Fathom her heart, that seems to me, cold
AO3
Summary: Once upon a time, Caleb Dume and Boba Fett were child soldiers on opposite sides of a war. They couldn’t be friends, but they tried their best anyway. Today, Kanan Jarrus sees the Slave One in the hangar and his heart drops, knowing all too well that the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy won’t pass up a bounty as high as Ezra & Sabine’s.
Warnings: Canonical character death, canon-typical violence, references to Order 66, references to watching a parent be killed, hurt/no comfort, open/ambiguous ending
Word Count: 3,665
Author's Note: There’s a lot of yapping and not a lot of action in this one. The title is from “A Valentine,” a poem by Priscilla Jane Thompson, which is very appropriate for the timing of this one too!! Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Have some angst you little freaks. This can be read as romantic or platonic, but the romantic aspect is more of like a past puppy love crush kind of vibe if that makes sense.
*
“It’s nice to not have to worry about the Empire,” Zeb said, jinxing them.
Hera rolled her eyes all too knowingly. “Keep an eye out for bounty hunters, big guy. We can’t let ourselves get too cocky.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
The Twi’lek captain skirted around the Lasat to get into the cockpit, where her Human co-pilot was glued to the map. He’d been there since they landed—well, since they had seen Sabine and Ezra off.
“Kanan,” she said. He didn’t even flinch. “Kanan.”
He hummed, acknowledging her but not looking up.
She put a hand on his shoulder, finally making him jolt. “Kanan,” she said again, “you should get some fresh air while we’re grounded.”
He squinted up at her, brown eyes doubtful. “I’m fine. We got plenty of air on Lothal.”
“We did. You’ve been cooped up in here for days. This planet is fairly Empire-neutral,” she reminded. “Go sit on the landing ramp or something, dear. You’re starting to look like a stormtrooper.”
“Stupid?”
“White.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that, and that was the way Hera liked it. Kanan squeaked out five more minutes of studying hyperlane routes before he was unceremoniously kicked out of the Ghost. Instead, he crouched on the loading ramp like an absolute creature, watching strangers cross the hangar back and forth. Zeb was partially right in that they didn’t have to worry about the Empire on this planet; they didn’t have an Imperial Academy and they weren’t strictly ruled by an Imperial figurehead, but their representative was in frequent contact with one. Stormtroopers were really only stationed in their big settlements, not little backwaters like this one.
Still, Kanan couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe that was his PTSD. In his defense, it wasn’t paranoia if they were out to get you, and there were multiple standing bounties out on the members of the Ghost crew.
He let his gaze move from the passersby to the ships docked in the hangar. On this desolate rock, most of them were old models. The couple of new ones had strong security and wary eyes on them. Kanan wasn’t looking for a heist and no bounty hunter would run around in a sparklingly clean ship if they were any good, so he moved on. He saw a Flarestar, a couple light freighters that were helping the Ghost blend in, a Firespray, a Corellian corvette that desperately needed a paint job, a high-atmosphere—wait.
Kanan nearly snapped his neck looking back at the Firespray.
Stupid, he thought as he scrambled to his feet to get a better look at it. It wasn’t like Firesprays were a common class of ship; he’d only ever seen one in his lifetime. He’d read up on the model, too, and knew full well that prototype ships created for a singular prison moon didn’t tend to go far from home. And this model?
“Hera! Send a beacon to the kids, get them back here!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Zeb appeared, a furry hand on his bo-rifle. “What is it? Imperials?”
“Get the ship ready to go, now,” he snapped, tugging his pauldron on. “I’m going after Ezra and Sabine. Boba Fett is here.”
Hera slammed on the emergency beacon, which would notify Sabine and Ezra. “Tracking them on your comm! Do we have eyes on Fett?”
“Only the ship—Zeb, stay on that Firespray! I’m going after them.”
“Maybe he hasn’t seen them,” Hera suggested, voice tight.
Kanan clenched his jaw as he rushed back down the loading ramp. Sure, the chances that Fett was keeping an eye on every Imperial bounty were slim, but the payout on them and the kids was too high to think he hadn’t seen theirs. He was gone before Zeb could answer Hera, eyes glued to the blinking signal on his comm. The two youngest Spectres were instructed not to go far, just to look around the market, grab some food and fuel, and keep a low profile. Well, as low a profile as a bright purple Mandalorian and her blue-haired gremlin brother could.
Kanan wanted to kick himself. One of them should’ve gone with, he thought. How could he have missed the Firespray? Better yet, how did he miss another Mandalorian helmet?
Thankfully, he didn’t catch much attention as he sprinted through the marketplace, streets tight and enclosed. Around him, the dusty orange stone felt as though it was closing further in on him.
He turned a corner into an alleyway, a place that was a little too quiet and—there. Of course.
Sabine and Ezra were cornered, towered over by that ancient Mandalorian armor in scuffed green paint. Well, he wasn’t that much taller than them, but his jetpack and the blaster he held at Ezra’s head made him a looming presence.
Before Fett could assess the newly arrived threat, Kanan lit his saber and held it to the back of his head, right where the helmet revealed the nape of his neck.
“Hands off, Fett,” he said, willing his voice not to shake, “before I make losing your head a family tradition.”
The man in question stilled, all too familiar with the hiss and crackle of a lightsaber. Before him, barely in Kanan’s sight, Ezra and Sabine shared wide-eyed looks. Kanan motioned with his head. Understandably, they hesitated, but when Fett lowered his blaster they rushed to their guardian’s side, crowding behind him and the lightsaber he wielded like a shield.
Slowly, carefully projecting his movements, Fett turned to face them.
Boba used to be an expressive kid. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions in the Force, much less on his face. If he thought Kanan was doing something stupid, he made it clear with the scrunch of his nose and his loudly voiced complaints.
Now, Kanan stared into the cold beskar helmet that belonged to Jango Fett and wondered if he still made the same face.
Fett tilted his head ever so slightly.
“Dume,” he said, confirming Kanan’s worst fears. His voice was unrecognizable with the vocoder. He didn’t quite sound like Grey in there, though he must have looked just like them now. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
They could duke it out here. Between Kanan’s lightsaber and Boba’s jetpack, the victor was a toss-up.
He tensed when he felt the bounty hunter’s gaze move back to the charges at his shoulder.
“Bounty’s high,” he remarked plainly. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”
Ezra bristled, but remained silent with a nudge from Kanan.
“Chopper,” Kanan said into his comm, “if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”
He didn’t catch a response, if the droid gave one at all, but he had no doubt it was a delighted confirmation.
“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”
The endearment was stilted and unpracticed and sat in Kanan’s stomach like a stone. Clearly, Boba hadn’t spoken much Mando’a since the man who taught him died. Kanan barely remembered the meaning; he hadn’t spoken much either since the ones who taught him made him an orphan. Behind him, Sabine tensed.
“You must’ve been glad,” Boba continued, “that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart.”
It took everything in him to remain still. He wanted to take this man, this stranger, by the shoulders and shake him. Better yet, he wanted to scream and cry and drag answers out of him.
Did you know? Kanan thought. Did you know what they were going to do to me?
“Kanan,” Sabine whispered, “four minutes.”
“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
Ezra hissed like the feral lothcat he was. “Kanan!”
“Go,” he ordered.
They scrambled away, Sabine dragging her brother back through the marketplace. They would make it in time to tell Chopper not to blow up the Firespray, but if they didn’t see Kanan safely in the hangar, he doubted they would. Maybe it would be cruel to take out the ship, the only thing Boba had left of his father other than his armor and his face. Maybe he didn’t care.
Did Boba see his father when he looked in the mirror? Or did he see the brothers he didn’t claim? Had he even thought about Ponds before now, before using him to taunt Kanan?
Absently, he wondered if he’d kept growing his hair out, if there was still a mop of untamed curls under that helmet.
Boba still didn’t move; Kanan almost wished he would.
No matter his memories of a still-growing boy, Kanan knew that Boba had followed his dream and his father’s footsteps. He was just like Jango in every way. How many Jedi had he killed with the hands he’d steadied Caleb with? Had he beaten his father’s record? When he heard of his brothers’ slaughter, did he smile? Did he celebrate the slaughter of his enemies? Did he grieve for the loss of life, too great to gloat over? Or maybe he’d only grieved Caleb, his friend. Had they been friends?
With a woomf, Kanan shut off his blade and hung it back on his belt.
Like most of his childhood, the memories he had of the boy Boba had once been didn’t matter anymore. He was staring at a bounty hunter, an enemy, a threat to his people, and this time there was no room for mercy, no pity for a grieving orphan. Kanan wasn’t just a Jedi anymore. He was a survivor. And more importantly, he was a guardian.
“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” he promised. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”
He didn’t give the other man a chance to respond. Maybe it was out of fear or maybe it was his survival instincts finally kicking in.
And maybe Boba’s lack of reaction was one of those, too.
Kanan made it, unhindered, to the Ghost with a minute left on the timer. The kids were all shouting, Zeb on the guns and Hera in the pilot’s chair. Skirting them all, he threw himself down in the co-pilot seat and slammed his hand on the navicom.
“Get us out of here, Hera,” he rasped.
“Kanan!” cried Zeb. “Am I taking out the Firespray?”
He didn’t answer, his tongue lead in his mouth. His hands shook now that the adrenaline high was in full force.
Beside him, Hera’s gaze was wide and searching. “Kanan?”
Vaguely nauseous, he shook his head. Of course, she didn’t need any other indication and put the pedal to the metal. “Hold your fire, Zeb! I’m getting us off this dustball!”
Kanan stared at his hands, calloused and scarred and so different from 10 years ago.
Why had he hesitated? Why had Boba given up his opportunity to strike?
He’d held a blaster to Ezra’s head.
Why did he hesitate?
~
Easy money.
That’s what Boba figured when he spotted neon beskar’gam and blue hair. He could name the 50 highest Imperial bounties off the top of his head and the rebel cell coming out of Lothal made up a good handful of them. What they were doing all the way out here wasn’t his business—just his good luck. Better yet, the young Mandalorian and the baby Jedi were by themselves. A perfect opportunity for him to set a trap for the rest.
The teenagers weren’t paying attention to anything around them, arguing over something petty. When the Mandalorian turned her back on her companion, Boba swept in and tapped his blaster against the kid’s head, keeping him from moving.
The Mandalorian whirled around, having seen his movement out of the corner of her eye, but she was too late.
“Don’t move. Or the kid gets it,” Boba hissed.
She froze. “Ezra?”
“I’m good,” Ezra said. “I mean, other than the blaster. Totally good.”
Boba took stock of all the weapons they carried, especially the monstrosity that the baby Jedi had on his belt. He would have written it off as a blaster if he didn’t know better. The ugly cross between a saber and a blaster would have his father rolling over in his grave if he had one.
“Oh shit,” the Mandalorian breathed out, her spine straightening.
“What? What’s worse than a blaster at my head, Sabine?”
Sabine, apparently, didn’t look away from him. “Boba Fett.”
“Boba Fett?” he squeaked.
He couldn’t help smiling a little under his helmet. It always brought a warmth to his chest to be recognized by reputation alone. How many bounty hunters were well known enough to summon such fear? Such hesitation? Especially in a born and bred Mandalorian. If only Jango could see him now, he thought, and the legacy he’d wrought.
“You’ve got a pretty price on your heads, but I hear it’s a package deal,” he drawled. “Where’s your master, Jetii?”
Snap-hiss
As the hairs on the back of his neck rose, they were met with the sweltering heat of plasma.
That sound.
Fuck.
He’d never forget that sound.
“Hands off, Fett, before I make losing your head a family tradition.”
Boba saw red. Even as he lowered the blaster, letting the kids rush to their rescuer, a vicious, clawing thing rose in his chest. Rage, rage, rage, he realized as it pushed against the back of his throat, willing him to scream and fling himself at the Jedi bastard. He was better now, though, better than that feral child that had thrown himself into revenge without a plan or even a thought. His thoughts were carefully shielded behind beskar and his own mental shields, built after years of cooperation with Vader, of all people. To the average Force-sensitive, he’d made certain his presence would be as cold and unyielding as his father’s helm. Silent.
Slowly, projecting his movements so the Jedi wouldn’t do something rash, Boba turned. He’d always been too curious for his own good.
He had to admit, the blurry images that came with the Spectre bounties had been tantalizing in their mystery. Dark hair and a bright blue lightsaber. Lanky limbs and an ugly as shit bird symbol that looked a little too close to Death Watch’s shriekhawk for Boba to be comfortable with it. He’d been curious. Never curious enough to go on a hunt, but definitely to keep an eye out.
Now, setting his gaze on the Jedi in question’s face, he wishes he’d never looked.
Those eyes.
Fuck.
He’d never forget those eyes.
“Dume.” It slipped out before he could stop it, but at least he didn’t do something dumber like call him by his first name. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
I thought you were dead, he wanted to scream. I thought your pet clones slaughtered you in your sleep and I felt guilty about it. And yet there he was. Bastard.
Caleb was unrecognizable now. His skin was darker, his build slimmer—probably from malnourishment. The grip he had on his saber was unnatural, unfamiliar. Sith hells, the only thing even slightly similar to the boy Boba had known was the way he stood in front of his charges like a human shield. They didn’t cower behind him, far from it, but he sought to cover every inch of them with his fragile body like they mattered more than he did. Like they were his troopers.
Boba’s gaze slid back to the teenagers he protected. To the baby Jedi. He couldn’t have been old enough to be a real Jedi.
What had possessed Dume to pass on a legacy of death and despair? Right under the eyes of the Empire?
(He didn’t let himself linger on the weight of his beskar’gam, the names built into its data like ancient carvings. “We’re a dying breed, ad’ika,” his father had said. Jaster’s legacy. Boba had never gotten the chance to be a True Mandalorian, but then neither had Jango, not really. They were all dead, but he’d still recited the tenants to Boba like they’d meant something. Like he’d do something with them one day, something other than carry its corpse.)
“Bounty’s high,” he said, voice as plain as he could manage. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”
High enough for me, he left unsaid. And he had experience with trained Jedi.
They could fight here. Boba knew he would win, too, even if he took a beating. Jedi didn’t kill, wouldn’t maim, especially not Caleb Dume. All he had to do was feint target the kids before getting his hands around their guardian’s throat.
It was a little funny, some hysterical part of him considered, that Jango’s bane would come to teach his own. If they got into it here. If he underestimated Dume.
Caleb lifted his comm to his lips with his free hand. “Chopper, if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”
The threat itched at him. It would be a pain in the ass to rebuild the ship, but he’d done it a thousand times now. Last time, the Slave One had been nothing more than dust. He’d shoved his father’s ship back together from nothing but spare parts and spite. But he doubted that Dume knew that. Was he trying to be callous, trying to hit him where it hurt?
Boba dragged his eyes back up to Dume, searching for any tells. When they were boys, he’d never even tried to mimic the serene neutrality of his betters, Windu or Yoda. No, he’d been a storm of wild emotions and blatant expressions, his eyebrows flying up his face before he could think to control them. In the cinch of them now, he thought he could see determination. Grit. Desperation. But nothing to give away more than he should. If anyone else looked at him, they’d get the same read as Boba. Why did it hurt to think he didn’t know more than a stranger about him? He was a stranger. He’d made every effort to become one, even before…
“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”
Damn. He hadn’t meant to say it.
It didn’t look like it mattered much, though. Dume didn’t flinch. Maybe he didn’t remember what it meant anymore, even if it still fit him perfectly. Behind him, the little Mandalorian tensed.
Huh. His kids didn’t know their history.
Obviously they didn’t, he told himself. It didn’t matter. It was a lifetime ago.
Anger flared again, deep in his chest. “You must’ve been glad that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart,” he goaded, voice sharp and hissing. He swallowed further accusations, bitter things he didn’t realize he’d carried all these years.
Had Caleb even thought about Ponds since that day? Had Commander Dume stared at the casualty list for the mission and wondered which trooper CC-6454 had been?
All the while, Ponds haunted Boba’s dreams, the very image of the brothers that had never (always) been his. That face, so familiar and strange and twisted in pity, maybe care. It was a blessing and a curse. His father’s face was across the galaxy a million times over, but he’d never truly see it again. All he saw when he looked into the mirror was a pitiful echo of the man Jango Fett was, the man Boba could have been.
“Kanan,” the little Mandalorian whispered.
Kanan. That’s who he was now, this stranger that held Boba’s life in his hands. Caleb Dume had died with the Jedi—and good riddance! They were a stain on the galaxy, every one of them, and he was doing it a favor taking their bounties.
The kids left. Boba didn’t watch them leave, his vision fuzzing out at the edges. All he could see was the liar, the stranger, the bastard. The man who stared through him like he was nothing when once he’d looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
Kanan flicked off his lightsaber. Boba didn’t flinch at the noise—he couldn’t remember hearing one shut off before. He did move towards his blaster, but not before the saber was back on the other man’s belt.
He was either stupid or overconfident. Or both.
Boba bared his teeth. His pity. That was the worst part of him and his stupid Jedi habits, even back then. He didn’t want pity, especially from the people who’d taken everything from him. This disgusting mockery of a Jedi even looked like Windu when he peered down his nose at Boba, seeing only an image of his father, a reflection of a poor orphan. A victim of circumstance instead of the bloody hands of the Senate’s attack dogs.
He’d won. He didn’t need pity.
“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” Kanan said. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”
It hit him like a bolt to the chest. Was this pity for the clones? For the face he shared with people Kanan once loved? He’d sworn once that Jedi cared more for the soul past their skin, that him being a clone never mattered. It wasn’t supposed to. Not to Jango, not to Caleb.
I should move now, Boba thought. I should take him. Easy money.
He didn’t. He didn’t even follow Kanan around the corner, and didn't watch him leave. Later, he’d tell himself it was shock. Or maybe even knowing he was out-gunned.
Even later, though, he’d decide that he was paying a debt.
(“Commander Dume made a very convincing case for you, you know. Wrote a statement and everything. He and General Windu are probably the only reason you got such a short sentence. Consider yourself lucky, vod’ika.”
“Don’t call me that!”)
That’s all it was. He was paying a debt—and it was just a head start.
Back in the cockpit of the Slave One, Boba stared down at the navicomputer. He watched the blinking red dot leave the system like a space bat out of Sith hell.
Just a head start, he promised himself. They wouldn’t get far.
*
Mando'a Translations: cabur'ika - little guardian/protector, vod'ika - little brother
AN: No, I don’t have plans or ideas for a part two rn but also the hamster in my brain is unpredictable so who knows?
In my brain this AU started with the Clone Wars episode where Boba tries really hard to kill Mace. I'd say in this universe, Caleb got apprenticed to Depa sooner and was with her when she briefly fell to the dark side instead of meeting her while she was in recovery. Mace took over his training while she was healing, so he was with him when that whole episode happened and kind of accidentally befriended Boba, who was undercover. Anyway, that's all I got, hope y'all enjoyed!
River's Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme