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    Summary

    If Firmus Piett had known Boba would take him throwing his vambrace at his head in a fit of uncharacteristic frustration as a marriage proposal, he would have- Well, no, he still would have thrown the vambrace because his boyfriend of nearly a decade could be so bloody aggravating sometimes, but at least he would have done it with the knowledge that he had proposed and thus would not have been blindsided in the middle of the bridge when Boba had referred to him as “my fiance, the admiral,” while talking to Lord Vader.

    Or:

    “Force,” he muttered, pulling out of the keldabe, “this is a karking mess. Where’s my comm?”

    “You don’t need your comm,” Boba said, reaching out to catch him by the wrist. The bulky white plastoid of the vambrace that had kicked off the current mess looked clunky in comparison to the rest of the sleek and painted beskar that made up the rest of Boba’s armor.

    “Two words,” Piett said, “Maximilian Veers.”

    There was a pause. Dark brown eyes widened and while Boba’s tanned cheeks didn’t quite lose their color, it was a close thing.“Osik,” he said.

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