you get a ship?”
“I won it in a game of sabacc.”
“What?”
“I’m leaving,” Han repeated. And then he stood there, arms crossed, a daring look on his face. Waiting for Boba’s response.
Stop him, stop him, stop him-
“I…what are you going to do?” Boba asked.
“I’ve got some things lined up,” Han said, but he looked frustrated. Angry, even. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
Just ask him to stay. He’ll stay if you ask him. Just tell him he’s your brother and you don’t want him to go-
The words stuck in his throat. Boba couldn’t say anything, no matter if he wanted to or not.
Han scoffed and stormed for the Legacy’s hatch. He paused at the bottom of the ramp and turned to shoot Boba one, last glare. “You know,” he said. “That armor finally fits you.” And then he was gone.
Boba sat and cursed himself, over and over. Wondering how he could ever be so karking stupid. Wondering how he managed to lose his family all over again, and this time, it was no one’s fault but his own.