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Boba Fett is a Mandalorian with no clan, house, family, or kids, which some would say made him a bad Mandalorian. Boba frankly agreed with them. He didn’t follow a Creed or the Resol’nare, he believed in his armor, credits, and the rush of adrenaline he felt surrounded by men he was about to cut down.

When Boba met Lord Vader for the first time he was young and rash and he knew not to get entangled in powers far beyond him, but he couldn’t resist the urge to meet the Emperor’s attack dog in person—and it paid well. Just one contract with him, Boba reasoned. To understand one of the most powerful forces in the galaxy, then he’d leave him alone.

Boba wondered if Vader used to be a Jedi, if he recognized his voice or some nebulous force-vibe as being the same as the other clones. If he did he didn’t mention it. Boba completed the mission, disintegrating the Mon Calamari engineer with her own weapon, and bringing back her speeder license as proof.

Had the collector been anyone else, he would have brought the ashes too and let them fall from his fingers when they asked for proof of death. He needed a reputation to create and maintain, but it wasn’t worth dirtying the deck of Darth Vader’s Star Destroyer and possibly getting killed. The only things known about the Emperor’s attack dog was its efficiency and temper.

What Boba gained from the experience was this. Vader was terrifyingly efficient. He wasted no time and had no patience for unnecessary sass. He didn’t want banter, he wanted results. When he said “dead or alive” he really didn’t have a preference, unlike some clients who really would prefer it one way or another.

Boba didn’t see Vader fight. That’s what he was for, after all. No need for the Lord to get his hands dirty, even if he wouldn’t have to clean his saber like Boba did, needing to relentlessly scrub one of the knives he’d ended up embedding in the Mon Calamari’s fishy guts. Not that Boba was jealous or anything. 

He left with the grave understanding that he could stay on Vader’s good side, and he desperately needed to. He worked well with Vader’s style but would be wise to stay away. Boba didn’t like people who were stronger than him—and there were so few of them he could avoid them.

Boba didn’t worry about being called for a bounty again. While Vader only rarely killed hunters he disliked, he was picky and didn’t call many for a second mission. There was no reason Fett would be contacted again, even though he’d left his professional comm codes with a bland offer of his services again if they required. 

But he was contacted a few weeks later, to hunt for Vader again. And again. And again, until people whispered his name in conjunction with Vader’s, murmuring that if you defied him, his mandalorian bounty hunter would come after you, and he was not merciful.

Boba couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. He knew it was dangerous, sure, and unwise, but he couldn’t help the thrill he got out of just being near Vader. Oh, he rationalized it to himself—he couldn’t stop now , it’d be an insult to the Empire—but really he just wanted to stand near him and bask in that intoxicating fear, the way his nerves never quite settled, heart beating faster and breath just a little short. Every word that rasped from that black mask was a shot of adrenaline and Boba was quickly getting addicted. 

He didn’t let it show, of course. He was brutally efficient. He didn’t talk unless necessary. He drove a hard bargain that was fair for his skills and he relished in the kills, and the presentation of them to Lord Vader. The ones he brought in alive were almost better, when he could march them up to Vader and then kick them to their knees. Whether they were defiant or defeated, Boba loved the way they looked up at Vader, bathed in fear and hopelessness. 

He knew it couldn’t end well. He knew that it was just a matter of time before he messed something up and got taken off the roster at best. Being killed was more likely, with how much he knew. But it was too late, he told himself. He was in. And he could handle Lord Vader. He knew how to act, how to push enough to be respected but never go too far, and he always completed a bounty. He could keep doing this, subsisting on the adrenaline, the few words of praise he garnered and received with a nod of his head, too overwhelmed to speak.

It took a few years for Boba to discover that Darth Vader had once been Anakin Skywalker. It fit with his power and skills but beyond that it meant little. Vader was not Skywalker and had not been for a long time. The people were so different Boba could barely connect them in his head, and he decided not to try. He could respect someone trying to get away from their past. He didn’t know if Vader knew that he knew, but it didn’t matter. Nothing changed. Boba continued to work for him, kill for him.

Boba was trusted with more and more important information. He even got to fight next to Vader a couple times, the two of them working in tandem to take down a slaver operation that had become too obvious for the Empire to allow. Vader’s saber spun, a blood-red blur that was followed by blaster bolts as Fett eliminated the few people firing at them from afar, trying not to get distracted by the tank of a man next to him. Vader fought like he trusted Fett to have his back, to keep up and protect him and complete the objective. 

In the war Vader had fought with Rex. Boba had seen the little blond clone before he shipped out. Devoted, determined, and capable; Vader was used to having someone like that at his back, and the only thing that kept Boba from being unnerved at the way he slotted into the position was watching the brutal way Vader tore through his opponents and knowing that Fett was a dark, sadistic side to Rex’s noble side of the same coin, Boba joining Skywalker only after he’d been flipped to Vader.

It was a good fight, a good mission, and afterwards, high on that battle-adrenaline that was just a little more potent than usual, Boba clapped Vader on the back like he would with any hunter he’d just completed a good mission with. 

He froze right after. You couldn’t just touch Lord Vader, that wasn’t how the galaxy worked—Boba wondered for a split second what marching on was like, if his father would march with him, and Vader stared at him, his respirator cycling and black mask revealing nothing, before turning and walking away.

So Boba wasn’t killed, or reprimanded, and he hadn’t made a fool of himself by babbling an apology, which was good because there was nothing Vader suffered less than fools. But the incident woke Boba up. What the hell was he doing? Gallivanting around with one of the only men who could kill him—and it wasn’t like he needed it, even, he had enough credits to retire on the Slave I for a long time if he wanted, or to take smaller contracts to keep himself sharp. And sure, he had his reputation, but that could last him his life if he didn’t fuck it up and it wasn’t like he’d ever needed that reputation to go this far, to being one of the most feared beings in the galaxy. So maybe Fett should take a break from Vader and the adrenaline. Take some bit parts, not answer his comm and pretend he’d been on some remote planet tracking a bounty for a while, something believable. 

It was possible and even likely that Vader wouldn’t care. That he would find a new hunter to trust as his right hand. Good, Boba forced himself to think, because it was best for him if that was the case, but it still panged deep in his heart.

And even that was a reason to quit for a bit, because one should never involve their heart in the bounty hunting business, even if all of its reaction was to beat faster in the presence of a frightening man. 

So Boba Fett took a job away from the Core and away from Vader, and took another, and could honestly tell the automated comm requesting him for a mission that he was already on one and wasn’t available. And Boba kept taking those, little missions one after another that paid okay and took a while but weren’t particularly difficult.

He didn’t enjoy staying away from Vader. But he knew his body was enjoying being off that adrenaline high, and he was having the best sleep of his life, even if his dreams were stalked by inexpressive red eyes and a black cape swishing around every corner. 

It was after several months, on some backwater outer-rim planet, that his peace was broken. 

It was supposed to be a regular bounty. Someone had broken a smuggler contract and was hiding out in the strange world they were native to, using their knowledge of the local flora to survive, only rarely going to ports for supplies. The target wasn’t considered particularly dangerous, but they were still difficult to trace through the tricky environment, and Boba Fett had the technology to do it. 

He picked up their footprints after not too long, HUD pointing them out. His mask filtered the pollens in the air as he traced the footprints, still keeping a wary eye on the rest of the foliage for the predatory animals he knew lay in the strange jungle. 

It’s another few hours of tracking—during which Boba set fire to some canine creature and impaled a bird with a razor-sharp beak on a blade that slides out of his vambrace—before Boba’s helmet catches a vibration in the air that sounds like near-human footsteps, and he follows the trail. 

It diverges, now, from the paths and trails worn through the years by animals. Boba has to resort to slicing through vines and plants. The pollen is thicker in this part of the jungle, clouding his vision, but he’s getting closer, the footprints from only some minutes ago instead of hours, the vibrations getting larger—and then with his visor checking for heat signatures, Boba can see his quarry, a male twi’lek running through the forest ahead of him. He stops for breath behind one of the great plants, murmuring something softly to himself. 

Fett creeps up behind the plant, slotting between two large thorns guarding it, and watching the heat signature that’s blocked by the flora. Slowly, he draws a long knife that is just long enough to cut both the plant and the person in half if he makes it just deep enough. The bounty knows he’s being traced, but not that Fett is right there, and the adrenaline rushes through Fett as he savours the kill he’s about to make.

He lines up the shot, avoiding the thorns to meet minimal resistance, and makes the cut, severing the plant. 

A searing pain rips through his left leg.

A new thorn has erupted into his leg, some defense mechanism, and it burns, but first Boba has to make sure his quarry is dead. 

He isn’t, he’s crashing through the undergrowth bleeding from his back, but even with the gash in his leg Boba can line up the shot and take it, and the man wasn’t smart enough to put another large plant between him and his hunter. The twi’lek keels over, his indication changing in Boba’s HUD to indicate his change in life status. 

Boba limps over to the dead bounty, partially to get away from that damn plant. He snaps a holo of his dead body and takes his wedding ring—husband long dead, so no guilt tied to that—and his ID, all to prove his death. Then Boba pulls out an antiseptic and a roll of linen from his belt, spraying his wound and hissing as the chemicals sank in, eliminating the risk from whatever pollen might have infected the wound, and Boba wrapped it in the clean dressings. He would need to stitch it up, but he could do that on his ship with a more localized anesthesia he didn’t carry in the field. 

It hurt, it burned, but it wouldn’t kill him. 

Boba decided to take the hit on fuel prices and use his jetpack to get back to his ship. If it had just been flat land he could have made the distance, but with the predators and the thick foliage, the pain and blood loss would get to him. He used one of his knives in its sheath and extra linen to brace his leg to avoid movement and more blood loss, then activated his jetpack and soared into the sky.

It was far easier to travel this way, and the few sharp-beaked birds that tried for him were easily downed by blaster bolts unaffected by the torrential pain in his leg. It wasn’t long before Boba reached his ship and opened the hatch to get in before carefully lowering down to a very soft landing. 

He could have sworn he saw the swish of a black cape around the other side of the ship, heard a faint respirator. Those kinds of hallucinations could not be healthy, Boba needed to sew his leg up immediately. He climbed into his ship and headed for his medical supplies.

He didn’t make it there before his wrists were grabbed and held.

Boba snarled and instinctively threw his head backwards in an attempt to bash the opponent’s head in and raised his leg to stomp on their instep, but his helmet missed and in his mindless adrenaline he’d forgotten his leg was injured. His leg buckled and he had to put the other down. Having lost his urgency and at a strong disadvantage, Boba tried to figure out what he could about his captor. 

Thick black gloves and a respirator breathing heavily behind him.

“Bounty hunter,” Darth Vader said, his tone stern and demanding, and Boba’s legs threatened to buckle again. 

He was caught by one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, wrists held firmly keeping his back almost flush to Vader, the man’s voice in his ear as he held Boba, firm and unyielding. Boba’s head spun as his heart beat wildly, breath coming irregularly, and a warm feeling pooled low in his gut. 

Ah. 

That was why Vader drew such a reaction from Boba—he was his type.  

Boba liked sex, of course. He had it from time to time with strangers and the occasional fuckbuddy he’d kept ties with. And while he appreciated a nice body, he’d never really found anyone that made him want anything besides fulfilling his body’s needs. Which made sense if fucking Darth Vader was what did it for him.

“Lord Vader,” he finally responded, keeping his voice sturdy. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?” He made the last word sound ironic, all part of the cool facade. 

“Where have you been?”

“Outer rim. Doing some smaller bounties.” Why was he here, did he miss him? No, that was impossible. Wanted him for a bounty, most likely. But why had he come in person? “If you don’t mind, Lord Vader, I would like to tend to my injury.” Boba had to get out of this compromising position, he felt humiliated like a caught rabbit and angry at himself for how much he almost enjoyed it, being held by Vader. And the blood had soaked through his linen in the air and was now trickling down his leg. 

“You left.”

“The Empire is not the entirety of my clientele.”

Vader’s grip on Boba tightened almost imperceptibly, then Vader spun Boba around and backed him into the wall of his ship, Boba’s wrists locked above his head by one hand of Vader’s. He tested the restraint and found the mechanical hand completely unmoving; he remained at his mercy. Vader loomed over him, dark and domineering.

“You will come back, Boba Fett,” Vader said, Boba’s name sounding low from Vader, sending a shiver up his spine. His dick was somewhat interested in it, and Boba ignored it. 

“You have no demand on my time without a contract,” Boba protested. He knew better than to fight with Vader—even now he was pinned to a wall bleeding out, but for all the good sense in the world Boba was still stubborn and refused to be pushed around. 

“You are my bounty hunter.” Vader’s voice was firm. “You fight for me, hunt for me. With me. This will not change again. You will come back, and accept the contract I have for you, or you will regret it.” Vader’s helmet was only inches away from Boba’s and he could almost see the outline of his flesh eyes behind the mask. There was a pause as his words sank in and Vader’s respirator groaned. “Do we have a deal?” 

Boba had to take it. He had no doubt that if he didn’t he would not leave this planet alive, no matter what favor Vader held for him, he was a possessive bastard who wouldn’t let Boba free. And that was the rationale for accepting the deal. Nothing to do with how Vader claimed him, nothing to do with how his body reacted at the idea of forever being Vader’s right hand, his hunter, his. 

“Yes, Lord Vader.” 

Boba’s wrists were finally released and he rotated his hands, feeling the bones click a little. Vader was already striding over to the medical supplies. “Sit,” he intoned.

“Lord Vader, I can—” 

“Sit.”

Boba sat.

Vader brought over the exact localized anesthetic and hypo Boba needed, as well as the material for stitches and fresh linens. Boba cautiously took them from him and gave himself the anesthetic, letting out a sigh of relief as it hit almost-instantly. When he slowly unwrapped the wound to clean and stitch it, Vader wordlessly took the dirty linen and force-floated it to the trash can. 

Why was he doing this? Kindness? Care? No, that couldn’t be it—Vader had just claimed him, and he needed him in good shape for whatever bounty Fett was to be assigned, that was all. 

Vader continued to stand ominously by Fett as he stitched himself up, silence broken only by his occasional hiss of pain. The tension built between them until finally Boba asked, tying off the knot of the final stitch, “Why?” 

Vader’s helmet tilted slightly to the side, assessing, before stating simply, “Because you are mine.”

Boba stared at him, outrage and arousal swirling through him even as he grimly acknowledged internally that this was the only way out, that he had dug himself this grave, and the only question was if he would die in it today or later.

He inclined his head in admission and wordlessly stuck himself with the hypo.

He could not bring himself to regret his choices.

Boba Fett stayed with Vader as ordered. He took the occasional other bounty in the Core, but for the most part he stayed on contract with the Empire. 

He didn’t hate it. He was with Vader much of the time, and he found himself understanding the man more and more. He understood Vader’s body language, learned how his suit worked, and fought beside him again. They did more missions the two of them. Boba was allowed to leave, to take other bounties, but he knew he couldn’t be gone for too long. He would be shocked if Vader wasn’t tracking his ship, and he knew there was nowhere he could hide even if he really wanted to leave.

But he didn’t, oddly enough. He was happy working for the Empire—well, as happy as he could be, really. He had enough credits to get what he wanted, he had purpose, he had dangerous missions, and he had Vader. 

Lord Vader was stern and closed off, but in rare moments he would talk to Boba, let slip details about himself, and he always protected him in the field. Vader had probably saved Boba’s life a few times. 

Boba returned the courtesy and talked a little bit about himself and his upbringing, mostly in casual moments mentioning something Jango or the Kaminoans taught him. A further trust grew between them, and something bordering on friendship.

It was another several months after Boba’s return before their relationship changed again.

It was a simple mission. They were hunting down a Jedi, one who had escaped the purge. Fett had only a photo to go on, because Vader said that the Jedi would never keep his old name. But the brown-skinned Kiffar was nowhere to be seen. Boba was hanging out in a cantina trying to catch a whisper about him, but there was nothing he could find, really. He was sitting in a booth by himself—Vader was too recognizable to be in public, so he was interrogating the owner of the cantina, and Boba was going to meet up with him in half an hour or so on their shuttle. 

“Pardon me, sir, but you seem awful lonely.” A pretty Nautolan woman had walked up to him. She was a lovely dark green with deep eyes and tentacles pulled back in little twists. “Would you like a drink? I’ll pay.” 

“That would be lovely,” Fett answered. “I don’t know what you all have around here—get me what you like, yeah darlin’?” 

The Nautolan smiled and winked, and walked away to get the drink. She came back shortly with a small blue drink. It glittered and shimmered, pretty. Fett picked it up and surreptitiously dropped a small powder in the drink—it didn’t blow up, so the drink wasn’t drugged. Good. 

The woman sat next to him, leaning her chin on her thin fingers. “You gonna take your helmet off, handsome?” she asked. Fett unlatched it but only lifted it enough to show his sly smile before he took a sip of the drink, which was fruity and pleasant. 

“You’ll have to put a little more effort in for that, darlin’.” 

“Yeah?” She ran an emerald arm down Fett’s arm. “How about you come back to my place and I’ll show you exactly how much effort I’m willing to put in.” 

Fett wound an arm around her waist. He hadn’t gotten laid in a while, and she seemed nice enough, and genuine—didn’t try to drug him anyway—and she was pretty too, even if she didn’t catch him quite like Vader did. 

Ugh, Vader. Boba was supposed to meet with him soon. He had to comm him to let Vader know he’d be back later than expected, and then he could go back to her place. And then the cantina fell quiet. He looked around and—oh, it was Lord Vader, striding across the floor to him. It was his angry walk too. No sex for Boba tonight. 

The girl in his arms became rigid as Vader stopped at their table, crossing his arms. “Really, man?” Boba said. “Now?”

“We’re leaving,” Vader said, incensed. Boba was annoyed, but he knew better than to push, so he carefully passed the pretty Nautolan girl over his lap and to his other side so she wouldn’t have to move closer to Vader and slipped out of the booth. 

“Apologies, darlin’. Duty calls.” Fett tossed a few credits on the table. “For the drink,” he said, but it was also an apology. He turned around and followed Vader’s billowing cape out and to the shuttle. 

“You find anything? What was so important you needed to pull me away from her? She was hot.” 

“I did not bring you on this mission, so you could flirt, Fett. You needed to stay focused on the mission.” 

“So you didn’t find anything? You pulled me away from there for nothing?” Fett’s ire rose. Vader stayed silent, but he had a superior cant to his helmet that told Fett that yes, Vader had no good reason for it. “Lord Vader, you’d be surprised at what people are willing to share with you in the afterglow. I was going to ask if she’d seen any men that matched the Jedi’s description, or heard about any random kind deeds being done, and she’d be more likely to tell me after sex.” Fett shifted, not a big movement but enough for Vader to catch his anger and shift in turn. “We’re supposed to work together, Vader, so stop undermining me. Just because you haven’t been laid in ten years—” 

“Fett, enough. We are done with this conversation. I made the right choice. She could have drugged you, hurt you. We will look again tomorrow.” 

“And now the town recognizes me as working with you, so we can’t get anything out of them, and of course I checked if she was armed and if the drink was drugged. For this cooperation to be productive you have to trust me.”

“Do not presume to tell me what I must do. I am a Sith Lord!” Vader took a step forward, raising his hand to point furiously at Boba. “I decided you would not do that, and we left. That is the end of it.”

“Why do you care so much?” Boba asked. It was incomprehensible. Was Vader really that jealous that Fett could get some and Vader couldn’t?

But instead of answering him, or storming away like Boba expected, Vader growled  out— “why do I care?”— and reached out a hand to grab Boba’s neck, and Boba had only a second to think KRIFF as instinct kicked in and he extended his vambrace blade and held it to Vader’s chest but he didn’t plunge it in because Vader wasn’t squeezing, choking, instead he pulled Fett towards him and forced their helmets to collide, holding the two of them there, metal forehead to metal forehead. 

A mirshmure’cya.

Vader’s hand was still firm around Boba’s neck, and Boba’s knife ready to slide into Vader’s heart, but neither of them moved towards violence or anything else, locked in the Keldabe. 

Boba exhaled shakily. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispered in the small space between them. He couldn’t, because what would that mean? That Vader liked him? More? That Vader had been jealous not of Boba but of the girl? 

“I do.” Vader’s voice was steady, a hint of the anger bleeding through, but most of it was gone. “And I know you want this too, so why the hell were you letting her touch you?!”

Everything made sense with this revelation. Vader’s possessiveness, his jealousy, his stalking him across the galaxy etcetera, and the only thing Boba could do was retract his knife and whisper into the space between them, “I’m yours.” 

And it was true, had been from the moment Boba saw Vader and felt his heart beat quick against his armour.

--Fifteen years later--

Luke found Boba Fett on a strange planet in the outer rim. He had to carefully fly his X-Wing through the storms that buffeted it, threatening to take it into the ocean that almost consumed the planet. 

The Slave I was landed on one of the few stable platforms left, and Luke set down his X-Wing on an adjoining one, trusting Fett’s judgment. A moment of concentration had Luke able to lock onto Fett’s signature, inside the working half of the building nearby. He drew his thick cloak tight around himself and hurried towards the door, having to Force it open when the button didn’t work.

There was evidence of vibroknife scrapes where Fett likely would have pried it open.

Luke assumed that Fett knew someone was here, but not who it was. He knew to expect an attack. But his sense remained stable as he followed it through the corridors until he ended up outside what seemed to be a guest suite.

He knocked, to be polite.

The door opened. 

Luke walked through the hall into the main dining space. Fett was sitting in one of the chairs, blaster aimed at Luke, but when he saw who he was he put it away. “Hey kid.”

“Hey Fett.” 

“What are you here for?” Fett’s helmet obscured his face and muffled his emotions, but Luke could still sense the yawning grief inside him.

“Information exchange.”

“What do you have I could possibly want?”

“Full, unedited story of how he died.”

Fett cocked his head. “You know?” Not how he died. Luke knew about them, that they were partners. In crime, bed, obsession.

Luke merely inclined his head. 

“In exchange for what?”

“Tell me what he was like. As you knew him. Your relationship. What he thought, felt. I… I never knew him and I want to.”

“It’s not pretty, kid, and it’s not nice. He was a bad man. So am I, for the record.”

“He saved me. He came back, at the end.”

“I’ve seen him cut down innocent people with no hesitation, no remorse, I’ve seen him commit genocide and come back complaining of how boring it was. Once I left for a few months and he hunted me down. I was bleeding out and he wouldn’t let me fix it until I agreed to come back to him. You will not find solace in the stories I have.”

Luke felt that pit of grief open up further in his chest and was very grateful he had not brought Leia. “I would like them anyway.” Fett didn’t move. “Do we have a deal?”

“...Fine. Tell me how he died.” 

Luke did, and looked the other way when Fett had to take his helmet off to wipe his eyes.