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The enemy approaches quickly and quietly. Boba Fett crouches under Slave 1's entrance ramp, blaster out, finger on the trigger. His would-be assassin is good, one toe tap on the hangar floor from finishing the job. But he isn't good enough, Boba hears the mistake. He smiles under his helmet and squeezes the trigger.
The telltale squeal of blaster fire isn't from Fett's weapon. A spark explodes off Slave 1's side, leaving a dent and a smudge of black. Fett scowls, he just had the ship detailed. He glares at the fallen body, blaster wound smoking in the middle of his back. His would-be assailant is blue-faced, scaled, and very dead thanks to the blaster a few feet away. “Popular guy, huh Fett?” The words come with a grin.
“I had him,” Fett snaps. Jabba's fresh-faced Corellian can't see the sneer under his helmet, but it wouldn't matter. Jabba picks them cocky, more backbone than brains.
Solo is no exception. He makes a show of blowing the smoke from his gun, a curl of lips and a wink. “You’re welcome,” Solo says. He stows his weapon, an arrogant play with Fett standing right in front of him. Jabba may be Fett's top employer, but it's a big galaxy, plenty of bounties and credits to be made. Solo's rap sheet isn't lucrative enough to strain his arrangement with Jabba, yet. But there's time, and Solo hasn't proven to be in the friend-making business.
“I had him,” Fett repeats.
Solo smirks, all mischief and suggestion. “So? I saved you the trouble,” he says. “You owe me, Fett.”
“I owe you jack,” Fett grumbles.
“We’ll see." Solo props hands on his waist. The motion pulls the V-neck of his shirt open wider. On purpose, no doubt. Bravado punctuated with vanity, just how Jabba likes his smugglers.
Solo won't see anything but the end of Fett's blaster. All Fett owes him is a good death.
***
Solo has seen better days.
Loud as he was screaming, the physical damage seems light. He's a little toasty from the shock torture, but no permanent injury. Solo is strapped to an examination table, metal clamps around his legs, arms, waist, and neck. The one across his throat cuts close to the Adam's apple. Fett assumes it's a personal touch from Vader. Burns and bruises aside, Solo should still fetch Jabba's asking price.
Vader's metallic voice was unnaturally light after Fett demanded an update on Solo's condition. “Have I given you reason to doubt our arrangement, bounty hunter?” he asked.
This isn't the first time Fett has been at Vader's disposal. Imperial deals are tricky, but Vader has proven an admirable business partner. Always pays what he owes, with an added bonus for discretion. Still, this isn’t any old job. Vader acknowledged as much when he voluntarily punched in the access code to Solo's cell. “See for yourself,” Vader said, exhales bursting through his breathing apparatus. The door shut immediately behind Fett.
Physically, Solo’s status satisfies, but his eyes give Fett pause. They’re large, unblinking, and they make Fett take stock again. Solo is breathing, he's not bleeding, and there are no signs of broken bones, but his eyes are vacant as a corpse’s. Fett cocks his head. He's seen Solo bleed, beat up, and chained in more than one prison. Solo doesn't break easily, it's one thing Jabba liked about the guy. This isn't run of the mill Imperial torture.
Fett knows all about Vader's love of the old Jedi religion. He's seen Vader choke a dissenting voice without a touch, watched him snatch Solo's blaster out of his hand like a baby's toy. Vader has the power to make the weak-minded obey, or to tear truth from the most resistant. He's done something to Solo.
Solo's head sags against the neck clamp, and his hair sticks to his sweating brow. His bottom lip is quivering like a pinned wing. It's rare for Solo to be this quiet. It feels cheap, unearned, like everything about the Force.
“Look at you,” Fett says. “Pretty as a picture.” A dull flicker of recognition sparks in Solo's eyes, but it dies quickly. Fett shoves a hand against Solo's forehead. Solo's sweat leaves a shine on his glove, and he feels fever through the fabric. Solo's gaze follows Fett, sluggish and unfocused. Fett wonders if the butt of a blaster would snap him out of this malaise. “Jabba's got the cost of a small moon riding on you," Fett says. "Told you it was only a matter of time.” Solo's forehead sinks into Fett's hand, eyes closing with an uncomfortable shudder. He doesn’t look like he cares about Jabba, or much of anything at the moment.
Fett shoves Solo back, and Solo's skull cracks against the examination table. It's a pretty sound, but meaningless. Solo gulps down a surprised breath, nothing else. It's like he's too far away to register his own pain. Fett scowls under his helmet. “Vader get in your head?” he demands. “What'd he want in there?” Solo blinks uncomprehendingly.
There's no way Jabba will pay full price for this sack. Vader claimed Solo was bait for some guy named Skywalker. Bait, Fett was fine with, but this - Fett doesn't like it. The point of trapping Solo is to enjoy breaking him down. Drag it out, make him scream away every last shred of pride. This is too easy, like that old, Jedi nonsense. Fett thinks about years past, and - unbidden - about the one he called father. He never thinks about father, it's too much anger, too much lost pride over revenge never carried out.
Fett backhands Solo. With his glove, the contact doesn't do much damage, but Solo's head still snaps to the side. Solo grunts, low and breathy, and blinks a few times. His cheek blushes to a pretty, abused pink.
Unacceptable, Jabba won’t pay for this shell. There’s no point in nabbing Solo if this Force-blistered husk is all that's left behind. Fett hates the Force, and he hates Solo for letting himself be turned into this...whatever this is. Fett was supposed to do Solo in, not Vader. Fett was supposed to take him down kicking and screaming.
Fett wants Solo dead, but he promised a good death. This isn't one, and Fett doesn't like it.
***
“You know, a 'thanks' wouldn't hurt.”
Fett is the opposite of thankful. He doesn't need bailouts, shouldn't have been caught off guard at all. The deal was shady even by Fett's standards, fake hit put out by a low life coming after Jabba's territory. The dart hit Fett right just as he realized it was all a trap.
It's bad enough that Fett was caught by surprise. Then, he showed up.
Fett's banged-up body is dumped on the Falcon's cockpit floor. Solo's Wookiee steps right over Fett, a slight that he silently promises to get revenge for later. Not now, with blood still drying on his forehead and the drug making his eyes blear between focus and a soupy fog. Fett scowls and scrubs fingers against the side of his neck. He finds the puncture mark easily, a swollen circle and pain.
Solo isn’t looking at him, too busy lifting ignition switches and hoisting anchor. “I had it under control,” Fett tells him. It feels wrong telling him anything without his helmet on. His hair sticks to his sweaty brow, blood on his temple and crusting a corner of his mouth. He’s dizzy enough to know how his eyes must look, too glossy, too distant. Fett grimaces when he breathes. Something flares, disconcertingly hot, through his ribs. Must be the damage from the steel pipes. The armor can only keep out so much.
Fett's only satisfaction is that his extraction was Phase 1 of the operation. He knows how Jabba runs his house. In Phase 2, everyone responsible will be burned to the ground. Fett doesn't put one credit of trust in the Hutt, but Jabba takes care of his own when it counts.
Solo shoots Fett an impatient frown. “Save it,” he mutters. “Jabba wanted you smuggled, so I smuggled. Don't like it, take it up with the big guy.”
Fett may do that. He's earned it, as many hits as he's run for Jabba over the years. Jabba should know better. Fett's no scrawn that needs saving, and if he did need saving Solo is the last one who should run point. Jabba may like the kid, but Fett doesn’t. He’s counting the days until Solo is dead.
Solo’s next glance is brighter, a grin tossed over his shoulder. “That’s two you owe me, pal.” His smile has a smug touch of curiosity. “You know, I thought you’d be a freak under that lid. You ain’t half bad,” Solo says.
Fett doesn't bother with a response. Solo can keep his delusions of grandeur. This story ends one way: Solo dead at the end of Fett’s blaster.
***
“This facility is crude, but it should be adequate to freeze Skywalker for his journey to the Emperor.”
Fett has been taking in the design of Bespin’s gas-freezing process. The chamber's mouth is steel-lipped, tubes gently hissing, wires stringing overhead like a map.
Now, Fett listens in earnest. He doesn’t care about this Skywalker Vader is so intent on getting his hands on. If it’s true that a Jedi still lives, the sooner he's dead the better. Fett listens, because he has been forced to extend his stay on Bespin longer than anticipated. His quarry and this Skywalker are tethered. Fett already knows what Vader is about to propose.
Calrissian protests the delicate nature of the carbon freezing process. They have never tested it on a living being. One false calculation could kill Skywalker.
“Then we will test it,” Vader says, “on Captain Solo.” Fett considers Solo choking away his last breaths as his lungs flood with poison. It's a suitably painful way for him to die, but it's impersonal, as mechanical as the Emperor's right hand.
The breathing apparatus skews Vader’s voice - makes it heavy, inhuman - but Fett still hears his odd satisfaction. He wonders what Solo got himself into with Vader. Solo has a knack for making the worst kinds of enemies, as if a Hutt isn’t bad enough.
Vader's cape whips through steam belched from the carbon chamber. Fett marches after him. “What if he dies?” he demands. “He’s worth a lot to me.”
Vader dismisses the question with a turned back. “You will be compensated for any loss, bounty hunter.” An irate Calrissian follows him out of the chamber. Fett remains, stewing.
Crossing Vader wouldn't be smart. Jabba has a fat purse, but the Empire’s credits know no limits. Given the Empire's involvement, Jabba won’t fuss over the loss of Solo for long. The more painful Solo's death, the more forgiving Jabba will be.
Fett glances at the chamber pit. He imagines the beep of Solo’s vitals flatlining. The only sound of his death may be a hiss of tibanna and the clank of frozen carbon set on the metal floor grates. It will be an amusing death, if nothing else. Solo, the loudmouth, extinguished without a whisper.
But it isn’t the death Fett promised. It isn’t the way Solo should go. Fett stalks out of the carbon chamber. He needs to think.
***
“Hey, look who it is.”
It’s no surprise that Solo is here. Everyone is on Jabba's sail barge; the Hutt spares no expense for these parties, a haven for the Outer Rim's seediest lowlifes. Revelers pack the main level of the ship, a buffet of species in various states of undress. Jabba reclines on his far corner perch, examining the proceedings with keen eyes. Beside him sits his jester Crumb, cackling away at some joke or other.
Fett enjoys Jabba’s barge. He's here for business contacts, but the amusements hold his interest. The entertainment sings, bodies collide, and off-duty guards cackle over another round of sabacc. Jabba’s payroll receives the finest of everything - food, drink, smoke, sex. For all his slime, Jabba is good to the scoundrels who make him money. Until they don’t anymore, and the real fun begins.
Solo, unfortunately, still makes Jabba shiploads. His pet Wookiee is scratching his itch for Dejarik, and Solo winds up on Fett's side of the bar. His eyes are a bit off, shiny enough to betray his good time. The hookah pipe, if Fett had to guess. Jabba likes sharing with his humanoid pets, the effects are stronger, make any gathering more interesting.
Solo sidles up to the bar, and their elbows touch on the counter. Solo beckons the bartender with a wave, orders a dirty phaser, and shoots it in one gulp. He’s showing off, eyes closed as he swallows. Solo cleaned himself up, crisp shirt with a deep collar and vest hanging off his shoulders. A blaster is tucked against his hip, but his hands are nowhere near it. Solo takes too many chances, it's going to get him killed. By Fett, of course. Soon.
Fett lifts a brow under his helmet. “Know how easy you’re making this for me?”
“I'm easy, huh?” Solo traces a hand up the front of Fett’s flight suit. Fett smacks it off, but Solo doesn’t seem all that upset. His smile grows, and his eyes reflect intrigue. He sucks a lip between his teeth.
Fett doesn't like the look. “You're nothing," he says. "Guess who's collecting when you screw up. You don't last, none of you.”
“Speaking of collecting," Solo says, low and easy, "you owe me, pal. Twice.” He’s warm in the face, and his eyes still have that interested glow.
Killing him will be simple, Fett can do it tonight. Jabba will get over it, plenty of Imperial dropouts in the galaxy. Jabba doesn’t need Solo. Fett glances at Solo's fingers in the crook of his elbow. His thumb scratches the inside crux, forward and back, and the light in his eyes shifts. It's darker now, and more intrigued.
Fett could fuck him too, he reasons. Fuck him, kill him, and settle two debts with one stone, debts Fett shouldn’t even owe in the first place. “I'll show you what I owe,” Fett mutters.
Solo hums, clearly a fan of the idea. He shifts closer, still playing it safe, but what he wants is written all over his face. “Bet you will,” Solo retorts, a daring arch to his brow. He's too invested to hide a thing, which is good. It's Han Solo, Jabba's prize, this one doesn't need to be discreet.
Fett snakes a hand out, grabs Solo's holster belt, and pulls. It's admirable how quickly Solo's hand flies to his blaster, and even more admirable that he leaves it alone. Solo realizes where he is, body flush against Fett's, awareness dawning with a startled breath. They're grinding close at the bar on the most popular level of Jabba's sail barge. Fett feels eyes on them, and he knows Solo does too. Smug bastard, the audience alone makes Solo shiver.
Solo's surprise becomes a snicker. His hand rides up Fett's chest and curl around his neck; fingers test the base of his helmet. Fett shoves Solo towards the stairs to the lower levels. “Move,” he says.
Solo trips a bit. but he goes right where Fett wants him. Walking backwards, Solo keeps his eyes on Fett's visor like he can see right through it, through him. "You've got it bad, Fett" he says, grinning. "So into me, huh?"
So into seeing him dead, that is.
***
Fett catches the first twitch of stirring behind him as Slave 1 exits Bespin's atmosphere. It starts with a wince, a slight head turn, then a grunt and a slow blink. Solo blows out a breath, something sharp and startled, a raspy “oh” as he becomes aware of his current status.
His status is metal wrist and ankle shackles, chained to the floor of Fett’s ship. Slave 1 isn’t large, but there’s enough of a cockpit for Fett to sit at the main controls while Solo occupies the ground.
Solo’s eyes are still glazed, not all there after Vader’s physical and mental games. But he seems coherent, able to turn his head and take in his surroundings. The heaviness of understanding wrinkles Solo’s brow. “What the hell are you doing?” The words slur. Fett doesn’t respond; he doesn’t owe anyone answers, least of all Solo.
The hazy atmosphere of Bespin gives way to black and the glint of distant stars. No sign of Vader’s prized Jedi or, more importantly, Imperial warships. Vader must be well aware of their absence by now, but he's chosen not to react. This suits Fett just fine.
“Couldn’t let him do it, could you?” Solo’s tired voice takes on an amused lightness. “You’re a real hero, Fett. Going soft on me?”
Fett keeps his eyes on the coordinates he’s punching into the main frame. “Lots of credits riding on you, captain,” he spits. “And I’ve got debts to pay.”
Solo is quiet, which isn't like him, even with his brain scrambled by the Force. Fett allows himself a look. Solo’s head is bowed tiredly against a side panel, but his eyes are focused, curious. He's squinting at readouts on the overhead monitors. Solo frowns, confusion in the clench of his jaw. “Hey,” he protests, “those aren’t the coordinates for Tatooine. Where-”
Fett shuts him up with his blaster, the hilt brought down against his temple. Solo slumps, and his eyes roll behind their lids.
Problem averted, Fett takes the helm again. “They’re not the coordinates for Tatooine,” he agrees, and pulls the lever for the hyperdrive. In a blink, Slave 1 speeds off towards the answer he won't say, and a question he won't think. One thing is for sure; Solo is his to kill, not Vader’s, not the Hutt’s. It's up to Fett to decide where and when.
He glances over his shoulder at the idiot unconscious on his floor. Now isn’t the time, he tells himself. Not yet, but soon.
*The End*