Drifting Away, Finding An Anchor

Author's Note: I'm not certain how to warning for this one. Disassociation, I think. But if it needs more let me know.

This does re-tread a bit of "Lokum."


"Sometimes, son, you have to let your body lead your actions. Like going on auto-pilot until the time is right. Sometimes it's the only way to survive."

He remembered that conversation. His father had been telling him how he had survived being a slave on a spice freighter

He could hear his father's voice in his mind as he regained consciousness, regained awareness. He was in a bacta tank. That would explain why his body didn't feel like it was burning any more. He opened his eyes and tried to see through the thick fluid.

Someone was looking at him.

Oh.

Right.

Skywalker.

Boba Fett decided he would follow his father's advice and let his mind drift off.


He drifted.

He drifted.

He drifted as reality spun around him and tangled around him.

And he moved with it in its slow regular dance.

Move now. Eat now. Wash now. Sleep now. Wait. Watch as others spun in their own peculiar dances around him.

And listen to a voice that was ever kind, ever soothing. (Skywalker? Why?) But Skywalker talks and doesn't expect answers. And he touches more than he's aware of. A shoulder. A hand. But never more, never crosses lines.

And he drifted.


Someone was talking. Someone familiar was talking. Someone familiar was talking both insistently and earnestly.

It wasn't the soothing chatter (Skywalker) that seemed to float around him as the days waxed and waned.

No.

This was someone who was causing, causing a painful tightness to bubble through his chest, as contradictory as that was.

Lando, he finally identified, with all the bitterness and longing that went with him. (The anger was gone, stolen by Tatooine's merciless suns.)

He almost dismissed him. Almost went back to his haze. But there was something on the table between them that hadn't been there that morning. A box. A box with a flamboyant script on it. Proclaiming it the finest to be found anywhere. He knew that much to be true.

Well.

That was...

He forced himself to listen to what the man was saying.

"egret hurting you. It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

Ah, so it was a bribe.

He didn't take bribes.

He considered the contents of the box.

He might make an exception.

The talking ceased.

They sat there in silence.

He knew he could outlast Lando and Lando would leave. Lando was good at leaving. (But hadn't he been the one who left? (Fled, you fled.))

Someone came in, and Lando stood, and the other voice came back.

"Lando? What are you doing?"

And of course, Lando answered. And the soothing voice (Skywalker, it's always Skywalker) answered

Interesting. The other voice liked lokum too. The body language gave that much away.

They both turned to the door.

A small part of him was struggling with what he had been taught as a child. When someone gave you a present you thanked them. (It's a bribe though.)

His hands darted out to grab the box and its lid. The lid went sailing through the air. He felt a faint, faint, how long had it been since he had felt anything like it, satisfaction that it hit its mark dead-on.

And.

And.

And Skywalker picked up the lid and walked it back over to him. Setting it on the table. Unconsciously touching his shoulder before he left the room.

And he found he didn't want to sink back into the haze. He broke the inner seal of the box. He took a piece and put in it his mouth.

Floral, and sweet, and soft, and good. And everything that he only ever had so very little of in his life.

But it didn't stop the drifting from creeping back in.

But it reminded him of Skywalker, and his ever-present kindness. (It was backed up by steel, he knew that.)

So with effort he took one piece and set it on the table across from him, where Skywalker would sit. And then another, and another and another. Then he took another piece and ate it. His mind was beginning to clear. He wasn't drifting, he was waiting.


Skywalker came back dressed in something that looked like it actually was his idea and not what the Galaxy thought Jedi should look like. He stopped when he saw the lokum set out for him.

And he took a piece. Good. That was good. And then he set about making whatever he was going to eat.

"You know, on Tatooine, after a certain age, sharing food other than just the staples was seen

as flirting on most the settlements," He knew that though, curious, and Skywalker continued, "I don't know what it was like in the cities though," it was much the same he wanted to say, but he couldn't quite get it out, "anyway that lokum, well, a lot of people would consider sharing that tantamount to proposing."

Skywalker was laughing, but it wasn't mocking.

He considered it, and he considered his response, and he opened his mouth.

"I spent a lot of time on Tatooine, how do you know I'm not?"

He was given the most satisfying knowledge that he had surprised the Jedi.

"Proposing with candy someone else gave you is not a serious proposal," came the reply.

"You don't want it, I can take it back," the speed of his response surprised himself.

"I'm not that picky; I'll keep it."

Good. Good. He put another out to replace the one Skywalker had eaten.

"I know you've probably eaten already, but would you like something? I sometimes feel a little guilty sitting here eating, while you have nothing in front of you."

Skywalker was pointing something at him.

He lifted his eyes from the floor. (Had he been staring at the floor all this time?) Skywalker was pointing a fork at him. He still couldn't quite meet Skywalker's eyes. A memory of a boisterous voice shouldered its way up in his memory.

"Pointing eating utensils at people is considered rude; it implies you're planning on stealing their food, or possibly you're planning on eating them, and then it's considered ruder not to follow through...I never quite got that part."

Not entirely true, but he did know it took him much longer than it took other people. It strangely pleased him that it took Skywalker a bit to work it out too. Skywalker had to cover his face. He finally could move his eyes over to look at Skywalker straight on. Skywalker looked up from his hands and caught his eye. And blushed.

Well.

Skywalker sat up and then leaned back.

He was being scrutinized as if Skywalker had never really seen him before. Odd. Skywalker had seen him at his absolute lowest.

Something entered those kind blue eyes, and made him grateful that it was harder to spot when he blushed. Skywalker smiled.

And he (like an idiot, part of him despaired) smiled too.

"Uhm," Skywalker flustered.

"Eat your stew, Skywalker, it's going cold."


He couldn't pull up the energy the next day to vocally reply to Skywalker, but he could keep eye-contact and Skywalker didn't push. And he didn't push himself. It had been a long time since he had had that luxury.

And the safety. (Safety's a lie, it's always a lie, but as long as you understood that…)

He was going to have to do something about the food. It was one thing to eat prepackaged randomly selected rations because you had to. It was another when you didn't.

Skywalker had apparently never learned to cook.

Not surprising.

When he could he would say something.

Or not.


The next day, or possibly the one after that, or the one after that one. Skywalker returned. Bemused. With his arms filled with containers of food. Food that was not prepackaged or processed.

Right. Good.

"I met the delivery person outside the door. Did you order this? Or do I need to call security?"

"Ordered it."

And he stood, rolled his shoulders and took the groceries from Skywalker. Who followed him into the small kitchen.

"You eat crap."

Skywalker sputtered, and then laughed.

"You sound like my sister," Skywalker smiled, his mind on his sibling clearly, "I don't want to bother anyone more than I have to."

"Hhrm."

Someone at least had stocked the kitchen with proper cooking utensils.

Skywalker had many questions.

"What are you making?"

A simple Concord Dawn dish, but he couldn't muster up the name.

"I think that should be in milligrams."

Really?

"Is that what those come from?"

Yes, wu'tabga noodles surprisingly start out as wu'tabga roots.

"I really think that's supposed to be measured in milligrams."

Who's the one who knows how to cook here?

"Where did you learn to cook?"

He looked at Skywalker.

"My Fa.." no, Jango deserved better acknowledgement than that, "My Dad taught me."

"Oh."

Dinner went…well. Except for Skywalker's initial coughing fit.


Later, a week, a month, maybe more, maybe less, Lando came back.

And brought Solo and Chewbacca with him.

Leia Organa followed, with Wedge Antilles.

They had all come before, but that felt so very distant now.

They all were quietly arguing with Skywalker, except Antilles, who was standing back and considering.

Apparently, Skywalker had mentioned he was doing better.

Organa wanted him to be put in prison. Lando was offering to take him in. Chewbacca and Solo wanted to find another sarlacc and drop him in again.

He didn't feel like listening. So he rose, and had three people draw blasters on him. He ignored them and went to his room. He bumped shoulders with Skywalker on the way, gently, and Skywalker bumped back. Antilles made a soft sound of someone who had just figured something important out.

He shut the door behind him.


Skywalker opened the door later.

But he didn't come in. He respected the boundary.

So he held out a hand, and waved the imaginary wall away.

Skywalker sat down next him on the edge of the bed.

"Well?"

"Leia, Han and Chewie are worried. Lando's worried too, but for different reasons I think," Skywalker said, "and Wedge refused to comment, but claimed he'd seen it before."

"Ah."

"Do you want to stay?" Skywalker sounded hopeful.

"Yes," Boba Fett said with unexpected relief in his voice, "yes, I do."