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“I’m sorry.” Mon Mothma raised her eyes from her work, and stared at Leia across the expanse of her massive, gleaming desk. “Could you repeat that last part?”
“We got married,” Leia repeated helpfully. “That’s how we solved it.”
The Chancellor of the New Republic folded her hands in front of her, her posture almost pleading. “Yes, that’s the part I don’t understand. You married this…”
“The Mand’alor,” Leia finished for her, because she was certain her friend was going to say “bounty hunter.” That wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate. Boba Fett wasn’t completely out of the mercenary game, but for the purposes of this meeting it was better to be clear about his role.
She glanced over at the man standing beside her, his helmet tucked under his arm, his face expressionless. His eyes met hers, just for a second.
I’ve got this.
He nodded.
She wanted to show him that his trust wasn’t misplaced. “The only governance in the Mandalore system right now are the clans, who are bound by tradition to follow the leadership of the Mand’alor.”
“And that’s you,” Mon Mothma said, addressing Fett directly. “And you are the same man that used to work for the Empire and the Hutt cartel?”
“Yes.”
There was a somewhat strained pause while the chancellor waited, but he didn’t elaborate or attempt to explain. Finally she turned her attention back to Leia. “And can the Mand’alor approve treaties or not?”
“Yes, but he won’t, because that would make him the galactic senate representative and there would be certain...expectations.”
"Such as...?"
"Meetings. State dinners. Press events."
The chancellor looked Fett up and down. “Someone else could be appointed to those tasks. What about the former Mand’alor? Bo-Katan is Satine Kryze’s sister, I’m sure she was educated and trained for exactly that.”
“I asked her. She laughed in my face.” Fett stirred just a little beside her, and even though there was no discernible change in his expression, Leia turned to point a finger at him. “Don’t even start.”
Mon Mothma was clearly still lost. “So...by marrying the Mand’alor, you accomplished what, exactly?”
“By Mandalorian law, a spouse shares everything equally, including authority. So by marrying him, I essentially became the galactic representative for the Mandalore system.”
The chancellor pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth thoughtfully. “I hesitate to even bring this up...but I thought you and Captain Solo...”
“This is strictly a political marriage. It has no bearing on any other relationships I might have, and I don’t even think polygamy would be an issue, if it came to it.” She looked over at Fett for confirmation, and he gave a spare shrug.
“So Captain Solo is aware of this arrangement.”
“Well,” for the first time, Leia faltered. “Not exactly. But this isn’t a personal matter, it’s a professional one. My Grandmother Organa was married to two different men from different houses and it was a very successful trade alliance. When Han returns from Kashyyyk, I’ll explain it to him.”
There was a certain amount of skepticism in her friend's eyes, but she dropped her hands down to the surface of the desk in gesture of defeat. “Well, you're right. This treaty is important.” Her eyes returned to Fett. “This is acceptable to you? Ceding representation of your entire system to avoid a few meetings?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, the gesture resigned. “Then I suppose the matter is settled.”
“There is one more thing,” Leia said as casually as she could. “Before any treaties are signed. Mandalore has some concerns about the Military Disarmament Act. Very serious concerns.”
Mon Mothma’s congenial expression froze. “Leia.”
“We don’t have to discuss it today. Perhaps we could call for a special quorum when everyone can take part.”
“Leia, I know we’re on opposite sides of this, but isn’t this a little extreme-”
“Are you ready to go?” Fett spoke abruptly, and Leia was quick to seize on the interruption.
“Yes, thank you for reminding me. We have dinner plans,” she announced to the chancellor. “Please excuse us.”
“Of course.” Mon Mothma smiled tightly. “My congratulations to you. May it be a long and fruitful union.”
Fett didn’t speak again until they were alone in the elevator. “We have dinner plans?”
“No. Unless you really want to spend another evening in my company, eating greasy takeout and pouring over strategic alliance schematics.”
He glanced over at her. She was getting used to the minuscule reactions that occasionally betrayed his thoughts and emotions. His lack of expression was reflexive but also functional. His helmet responded to facial mapping commands.
She was also growing more comfortable with his silence, his one word answers. His throat was damaged by exposure to the flesh-eating stomach acids of the sarlacc. Talking for long periods of time irritated the artificial reinforcements in his trachea. The entire left side of his neck was reconstructed with synthflesh, as were other parts of his body.
That was knowledge she shouldn’t have, and wouldn’t have if he hadn’t showered at her apartment after an all-night session of reading through Mandalore’s treaty archives. The patches of synthflesh on his otherwise strong and fit body were a jarring sight, but not a repulsive one. And it mattered to him that she wasn’t repulsed. That was something he couldn’t completely hide behind his sober mask. She touched his naked arm without thinking, without asking, breaking any number of societal rules and boundaries.
Nothing happened. That was the important thing. She’d touched his forearm, her fingertips grazing over the line where synthflesh met warm tan skin and even though his eyes followed the motion he said nothing. Not when she touched him and not when she dropped her hand.
The elevator reached the lobby floor and chimed gently “It wasn’t so bad,” Fett said. “Eating with you.”
“Oh?” She gave him a bemused look. Another person might have missed the reflective warmth in his eyes.
But she didn't.