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The New Republic turned to shit in record-time.
Honestly, Luke shouldn't have been taken by surprise as much as he was by it in the end; corruption ran deep and they never should have allowed all these cowards that play-acted at diplomacy while sitting out the war to regain any power in the new government. The few good eggs that could have made a true difference were swiftly dispatched by scheming and "accidents," and then the pitiful remains of the Alliance turned against each other like dune sharks.
Or so he'd heard. Luke hadn't been there for most of it, too busy trying to track down any traces left by the Jedi across the universe to pay attention to what was happening on the core worlds and only once it was too late did he learn what had been going on in his absence.
Leia sent him a frighteningly tense message via holo, in which she laid out what had gone wrong where exactly and who the big players were that she suspected of colluding against the brighter future they'd been working for, and then she'd vanished without a trace. Only the fact that Solo was also missing gave Luke some amount of hope that she'd gotten out or at least gone underground somewhere where she could leverage old connections to get to safety sometime soon.
Luke himself hadn't been quite so lucky. Somehow his location had been leaked and there'd been wave after wave of mercenaries and bounty hunters coming his way and he's found it impossible to get away from them for long enough so he could go to ground. And so--in a desperate last ditch effort--he'd decided to go somewhere where he might at least have a home advantage.
The Jundland Wastes were a merciless stretch of desert heat and jagged stone, but in many ways they were a comfort now to Luke. He'd crawled into a cave that he'd frequented quite often as a kid, one that held an old, already long-ago looted smugglers cache that only held a few gauzy clothes now that the cred chips and whatever other finery had been in there were gone, and really not a lot else.
It was perfect for someone on the run, really. And it allowed him a bit of breathing room so that for the first time in days, Luke had the time to assess his wounds and the general state of himself--mind and body and his state in the force alike.
He had a burns on his arms where plasma bolts had struck him and he was pretty sure that the way his head was aching was a tell-tale sign of a concussion. Other than that, he thought, he'd gotten out of the last couple skirmishes quite whole--except...
Luke paused in this assessment when he realized that no, there was something different about his body that he hadn't noticed before. A heavy ache was building up in several places, spreading out from his middle section. He grimaced at that revelation, and muttered, "Great, that's some really bad timing."
His heats had always come pretty irregularly, to the point where he'd taken to self-medicating with heavy-duty heat suppressants for pretty much the entire time he was active during the rebellion. Not the healthiest thing to do, of course. Longterm suppressant use could have some real intense side effects in most Omegas, so when they finally wrecked the Empire and all the fighting was done with, the promise of peace on the horizon and all the signs pointing toward it sticking this time around, Luke had stopped taking the medicines.
So now here Luke was, hunted by droves of Bounty Hunters sent by whoever was trying to clean house in the New Republic and wanted everyone too deeply invested in proper democracy out of the way, and with a heat coming on to boot. The only somewhat lucky thing about this was that his secondary gender wasn't a matter of public record, or at least not one that had ever been connected to Luke Skywalker the Jedi Rebel. That would afford him at least some amount of leeway, here, Luke thought.
He layered himself in a few of the less moth-bitten cloaks from the smuggler cache, emulating the way he'd seen some of the Omegan desert-dwellers that had religious taboos regarding showing their faces to strangers do and then he made his way toward one of the cities where he had a good chance of finding someone peddling quick-acting suppressants.
Already he was putting out so many heat pheromones that most people turned away from him, shocked at how any Omega would flaunt his status like this out in the open, especially one from the more traditional tribes.
A few times he thought he spotted some people that very much looked like bounty hunters, but with Tattooine being Tattooine --a hotbed of all things shady and best forgotten-- he had no way of knowing if there were there for him or maybe for someone else instead. There were even a few Mandalorian armors around, and Luke couldn't help but be reminded of a similarly dressed man he'd once fought on this planet.
It was weird, wasn't it? How a fight like that could stick in your mind even after experiencing a million other crazy things across the universe? But there'd been something about Boba Fett that still to this day seemed larger than life to Luke, and now, back in the dry heat of his home planet, he found his heart filled strangely with regret at the thought of how this legend had ended and his own part in how it had all played out.
He blamed the oncoming heat for his maudlin thoughts, honestly. He wasn't usually prone to overthinking his actions -- either past or present. Being one with the force in the way that Master Yoda had taught him didn't usually leave much space for that kind of thing. And either way, there was nothing he could ever do to undo the death of Boba Fett, was there? And neither could he offer his repentance to anybody. According to all he'd heard back then Boba Fett was a loner.
He was so, so wrong.
The throbbing ache in his core flared, sending a wave of dizzying need through him. He leaned against a grimy wall in a deserted alley, fighting to keep his breathing even, fighting the urge to sink to the dusty ground and let the sweet promise of feverish heat take him. This was bad. Worse than any heat he’d had before, probably because he'd been on the run for so long. His body was stressed; his mind exhausted.
He closed his eyes, drawing on the Force, trying to center himself, trying to push it all back, even just for a moment.
A shimmer flared somewhere in his peripheral vision, so bright he could see it creep through the thin skin of his eyelids. Then he felt a presence a presence. Not the sharp, predatory scent of an Alpha, nor the subtle pull of another Omega, but something vast and comforting and all-surrounding. He opened his eyes, and there, translucent but undeniably real, stood a man with kind, sad eyes, a faint scar tracing his jawline, and a quiet, knowing smile.
"Luke," the man said, his voice a gentle echo in his mind, soothing the frantic edge of Luke's rising panic. "My son. You are not alone."
Luke gasped, the Force presence washing over him like a warm tide, easing the sharp edges of his anxiety, if not the physical demands of his heat. Anakin Skywalker. His father, how he had always imagined him to look in the prime of his life. Not the monstrous Vader, not the distant Force presence he sometimes felt, but a fully formed, radiant being.
Or maybe theheat was playing tricks on him.
Tears pricked at Luke's eyes, mixing with the heat-sweat on his face. "Father?" he whispered, his own voice hoarse and raw. The man nodded, stepping closer, his form phasing slightly, though Luke felt the warmth of his presence, the deep, abiding comfort that he hadn't realized he so desperately craved.
"You are strong, my son. So much stronger than I was," Anakin murmured, his gaze sweeping over Luke's weary form, lingering on the subtle, burgeoning distress of his Omega biology. "You carry so much light. And you are so loved. Never doubt that. Worry not. Your pain will end soon enough."
Before Luke could fully process the last cryptic statement, a sudden, sharp scent cut through the Force-infused calm. An Alpha. A strong one. Anakin’s form flickered and faded out, with Luke still none-the-wiser if it had been real or a conjurment of his heat-addled brain.
Not that it mattered, Luke told himself internally. He wasn’t alone. Someone had managed to sneak up on him, while he'd been distracted.
A shadow fell over the alley entrance. A figure emerged, tall and imposing, clad in familiar dented beskar. The visor of the helmet was unreadable, but the heavy stride was unmistakable.
Boba Fett.
Luke's mind reeled at the sight.
Maybe it was someone wearing the other man's armor? But no, Luke thought. That seemed unlikely to be the case what with the luck he tended to have. And it also didn't mesh with the way this Mandalorian was eerily focused on Luke with seemingly his whole being. He was looking directly at Luke, his head tilting slightly as he took in Luke's distressed state.
Luke wondered for moment if the helmet the other man wore was airtight, if maybe, just maybe he'd be spared the indignity of being caught like this, on the verge of going to his knees and presenting himself to any Alpha surrounding the market, by a man who he'd once played a not insignificant role in killing. Or well--what had seemed like a certain death sentence at least. The other man drew closer. His movements were slow and deliberate, almost careful, as if he were approaching a wild beast he wanted not to spook but rather tame.
"Omega," he rumbled, his voice roughened by the voice module in his helmet.
It sounded almost... weary.
"You are in no condition to be out here. The desert is unforgiving and the vultures are almost certainly circling already." He gestured at the surrounding streets. Then he offered a hand for Luke to take.
Luke hesitated.
He'd hidden his face well-enough that he didn't think Fett had recognized him yet. And maybe he'd not remember Luke anyway, considering that things had been pretty heated back when they'd met for the first and last time. But still, caught already deep in this heat-brought mindset, Luke was overcome by a fight-or-flight instinct unlike any he'd ever felt before.
Every instinct, every fiber of his being screamed it.
The quiet, almost gentle offer of a hand must have been a trap. The weariness in the bounty hunter's voice a lie.
This was Boba Fett, the man who had delivered Han to Jabba, the man who stood by as Luke’s friends were sentenced to die. And Luke had sent him tumbling into the maw of the Sarlacc. There could be no peace here. Only retribution.
So, already stuck on the mindset of running for weeks, Luke chose flight over fight.
He twisted, using the wall he’d been leaning on to launch himself sideways, aiming for the sliver of space between Fett and the alley’s edge. It was a clumsy maneuvre for sure that lacked his usual Force-guided grace. His heat was a lead weight in his veins that dragged on his limbs and crushed his brain into a fine, foggy mist.
He almost made it, though. Almost.
Luke managed a single step into the open street street before he made the unfortunate aquaintance with Fett's strength and speed directed fully at himself.
An arm like a durasteel piston shot out, not grabbing, but barring his path. Luke collided with it, the air knocked from his lungs with a choked gasp. Before he could even think to recover, a gauntleted hand clamped onto the back of his neck and spun him around.
The world was a blur of sandstone and sky before his back slammed into the opposite wall. The impact rattled his teeth and sent a fresh wave of pain through his concussed head.
He was pinned.
Fett’s body was a fortress of beskar and muscle, caging him against the wall with ease. One forearm pressed firmly across his collarbones, not enough to crush, but just enough to hold him utterly immobile. The other hand still rested on his nape, a thumb stroking over the scent gland there, sending a traitorous shiver of compliance through him.
"Don't," Fett's vocoder crackled, the single word a low, dangerous command.
Luke struggled, a pathetic, weak thrash against the unyielding armor. The proximity was overwhelming.
This close, the scent of Boba Fett was overwhelming. It was a scent unlike any he’d ever encountered—ozone from blaster fire, the faint, metallic tang of recycled air, worn leather, and underneath it all, a deep, primal musk like hot desert sand and spice. It was potent, dominant, and it called to the deepest, most instinctual part of him. Luke's body, already in the throes of its own betrayal, yearned to arch into the pressure, to submit.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting it.
"Get off me," he snarled, the words lacking any real venom.
A moment of silence stretched between them, punctuated only by Luke's ragged breaths. Then, a soft hiss of pneumatics. Luke's eyes snapped open as Boba Fett reached up with his free hand and released the seals on his helmet. He lifted it off, tucking it under his arm.
The face that stared back at him was the one he’d seen only in flashes during the chaotic fight at the pit—older, now, etched with new lines of hardship around the eyes and mouth. Scars, pale and puckered, traced their way across his skin. They must have hurt so much, when they were fresh. Luke's mind somehow got stuck on that fact. To survive the Sarlacc must have taken an incredible amount of strenght.
And then there were the eyes… Sharp, intelligent, and currently fixed on him with an unnerving intensity.
"I thought you'd be taller, Skywalker," Fett said, his real voice a gravelly baritone, far more human than the synthesized rasp.
The blood drained from Luke’s face. He knew. All this time, had he known who Luke was? Despite the layers of cloth, despite the force-energy he put into hiding himself, it seemed it had all been for nothing.
"How…?"
"The Sarlacc gives you a lot of time to think," Fett stated, as if it were the most casual thing in the galaxy. "About who dropped you in there. I meditated a lot on you, back when I was caught in its belly. On what you'd smeel like... Look like once I had you in my grasp. I thought of all kinds of ways I'd get my revenge on you if I ever got out of there." He smirked. "Now imagine my surprise. Here I was, having a nice walk though the market today when I felt this... call. And so I cycled some air throuh my helmet and there it was... Your scent is all over the desert wind. Panic and need. And just how I imagined you'd smell. Must be fate or something."
Luke’s mind spun. This wasn’t happening. He was trapped in an alley, in the grip of a heat, pinned by a resurrected bounty hunter who knew exactly who he was. His mission, Leia, Han—all of it was about to end here, in the dust of his homeworld.
"So what now?" Luke whispered, the fight draining out of him. "You going to collect the bounty? Turn me over to the Republic’s new masters?"
Fett’s gaze flickered down, taking in the sweat-soaked layers of Luke’s disguise, the tremor in his limbs. A new wave of heat washed over Luke, stronger this time, a molten core of need that made his legs tremble. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped his throat.
Fett's expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted. The oppressive Alpha presence softened, just a fraction, banking its aggression. "The Republic is naught but a dead body left to rot in the desert for the animals to feed on. I have no love for it, new or old," he said, his voice low. "And you... you're worth more alive and coherent than you are a mess in some Mos Espa alley."
The hand at his neck tightened its grip slightly, tilting his head back, exposing the line of his throat. Luke’s breath hitched. This was it. The killing blow.
But it never came. Instead, Fett leaned in, his nose just inches from Luke’s skin. He inhaled slowly, deliberately. It was a possessive, evaluating gesture that sent Luke’s Omega instincts into overdrive. Luke's body went limp against the wall, a full-body shudder wracking his frame.
"Your heat is peaking," Fett observed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Luke’s chest. "You won't make it another hour out here before you draw the wrong kind of attention."
He pulled back, his eyes scanning the alleyway as if expecting an ambush and put his helmet back on. Then, without another word, Fett moved. The arm across Luke’s chest retracted, only to be replaced by another that slid behind his back. In one smooth, powerful motion, Fett swept Luke off his feet, lifting him into his arms. One arm hooked securely under his knees, the other cradling his back.
Luke let out a startled cry, his hands flying up to brace against the hard plates of Fett's chest. He was too weak, too overwhelmed to fight. He felt the heat of Fett's body through the flight suit beneath the armor, smelled that intoxicating Alpha scent now surrounding him completely. He felt… safe. The thought was so horrifying, so deeply wrong, that it almost sobered him.
Almost.
He buried his face against Fett’s shoulder plate, a moan of exhausted surrender finally breaking free.
"Relax, Jedi," the vocoder crackled, devoid of any emotion. "You're no good to anyone dead. And in fact," he emphasizes the next part heavily, "I know of some way you can pay off your debt to me in your current state, hm? You'll barely be able to walk after I'm done with you.
He turned and strode out of the alley, carrying Luke as if he weighed nothing at all, moving into the throng of the Tatooine streets like a ghost of vengeance with a prize clutched in his arms. Luke didn't know if he was being rescued or captured, and as the fever of his heat finally dragged him under, he found he no longer cared. To his heat-addled mind, those threats of Fett's were almost starting to sound like a promise.