Disclaimer: The Star Wars franchise belongs to the great Mr. Lucas: may he film forever.
Imagine a door... either walled-up, or that has been long locked-- at which there is an occasional knocking, a knocking which --as the other side of the door is inaccessible-- can only be ghostly. --From the notebook of Henry James
GHOST
I am damned.
Most often, this does not concern me: mortal judgements are trivial, fleeting things --mine or others'. But on nights like these, when I lay restless and agitated, my mind wanders to subjects I do not often allow it to explore.
I do not think about my father, usually.
After all, I have no need to: he is dead, I am not. Any vengeance I once yearned for has come to pass. The Jedi are extinct, gone from this universe. There is no need to dwell on what has already been done.
And yet...
There are strange, almost-moments in which I wonder if I am what he wanted me to be. If I am as strong; as fast; as ruthless as he had dreamed. Am I as clever, as cunning as he was? I wonder: would I have been better at what I do, should he have lived to teach me more?
Foolish, sentimental thoughts, certainly.
But.
In these dark, quiet nights, I lay awake, calling up memories from childhood. The depth of his eyes, piercing through my own; the coarseness of his hair, rough against my soft, childish skin; the breadth of his scarred hands, which swallowed mine whole.
His father watched him aim the blaster, dark eyes calm; calculating; judgmental. Evaluating his every move. And himself! So young; naive; weak as he had not been in many years.
The blaster was too heavy for him, even clutching onto it with both hands the barrel would dip to the ground. His face flushed at his own weakness √a disappointment to himself and his father.
Jango moved in silence, and Boba didn't even know he was standing over the boy until he looked up. His father's scarred, pockmarked visage was impassive as always √a true hunter never lets down his guard.
"Here."
Jango leaned down, crisp curls brushing against his cheek. He could smell his father as well, a comforting, masculine scent. His hands enveloped Boba's own, so tiny and soft in comparison, to wrap around the heel of the blaster.
"Like this..."
I blink.
An unexpected, near-forgotten memory buried in time, but as crystal clear as if it had happened yesterday. Things like this... don't often come back to me --not with such vengeance.
I look at my hands.
They are his hands, I think. The same swollen knuckles, scarred and knobby with the fights of long past. The same redness where my gloves have rubbed between my fingers. The same calluses, rough with the long habit of holding a blaster.
I stare at them, and they seem to defy all my training as they move without my command.
They lay themselves upon my thighs, lingering for a moment, fingers drawing soothing circles. I can feel the fabric and muscle distantly, but these petty responses are thwarted by the light, alien feel of touch on my legs. The sensation is static, and I tingle and tense with a rising sensitivity.
A gasp tears itself out of my throat, disrupting my carefully modulated breathing.
A swirl of wantneed slams into my stomach, and I suddenly ache urgently. I want to touch him; I want to be touched by him --long dead and long gone. I watch my hands --his hands-- fumble at my trousers, opening the zip, desperate to cup and feel and grab between my legs.
And it's like falling. Breathless, mindless adrenalin, sweeping up and down, up and down, upanddown all over me; insane; exhilarating; ethereal.
I think of him then --almost-black eyes, rough, stern mouth and hands --my hands. Our hands. Both somehow there together, on me and Us at the same time; all at once in unison. My spine stiffens, and I surprise myself with a grunt.
Oh yes.
I stare at my hands now --just mine, his are gone. My rough, unbeautiful hands, twisted like a knotted tree, ill, scarred and ancient. I stare at them for a long time, trying to recall Jango's hands in their place. I stare until the white fluid pooling between my fingers becomes tacky and cold.
My hands become blurred and murky within my vision. They don't look like his, nor mine. They look as if they could belong to anybody. Both of us, yes, but anyone else as well.
I am damned, for I could be anyone, now.
No. No. Not true. You are me. You are what I wanted to be.
There is wetness on my face, and salt on my lips. I don't know how it came to be there. I don't understand why it came to be there.
Jango is dead and gone, never to return. I have other things I should be thinking about. Maps, weapons, strategy --useful things. Jango --my father-- never approved of wasted thought. He would reprimand me, if he knew how I am wasting time.
I will not think of him again.
END