Work Text:
2016
Pinching the bridge of his nose did nothing to stem the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes, but it did make him feel like he was doing something. That and it kept his hands busy, instead of throttling the di’kut in front of him.[1] Lying low had been the name of the game when he’d taken this job, he’d overestimated his ability to endure apparently. Being a Hutt enforcer wasn’t glamorous (or legal) but at least if someone was truly annoying you might get a chance to maim them. There would be no maiming if he wanted to continue to fly under the radar. Alas.
“Kaysh mirsh solus.”[2] Boba whipped his head to stare at his partner, headache now suddenly forgotten. The words had fit awkwardly in her mouth, the rhythm slightly off, and yet despite the missed nuances it was unmistakable Mando’a. They’d known each other close to two years now and she’d never once mentioned she spoke his ancestral tongue. Huttese, Shyriiwook, Sullustese, and Basic - yes; but Mando’a?
“You speak Mando’a?”
“What, like it’s hard?” She had a point, Mando’a, unlike Basic, didn't bother with conjugating those pesky verb tenses. There was only the present, active verb.[3]
“Let me rephrase, since when do you speak Mando’a?”
“I picked it up here and there.” She shrugged, carefully casual. Suspiciously casual. Typically, her unreadable mask didn’t slip, even as slight as this was. He narrowed his eyes.
“Really?”
“I don’t like not knowing what is being said around me.” She stood straighter, crossing her arms, one of her eyebrows arched in challenge. The woman was three inches shorter than he is and three years younger, and yet faced with the eyebrow he can’t help but feel like a child again. She’s not mad, just disappointed. Which is ridiculous, he’s not a damn child. In defiance he narrows his eyes back at her.
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
“But you were hiding the best insults from me.” There was a glimmer of something else behind her words, but it was so faint and so quick that he couldn’t catch it, (and trying to look back, he wondered if he’d just been imagining it). So he focused on the surface, and rolled his eyes.
“Ret bid.” It was not a deliberate decision. Speaking Mando’a made him feel closer to his father and his family, it also had the added benefit of allowing him to grumble in public without anyone understanding him. Fennec furrowed her brows in confusion, clearly she wasn’t fluent yet. But it was only a matter of time. He added: “Mir'sheb.”[4]
“Ok, that was about me.”
“Ret bid.” She was going to become fluent eventually, but in the meantime, he was going to have what fun he still could. Suddenly his head didn’t ache as much.
“What does that mean?” He turned and headed for the back office, refusing to look back at her. “Fett, get back here!” Yeah, this was going to be fun.
2018
It wasn’t that she was paranoid. It was just that in her experience bad things happened when too much business was discussed in a language she didn’t understand. Having a broad gist of what was being said around her was imperative to her safety - it was how she’d stayed alive for so many years. Boba kept notes in a smattering of both Basic and Mando’a, he was also prone to grumbling in Mando’a under his breath when he was annoyed - or being particularly sassy. Picking up a bit of Mando’a was just smart. Even now that she trusted the former hunter not to betray her, it was still a handy language to have under her tongue.
I carry a saber. The app prompted her. Taking a deep breath, she enunciated clearly into the microphone
“Ni - Juri - Kad.” The little cursor spun as it analyzed her words and then blinked a cheery green before shifting to the next prompt: beskar'gam.[5] Before she could type out her translation, however, a deep chuckle and gravelly voice interrupted her.
“So formal.”
“What should I say then?” She challenged, looking over the top of her phone, eyebrow raised. Boba had not stopped busting her chops about her Mando’a since he learned she was picking it up. He could, on occasion, be useful as well, but most of the time he just teased her. Which was why she was still using an app to learn, rather than turning to him.
“Ni jur’i kad. It’s still laamyc Mando’a, but not as stilted.”[6]
“As opposed to what? Diryc(?) Mando’a?”
“Concordian. It’s a dialect, you could call it ‘low’.” He bristled deliciously. She’d not known there were dialects of Mando’a, but it was clear he didn’t speak High Mando’a.
“So how would I say I carry a saber in Concordian?”
“Ni jur'kad.” The difference was subtle, if she hadn’t been primed to listen for it she probably would have never noticed. It wasn’t like the vocabulary was any different. The difference came in the pronunciation; when he said the sentence the second time it was contracted, and he’d completely omitted the “‘i” from juri.
“Ni jur'kad.” She repeated. After over-enunciating all the time to make the app recognize her words, eliding them together felt weird. But Boba looked so pleased, his grin and eyes bright. He could look downright boyish sometimes. “Ni jur'kad.” She said again, before meeting his eyes and giving him her sweetest smile. “So do I sound like a mando hick now?” His smile dropped into a scowl.
“Mir'sheb.”[7]
2020
“Another understandable misunderstanding,” the Mayor’s representative simpered. “The, uh, only tribute I bear is the Mayor’s heartfelt welcome, which I express in his stead.” He bowed, the smug little prick actually bowed, low and dramatic.
“So, you’ve brought nothing?” Fennec asked dryly from his right. The conference table wasn’t quite the same as a throne of old, but the head was sufficient for two to sit comfortably. Its length was rather comical, but making subordinates stand at the other end did convey the right amount of authority. He was in charge, the one with the realpower in this town.
In Jabba’s day the mayor was whomever pleased Jabba the most and was capable of filling out forms in triplicate. The same went with the aldermen. In exchange for the prestige of being The Mayor and getting to rubber stamp any plan the Hutt family brought across their desk, they paid handsomely. Those who didn’t pay were lucky to simply lose the election. When he was a young man, first in Hutt service, angry and trying to kill as many Jedi as he could to avenge his father’s death, one of the first tasks he’d been set was to inform the then Mayor that he’d be stepping down.
Houses burned differently than bonfires.
Thirty-Five years later the Mayor sent this or'dinii in his stead, with no tribute - not even a bottle of whiskey to make dealing with the fool more palatable.[8]
“I bring the Mayor’s heartfelt welcome, and his regrets that he’s been drawn away by pressing matters.”
“Ni Kelir bring gar a gaanynir o'r te troan.”[9] Fennec growled, her fist clenching on the arm of the chair.
“Taylir.”[10] Not that he wouldn’t enjoy watching Fennec strangle this man with his own florid, floral necktie, but it wouldn’t be in their interests. He had been serious when he said he intended to rule Mos Espa with respect as he made the world anew. He didn’t want to be that violent, destructive, angry force anymore.
So there would be no murdering.
(For the moment).
“Gedet'ye? Ibic jag cuyir te dushne.”[11]
“Elek, Ori'buyce, kih'kovid.” He looked from Fennec’s mischievous glittering eyes to the Majordomo, who was clearly trying and failing to translate their conversation. “A kaysh borarir par te alor.”[12]
“A Kaysh Mir'osik bal jari'eyc.”[13] She continued to wheedle. It was almost like she was trying to get him to laugh. Over the last five years her Mando’a had improved considerably, especially when it came to stringing together insults. She’s also stopped relying on the digital textbook to teach her and instead spent most of her practice conversing with him. It’d helped her rhythm considerably, as well as her pronunciation. Despite her teasing that his Concordian dialect must make him a hick, she’d developed a faint accent that mirrored his. It wasn’t a truly Concordian accent, but it was enough to remind him of home. Yes, Din Djarin also spoke Mando’a fluently, but his accent was so… prim and sharp. Laamyc Mando’a through and through, and it just wasn’t the same. But Fennec? The rounder ‘ch’ sounds of her pronunciation didn’t hurt his ears the way Din’s crisp words did, it was like being wrapped in a hug. It was coming home.[14]
“Ori'haat, a su nayc, nayc gaanynir.”[15] The longer he and Fennec spoke in Mando’a the more the Mayor’s representative twitched. Even from down the long table Boba could see his eye quiver. While it would be amusing to see how far they could push the annoying man until he snapped, they did have other things to do. He switched back to Basic:
“When I was a younger man, I can recall the then Mayor’s house catching fire when he failed to show Jabba the appropriate respect. Perhaps our current Mayor was unaware that I had taken over the Hutt Syndicate, and that is why he did not come himself. Please tell him that I look forward to being introduced at a later date.” He looked to Frank, who was standing beside the door and nodded for him to open it. The man hadn’t gotten any smarter since their first meeting but being a bouncer on a casino floor and working as a doorman and guard for semi-legal conferences required more or less the same skill set. “Next!” The Majordomo raised a finger as if he wanted to add something else, but Frank was efficient in steering him out the door, nearly throwing his briefcase out into the hall after him.
“Now can you appreciate why I wanted to learn Mando’a?” Fennec teased, sipping her tea, as she relaxed into the plush conference room chair. “It’s so much easier to talk about people in front of their face.” As if people understanding her mocking them had stopped her before. Insults aside, she did have a point, there was something nice about being able to freely consult one another in real time without having to resort to whispers or passing notes.
Not that he’d ever tell her that. Instead, he picked up his own coffee mug and shot her a sarcastic smile over the rim,
“Mir'sheb.”[16]
2021
Boba Fett, once upon a time, had been one of the most feared enforcers in the Hutt Family Syndicate. His reputation had preceded him, and it was one of ruthless determination. Very little, save death, could stop him. And even then, he didn’t stay dead. Oh, he’d been left for it, abandoned in the burning building like one of his marks. But he’d escaped, the burns across his chest and neck telling the story of a man who survived. Boba Fett, the man that beat death at its own game.
Boba Fett was also one of the biggest cuddlers she’d ever met. It had been so long since he’d been touched without violence that he craved kind contact the way others needed caffeine or nicotine. He was basically a giant, grumpy housecat. Sure, he looked aloof and independent and scary, but at the end of the day all he wanted was to curl up in her lap and have his ears scratched (not a euphemism). It was the most apparent when they were in bed together. The first time they’d gotten into bed together for the purposes of sleeping she’d turned to the side to shut off the light, rolling over to settle down she’d rolled directly into Boba. Who then proceeded to wrap her in his embrace like a friendly octopus, pulling her to him until she was firmly draped across his chest, head tucked under his chin.
“Bo,” she’d complained, “we said we were actually sleeping tonight, I’m too tired for this.”
“We are sleeping.” Laying as she was, she could feel his voice rumble through his chest.
“I can’t actually sleep like this; I need to be able to move.” The man was no longer the cruiserweight boxer he’d been in his youth, but his arms were still like bands of steel.
“Just five minutes.”
Just five minutes became a nightly ritual. There was something so deeply peaceful about resting together, listening to his heartbeat, feeling how he played with her hair, and occasionally breaking the companionable silence to talk about their day. For those few moments there was nothing in the world but him and her (and their high thread count sheets). It was nice, and nothing like she’d ever shared with anyone before.
“Cyar'ika,” He was more than half-asleep when he whispered it into her hair, dropping a kiss to her crown. It snapped her out of the relaxed haze she’d lulled herself into, tracing the scar on his sternum, learning its curve and feeling how his skin changed.
Cyar'ika. Darling. Beloved. The Mando’a term of endearment. She knew she should feel something hearing it from him. He was verbalizing his feelings for her, that was something powerful. Cyar'ika wasn’t a term people tossed around lightly, it wasn’t like ‘dearie’ or even ‘sweetheart’, which could be as sarcastic as it was sentimental. But she didn’t feel effervescent or light and joyful, nor did it fill her with fuzzy warmth like she’d swallowed a puppy.
It felt more like she was wearing someone else’s clothes. They were fine, lovely even, but they didn’t quite fit right and, ultimately, they weren’t hers. They were just some clothes; her clothes were different. Her word was something else entirely.
“Mir'sheb.”[17]
“Huh? What?” He roused with a start, and she could feel his eyes focusing on her in the dark.
“I’m not your Cyar'ika-”
“Yes you are, you are beloved,” He interrupted firmly, as if she didn’t understand the meaning of the word, and that was her objection. “You are my beloved.” He added softly. She could feel the faintest trimmer in his hand as he traced her cheek. Even under the protection of darkness, voicing his feelings had made him vulnerable. Feelings belonged on the inside, protected by fat and muscle, clothes and armor.
Carefully she leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips could convey her feelings better than they could converse about them. He returned the kiss fervently, large hand gently cradling the back of her skull. When they eventually broke apart, she gently pressed her forehead to his.
“Cyar'ika is a word other people use for their partner, but that’s not what you call me, that’s not us. I’m your Mir’sheb, I always have been.”
2022
Convincing Fennec to marry him had been exceptionally easy. She was a practical woman, and the tax benefits alone were enough to convince her of the utility of the union. Convincing her to have a wedding, however, had been an entirely different conversation.
A fight.
It had been a fight.
She had argued that she didn’t want to wear a fluffy dress and that she didn’t need to be the center of attention, and that they didn’t have extended families, and that she really didn’t like cake. They already were living together and sharing finances. So why would they have a wedding when they could fill out their paperwork, file it and be done with the whole thing in twenty minutes? He’d argued right back that the wedding wasn’t just about her, and maybe he needed to be the center of attention and that he was looking for an opportunity to wear a tux, and that while they didn’t have blood relations, they did have friends, and that there would be an open bar. She’d huffed and puffed and gone for a jog. When she returned, she announced:
“Fine! I will marry you, but if you think I’m walking down the aisle in some stupid, white, Barbie dress, you’ve got another thing coming!” And that was that.
Now he stood at the end of a short aisle, in front of a simple terracotta colored arch decorated with blush-colored flowers and pampas grass. Beside him was the new Mayor of Mos Espa. After Mos Shiaz’s “untimely death”, his Majordomo had “graciously” stepped in to fill his seat. He was just as florid and mealy-mouthed as before but having a man on the inside of the bureaucracy was exceedingly helpful. Also, the poor fool was absolutely smitten with Peli Motto. He was so twitterpated, in fact, that she could actually get him to cut to the chase.
Although he had argued that maybe he wanted the big, white wedding with all the trimmings, in the end they planned a small gathering. Their roughly thirty guests were seated in chairs before the terracotta arch at one end of the open room, on the other end was a long table, set for the reception meal. In between was the dance floor and the promised open bar, and from every window the desert stretched, bathed in golden light. Despite the intimate guest list and the small, manageable venue, Boba could still feel the flutter of anxiety in his stomach and under his skin. Peli had assured him that she had personally checked the ceremony script and edited it down to be as streamlined and straightforward as possible. But what if the Mayor went off book? Although they’d dealt the Pyke Syndicate a resounding defeat last year, what if the remaining splinters found out about the wedding? Everyone he and Fennec loved were in this room. It would be so easy to take everything from him.
What if … what if the catering went wrong?
That at least, had an easy answer: Garsa Fwip was right there in the front row, she’d have things straightened out faster than you could say ‘Order Pizza’. But still? What if?
The trumpet introduction of All You Need is Love snapped him out of the land of (horrible) possibilities and into the present.[18] He looked up from his wringing hands to the door where Fennec soon appeared.
And he laughed.
Most grooms gasped or teared up, but he couldn’t help the bright, joyful laughter that sprang from his chest - directly from his heart.
If you think I’m walking down the aisle in some stupid, white, Barbie dress, you’ve got another thing coming! She’d told him on more than one occasion during their engagement (literally the period of time it took them to get all the parts of this little ceremony organized and reserved), that she wasn’t going to wear white. She resisted the idea so much that he decided that if she felt so strongly about it, he’d wear white. In the end, he’d chosen a beige linen suit, but the point still stood.
She most certainly had not been lying about not wearing white. Fenn had chosen a black dress. And she looked breathtakingly good. It was a simple dress, which wrapped around her body and hugged her curves while also showing off her strong arms, and occasionally a very tantalizing flash of legs. Her hair still sported an elaborate braid, but this one ran from ear to ear over the top of her head like a band, and the majority of her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was truly stunning.
His next, more coherent thought was oh, thank the Maker. She was there. No matter what happened, they could handle it. She was his partner after all, and they were stronger together. That was the other reason he wanted to get married. The tax benefits were truly amazing, but it was more than just the paperwork. He wanted to acknowledge and celebrate their partnership. She wasn’t just his equal in the business or the consigliere of the House of Fett. She was his equal in all parts of his life.
Somehow, despite radiating joy and mirth, Fennec still managed to smugly smirk at him when she finally joined him in the front.
“You weren’t kidding about the dress.” Was what came to his tongue first.
“When have you ever seen me wear white.” she countered with a valid point. The song ended not long after, and the Mayor began his (for him) “brief” opening remarks. Streamlined indeed.
“Boba and Fennec have chosen to write their own vows,” He was in such a habit of tuning out 90% (perhaps closer to 98%) of what the Mayor said, he almost missed his cue. “And it’s with these words, their own words, which they wrote to express their feelings for one another, their binding promises to love, to cherish, and to honor one another. If you are ready to make these promises - these vows - your affirmations to one another, I invite you to now face one another and declare your intentions, here before these witnesses, your family and friends.”
Fennec smirked and gave him a little nod. You first, she mouthed. Standing up straighter he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve the vows he’d written earlier. Fennec had insisted they write their own vows, citing the fact that many of the traditional ones had language about “obeying” which she absolutely refused to use. Even when she had sworn her services to someone, she never agreed to obey them, and she wasn’t about to start now.
With an argument like that, he couldn’t deny her. However, he’d regretted it the moment he’d tried to put his thoughts down. Traditional vows had their problems, but they saved him from trying to put his feelings into words, let alone into sentences that he’d have to say in public. It had taken him days, and drafts upon drafts before he came up with something he didn’t feel completely foolish saying aloud (only mostly foolish). But eventually, with a fair amount of help from Din, he’d come up with the best he could do.
“When we first began our partnership, I told you I wanted to start a House and that I would need muscle and brains. I offered you a cut of the profits, my loyalty, and my protection. I stand before you now, wanting to start a Life, one that I need your brains and your muscle and your beauty to be a part of. I still offer you my loyalty, a cut of our success, and my protection. I also offer you my heart, my hand and my whole life too. I am yours, body and soul.”
Fennec’s eyes glittered up at him, like the stars over the desert, only a thousand times more beautiful. She wasn’t crying but it was perhaps the closest he’d ever seen to it, barring the time she’d dislocated her shoulder. She was also smiling, bright and loving. Between the two of them, he was the more verbal with his affections. Fennec, however, didn't say what she was feeling - she showed it. She showed it in how she looked after him - patched up his wounds, made sure he slept, and was hydrated and fed. She kept him alive during the Pyke war and in thousands of little ways before and after. She showed it physically - when she dropped her mask, her face was so expressive. Her eyes sparkled and danced; her smile could electrify the city. She didn’t drop her mask often, which made each time she did that much more special. Her smiles were rare, each was like a gift.
“Fennec, is there anything you’d like to say to Boba?” For once, not even the Mayor could ruin his mood. Her smile turned mischievous.
“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”[19] She spoke clearly and confidently, each word falling naturally from her lips. That little sneak! She’d made such a point about not wanting traditional vows, only to pledge her life and love to him in Mando’a, with the same vows his forefathers made to his foremothers. She swore up and down that she never learned Mando’a for him. And yet at every turn she used it to bring him joy, to tease him, and to remind him of home. At that moment the only thing he wanted to do was kiss her.
So he did.
The kiss was solid and firm, full of everything he wanted to say and more. Not sloppy and not deep, but intense all the same. After they pulled away, he pressed his forehead to hers.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner Mir’sheb.”[20] He could feel a tear escaping him, and he didn’t care. Gently she wiped it away before pulling him into another, slightly more involved kiss.
An annoying tapping on his shoulder eventually made them part. The Mayor cleared his throat, awkwardly.
“We’re uh… we’re not actually, um, at that part yet. There’s still the exchange of rings, and I have to pronounce you man and wife, and then you may kiss the bride.”
[1] Di’kut - Idiot
[2] Kaysh mirsh solus - his brain cell must be lonely.
[3] I have read exactly one (1) article on Mando’a and am not a linguist even when it comes to earth languages. I know that technically (again according to this one source), Mando’a can form the past or future tense of a verb, however, they apparently don’t do that regularly - “they live in the moment”, so the present tense is all they need. Related to that, apparently if a verb is passive they just like, leave it out of the sentence. I wish we did that more, I am rubbish at verb tenses.
[4] Ret Bid - Perhaps so; this phrase was generated by a Mando’a translation website, rather than taken directly from the Wookiepedia article. Mir’sheb = Smartass. This was also generated by the same translation website.
[5] Ni juri kad - I carry a saber; beskar’gam - armor, literally “iron skin”. Like all the Mando’a in this story, these words, spellings, and definitions are taken from an article and an online translator. I have no idea if they’re correct, however, since this is a fictitious language and doesn’t have a J.R.R. Tolkien style dictionary published for it, I’m not overly worried about messing up.
[6] Laamyc = High. So this part is pure conjecture, but grounded in a bit of my experience in learning German. In short: There’s Hochdeutsch aka “High” or Standard German, this is the stuff you learn on Duolingo or in the classroom. There are then regional/ethnic dialects of German which can include different pronunciation of words, different vocabulary, and in some instances even different grammar. It’s all German and theoretically intelligible across high/low, region to region. However, some dialects can be harder to understand than others, and some have certain associations with them. My husband’s accent/dialect is apparently the German equivalent of RED NECK.
[7] Mir'sheb - Smartass (but this time friendly).
[8] Or'dinii - Moron
[9] Ni Kelir bring gar a gaanynir o'r te troan - I’m gunna bring you a smack in the face (composed via translation website).
[10] Taylir - Hold
[11] Gedet'ye? Ibic jag cuyir te dushne – Please? This man is the worst (composed via translation website).
[12] Elek, Ori'buyce, kih'kovid - Yes, all helmet, no head; A kaysh borarir par te alor = but he works for the mayor [literally chief].
[13] A Kaysh Mir'osik bal jari'eyc = but he’s [got] dung for brains and ugly.
[14] To truly go down a rabbit hole, here I’m trying to draw the difference between pronouncing the combination ‘ch’ like [χ] or like loch, Bach (you know that clearing your throat sound), as opposed to a hard ‘ch’ like in how you say ‘chair’.
[15] Ori'haat, a su nayc, nayc gaanynir. = True, but still no, no smacking.
[16] Mir'sheb = Smartass (affectionate).
[17] Mir'sheb = Smartass (Self-identifying and affectionate). One of the many cultural projections I’m making in this work is that the word Mir’sheb/Smartass can, with the right inflection and context, not really be an insult but something playful, teasing, and even affectionate.
[18] Temuera Morrison released an album called “Tem” in 2014. On it he covers several songs, including the Beatles’ “Let it Be” (which inspired the choice of “All You Need is Love” for the Processional) as well as “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You”, which you can bet your boots is their first dance song, because Boba is a big softie deep down and Fennec loves that about him. She’ll roast the hell out of his marshmallow core, but at the end of the day she loves it.
[19] Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde = We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors.
[20] Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner Mir’sheb = I love you, my smartass.