#injusry description

[kill-the-feels]

youth

a/n: hey y’all! we’re getting close to the end. this chapter has minimal Jango content, but i’ll make up for it, i promise <3 (previous part) (masterlist)

word count: ~3.2k

warnings: this one is pretty heavy on injury descriptions. If those bother you, maybe stop reading after the flashback and skip to the last section of this chapter. i’ll put a brief summary at the end of the chapter so you don’t miss anything. take care of yourselves! <3

Boba, you have a sudden, sinking realization, is young.

So young.

And you wonder what kind of damage this will do to him, to see such a massacre in his formative years. Not only is he watching his father, his buir, being taken from him, but he’s also watching such senseless killing between the Jedi, the droids, and all those men in masks, their armor just close enough to Jango’s that you know he had something to do with it all.

And in that moment, you don’t know who you hate the most:

The Jedi, for letting this happen? The Separatists, for crafting such a scheme? Or maybe even Jango, for getting involved?

All you know is you feel such a deep, burning rage, as you look out over the carnage, even as you snatch Boba towards you, holding tight as he tries to wriggle away, tries to join the battle. You gasp for breath, the dirt of the planet rising up in clouds from the battle, the haze in the air stinging your eyes.

Boba grits his teeth, his fist clenched like he’s ready to take on the world, save his buir.

And he’s young.

So young. ~~~ Boba is perhaps four, and Jango has been gone on a mission for the better part of a weekly rotation. It’s the longest he’s been away in some time, in the aftermath of that ill-fated last trip to Tatooine, finally convinced you’re not going to break. You and Boba are getting along nicely. You’ve managed to keep Boba busy with drawing, playing, and exploring, a far cry from the early days.

Boba is laying on his stomach, his creatures lined up in front of him, while he pretends to save them from an inhumane zoo. You’re noticing more and more the way in which he tries to be the savior, his tender heart something you want to protect as long as you can.

The door beeps, signaling Jango’s arrival, and Boba immediately throws himself off the floor, dragging Ai-Ai by his tail along with him.

When Boba throws his arms around Jango’s knees, he crouches, hugging his son tightly. You watch with a smile, and Jango glances up at you, a soft smile forming on his own face.

He winces a little as he stands, taking Boba’s hand and listening to the boy chatter about everything you’ve done, and you see the dark stain blooming on the side of his flight suit, in the gap between armor plates, intended for better movement.

“What happened?” you ask, interrupting Boba, who sticks his thumb in his mouth with a frown. Together, the three of you move towards the kitchen.

Jango tries to wave you off, but the grimaces instead. Carefully, he lets you and Boba help him peel the armor off, to ease the flight suit down to his hips.

It’s a nasty scrape, like he’s been grazed by a blaster shot, the mark one that has to hurt him every time he moves, but he says nothing.

“I’ll get the bacta!” Boba yells, already running away, familiar with where you keep the kit, from all the scraped knees you’ve treated.

Jango snorts, bracing his hands on the counter. Boba comes running back, holding the bacta and trailing bandages, with Ai-Ai tucked under his arm. He hands you the supplies, then passes Ai-Ai to Jango.

“Here,” Boba says. Jango looks down at him, and you tilt your head. Boba never lets the stuffed toy out of his sight. Never. The one time you tried to wash it, he howled like he was being tortured until you relented and resolved not to get close enough to smell it.

“What’s this for?” Jango asks, glancing back at you. You shake your head softly, not sure either.

“To hold onto while Buir fixes the scrapes. It’s going to sting! But Ai-Ai makes it feel better.” Your heart melts, and you watch as Boba extends his hand to Jango’s other hand.

“And you can hold my hand. That’s what Buir does when she fixes my scrapes.” There’s a funny look on Jango’s face, as he glances up at the ceiling, almost like he’s fighting some surge of emotions.

He’s not used to help, you realize. He’s used to fixing all this on his own. Gently, you dab the bacta over his side, careful not to press too hard. He breathes in and out slowly, seemingly unaffected by the feel of it. Boba winces for him, making faces and quiet squeals, the same way he does when you treat his injuries.

Only once you’ve placed the bandage on does Boba let go of Jango’s hand and circle to the hurt side, inspecting your work.

Then he promptly snatches Ai-Ai away, and runs back to his room.

Jango stares at him for another beat, before the two of you burst out laughing.

It subsides when he reaches for you, tugging you against him and cupping your face.

“Hi,” he says softly, kissing you gently.

“Welcome home,” you say, leaning into him. Neither of you say those three little words, the ones that make the planet feel like it’s slipping off its axis.

It’s just understood, in the way he looks at you, the way you smile up at him. ~~~ Neither you nor Boba cries. You’re not sure if the numbness will subside later; if, once the shock wears off, you’ll be hit with a wave of emotions that rivals the stormy waves on Kamino.

Or if you were so sure he wouldn’t make it off Geonosis, that your mind has already accepted he was a dead man walking, and reality is only now just catching up.

It doesn’t matter, you decide. Not feeling anything is the only thing keeping you standing right now, arm wrapped around Boba to keep him from plunging into the battle, so you lose not just Jango, but Boba too. He stops fighting you, holding onto your arm instead, like he can’t stand on his own.

And as you stare down at the dust, all you can think of is that day he came back home. All the times he came back home.

And now he won’t. But does it even matter, because is there even a home to go back to? ~~~ After the battle, the two of you slowly emerge. Bodies lay strewn in the field, the Jedi uncaring for two quiet civilians, picking their way past the fallen Geonosians and battle droids. You watch the men in white armor lead the operations, blisteringly effective as they start the clean up. Forcing your eyes away, you duck your head, scanning the carnage — so many people, gone — looking for one man among many.

There, in the dust, is the glint of the armor, the helmet a few feet away.

Boba shudders beside you, and it takes all your strength to keep walking forward. You have to look. Have to figure out how to get him out of here, so you can say goodbye properly. You promised.

You feel exposed, here in the bowl of the arena, despite the fact that no one is paying attention to you. Every heartbeat sounds like it’s been amplified, vibrating against your skin, making you stick to your stomach, unable to catch your breath like you’ve just run a race.

Your feet stumble over the last stretch, able to see the odd way Jango’s body is sprawled, one leg slightly bent, like he’s taking the most uncomfortable nap.

Boba inhales sharply and turns away, going instead for the helmet, kneeling and pressing his forehead to the cold metal.

You look down at the body of the man before you. Now that you’re here, you can’t tear your eyes away.

He’s missing his right hand, a blackened stump all that’s left. You swallow the rising bile at the back of your throat, threatening to make you lose what little you’ve eaten. Even though every part of you wants to look away, you can’t. You promised. You can do this for him.

There’s a blackened hole just off-center of his armor, where a lucky blaster shot must have caught him. Once, he explained to you that his armor was not as strong as other Mandalorian armor. A gift from the man who raised him, it’s a durasteel-beskar hybrid, true beskar rare and hard to come by. It never bothered him, because someone would have to be in incredibly close range to do any real damage, and they would have to find a weak spot in the armor.

Ironic, then, that there’s apparently a weak spot just to the left of his heart.

Your gaze drifts further up, to his face, noting the awful way his head is tilted.

There’s a nasty burn on the side of his neck, the fringes bloody and ragged, as if nearly cut by something, but stopped at the last second.

You bite your lip, kneeling beside him, taking his good hand.

“Jango,” you whisper, voice cracking on the second syllable.

Boba drops to his knees beside you, holding the helmet tightly. Around you, the world fades out, the figures moving just a part of the noise.

One last time, you lay your head on his chest, careful not to touch any of his wounds. You can feel them coming, the tears, and you need to pull yourself together for Boba. Give me strength, you will him.

And you hear it.

The ragged breath.

Slowly, not daring to get your hopes up, you sit up. Lean over his mouth and nose, holding your own breath. Waiting.

“Buir?” Boba asks you. You shake your head. You don’t dare tell him what you suspect. Not until you’re sure.

There.

Another ragged breath, catching and dragging in the worst way.

He’s still alive.

“Boba,” you say softly. “We have to move him. Gently. Get him back to the ship. Get him some help.”

“Is he-” You shake your head, cutting Boba off, who nods with sudden understanding. As far as the galaxy is concerned, Jango Fett is dead.

But that’s not quite true. ~~~ It takes you and Boba way longer than you’d like to haul Jango back to the ship. He’s a shorter man, but he’s got plenty of muscle and build, and the ship is a long ways away.

Boba helps, with you tossing him over your shoulders, wincing when it jostles his wounds, and Boba trying to keep him balanced, corralling his arms and feet. Tapping into a strength you didn’t know you had, you take it one step at a time, refusing to let go, unwilling to consider leaving him now that you know there’s a chance, no matter how slight.

By the time you reach the ramp, you’re sweaty and covered in dirt, arms burning as you settle Jango flat in the cargo bay, calling for Boba to grab the medkit.

Together, the both of you pry the amor off, tossing pieces in the corner as you cut through the flight suit.

The medkit’s woefully lacking, armed only with packets of bacta you rip open with your teeth, gagging on the taste and trying to spread it over the worst of the wounds.

But the burn on his neck and the blastershot in his chest are deep and require more than the surface level patching can provide.

“We have to get him help,” Boba says as your fingers brush over the old scar of the scrapes you patched up years ago.

“I know,” you say, ripping open a fresh bandage as new blood starts oozing from the chest wound. His hand’s been bandaged, the skin still charred and blackened — not much you can do for it.

“Where do we go?” Boba asks, helping you lift Jango so you can get a look at his back. There’s no exit wound. Which means the shot settled in his chest, slowly but surely tearing away at his insides, burning everything in there the same way the saber burned the neck and hand.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You’re losing the ability to think rationally; all you know is you need to do something.

“Buir,” Boba says again. “What do we do?” You close your eyes, taking precious time to think.

“Okay. We can’t go to Kamino.” That was your first thought — who better to help than the very people who perfected the best of Jango’s DNA? But the price they might ask is too great. They’ll want Boba, with his DNA, to pick up where Jango left off. They might not even save him, instead cutting their losses while you deliver Boba to them on a platter.

No. Not Kamino.

Coruscant is another option, a large planet that you’ve never personally visited, but have heard Jango talk about, with tons of people. Easy to blend in, but also the haven for the Jedi, and maybe too big to feasibly find what you need in time.

There’s another option, staring you in the face, but your mind refuses to consider it.

Tatooine.

Even though you promised Jango you wouldn’t go back there, at the same time, it makes sense. Gardulla’s got connections. She hates the Jedi on principle. And credits are the biggest motivator for her, something Jango’s managed to stash away.

“Tatooine,” you tell Boba. “Go get the ship ready.” He pauses, looking at you hard, as if trying to gauge your motivations.

“Boba,” you command, “the ship.” He scrambles away and you puff out a breath.

Fuck. Okay. Tatooine.

You’ll have to get your demands straight before you go in there. Decide what you can part with. Boba won’t go with you. Nor Jango. Just you. Asking for help. You close your eyes.

From fucking Gardulla.

The only way Jango survives this is a bacta tank, something you’re sure she can get her slimy tentacle on, if she hasn’t already. Credits aren’t much of an objection — Jango has a nice nest egg saved up — so you can afford to bid higher than it’d normally cost.

You can buy her silence too, add some incentive by offering some of Jango’s precious weapon stock, including some of the fancy, rare weapons from Kamino. Maker knows Jango won’t want them. If he survives.

You feel the rumble of the ship as the thrusters fire.

“Hang on,” Boba calls down, and the ship lifts, a little more jerky than Jango’s piloting but still fluidly heading into atmo. You swallow a burst of pride in Boba.

For Jango, you do your best to get him patched up in a way that will hold for now, his breathing still much too shallow, but more regular in cycle than it has been.

Small victories.

Once he’s stable, you set about finding his stash of credits on the ship, and determining which weapons you can part with before heading up to the cockpit with Boba, so you can direct him on where to land the ship. ~~~ When you leave hyperspace, your stomach drops with the familiar sensation as you stare out at the yellow planet. Boba flies over the barren landscape, gazing down at the pockets of civilization mixed in with the deserts that cover the planet.

As he starts the landing process, you feel your heart rate speed up. You have to do this. There is no turning back.

“Okay,” you say to him, as he follows you down into the cargo bay. “You’re going to stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” You start for the door, and Boba grabs your hand.

“Wait!” he says. You fight the urge to tug away — you need to go before you lose your nerve.

“What?” He gestures to the armor piled in the corner.

“You should wear that.” You raise an eyebrow at him. That’s… Jango’s. One day it’ll be Boba’s. Not yours.

“I can’t do that,” you say, shaking your head. But he tugs you back, insistent.

“Think, Buir. Be smart. He’d want you to be protected, wherever you’re going. And he’s not here to do it.” In this moment, Boba is so much like Jango, it hurts. Only, where Jango has always been so carful to keep the fear hidden, it’s all over Boba’s face, no matter how brave he’s trying to be. You relent.

“Okay, but you’ll have to help me get it on.” It gives him something to do, lets him help, even in this small way. Together, the two of you work to fit the pieces over your clothes, working the straps together, the pieces falling in place easily thanks to their age and the practiced use from Jango.

The chest piece still has the blaster shot — it’ll have to be repaired — and the helmet has a dent you didn’t notice before, but with some arranging of an extra utility belt, the hole is covered, and the dent just serves to make it look more menacing.

Boba hands you Jango’s blasters, and you hesitate.

“I don’t know how to use those,” you say, “Not really, at least.” Boba nods sagely.

“It’s for show. Buir told me half of being a bounty hunter is being intimidating.” You smile softly. It’s such a Jango thing to say.

In another bag, you pile a few extra blasters, topping it off with the very saberdart and its straw that nearly got you all killed. Your down payment of credits goes in a second, smaller one. You won’t take all the credits; that would just be stupid. But you will take enough to show Gardulla you mean business.

“Keep an eye out for stuff that looks shady. If it gets too dangerous, I want you to take off. Don’t worry about me,” you tell him, echoing Jango’s own directive from before.

You can tell he wants to protest, with the way he shifts back on his heels, looking away, until his eyes focus on Jango, and he looks back at you, with a resigned sigh.

“Are we going to be alright?” Boba asks, voice barely a whisper, and it tears at something in your chest, until you feel like there’s a matching blaster bolt settled there.

You want to lie to him, give him hope that you honestly can’t muster.

But to do so would be an insult to his intelligence, and it reminds you too much of Jango lying to you, the frustration you felt.

So you tell him the truth.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, “but we’re going to try.” You open your arms and he darts for you, wrapping his arms around your middle in a fierce hug, squeezing tight. You fold over top of him, resting your chin in the crook of his neck, holding the back of his head.

Young, your mind echoes. He’s so young.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you skipped ahead, Reader and Boba find Jango after the battle and realize he’s still alive — barely. They need to get him some help, so they patch him up as best they can and decide to head to Tatooine, to barter with Gardulla for a bacta tank to heal him since Kamino isn’t an option — they might want Boba in exchange for Jango.

[its-elvie-innit]

It has 11k words per chapter. My attention span does not last long enough for that. I have to take breaks after 2k word chapters. How the fuck. It has 76k words and 7 chapters, what the fuck

You know what, i’ve read worse. bring it on passerine. i’ll fucking eat you for breakfast