The Most Dangerous Thing is To Love: Chapter 17 blurb
“As kidnappings go, I guess this isn’t the worst,” Thalia commented boredly. She sat cross legged with her chin propped on a fist, watching Nico chew through the last piece of jerky with a bit more effort than was probably necessary.
“Do you get kidnapped often?” Percy questioned awkwardly.
Thalia shrugged, “No, but I’ve gotten detention plenty of times and it's kind of the same.”
Percy couldn’t recall ever having been successfully kidnapped before but he was certain someone had tried to scoop him off the streets once or twice. It was kind of a given when growing up in the city and having to walk home from school at a young age. Looking at it subjectively, he supposed Thalia was right. The handful of times he had received detention for fidgeting in class he had been left to sit in a boring room, made to quietly entertain himself, while an adult acted as a prison guard. He’d been training for this moment all along, go figure.
“I was kidnapped once,” Nico spoke up thoughtfully, his gaze distant while he recalled the memory. “But they were nice to me,” he tacked on with a mournful sigh.
Yeah, Percy supposed the broken nose, derelict surroundings, and no food or drink provided to them wasn’t very host-with-the-most of them.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
If you thought the worst your day could get was being a bounty of the up and coming Boba Fett, you have another thing coming. After a mishap with the Slave I, the two of you find yourselves stranded in the middle of nowhere, with only each other to rely on. If you can get past wanting to kill each other, the two of you just might make a killer team.
a/n: hey y’all! welcome to another story! i’ve had this one planned for a hot minute, but after a looong semester writing my senior thesis, i had to deal with a little writing burn out. but! after a nice little break, i’m back to writing, and i figured releasing this as TBOBF dropped would be pretty timely. this one takes place in Boba’s early bounty hunting days and will (obviously) be a little AU, but i plan to try and keep it at least semi-close to Boba’s real story. i hope you enjoy! (masterlist)
warnings: language, peril, angst, description of injury
word count: ~4.4k
***
today of all days
see
how the most dangerous thing is to love
how you will heal and you’ll rise
***
Being hunted for a few measly credits is not good.
Being hunted by Boba Fett, up-and-coming-and-soon-to-be-legendary-hunter, is even worse. It’s a losing game, and you give up before ever really trying to play.
You scrape a hand through your hair and take a deep breath, trying to quell the panic rising in your chest. Fett drags you along, imposing as ever in his green armor, the helmet facing forward.
In the distance, through the misty haze that clings to this shitty planet, you can see his ship.
If you can remove yourself from the current terrifying and hopeless situation, it’s actually kind of funny.
The people after you — the fucking Hutts — are spending more to find you than what you stole from them. It’s the principle of the thing.
Although, you suppose that’s why they were so quick to send Fett after you. He’s Jabba’s little soldier.
Fett jerks the rope attached to your binders, sending you stumbling forward, nearly into his back. You right yourself and glare at him, the only small act of defiance you can manage.
It’s pointless to fight, truly. You’re just trying to make it as easy on yourself as possible. Fett presses a button on the inside of his vambrace, and the ramp of his ship comes down.
He drags you up into the ship, slapping a button on the wall as he goes.
There are cages along the wall, and one opens. He wastes no time tossing you into it. You hit the wall roughly, bouncing back, hands still bound in front of you, making it hard to catch yourself.
“Hey!” you say, your temper getting the better of you for the first time. He tilts his head, hand going to the blaster on his belt.
“Watch it,” he says. “I’ll have no qualms further immobilizing you.” You back up, until your back meets the wall of the ship and you lift your chin, waiting to see what he does next.
He closes the cage door.
“Don’t try anything funny,” he says. Fett leaves you down there, and you sink to the floor, pulling your knees in close to your chest and laying your head on them.
It’s cold down here. You close your eyes, trying to plan. You know better than to try and reason with Fett. But you hate just giving up like this.
The ship shifts to the right, and you feel it start to rise.
Desperation claws at the back of your throat, and you laugh because the other alternative is to cry, and you’d rather die than let Fett hear or see that.
***
Boba Fett is, quite frankly, tired. He takes his helmet off and puts it on the seat beside him, rubbing the space in between his eyebrows, trying to ease the growing ache there.
This bounty is so far beneath him, he nearly laughed in Jabba’s face. The amount of credits you’re worth is borderline useless, not even enough to cover the fuel it took to find you.
But it’s important to keep a good rapport with Jabba, who can give him better opportunities down the line.
So he will suffer through this one.
Boba adjusts the controls, charting the course towards Tatooine and readying the jump to hyperspace.
It’s only after the jump that he feels it.
Something is wrong with the Slave I. There’s a subtle pitching to the right, more drag than there should be. He squints at the controls, half focused on troubleshooting and half focused on navigating. Reaching blindly, he finds his helmet and slips it back on.
His father taught him everything he’d ever need to know about this ship and then some. Jango taught him the importance of both the ship’s mechanics, and the importance of trusting his intuition. And if Boba feels like something’s wrong… something’s wrong.
Boba stands, glancing at the read-outs one more time. He’s just reached the door when it happens.
There’s an awful grinding sound, and the Slave I lurches violently to the left. Boba is thrown to his knees and he scrambles back up, reaching for the controls, trying to fix the situation.
The controls lock up, and the ship careers wildly back to the right.
“Fuck!” he yells, reaching for the hyperdrive switch. It’s too early to pull out of it; he’s nowhere near Tatooine. But better to get things under control in empty space, rather than in the middle of a jump.
The Slave I drops out of space right in front of a planet that Boba barely has time to look at. His controls are beeping at him, and both his common sense and gut are telling him, that unless he lands right now, he’s not making it out of this.
So he enters the atmosphere of the planet, dismay filling him as he nears the surface and sees nothing but water.
He hates getting wet. No. He hates water. The Slave beeps frantically, and Boba sighs, long and loud as he forces her to flip around, ready for landing.
You’re a passing thought in his head, far down the list he’s making of survival necessities.
It’s not until the Slave I is in the water, and he’s gone out the top, that he remembers you’re down there.
And it’s a tough decision. The ship is slipping under the water — she’ll be a bitch to recover — and you’re barely worth the effort of tracking down.
But he’s come this far.
Boba sighs again and straps the pack he’s got to his back, before diving back under the surface, shoving the way his stomach turns as he submerges out of his mind.
***
The incessant beeping jerks you out of your thoughts, followed by the erratic — and violent — jerking of the ship.
You’re slammed to the side, banging your head against the side of the ship.
You groan, reaching with your fingers and finding blood.
There’s a dropping sensation that nearly makes you lose what little food you have in your stomach, followed by a hard slam. It goes quiet.
You strain your ears, listening. There’s… water?
Yes, you can hear water slapping at the sides of the ship, and to you horror, a puddle begins to form in the cage beside you.
Panic drives you forward. Screw not putting up a fight. You slam your hands against the bars of the cage.
“Hey!” you yell. “Hey, Fett! I’m still down here.” There’s silence, and the water fills the cargo bay faster now, spilling into your cage and quickly covering your feet.
You aren’t prepared for how cold it is. You slosh backwards, then ram your shoulder into the cage door.
It holds.
“Come on,” you say, hearing the fear in your own voice. You try again, the water rising to your shins, and your teeth start to chatter.
You shake the bars as hard as you can, shoulder hurting.
“Please,” you whisper, growing more frantic. They don’t budge. You slam your hands against them, then tug apart, trying to pull them wide enough to slip your body through.
Damn Fett and his high quality ship.
The water is nearing your thighs, and you glance up at the bars above you. If you can’t get out of here, soon you won’t be able to swim up high enough to breathe.
You bang against the bars as fast and loud as you can.
“Fucking please,” you yell, and still, they don’t move.
You settle back against the wall, trying to think and knowing you’re running out of time. This is your chance to get away. Fett’s obviously not coming down here for you.
If only the stupid cage would give a little.
The lights flicker, and you jump. You look around, trying to memorize the layout. If it goes dark, it’ll be even harder to get free. You squint through the water, to the bottom of the cage.
It looks like it’s been bolted to the floor in four different places, so you can’t lift it, but maybe you can untwist the bolts. The cage is heavy, but if you wait until it’s more underwater, maybe you can lift it.
It’s a shitty plan, but it’s a plan. You’ll have to go underwater to try and twist the bolts — the water is at your waist now — and you take a deep breath, preparing yourself.
You duck under as the lights go out, and you squint in the darkness, salty water stinging your eyes as you feel for the first bolt.
Twisting as hard as you can, you press your legs against the bars, trying to give yourself leverage. It doesn’t budge.
You stand up, needing air, alarmed to find the water at your chest now. You’re running out of time.
You duck back under, running your fingers back and forth until they catch painfully on the bolt. You can’t see for shit, and you try twisting again, feeling a small flash of victory when it loosens.
It takes an agonizingly long time to untwist it, and your lungs are screaming at you for air.
You push to standing, taking the bolt with you, and find you have to stand on your tiptoes to get above the water.
That’s not good.
The cage is maybe a foot above your head?
The second bolt takes less time, and you swim towards the next one without taking a breath. You can’t find it at first, instead catching your finger on something rough and jagged. It hurts and you cry out, wasting precious air.
You have to surface, and you find to breathe, you have to tread water and press your face against the bars.
Back down you go, fighting the urge to cry as you search for the third bolt.
Please, you pray to whatever’s out there listening.
Not like this. Not drowning like an animal in a cage. You find the third bolt, but it’s stuck worse than the first, so you position yourself at the front of the cage, trying to hinge it upwards so you can crawl out.
But you can’t get enough leverage, and you’re out of air.
You close your eyes, searching for a sense of calm. You did your best. You tried. It feels hollow and doesn’t bring you the comfort you wish it would.
Something takes hold of your shoulder, and you scream into the dark water in front of you. You try to wrestle away, and something takes ahold of your other shoulder, hauling your forward.
There’s movement, and through the murkiness, you see a helmet practically press itself into your face.
Fett. He came back for you.
He wraps his arms around your middle and twists, propelling the two of you up and out of the cage, into the dark water.
Your lungs scream, and the edge of your vision turns grey. You can hear yourself choking, trying to fight the innate urge to take a breathe.
You’re so focused, you don’t initially realize you’ve broken the surface. It’s not until Fett wraps a hand in your hair and yanks, tugging your face up until it’s pointed at the sky.
You cough out water, flailing your legs wildly to keep yourself afloat when he pushes you away from him.
After an agonizingly long moment, you get yourself under control and calm down.
Fett watches you the whole time.
“Dramatic much?” he asks, and you glare at him, raising your hands above the water.
“Hard to swim when you’re bound up,” you say. He shakes his head, turning in a slow circle to appraise your surroundings.
There isn’t any land around, not that you can see, and the reality of the situation is hitting you.
Not only are you stranded in the middle of an unknown ocean, you’re also stranded with Boba fucking Fett.
Just lovely.
***
You, with your limited, flawed human sight, cannot see any land. Which is an issue.
Because neither you nor Fett have a flotation device. The sun is setting, the fiery sky actually quite beautiful, and the two of you are going to die here, neither of you built to tread water for long periods of time.
Fett tilts his head a little, the helmet making it impossible to decipher his emotions.
“There’s land about half a klick that way,” he says, and he starts swimming.
You give it your best effort. Truly. But your legs are so tired from doing all the work of keeping you afloat, and it’s impossible to swim with your hands.
At least there’s no strong current.
Fett steadily puts distance between you two, as you flail about.
He stops and looks back at you, and you pointedly ignore him as he swims back.
“Useless,” he mutters when he reaches you, treading water with his legs as he grabs hold of your hands.
“Thank you,” you say, putting as much sarcasm as you can into the two words. He stares at you for a long moment, probably trying to intimidate you, but you’ve got no fear left to conjure up.
“Do not,” he says, releasing the binders, “try anything. It will not end well.”
“Is that a promise?” you ask, and he shoves you away, setting off for the land again.
The two of you swim for what feels like an eternity. You manage to keep up with Fett, who must feel like he’s hauling someone on his back with all that armor.
A wave swells under you, lifting you up, and before it pushes you back down, you see the outline of land. Fucking finally.
Closing your eyes, you push forwards, making a list of all the things you’re going to do when you’re back on solid ground.
Never again take it for granted, for one thing.
You give another ferocious kick, and the bottom of your foot meets the bottom of the sea. It slopes upward, and gradually, the two of you walk out of the water, onto land.
You collapse in a heap at the water’s edge, needing a minute to collect yourself. Fett stands above you, staring down with that unreadable helmet.
“Come on,” he says, stomping away from the water. The sun’s set and it’s pitch black to you, so you stumble after him, tripping over sand drifts and your own feet. Once you get a little closer, you can see a jungle’s edge.
He plunges right in.
You hesitate. Staying on the beach until the sun rises, when you can see, seems like safer bet. But also… Fett doesn’t seem to realize you’re not following. Another chance to get away.
Turning, you squint into the darkness, trying to plot an escape route.
A hand grabs your wrist.
“Don’t even think about it. Come on.” Fett tugs you into the jungle, and you’re forced to stumble along blindly. In the darkness, with your wet clothes, it’s cold, and you fight shivers.
He walks and walks, until finally, you break down. You say something.
“Can we stop for the night?” you ask. “Or do you have somewhere to be on this hellhole?” He’s quiet for a long moment, head roving in a circle.
“There.” He points at something in the dark that you can’t make out, and with a huff, he drags you along.
It’s a pool of water, you realize, surrounded by what looks like a cave system.
“Fresh water,” you say, realizing for the first time how thirsty you are.
***
It does not take long to get a fire going; there’s plenty of dry wood around you, and Fett has plenty of things capable of starting a fire.
You sit on one side of the fire, knees tucked into your chest and cheek laying on them, watching the flames move and curl.
Now that the adrenaline has worn off, you’re tired and hurt. The spot you banged your head on aches, the blood dried and crusted to your skin. And the side of your finger is oozing blood and discharge, making it hard to bend it. For now, you’ve tucked it into your palm, pressing that into the side of your leg.
Fett would probably rather kill you than give you anything to care for it.
He’s on the other side of the fire, legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded in his lap. You can’t tell if he’s asleep. He still hasn’t taken off the damn helmet, and it feels like his gaze has been on you this whole time.
You close your eyes, a shiver wracking down your body, and you try to find something about this situation to take the misery out of it. Something laughable.
Well. You suppose getting stuck with your bounty hunter as your only companion is quite ironic. Maybe. And there’s the fact that you wanted off the one planet, only to end up on one that could arguably be worse.
Fett shifts on the other side, and you open your eyes a sliver, watching as he reaches up for his helmet.
It comes off, and every other thought flees your mind.
He is… not what you expected. Fett is younger than you thought, maybe mid-twenties, with brown skin and dark, curly hair. He looks over at you, and you can see the way the fire reflects in his dark eyes, catching on a scar jutting through his left eyebrow.
“’S rude to stare,” he says, and his voice is a higher pitch without the vocoder. You slam your eyes shut.
“Wasn’t staring.” His scoff almost sounds like a laugh, and you press your face harder against your legs, trying to force your mind to calm down enough to sleep.
Or at the very least, rest.
It doesn’t work.
“Where are we?” you ask, giving up on rest for the moment. Instead, you glance across the fire to Fett, who has tilted his head back until he’s staring at the sky.
“Don’t know,” he says, and you watch the way his fists tighten in his lap.
“Is there anyone else in this place? On this planet?” A new sense of panic is creeping through you.
“Don’t know,” Fett says again, and it frustrates you, how blasé he’s being about all this.
“What do you know?” you ask, and he ignores you. With a sigh, you shift to the other side, staring out into the dark forest.
If you and Fett are truly here alone, then not only is there no escape, but he’s the only real ally you have here. It’s a miserable situation, and this time, you can’t find the humor in it.
And what if Fett gets tired of you? What if he decides to be done with you? Decides you simply aren’t worth it?
You don’t like that thought, but there’s really no alternative you can consider.
***
Contrary to what you believe, the very first thing he tried to do was signal for help. But there’s something interfering with all his attempts at transmitting a signal, and the stronger equipment went down with the Slave.
He has a line of reasoning, flimsy as it is. He cannot be the only one looking for you. And if he’s near you, then whoever comes for you, comes for him.
Yet.
He fights with himself all night. He should be sleeping, is pretending to sleep, but instead, he’s studying you out of the corner of his eye.
You’re curled up in a ball, legs pulled into your chest, uninjured side of your head resting on your knees. You keep one hand pressed into your side, and even in the dark, he can see the bloodstain on the hem of your shirt.
At what point does he cut his losses? You’re borderline useless, clearly have no survival skills, and honestly, not worth the effort it would take to treat you. Yes, you potentially provide a way off, but the minimal sum doesn’t inspire confidence.
He never has this problem. Jango didn’t have time to teach him everything before he died, but Boba learned the importance of having a code.
And Boba’s code? It does not make room for letting bounties go, regardless of what they offer. And you… you haven’t offered anything.
Which is why he’s torn. Getting rid of you would be easier — no time trying to make sure you aren’t going to die — but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. A job unfinished. But helping you feels like crossing the other line, the one Jango stressed again and again.
You never get personally invested in your bounties. No matter what they offer. They’re a job, a means to success and credits.
Boba rolls his eyes, glaring up at the sky above him, instead of you and the way your mouth settles into a slight frown in your sleep.
Damn it all.
He slams his eyes shut, starting the argument all over again, cursing his luck, and coming no closer to an immediate answer.
***
In the morning, you open your eyes when someone pushes against your shoulder. Fett stands above you, still without his helmet. In the light of day, it’s even easier to see his face.
You’re struck by how young he looks.
“Not dead yet?” he asks, and you glare at him. He moves to the side, and the sun cuts directly into your eyes. Your head throbs with every beat of your pulse, and you have to look down and close your eyes to quell the nausea.
There’s a high probability that your head wound is worse than you thought. And your whole hand is on fire.
Great.
There’s a sloshing sound, and you open your eyes and squint as you watch Fett fill up a water skin with fresh water. He stares off into the distance, seemingly contemplating something, and you watch, waiting.
Your eyes drift shut again, the darkness more appealing than the bright sun and Fett’s inner ponderings.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Fett says, and your eyes fly open when you feel him grab your chin.
He tilts your head to the side, fingers probing roughly at the cut. You jerk away from him, letting out a hiss of pain.
“Next time ask, asshole,” you say, eyes squeezing shut. He’s quiet for a long moment, so long you warily open your eyes to watch him.
Fett rolls his eyes and gives you an exaggerated sigh. His mouth is curled in irritation.
“May I?” he asks sarcastically, reaching for your head again. You make a point to look over his shoulder, and not at his face, which is right in front of your face.
“Do whatever the hell you want,” you mutter. His grip tightens just a bit, but he remains focused on looking at the cut.
“A lot of attitude from someone who should be grateful to me.” You hear what’s not said. He didn’t have to save your life. He didn’t have to bring you to fresh water and shelter. And he doesn’t have to look at your wound.
“Sure thing,” you say, not bothering to hide your own sarcasm, wincing as his finger digs in just a little too roughly.
“It’s not deep,” he says, “but it’s long and head wounds are a bitch.” You laugh. He looks at you like you’ve finally lost it, but you laugh.
Fett shakes his head. He pours the water skin over the cut, and you gasp.
It’s cold. But more than that, it stings. You jerk away again, crying out in pain and pressing your un-injured hand over the cut. Fett’s there in an instant, prying your hand away.
“Let go of me!” you say, and he glares at you.
“I’m trying to clean it, not reinfect it,” he snaps back. You squeeze your eyes tight, fighting back tears as he finishes cleaning it out, none too gently, before dressing it with a little vial he keeps on his belt.
“No bandages,” he says, “so you’ll have to deal.” You’re not laughing now. You’re irritated. It’s bleeding again, running down the side of you face in what you’re sure is a bold look, sticking to your skin and in your hair.
But, hey, at least it’s clean.
You can’t say the same for your hand. Asking Fett to clean your hand feels like asking for trouble, though, so you push yourself to standing on shaky legs.
The world spins around you, and you take a deep breath in through your nose, then blow out of your mouth. Six steps, maybe, to the water hole. You can do that.
Fett watches you the whole time, but he doesn’t intervene, not even when you nearly trip into the water.
You dig your hand out of your pocket and plunge it into the water, biting your lip to keep from making any sound.
It’s a graceless, fumbling effort, but you manage to clean the side of your finger enough to satisfy yourself. Your shirt is already torn, so you grab it and yank, satisfied when a long strip comes free.
One handed, you try to wrap the fabric around your finger, wanting a little more protection than your poor head.
Fett watches behind you, and you know he’s watching because you can feel his eyes on you. The bandage slips again, and you scowl at it, leaning down to take it in your teeth.
He sighs dramatically behind you, footsteps crunching on the ground before he sits beside you.
“Give me your fucking hand,” he says, tone griping and frustrated. You side-eye him.
“I’m fine,” you say, and he ignores you, pulling your hand and the bandage into his lap.
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, expertly wrapping the bandage around your finger and tying it off, using his teeth to pull it tight.
His breath is warm on your cold hand, and you look away, purposefully studying the trees around you.
Fett stands as soon as it’s done, reaching for his helmet and tugging it back on.
“Wait here,” he says. “And don’t try anything.” You watch his back as he retreats into the trees, shaking your head as he does.
