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2015: Orange Lilies
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Heke?” Fennec Shand had been floating almost contentedly in her drugged state. When she’d awoken in the hospital, she’d allowed herself to relax as much as she ever did. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least she didn’t have to try and keep pressure on her wound or her guts inside. Now, however, she was on full alert. Who the fuck was Mrs. Heke? She had more than her fair share of identities, but “Heke” was not one of them. Thankfully her confused response stuck in her dry throat.
“Oh!’ the nurse sounded apologetic, “Here, let me get you a drink before I start asking questions.” She slipped the straw between her cracked lips and held the cup in a steady hand while her attention turned to check over the various monitors beside the bed. “Your vitals look just fine.” She announced, allowing Fennec only a few more sips before setting the cup aside. That water had been perhaps the single best thing she had ever experienced. Better than sex, better than sleep, better than chocolate. She momentarily mourned the loss of it. And then the nurse spoke again:
“Your surgeon will be back soon to check on you, but until then your husband’s here and he brought flowers!” Husband?! Somehow, she must’ve fallen through the looking glass she sure as shit didn’t have a husband, none of her other personas were married either. Others who worked in her line would use various marriage rouses to achieve their ends, but she never did. Fennec preferred to work alone, to get in and get out of a situation. She didn’t need dead weight tagging along beside her and she didn’t need to stay in the honeymoon suite or something stupid like that. In, out, move on. That had kept her safe.
Up until recently.
Sitting up, even slightly made her twinge and ache even with all the drugs in her system but being able to see even a little bit more of the room would increase her changes. Someone had tried to kill her, now that she wasn’t completely dosed with anesthetic she needed to be on her guard. Shifting the bed up slightly allowed her to see her feet… and the man standing just beyond them at the end of her bed.
“Hello, dear.” He rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice. He was familiar. Not the man who’d shot her, thank the maker. In fact, while she recognized him, she couldn’t place him in the immediate past, however she was absolutely certain she knew him from somewhere. He was handsome in a stocky, rugged sort of way, his head and face shaved smooth. He was wearing a simple blazer and shirt, quality but not flashy – perfectly nondescript. In fact, aside from the nagging feeling of familiarity, the only thing that stood out about him was the brightly colored bouquet of flowers in his hand. Before she could make any response, the nurse drew her attention back, quickly explaining all the different buttons and leavers on the bed before departing the tiny, private room, leaving her alone with this stranger.
“Who the hell are you?” The device monitoring her heartrate would give her away if she were bluffing – she needed to be calm. Her last specific memory was of being gut shot, Fennec knew there wasn’t a lot she’d be able to do to defend herself if “Mr. Heke” wanted her dead, but damnit she would try.
“My name is Boba Fett. I told the hospital we were married so they would keep me abreast of how the Master Assassin Fennec Shand was faring.”
Boba Fett. That was a name she knew. The world was very small, “the criminal underworld” even smaller. Everyone knew the principles members of the great families; it also wasn’t uncommon to know of some of their soldiers as well. Fett’s reputation was particularly well known, in part because his father, Jango, had been a Hutt capo as well. He’d literally lost his head in the Syndicate Wars of the mid-1970s. An absolutely brutal and bloody time as the different families tried to establish dominance and consolidate power on the ground.
Boba Fett was also known to her personally. And now that she took a moment to study his face, she could recognize him. They had met…. Several years before. Boba had been a Hutt capo like his father, he’d also been one of their prized boxers. He’d been leaner then, when she’d seen him in the ring, with more hair and fewer scars.
“Didn’t you die?” She’d remembered hearing about it, burned in a warehouse fire during the last realignment of powers. What was left of the Jedi had regrouped and rebuilt and had made that everyone’s problem.
“I got better.” He answered dryly, his eyes shifting from her to her chart which was at the foot of her bed. “So will you, Mrs. Heke.” Fuck, now Fennec hated the drugs in her system, the floaty pain-free feeling was making her thoughts slow and muddled.
Boba Fett was dead. Boba Fett was right in front of her, using a false name presumably to hide his living status. By giving her that fake name as well and following her to the hospital he could prevent anyone from finding out her true identity. He was offering her an opportunity to fake her own death and start over.
OR he was going to keep her in his service because he’d saved her life, and this was entirely safeguarding his investment. Hell, he’d been Johnny on the spot when she’d been shot, maybe this wasn’t her former employer’s revenge like that wet-behind-the-ears hunter had monologued about, maybe he’d orchestrated the whole thing. He’d clearly recognized her. She was entirely too stoned to try and parse out all the motives at play, let alone protect herself if the darkest possibilities were afoot. She was alive, but at what cost.
“I want a divorce.” All of that swirling through her head and yet her tongue had a mind of its own. “Looks like you want one too.” He blinked owlishly at her. She’d clearly managed to get the drop on him, too bad it wasn’t physically.
“What?”
“Those flowers! Did you pick those out yourself?” She started to nod toward the flowers in his hand but stopped because it hurt. Apparently, there were more drugs in her system than she thought and now she was on a roll. The Master Assassin Fennec Shand indeed. He looked down at the bouquet.
“I picked it out, it’s bright and colorful. If we’re going to pretend to be married, I needed to at least try and look like I liked you.”
“Like me? With an arrangement of yellow carnations, foxglove, geraniums, orange lilies and meadowsweet? That doesn’t say “I like my wife” that says, “Fuck you.” The florist is probably laughing their ass off right now." She certainly would be. Being raised by her grandmother meant working in her grandmother’s flower shop from the moment she could see over the counter until she’d left to pursue her other career. The language of flowers could be used to send sappy, romantic messages, it could also be used to send insults. The best part was floriography was no longer in vogue, so most customers had no idea which bouquet was which. She’d particularly enjoyed selling expensive and rude arrangements to clueless businessmen.
“They’re pretty.” He growled defensively.
“Ha! Starting with the filler – meadowsweet symbolically means uselessness. Those tall, pink flowers, that’s foxglove, in addition to being poisonous it’s also a symbol of insincerity. Then I see geraniums, those mean stupidity, yellow carnations that screams ‘disappointment’ in the ‘you’ve disappointed me’ sense. And of course, the classic orange lilies – those represent hatred. Sure, they’re pretty, it’s a striking arrangement, it’s also full of loathing.”[1]
For a moment the man was silent, looking between her and the flowers.
“They must have given you some really good drugs.”
2015: Venus Flytrap
When she had insisted they swing by her apartment after he’d sprung her from the hospital, he’d almost regretted saving her life. He’d respected Shand from a far for decades now. The work which could be attributed to her was a thing of beauty. She was less a sharpshooter and more an artist. Everything else he’d heard about the Master Assassin pointed to an extremely competent and creative problem solver. He’d saved her life because it was the right thing to do, but it’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d also thought of using her expertise to help reinvent himself once again.
He'd been a furious, angry, destructive young man bent on revenge once. That had gotten him killed. He’d then been a man at peace, complacent and complicit in the state of the world around him.
That had gotten people he cared about killed.
If he was going to protect those he had left there would have to be real change. When he’d been a child, he’d had an overly bubbly teacher who told them over and over again Be the change you wish to see. Well, Mrs. Jones, eat your heart out. He was sure considering a coup within one of the oldest crime families in Tatooine was exactly what she was imagining.
He didn’t actually need his father’s boat to overthrow the Hutts. What he did need was Shand’s insight. He’d been out of the game too long. Whereas she was still very much a player. That attempt on her life certainly suggested she was still connected to the Families. Having her help find Sabine Fair would make her feel like they were even after he saved her life, and it would give them ample time to talk. He didn’t expect her to tell him everything (or anything directly), but it would be his first opportunity for intelligence gathering. Plus, while he didn’t need that boat, he did want it. His father had named it after his mother, and it was one of his last tangible links to either of them.
He was just beginning to consider driving off and leaving her behind, “life debt” and boat bedamned when she knocked on the car window. They were living in a material world, but Fennec Shand, as far as he could tell was not a material girl. She had slung over one shoulder an old leather backpack, at her feet was a slightly newer nylon duffle, and in her hand was… a flowerpot.
“You made me drive you back here for a flower?” Not even that, inside the terracotta pot was a mass of bright green leaves, some of them with hints of pink centers. It looked more like a knot than a flower.
“Never mind a change of underwear, my guns, or you know money.” She rolled her eyes at him and then jerked her head to the back of his Bronco. “You gunna unlock that thing, or am I expected to hold onto my bag this entire quest?”
He’d heard lots of stories about Fennec Shand over the years.
She never missed.
She was just as deadly with a sword as she was a gun.
She spoke seven languages fluently.
None of these stories ever mentioned how… mouthy she could be. It wasn’t that she never shut up, she could be quiet when she wanted to. It was just every time she did speak it was bitingly sarcastic. One of the first things she’d done after he’d saved her life was ridicule the flowers he’d brought her. She was no longer under the influence of anesthetics; this could be longer than he thought.
“Mir’sheb.”[2] He grumbled under his breath as he rounded the wagon to open the back.
“What?” She asked sharply, her eyes narrowing at him.
“Hmm?”
“You said something.”
“‘Yeah, here’.” He pulled the tailgate down, only wincing slightly at the creaking sound it made. His ride, much like himself, was in pretty good shape considering its age and its milage, but there were some distinct creaks, rattles, and bangs. She didn’t buy his explanation, her skepticism written plainly across her face. But she didn’t push it either. Instead, she shoved the flowerpot in his hand before tossing the duffle in the back beside his own kit bag.
“Her name’s Audrey, by the way.”
“What?” Shand closed the tailgate with a loud clang and took the pot back from him.
“She’s not some flower, her name is Audrey and she’s a Venus flytrap. I’ve had her over fifteen years, I’m not about to abandon her now.”
“You named a plant?” Forget mouthy, someone should have warned him that she was weird. Did she talk to it too? He knew being an assassin was a lonely job, but bartenders existed for a reason, one didn’t have to resort to talking to plants.
“Don’t give me that look, you want me to find you a boat when you live in the middle of the kriffin’ desert.”
This was going well.
2018: Tussie-Mussie[3]
He looked from the assassin now bleeding out on the faux Persian rug to Fennec, who was slowly getting to her feet. Adrenaline still flooded his veins but seeing her upright under her own steam did wonders for the red mist still hovering around the edges of his vision. Maker, she did look like hell though, as the bloodlust receded, he could take in more and more of her appearance. Chunks of her hair had been pulled from her braid, some of the strands hung loose, while most were plastered to her neck, or caught in the congealing blood that was covering her face. Headwounds bled a lot, which made accessing the severity of injuries difficult, but even from across the room he could see a fresh, deep cut under her eye.
“You got brains all over the rug.” She raised her chin defiantly. She might have sounded haughtier if her voice wasn’t so hoarse from being choked.
“Fuck the rug.” He growled, deliberately stepping over the body in the center of it.
“But it really tied the room together.” Her grin really was something with blood in her teeth.
“Whatever you say, Dude.” His chuckle turned into a wince as he tried to raise his arm. The adrenaline in his system was fading, and in its place were all the aches and pains. The (now dead) bastard hadn’t quite wrenched his arm out of the socket when they’d grappled, but he’d torqued it enough that he wasn’t going to be able to use his right arm for a while. Which was fan-fucking-tasatic. It wasn’t like the Bronco was a manual and they’d just shot up their bolt hole in this town. Thank the maker they were renting in a particularly sketchy part of town; the neighbors were all shockingly hard of hearing and extremely short sighted. They heard no evil, they saw no evil, and they didn’t speak to outsiders.
“You’re not doing well.”
“Look in the mirror before you start casting aspersions.”
She looked even worse under the harsh bathroom light, but then so did he. Standing side by side in front of the mirror, he’d not even realized he had a black eye. Compared to all the other aches and pains across his body, that was nothing.
“Quite the pair, aren’t we?” Fennec leaned closer to her reflection, eyes critically examining the gash across her cheekbone.
“It’s just a flesh wound.” She declared, waving her hand dismissively. “Let me take a look at your shoulder.”
“Not if you’re going to drip blood on me.” She rolled her eyes.
“If I wash my face, can I look at your shoulder.”
“Wash your face and let me butterfly that ‘flesh wound’ of yours closed.” He turned to exit the small washroom, to give her some privacy to clean up as well as to find something he could turn into a sling. Even though he’d not dislocated his shoulder, he was still going to need to rest his arm for a bit. He also wanted to roll that body up inside the rug, putting more layers of absorption between his blood and the carpeting.
“Boba,” Fennec’s voice called him back, she’d not used his first name before. He was always ‘Fett’, and she, at least out loud, was always ‘Shand’. “Thank you.” Her eyes met his briefly, before focusing on a spot beside his ear.
“I pledged my life to protect yours. I am a man of my word.” There hadn’t been a breath of hesitation when he’d pulled the trigger. He’d given her his word when he’d asked her to join his House and help him depose the Hutts – to join him. Fennec had made no such promise. Yet, when the fight began, she was by his side, she’d saved his life as much as he’d saved hers.
“You made no such offer, and yet you protected me all the same. Thank you.”
“Yes, well,” She turned her attention fully back to the mirror and her bloody visage. “We make a pretty good team, you and I.”
“This? This is not good teamwork.” Fennec grumbled as she finished rolling the body up in the rug and securing it with straps – to keep it closed and make it easier to carry out to the Bronco.
“I hyperextended my shoulder just to inconvenience you.” He examined the “tussie-mussie” in his free hand. Emory Florin had to be the most ridiculous Daimyo in all of the Outer Rim, which was frankly impressive. Insisting on sending floral threats along with assassins. The element of surprise was nothing compared to the aesthetic.
Marigold, wolfsbane, and orange lilies. He recognized the lilies from the first (only) time he’d bought her flowers. She’d woken up from surgery, high as a kite still and tore a strip out of him, rattling off how every blossom in the arrangement secretly meant “Fuck you”. Orange lilies apparently meant ‘hatred’. Marigolds, those ruffly looking orange-gold pom-pom looking things, were symbolic of cruelty, and the stock of indigo-colored flowers meant a ‘deadly foe is near’ (which how the hell could one flower mean an entire sentence?).
“You know, just once, I’d like to receive flowers that weren’t also a death threat or insult.” He looked from the flowers to her and grinned.
“But, hey, they’re bright and colorful.”
2020: Snake Plant
The penthouse still took her breath away, every time the private elevator doors opened. The near 360-degree views from the floor to ceiling panoramic windows of the Mos Espa strip and the desert beyond would never get old. After killing Bib Fortuna and taking control of the Hutt Syndicate, and it’s beating heart, Jabba’s Palace Hotel and Casino, the first thing they’d done was bleach every square inch (also get rid of any remaining loyalists, but that went without saying). Renovations to Jabba’s hideously gaudy penthouse at the top of the Palace had been derailed with the Pykes and their allies had blown the casino sky high. Rebuilding the Palace had taken priority, but eventually they had been able to finish their dream home. Their dream home, it had never been a question that Fennec would move in with him, although Boba had formally asked, presenting her with a key and everything. He was not a man to presume to know her mind or assume things, which was something she deeply appreciated about him. At the same time, the key had been in a black velvet box.
It'd been a bit much.
Kicking her shoes off by the door she padded on silent feet toward the living room. Her last pair of slippers hadn’t made it into her bag after their last abrupt move. Neither had a good portion of her clothes. Which was fairly impressive since she didn’t have all that many to begin with, she’d spent nearly all of her adult life living out of a duffle. Shitty short stay apartments, and even worse extended stay hotels, it had been decades since she had a place to call home. And she knew the same was true for Boba.
And now they had a home. A beautiful one at that. One with maple floors and marble tiles and furniture they actually liked. It smelled clean and fresh, there was no mold or mysterious stains. This was their place in the world, where they could live and grow and put down roots for once.
Which was why she bought the plant. It’s a gorgeous Dracaena trifasciata, deep emerald green with light grey-green cross-banding. The leaves are tall and sharp and sturdy. Her grandmother had insisted that every home had have plants. Plants purified the air of carbon dioxide, also of curses. Why was a customer’s plant looking unwell despite their insistence they were following care instructions to the letter? Rather than say “I don’t know”, Gran would say the evil eye had gotten them. They were suffering in your defense! It was a silly superstition, and Fennec knew it came about as a way to sell more houseplants. But she didn’t care.
Audrey had been a gift from her grandmother, not long before she passed. Audrey II was growing well in its pot, propagated successfully from the original flytrap. Now that they had a home, it was only fair that Boba get a plant of his own. A Shand family superstition. For having lost his family so young, he had a lot of family and cultural traditions – a language and stories, even a boat. She didn’t have much to share with him, but she did have this one-foot-tall snake plant. He didn’t hear her approach until she placed the pot down on the sleek new coffee table.
“Fenn?” Boba looked up from his book, lifting his chin to demand his ‘greeting kiss’ (since formally starting their relationship he wanted a kiss almost every time she turned around, she would complain if she didn’t enjoy it so much). He then turned his attention to the plant. “Did Fwip send this?” He gestured with the book; finger hooked inside to mark his page. Garsa Fwip was a woman after her grandmother’s own heart, she had thumbs so green it spread down her palms and forearms.
“No, I bought it. It’s important than in a home everyone have at least one plant of their own.”
“And this is mine, hm?”
“Would you have preferred a Peace Lily?”
“No, those have rude meanings.” She didn’t want to get into the fact that only orange lilies meant hatred, other colors had completely different meanings.
“This isn’t a lily, it’s a snake plant. They’re also known as Mother-in-Law’s tongue.”
“Mother-in-Law’s tongue?”
“The leaves are long and pointy and look sharp.”
“That describes you,” he teased, “I shall call it Fennec.” She poked him, mostly affectionately.
“If you do that, you best be prepared to take excellent care of her.”
“Oh, I plan on it.”
2022 – Fuchsia Peonies
The florist shop had, first and foremost, been a front to launder money. Her grandmother and parents had immigrated and needed capital to open a business and the local Family had seen an opportunity. The Daimyo’s wife loved roses, and so investing in the flower shop kept her happy and took care of the dirty money. Her grandmother also was particularly knowledgeable about poisons, the greenhouse on top of the building overflowed with aconite, azaleas, oleander and wolfsbane. It was one stop shopping; she could facilitate the hit and arrange the funeral display.
In between work for the Family, the florist also catered to more mundane needs – bouquets, houseplants, and weddings. So many weddings. Enough weddings that by the time she was fifteen they had lost all magic. Attending them, not as a delighted family member or supportive friend, but as a tradeswoman hadn’t done much to preserve the glorious, gilded image. Bridzillas, occasionally Groomzillas, and in one memorable occasion a Mother-of-the-Bride-zilla. Weddings seemed to be less about the couple and more about someone’s ego.
At sixteen she’d decided she didn’t a wedding. They were so needlessly complicated. She could remember the exact wedding that turned her off the ceremony for good. Every single time the poor groom offered an opinion when he and his bride-to-be came to choose their flowers, he’d been shot down. This is my day. Fennec couldn’t imagine a life where only one half the couple mattered. Marriage was about two people, so why not skip the performativity and the bullshit and get straight to the equality?
The irony was, of course, that honoring her partner’s wants meant having a wedding.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” From the other side of the suite door, she could hear Boba’s voice replying to Sophie, but not make out his exact words. She considered the tradition of the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding stupid and outdated. She and Boba had been living together for years. However, she was excited to surprise him with her choice of wedding dress. Sophie Drash had apparently taken that fact to heart, which was why she was standing in front of the door like a bouncer, arguing with her boss through the wood.
“What do you mean? She already has her bouquet.” It was sitting in the full fridge, next to bottles of prosecco and orange juice. Boba had tried to argue that it was traditional for the groom to pay for the bride’s flowers. Fennec had argued right back that she’d use their joint account, but she wanted full control over her blooms. After all, the last time he’d gotten her flowers, there’d been meadowsweet and foxglove. She didn’t want a colorful, hateful bouquet on her wedding day.
“Give it to me and I’ll give it to her.” Boba’s reply was lost to her ears, but whatever he said had Sophie replying: “Tough tits, you’re not the Daimyo right now, you’re the groom and it’s bad luck to see the bride before she walks down the aisle.”
“I thought Din was supposed to be keeping him occupied and on schedule.” Garsa groused from behind her. Fennec looked up in the mirror she was facing, as one of the hair stylists worked her magic, to watch her friend pull out her cellphone. Being an assassin didn’t exactly lend itself to having friends. Meting Garsa Fwip had been a revelation for her. For the first time since childhood, she had someone roughly her own age to talk to and not have to be worried about getting double crossed. They even had the same interests! Sophie Drash was a wonderfully interesting person, funny and smart, but the nigh thirty-year age gap between them also made it hard to relate at times. Drash was at a very different place in her life than Fennec was. She and Garsa, however, were usually on the same wavelength.
“Boba wants you to have these.” Drash announced from behind a massive bouquet of flowers, that eclipsed most of her torso. Fennec stood and accepted the blooms, carefully turning and examining them from every angle. Red and Japanese ranunculuses: radiant charm. Freesia: friendship. Red mokara orchids: love, beauty, and refinement.
So far so good, actually. The flowers were beautiful and bright, but also meaningful – and not as an omen of death.
Double red tulips: declaration of love. Silver and seeded eucalyptus: Protection. Red roses: Passionate love. And finally, fuchsia peonies for a happy marriage.[4]
It was perfect.
“Bo?” She was out in the hall before she could even think about it – or the fact she was wearing nothing but a short, black, silk bathrobe.
“Alright, which one of them actually means something hateful?” he nodded toward the flowers still in her hand.
“None of them. The colors are striking, flowers are beautiful, and the meaning is perfect.” She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. After seven years he’d finally figured it out.
“You told me once,” he said softly, his forehead still pressed against hers after the kiss ended, keeping them close, “that you’d like to receive flowers that weren’t also a death threat or insult.”
“It took you long enough.” At the time she was just relieved they had survived no more injured than they were. The quip had been made as a way to try and center herself after everything that had happened. It was only upon reflection, in a shitty hotel room, hours and miles away from where they’d dropped the body off that she realized that the quip had also been sincere.
She wanted flowers. She wanted flowers from Boba. Especially after he’d demonstrated that he was both willing and able to protect her. And to help her. And, of course, take care of her after the fact.
“There you are!” Din’s exasperated voice cut off whatever quip Boba was about to make. “I turn my back for five minutes and you run off! You’re worse than my toddler.” That was truly a claim considering Grogu, sweet, adorable baby that he was, had never once stood still in his life. The child had skipped scooting, crawling, and walking and gone straight for wholesale destruction. “Come on, you’re supposed to be getting ready, Skad will be up any minute to take pictures.”
“Go on,” She laughed. “I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her once, short and intense.
“I’ll be the one at the end of the aisle, don’t be late.”
[1] This bouquet was inspired by this tumblr post.
[2] Mir’sheb = Mando’a word for “Smartass”. I talk about it, and the role Mando’a plays in Boba’s life in my story of the same name.
[3] A Tussie-Mussie is a type of nosegay/small bouquet from the Victorian period, these arrangements were frequently worn and were one of the main places where people flexed their Floriography muscles, sending coded messages through their buttonholes, etc.
[4] This bouquet is inspired by this article from Glamour: the Secret Language of Flowers.