Chapter Text
Boba and Fennec were in the Ops Room mulling over a staffing proposal—because no matter what it looked like, being a successful daimyo required much less sitting-on-a-throne-eating-fruit and much more strategic workforce alignment than most beings would ever know—when the comm lit up with a connection request from Din.
He’d been gone a few weeks on one of his training runs for Grogu, which usually combined hunts for Boba, errands for Kryze, and a few low-level Republic bounties. Din had hoped that he’d be able to avoid any more involvement in politics once Bo-Katan was established on Mandalore; as Boba had suspected, it hadn’t been that easy. Apparently Din had won Kryze over through his normal practice of more or less embodying every Mandalorian virtue, and she was understandably unwilling to let him return to his pre-Darksaber state of blissful ignorance regarding Mandalorian politics.
None of this would have mattered, except that despite their rocky beginnings—and the fact that Kryze hated most of his other friends—Din actually liked her now. To be fair, it had required a convoluted and improbable string of joint adventures, including: saving a child from a giant raptor, nearly drowning in a holy Mandalorian cave lake, nearly dying to stop Imperial-remnant villainous banthashit courtesy of Moff Gideon’s unsettling Mando fetish, and encountering a literal mythosaur.
It would have stretched credibility as the plot of a holodrama; Boba wouldn’t have believed that a fraction of it actually occurred, except that things like that just happened around Din, who was so used to it by now that he rarely noticed his life was in any way unusual. Also, Din had sworn never to lie to Boba, and Boba would believe that the three moons of Tatooine were made of blue-milk cheese before he’d accuse Din of breaking his word.
(Honestly, Boba was about eighty percent convinced that Din was at least a little Force-sensitive; his luck, both good and bad, was just too ridiculous for it to be natural. Also, he was far too good in bed, relative to his level of experience, to not be unconsciously leaning on some kind of sexual empathy.)
Regardless, somewhere between escaping deadly peril in a beskar mine and working together to stop an actual Separatist plot (despite the Separatists having been conquered by the Empire decades previously), Din had mentally moved Bo-Katan Kryze out of the “temporary ally” category and into “friend,” and that was that; Boba would never be rid of her unless one of them broke things off with Din. Since Kryze was not actually stupid and Boba would rather jump back into a sarlacc than give Din a reason to leave him, he was just going to have to cope. Fortunately, she was keeping quite busy trying to make sure her second go at the throne was more successful than her first, so Boba’s patience wasn’t tested much.
(And no, Fennec, it was not because Boba was jealous. He was even a little sympathetic to Kryze, at least in theory. Living your life among backstabbing shabuire (motherfuckers) just did not prepare a person to experience Din Djarin’s loyalty; it was like waking up one morning to discover that a few important laws of physics had changed slightly in your favor. An amazing privilege, but it made you question all your previous assumptions about the way the world worked. He’d gone through it, himself, and knew how unsettling it could be. That still didn’t mean he wanted to actually socialize with the woman; he’d ignored enough snide anti-clone commentary to last several lifetimes.)
Anyhow, Din could be extremely stubborn towards authority but was a soft touch when it came to his friends, so after several weeks of increasingly delicate negotiations with the new Mand’alor—and turning down several different offers from several different people to help him block her comm frequency and/or fake his own death—Din had reluctantly agreed to be part of Kryze’s Council of Advisors, as long as she promised not to make him attend the council meetings.
Or live on Mandalore.
Or attend any diplomatic events.
In fact, as far as Boba could tell, Din’s official government duties mainly consisted of long comms with Kryze herself, during which she complained about how recalcitrant and infuriating Mandalorians were (extremely, as three generations of Boba’s family line could attest), and Din did maintenance on his weapons and armor, made sympathetic noises, and occasionally made one of his “common sense” suggestions that were objectively unlikely to work and yet worked anyway.
Occasionally, Kryze also sent Din out on diplomacy missions thinly disguised as mercenary jobs. She’d insisted on providing him a ship with actual living quarters and cargo space; she’d even gotten him to use it by giving him a guilt trip about how much healthier it would be for Grogu to be able to sleep in a bunk and eat real food on long trips.
It was a nice ship, one of the pristine MandalMotors jobs that someone had stashed somewhere before the war. Din—who could be deeply, delightfully petty sometimes—named it Alii’nar, which could mean “duty” but Boba knew in this case should be translated Family Obligation. He’d then taken it straight to Mos Eisley, where he’d spent a week with Peli Motto Jawa-rigging it into near unrecognizability.
Boba knew what he really wanted, and was accordingly still putting feelers out for another pre-Empire gunship like Din's lost Razor Crest. It had proven absurdly difficult to find one in good enough condition to be safe, but he was still trying—not to one-up Kryze, but because it would make Din happy.
(And anyway, if he had wanted to to one-up Kryze, he wouldn’t need to use Din to do it; nobody in his family had ever tried to turn Mandalorians into pacifists).
Din had gone comms-silent a few days before, as was normal during the tricky part of a hunt; they’d been expecting him to report in soon, so Boba thought nothing of accepting the request and putting it through on the holotable.
As always, something tense in Boba’s spine uncurled at seeing his lover looking safe and unmarred in the pilot’s seat of his ship. “It’s good to see you, cyare,” (beloved) he said warmly. “How’s the hunt?”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted—”
An excited squeal cut Din off from outside the holocam’s range, and then Grogu appeared on Din’s lap with a speed and trajectory that indicated one of his Force-flips.
“Bo!” he said, reaching his little hand toward the holo.
The first time Grogu had called him that, Boba had felt a pang in his chest so sharp he’d looked down to make sure he hadn’t been stabbed without noticing. Now, after a few months of repetition, he was almost used to it.
Din chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “Can you say hi to Boba? Like we practiced. Su cuy.”
“Soo… coo,” Grogu said, then looked rapidly from Din to Boba, looking for approval.
“Great job!” Din told him.
“Su cuy’gar, little one, It’s good to see you too,” Boba said, knowing he was wearing what Fennec liked to call his “besotted dewback face” and not caring in the slightest. “You’re doing great with your words! Are you being good for Buir?”(Dad/parent)
He grinned, tiny needle-like teeth on display. “Bu!” he agreed.
“He’s supposed to be eating right now,” Din said, his voice fond. “But he jumped clear across the deck when he heard you.” He stroked the wispy hair on the top of his son’s head. “Though I reckon I understand the impulse.”
Grogu held something vaguely flipper-shaped up to the camera. “Bo nom,” he said firmly.
“Also he found the box of freeze-dried frogs you left in the galley,” Din added.
Grogu crammed the flipper into his mouth with an unsettling crunch.
“While this is simultaneously horrifying and adorable,” Fennec said, stepping forward into holo range, “I’d like to hear more about the hunt. Did the lead on Takodana pan out?”
They’d sent Din out chasing a rumor: a spacer’s story of a lost Separatist ship, carrying some great treasure for Count Dooku. None of them really expected to find anything except perhaps some crash debris, but if there was any chance that a ship full of Sith artifacts or experimental weaponry was out there, it was better off in their hands than with one of the Imperial remnant factions.
Din leaned forward and flipped a switch, causing the image to waver and fuzz before stabilizing. He’d turned on the encryption circuit. “I found the cruiser.”
Boba went cold. “Intact?”
“Crashed, but not destroyed,” Din said. “Went down in the middle of the desert on some skughole planet in the Western Reaches. There’s a lot of droids and tech there—no power, but if we want to mount a salvage op we’ll want to be very careful, maybe bring some ion cannons.”
“Was that Dooku’s special cargo? Droids?” Fennec crossed her arms, skeptical.
“No.” Din sighed. “I—Boba, I’m sorry, but I need to talk about something pretty personal. Do you want to, um… would you rather speak privately?”
“Why would Dooku have wanted anything to do with Boba?” Fennec said, shooting Boba a worried look. “He was just a kid when that ship crashed.”
“It’s not Boba specifically,” Din said, voice soft and careful. “It’s about his buir.”
“Oh,” Boba said. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” Horrible possibilities started presenting themselves to his imagination. Had the Separatists gotten hold of some of Jango’s blood? Or worse—Boba thought of a grave in the red earth of Geonosis and shuddered.
“Just go ahead, Din,” he said, trying to brace himself for the worst. “I don’t mind if Fennec hears.”
She stepped closer, nudging him supportively with her shoulder.
Din took a deep breath, bracing his shoulders in the way he did when he was about to do something unpleasant. In his lap, Grogu frowned, his ears drooping as he picked up on his father’s tension. He patted Din’s hand. “Bu?”
“It’s okay, kid,” Din said, cuddling him. “I’m just nervous. I—Boba, the cargo is a person. He’s in cryo, has been this whole time. I couldn’t find any records of who he is, but—he looks—I think you might have a brother.”
Boba stared. “You think I might have a brother,” he repeated. “One brother.”
“I know it’s probably a shock,” Din said, his shoulders tilting anxiously.
Pressed against his arm, Boba could feel Fennec trembling with suppressed emotion.
“It’s just, he looks a lot like you,” Din continued. “And even more like the holos of your buir I’ve seen. He looks like he’s in his twenties, though, so maybe Jango didn’t realize? He’d have been pretty young when…”
Fennec made a peculiar noise, like a malfunctioning kettle. “Boba,” she said. “Does. Does he not know?”
“Of course he knows! We talked about—” Boba stopped, an awful realization sinking over him. “Oh, dank farrik.”
“Boba?”The little blue figure of Din on the holotable was very still. “What are you talking about? What don’t I know?”
Boba gave in to the impulse to rub at the incipient headache brewing in his right temple. “Cyare,” he said. “Do you remember when I asked you how much you knew about the Clone Wars? And you said that you knew ‘everything you needed to know’ about them?”
“Of course,” Din said, wary. “And I appreciate that you didn’t bring it up again. I don’t like to talk about that.”
Fennec had stepped out of range of the camera and had buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Boba sighed. He had committed a lot of crimes over the years. He probably deserved this.
“I’m the last person to criticize you for not wanting to dwell on your Clone Wars-related childhood trauma,” he said. “However, we might have moved on from the topic a little prematurely. That’s on me; I should have verified my assumptions.”
“Wait,” Din said. “Are you saying you already knew about your brother?” He stiffened, horror written in every line of his expressive body. “Oh, Boba. Have you thought he was dead all this time?”
Din was so kind, his heart as pure and shining as his armor. Boba tried very hard never to make him feel ashamed of not knowing things; after all, it was hardly his fault that he had lost two homes to war as a child and been forced to live in hiding.
At the same time, Din’s first family had been killed in the Clone Wars. Din had heard Kryze and her sidekick call Boba a clone to his face, even call Jango his “donor.” Boba had made a clone joke to Din directly on Morak.
If he didn’t know, then what in the stars had Din thought they were all talking about that whole time?
“Din, I’m a clone,” Boba said, making a vague gesture at his own face. “From the Clone Wars. Which were called that because the entire Grand Army of the Republic were clones.”
“Clones of Jango Fett,” Fennec added, helpfully. You almost couldn’t hear her laughing anymore. “Fett wanted a son, so he asked for one clone to keep.” She gestured at Boba with the air of a used-speeder merchant who was assuring you that the motivator on that model was fine, actually. Boba resisted the impulse to elbow her in the kidney.
There was a long silence.
“Whatever poor bastard you’ve got in that tank is more than likely a clone trooper,” Boba continued, when he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. He wasn’t going to worry that this revelation would make Din reject him. He wasn’t. Not after everything they had been through. Din had more than earned Boba’s trust, and it would be an insult to doubt his constancy. “Probably some kind of prisoner of war. I doubt he ever met me; depending how old he is, he might not even know I exist.”
“…so in a way,” Din said slowly, “he is your long-lost brother.”
Boba opened his mouth to deny it, the way he had over and over throughout his life, but something stayed his tongue.
He was happy with his new, post-sarlacc life. With his own House, the Fett gotra. With Fennec and Santo and the Mods, his vassals and his allies. With Din and Grogu, settling deeper into his scarred, weary heart with every sunrise.
For a long time, Boba had been haunted by the clone troopers. It had felt like the galaxy itself was taunting him, that he’d been cursed somehow: Buir’s face, but never the soft look in his eyes when he smiled at his son. Buir’s voice, but never the tenderness in his tone when they were alone together. His father’s form, echoed millions of times over, to remind Boba that his father’s love was gone forever.
Now, Boba’s face and voice were only his. Now, there were fewer and fewer people who remembered how the GAR had looked under their helmets. Now, with no way to know if any clones were left, Boba was haunted by their absence.
“My brother?” Boba said. He was a little surprised to find that he liked the way that felt. “I suppose he is, at that.” He saw Din relax, and felt his own body ease in response. “Can the pod be moved? Can you bring it home? He’ll have stasis poisoning, after so long; I’d prefer not to wake him without medical care available.”
Din’s smile was so apparent in his posture that Boba could read it right through his helmet. “I suspected you might say that,” he said. “We’re already on our way. Should get in day after tomorrow.”
“Well then,” Boba said. “I suppose I need to make sure the med droid has a module for stasis sickness. And get a guest room ready.”
By the time the Alii’nar entered the system, Boba had changed his mind four times over which room to offer the trooper, paid an exorbitant fee to obtain three different stasis modules for the med droid, and worked himself up into something of a nervous frenzy wondering what would be worse, if the man had never heard of Boba Fett or if he was one of the ones who hated him for what he had done to the Endurance.
He’d already cancelled court for the day, so he headed out to meet Din’s ship at the small landing pad behind the palace, emerging just in time to see the suns’ light flash off his armor as he stepped through the door. He was holding Grogu in the crook of his arm, his body loose and his movements easy; just seeing him made everything feel right, as though his simple presence could prevent anything terrible happening.
Halfway down the ramp, Grogu catapulted himself into Boba’s arms. Boba caught him and held him up above his head.
“What’s this?” he asked, in mock surprise. “Flying already? Have you learned the Way of the Rising Phoenix? Where’s your jetpack, ad’ika?”(Little One)
Grogu giggled, kicking his little feet in delight. “Up! Bo, up!”
Boba swooped him through the air obediently, the way generations of Mandalorian parents had done for their children. The way Jango had done for Boba until he’d gotten too heavy.
(He’d been heartbroken when Buir admitted that his back was no longer up to the game. At least Grogu would probably stay small enough to play jetpack for a long time yet. He always did his best to make a jetpack noise, even though his mouth wasn’t quite the right shape; it was precious.)
Din watched them, positively radiating contentment, until Boba brought Grogu in for a “landing”—a cuddle and one of Grogu’s sweet, clumsy Keldabe kisses. He leaned in close to embrace them both. “It’s good to be home,” he said softly. “We missed you, didn’t we, buddy?”
“Bo,” Grogu said emphatically, clinging to the edge of Boba’s chest plate with his little claws. Boba cupped the back of his head in one hand, trying to shift the child so his body was nestled against the less-armored parts of him. “Neh! Neh Bo!”
“Yeah, buddy, your Bo,” Din said. “Though you gotta share him with Buir, okay?”
“Bo bu,” Grogu said, grabbing on to Din’s cowl with his other hand.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Din said. “He can be our Bo.” The tone of his voice made Boba want to weep, or laugh, or sweep him off to bed, or something else dramatic and inappropriate. “Cuun Bo, can you say that?”
“Coo Bo,” Grogu echoed, and Boba loved them, so much that it felt as though his chest would crack open from the pressure. To keep them safe, he’d do anything he had to; he’d burn a thousand worlds and salt the ashes.
“Ner cyarese,” he murmured. My beloved ones.
Boba wasn’t entirely sure how the Force worked, but he tried to focus on how much Grogu had come to mean to him and sort of aim it in his direction, like he was shooting a missile. Made of feelings. A feelings missile.
What the hell, it wasn’t like Boba was the Jedi in this family.
It seemed to work well enough, though; Grogu’s ears perked up and he made an excited trilling noise.
“Yeah, kid,” Boba told him. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“We’re all glad,” Fennec said, emerging from the palace just in time to catch his words. “Boba’s been a nervous wreck since you commed the other day. That poor kid in the tank already owns more outfits than a Corellian madam.”
“They only ever had uniforms and armor,” Boba muttered. “We can return whatever he doesn’t like, I just wanted him to have options.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, cyare,” Din said, reassuring. “It’ll be a comfort, to know his ori’vod (big brother) is looking out for him.”
Boba shrugged. “I’m trying, anyway.” He let himself bask for another few seconds before reluctantly detangling himself from his little family; there was a rescued prisoner in cryo who needed medical care.
The stasis pod containing the trooper had been designed for portability, and Din had found a grav-lift on the cruiser that made it fairly easy to maneuver it into the freight elevator and up to the rooms that Boba had turned into a medical suite. It was downright luxurious by Tatooine standards, having both a bacta tank and a med droid as well as plenty of supplies, a large stash of Tusken herbal remedies, and three salvaged biobeds, one of which was large enough for two standard humans or Krrsantan. One day, Boba hoped to find an actual medical professional to hire, but they weren’t exactly thick on the ground on Tatooine.
(Not for the first time, he reflected that the New Republic would get a lot farther in their attempts to expand on the Rim if they sent along some doctors or environmental engineers instead of X-wing patrols issuing traffic citations. Perhaps he should ask Din to pass a message along to the Huttslayer next time Skywalker commed to check in on Grogu.)
They set up the pod in one of the private treatment rooms. While the med droid downloaded the pod’s records, Boba peered through the thick transparisteel window in the lid. It was definitely one of the clone troopers, armorless but still in his blacks. Under the layer of frost from cryo, he looked like Boba had looked in his mid-twenties; probably thirteen or fourteen, then.
“I don’t recognize him, but he looks old enough to be from one of the early batches,” Boba said. “That cruiser crashed right before the end of the war. He must be good, to have survived that long. Or lucky.”
“That’s… honestly pretty unsettling,” Fennec said.
“At this point, that might as well be our family motto.” Boba said, a wry twist to his voice.
“Is that what you looked like when you were younger?” Din was glancing back and forth between the window and Boba, looking fascinated.
“More or less,” Boba said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “My hair was longer. Looser curls. I used to braid it back, though, for the helmet.”
“It sounds pretty,” Din said, tilting his head like he was imagining it.
“Oh, yeah,” Boba said, absolutely not letting himself make any of the sarcastic comments about trading in for a younger model that crowded behind his teeth. “I was a real pretty-boy. Pity I didn’t manage to get out before the sarlacc ate it.”
Din flinched, guilt in the slump of his shoulders. “Boba, I didn’t mean—”
“No, I know, I know you didn’t.” Boba sighed, cursing himself for letting his issues spill over onto Din. “That wasn’t fair.”
Din reached out, but waited for Boba to take his offered hand before pulling him in close, tucked against his side. Boba wondered if Din realized that he always held Boba and Grogu on his off side; it was such a protective posture, Din’s armored body a shield and his dominant shooting hand free. It felt safe in a way that Boba had almost forgotten.
He leaned against Din’s pauldron, the beskar cool and soothing against his cheek. “I’m sorry, cyare. Fenn’s right, I’ve been letting this whole thing get under my skin.” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “I’m worried he won’t like me, of all the ridiculous things. The troopers never did like me much, but I never cared before.”
Din’s arm tightened around his shoulder, and he made a low, unhappy sound.
“They had good reasons,” Boba assured him. “I was a little asshole to them before Buir died, and afterward I only got worse. After what happened on the Endurance…”
“You were a child,” Din said, always so much kinder than Boba deserved. “You were alone and grieving and in over your head, and the people who should have helped you took advantage of your trust.”
Boba’s eyes stung, and Grogu let out a sad little noise, reaching across Din’s chest plate toward him. Boba took him, the wriggly little weight of him always a comfort. “I’m okay, ad’ika,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the fine hair on top of his little head. “Just a sad memory.”
The med droid beeped. “Analysis complete,” it said.
Boba stood up straighter, though he didn’t step out of Din’s half-embrace. “What’s the verdict?”
“The patient has been in stable cryostasis for approximately twenty-eight point three standard years,” the droid said. “Prognosis upon reviving: chance of immediate death, seventeen percent. Chance of stasis toxicity syndrome, ninety-eight percent. Chance of severe stasis toxicity syndrome, eighty-four percent. Symptoms of severe stasis toxicity syndrome include, but are not limited to, temporary loss of hearing and/or vision, permanent loss of hearing and/or vision, aneurysm, stroke, cardiac arrhythmia, dizziness, drowsiness, confusion, cognitive impairment, skin ulcers, frostbite, numbness or tingling, neuralgia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, dry mouth, and death.”
“Dank farrik, Boba, you’ve got to get this thing a bedside manner module,” Fennec said.
“Yeah, probably,” Boba said. “Droid, what course of treatment provides the best prognosis for the patient?”
“Recommendation: remove patient from stasis using fifteen-hour five-stage protocol. Provide intravenous medication for reduction of pain and anxiety beginning in Phase 1-B. Add intravenous nutrition and hydration beginning in Phase 3. Additional recommendation: provide familiar audio inputs to the patient throughout revival protocol. Suggested audio inputs include: music, running water, bird song, speech by friend and/or family member, verbal encouragement. Prognosis of complete recovery of pre-stasis function within one standard year: thirty-eight percent. Prognosis of partial recovery of pre-stasis function with a functional impairment level of mild to moderate or better: eighty-seven percent.”
“The patient is a genetically modified trooper from the Clone Wars,” Boba said. “He should have improved healing; I uploaded the parameters to your memory banks yesterday.”
“Recalculating,” the droid said. “Amended prognosis of complete recovery: eighty-three percent. Amended prognosis of partial recovery with mild functional impairment or better: ninety-eight percent.”
“I guess even the long-necks were good for something,” Boba muttered. “All right, droid, proceed with the recommended protocols.”
“Shall I play a recording?” the droid asked. “Recommended track: ’Soothing Rainstorm.’”
“Kark, no,” Boba said. “He’ll think he’s on Kamino and panic. I’ll stay and read to him or something.” He reached out again, tracing the familiar features through the viewport. “After all, he’ll definitely recognize my voice.”