You Don't Have To Worry
Summary: You hate being confined to bed, it makes you feel pathetic and useless. Boba has opinions on your feelings though.
Pairing: Boba Fett x GN!Reader
Word Count: 1561
Warnings: Reader is described as having hair long enough to pull into a knot and it's "fluffed" by Boba at one point. Reader wears fine silks, but there's no stated gender. Reader gets migraines based on how my migraines go.
A/N: I love boba and I have a migraine forming, so I squished both together and created this.
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The worst thing about living on Tatooine, in your opinion, aside from the rampant crime, the miserable heat, and the sand that gets everywhere, are the twin suns that sit high in the sky.
Why?
Because when you have a migraine, there’s no possible way to avoid the light.
It’s constant.
All consuming.
And it’s pushing you to start your villain arc if you’re going to be completely honest.
Boba won’t mind. Hell, he might even help if you word it correctly.
He’s great that way.
You roll onto your stomach and bury your face in your soft pillows. Every movement is like someone is stabbing a knife into your brain through your eye. Maybe, if you smother yourself, the pain will go away.
The Chrono next to the bed chimes annoyingly, and even that noise is enough to make you groan in pain. Blindly, you scrabble for the small device to turn it off, and then you grab your comm and squint at the screen.
You have a meeting in two hours. One that you swore to Boba that you can handle for him.
Fuck.
Fuckity fuck.
Slowly you sit up and roll out of your bed, literally in this case, as you just sort of sink to the floor while wrapped in your thin blankets.
This is fine.
Who cares if the room is spinning? You can handle it. And the nausea is easily ignored so long as you don’t try to eat or drink anything. And, so long as you don’t move your head too much, the pain is hardly noticeable. Ish.
You take a long moment to untangle yourself from your blankets before you drag yourself to the fresher to shower and make yourself presentable as Boba’s Riduur.
Luckily, you can do your morning routine blindfolded.
Body and hair are washed, and then your hair is styled and twisted up off your neck. Lotion, to keep your skin from cracking due to the dry air, and makeup, because you do have to look like you belong next to Boba. You elect to skip your perfume, knowing from experience that the scent will make you throw up, and instead apply a little more lightly scented lotion.
Then you drape your body in the fine silks that Boba buys for you and pull on the sturdy boots that Boba and Fennec insist you wear under your fine clothes, and you stop and stand in front of your full-length mirror.
There. Perfect.
You look, every inch, like the Daimyo’s Riduur. Perfectly styled and coifed.
And, you did so without crying or throwing up.
You deserve a gold star.
Now. All you have to do is get through this meeting without showing that you’re in pain. Easy.
At least, it’s easy in theory.
Half an hour later, you’re having some regrets as the men you’re meeting with are both very loud and very drunk, and you’re torn between stabbing them to make them shut up, and stabbing yourself to make the pain go away.
Much more distressingly, you can feel Boba’s gaze on you.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve gone out of your way to make sure that you look fine, and that you’re using all of your skills (developed over years of working retail) to keep a placid smile on your face.
Boba knows that there’s something off with you.
Of course, he does.
He has a sixth sense when it comes to you.
If he finds out, for sure, that you’re working with a migraine he’s going to scold you. And this will be just another burden your Riduur will have to bear.
So you shove the pain to the back of your mind, and you smoothly get the meeting back on track.
Though, in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Boba interrupts the meeting and sends the businessmen on their way with a curt, “We’re not interested.” As soon as the room is empty, he pulls his helmet off and pins you with a severe look.
You avert your gaze and absently twist a strand of hair between your fingers. It’s so hot, already, that your hair is already falling out of the knot you put it in.
“You have a migraine?” It’s not a question, for all that it’s phrased as such.
“I’m fine,” You reply immediately, turning your head to look at him, only to wince at the stabbing pain in your head, “You don’t have to worry about me.” You try to reassure him, but his expression only grows more severe.
“It is my job as your riduur to worry about you.”
“Well, yes, but—”
He presses his hand over your mouth, “You’re going back to bed. Have you taken anything yet?”
You sigh and your shoulders droop slightly, “No.”
“Why?”
You twist your lips but don’t answer him. Can’t answer him, really, around the lump in your throat. All you wanted was to prove that you could stand next to him without adding to his troubles. To prove to all of the people who claimed that you don’t belong next to Boba wrong.
And you can’t even do that right.
Boba sighs, a heavy noise that has you cringing internally.
“Come along, riduur. Let’s get you settled back in our room.” Boba’s hand is light as it settles on your lower back. He doesn’t seem to mind that you don’t want to answer him.
The walk back to your room is long and quiet. A part of you appreciates it, your head hurts so much that any talking sounds like torture to you. And a part of you can’t help but worry if Boba is actually that mad at you.
Once you’re both in the bedroom, Boba carefully pulls your hair out of the complicated knot you pulled it into earlier and uses his fingers to fluff your hair, then he peels you out of the fine silks you’re wearing and pulls one of his shirts over your head.
It’s only after he sits you on the end of the bed and starts wiping the makeup off your face that he speaks again, “Do you feel like telling me why you didn’t take your medicine yet?” He doesn’t sound angry, just mildly curious.
You shrug a single shoulder.
He lightly taps your chin, “Head back, riduur, I need to get to your eyes.”
You obediently obey him, your eyes closing as you tilt your head back.
He’s quiet for a bit longer as he cleans your face with the same meticulous detail that he pays when he’s cleaning his armor, “You know, we got that medicine to help you with your migraines, riduur.”
“It makes me tired.”
“There you are, I was worried that someone stole your voice,” He sinks to his knee in front of you, his dark eyes scanning your face, “I’d rather you be tired than in pain, riduur.” One of his hands rests on your knee, and you absently trail your fingers over the top of his glove.
“I know.”
He swiftly tugs his glove off and flips his hand so he can take your hand in his, “So why would you allow yourself to stay in pain? Talk to me, riduur. I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.”
“I just…” You trail off, “I promised that I would handle it—”
“Riduur, we were never going to agree to the deal, the meeting wasn’t so important that you needed to torture yourself.” Boba’s voice is so gentle with you that you want to cry.
“I didn’t want to add to your burdens.” You admit, “And my migraines…” You trail off, “I’m sorry, Boba.”
“You don’t have to apologize for getting migraines, it’s not your fault.” He kisses your hand, “but, I’m very curious to hear who, exactly, called you a burden to me.” His voice is still very light, and conversational, but there’s an undertone in his voice that you’re very familiar with.
Something dark and dangerous.
Something you haven’t heard in his voice since he stepped up as Daimyo.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” You start, “I’m not worth it—”
“I disagree. You’re my riduur and someone made you feel like you’re lesser than you are. That is very much worth my time.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and then you sigh, “Just some people I grew up with, and some members of my family.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he kisses your hand one more time, and then goes into the fresher and returns with a single foil packet. “One pill, right?”
“Yeah.”
He hands you the packet and makes sure that you take the pill before he ushers you back into bed and tucks your blankets around you, “I’ll bring you lunch in a couple of hours. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
You release a soft laugh, “I promise.”
“Good.” Boba kisses your temple, “Love you, riduur.”
“Love you too, Boba.” He kisses you gently, and then pulls away. He takes a moment to make sure that the thick curtains are shielding the room from the suns outside, and he dims the lights, and then he’s gone.
And you, well with the twin suns blocked from entering the room, and your medicine running through your system, you slowly slip back into the waiting arms of slumber.
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