Moto. Moto all I wish for is that you would write a Bobadinnec fic in which Fennec makes fun of Boba for mooning over Din and battlefield marrying him, as if Fennec didn’t take one look at him and think “hmmm I think I’d like the shiny model too.”
Hfjskfjd I, too, wish I would write a Bobadinnec fic! Here's a slice anyway.
Fennec Shand hasn’t observed greater krayt dragons enough to know about their mating habits, but watching Boba Fett now, she can’t imagine it’s much different.
Apex predators courting other apex predators need to be careful. Boba’s demeanor with Din Djarin is polite, bordering on tentative. But there’s an underlying urge that penetrates the polite veneer in ways only she would notice. Boba reveals his hunger in the way he fluctuates between taking up as much space as possible and donating some; if he were a loth-wolf, he'd be circling. The way he cradles his blaster but occasionally tilts his helmet or spaulders towards Djarin like reaching hands. The way he can’t seem to take anything other than a wide stance, like he’s showing off the goods.
He and Djarin have been talking for over ten minutes. Fennec can’t lip read through the helmets, but she can read Boba—she’s been reading Boba ever since he grew his first chin hair—and the Mandalorian isn’t half as mysterious as he believes.
It’s cute. It doesn’t look like either of them are fully aware of what’s happening. Or if they are, they’re both hiding it out of a hunter’s common sense; unwise to make assumptions in unfamiliar territory. They may wear similar armor but the men underneath are different breeds. Djarin is from a world out of time, and Boba’s uniqueness is a point he’s constantly making.
She hopes they’re not totally clueless, because Boba especially could use the… comfort, she supposes? Djarin would offer more than mere distraction. Especially after he rallied so valiantly for their cause—for Boba specifically. She knows the boss appreciates it as deeply as he appreciates her and everyone else who showed up to fight the Pykes. After the kind of reputation Boba earned, to try to accumulate allies and build an organization now, in Jabba’s old territory no less—it was never going to be less than impossible. Din has no idea just how much of a knight in shining armor he really is.
And Boba has to appreciate the whole “good dad” thing. She knows all about Jango Fett. He sounds like a prick, but Boba talks about him like he personally carved out the galaxy. Djarin, as far as Fennec can tell, is as good a father as they come. He and the kid make quite the picture: tiny claws wrapped around one gloved finger, Djarin’s thumb occasionally stroking the kid’s hand. She can see those big ears swivel between Boba and Din as if he, too, has noticed what’s going on between them. And he’s getting antsy, wiggling in Din’s arm.
It’s the perfect excuse for Boba to, yep—there he goes, stepping into Djarin’s space to press a finger into the kid’s reach, letting him take his glove and babble excitedly. Djarin shifts his weight from one hip to the other, looking from Boba to Grogu to Boba and back. Boba’s attention is all on Grogu and the affection seems mutual; he’s good with kids. Or at least he likes them a lot more than Fennec does. He’s already practically adopted the Mods.
Now the kid is laughing and Djarin’s helmet is tilting and, yeah—he’s utterly endeared. The Fett charisma is taking effect. Djarin’s even shifting again, like he wants to get closer. Those hips sure are expressive. Maybe they’re just extra-showy because they’re offset by those wide, wide shoulders.
Fennec tilts her head. Huh.
Regardless—Djarin may be a tall drink of spotchka, but he’s responsive to Boba’s presence. Bending like a thirsty plant. She can sympathize; Boba’s power spans far beyond his physical form. He’s been like that even before he packed on the muscle. She wasn’t into his posturing coldness back when they were both running bounties. Now he’s—
Now Boba has taken his hand back but hasn’t moved away. She’s never seen Djarin allow someone to stand so close to him. Usually the man’s personal bubble is like a second set of beskar. But he seems so relaxed and—
She widens her eyes. He’s laughing.
It’s short but unmistakable. The shaking chest, the sway of his helmet—an almost bashful chuckle. Suddenly it’s ten years ago and Fennec is watching Boba work his charm on several working girls at once in the smoky tunnels of the palace.
If she were betting, she’d put money on Boba going for the flirtatious touch next. Something simple for Djarin: a shoulder clasp, or a pat on his arm that lingers too long. She doesn’t know much about the Mandalorian’s religious beliefs, but she’d wager that if Boba did something like take the chin of that gleaming helmet, Djarin would have a meltdown. Maybe drop the kid.
Suddenly, Boba looks her way.
She doesn’t move. She’d only been glancing sidelong at them, and is wearing her own helmet besides. No way Boba can tell where her eyes are pointed.
He turns back to Djarin. She smiles.
Then frowns—Boba is walking away.
She almost throws up her hands. Boba is coming towards her and Djarin is focused on the kid, who’s cooing animatedly at him, no doubt proclaiming the same thing that’s running through Fennec’s head now: just what in the hell was that?
Boba’s face is as unreadable as ever when he takes off his helmet. “The Mandalorian is going to see the medic droid.”
Fennec falls in beside him, removing her own helmet. She says nothing.
“Might be able to convince him to rest at the palace for a night. He’s stubborn.”
Without looking at her, Boba sighs and narrows his eyes. “What.”
He sounds tired beyond his years. “When you don’t say anything, it usually means you have something to say.”
Fennec inwardly balks—since when has Boba started knowing her? “I have no comment regarding Din Djarin’s health and wellbeing.”
They walk in silence for at least five seconds. She prides herself on her timing.
“But if you want him to stay—”
“There it is,” Boba mutters to himself.
“—Then you’d have more luck asking for his help."
He looks at her. “Again? He’s already done enough. And he’s injured.”
Fennec shrugs, casting her gaze like she has any reason to scan the wreckage so attentively. “Just an idea, boss.”
She almost feels pity for Boba when he sighs again. “Why should I ask his help?”
“If you try to convince him he needs help, he’ll just take offense. Better to ask him to assist with something. Stars know there’s plenty to do, and not all of it strenuous. There are things he could do while he’s sporting some bacta patches. And it’d get him to stick around long enough for the prospect of staying the night to sound more practical.”
Fennec looks at Boba expecting to see exasperated suspicion, but instead she gets the tooka who caught the keedee.
Now it’s her turn to narrow her eyes. “What.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Yeah, just now. You’re not the only one who can think before he speaks.”
“No, you’ve thought about it. You’ve strategized.”
“It comes naturally to some of us.”
“You were watching us, weren’t you?”
Fennec gives Boba a look that’s meant to be a warning, but Boba is fearless. And wily—it’s one of the reasons she likes him so much. He only grins at her, and lets his eyes run down her body before cooly turning back to the horizon. She’d be lying if she said it had no effect. They’ve spent enough nights together for her to admit: Boba’s found his way under her skin.
“I don’t know why you’re smiling,” she says, “You put on a terrible performance.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you weren’t trying to work him like a Cloud City stripper?”
“That I witnessed. Come on, Boba. You played with his kid. From you, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”
This time, Boba's silence is loud.
Fennec looks at him. “What’s that face for?”
Boba turns even further away from her, brows raising at the sky.
“Nothing,” he mutters. Then, remembering he’s the daimyo of Mos Espa and not a fourteen-year-old boy, he lowers his chin and clears his throat. “Mandalorians are fond of vows. Especially when there’s a battle involved. He… it probably meant nothing.”
“We thought we were cornered. He said…” Boba scoffs. “It’s his creed. He said, ‘I’m with you until we both fall.’”
“He said, ‘we’ll both die in the name of honor.’”
Boba lets out a sigh like a discontented gundark. “It’s just his creed.”
Fennec shakes her head. If they weren’t in public, she might be laughing. “You’re so fucked.”
“Boba. Let’s say he didn’t just pledge to you his eternal loyalty—which, he did. You love that honor bantha shit. I’m surprised I didn’t hear your heart beating all the way in Mos Eisley.”
“And the way he is, you probably had him swooning all the way back on Tython. No wonder he said it was on the house.”
Boba suddenly looks at her. “He turned down the money?”
Fennec snickers, unable to help herself. “You’re so fucked.”
Boba turns away and growls.
Fennec lets him boil for a moment. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”
“If we leave it up to you, he’ll be back on that ship before sunsdown and you’ll never see him again.”
“I don’t need your help, Shand,” Boba mutters warningly.
“'We.' You think you can keep that shiny stack of muscle all to yourself?” Fennec smirks at him. “I thought you agreed to cut me in on all the profits.”
Boba glares. “After all that, you—”
“At least I have dignity.”
“Spying from the shadows is dignified, is it?”
She ignores him. “I think you’ll find my methods effective. You’re just not used to hunting big game.”
“Am I not? He’s a man, not a krayt dragon.”
“Like there’s a difference.”
Boba sighs for the eightieth time that day and, as they get closer to the speeders, puts his helmet back on. His vocoder rasps, “Just go easy on him, Shand.”
“Don’t worry, boss.” Fennec puts her own helmet on, grinning. “You’re both in good hands.”
