Chapter Text
Boba did not, as a rule, receive mail. Not from anyone other than his lawyer; and his lawyer, like everyone else's lawyer, was busy. There was a lot of work, and it was mostly more lucrative than pro bono work for an incarcerated juvenile. Even one who'd attempted, and very nearly succeeded, in killing the Jedi Grand Master. And yet...
Do you want to get out of there?
He stared at the message, which refused to go away. On the one hand, he considered, it wasn't like anyone in this pit didn't want to get out of here. There was no really good reason not to answer honestly. On the other hand, he couldn't see what anyone had to gain by helping him, which meant almost certainly that it was a trap.
Who is this?
He didn't expect an immediate answer, so he was surprised when his 'pad pinged an incoming message only a few minutes later. It was, given the security on this place and the question of electronic lag, probably the minimum possible time. Too minimum, in fact, for there to be any ansible bounce involved at all. Whoever it was, they were on Coruscant. He thumbed opened the message, curiosity piqued.
Naberrie.
He stared. It wasn't that he had trouble believing it; this was, according to basically every action he'd ever taken and everything anyone could figure out about the man, exactly the sort of thing he'd do. It wasn't like he didn't have the pull to get a direct line to someone in maximum-security. It was just... Some of his motives, like the scandal that began with Orn Free Taa and was probably going to end with a war, were totally explicable. Some, like the Gravity, were explicable only in hindsight. Some were like this.
Why?
Again, the response was pretty close to instantaneous.
I want to make a point to Windu.
That made a certain kind of sense, he thought. It was nothing to do with him at all. Therefore, it was probably safe.
What will I owe you?
Nothing. I owe you a year and a day. This will not clear it, but it is at least a start. I pay my debts.
A year and a day. That was standard, for a certain kind of debt.
You did not kill him.
I did nothing to stop it, either. I was a Jedi, at the time.
It was hardly an original ploy: the Mandalore Wars were full of exactly this kind of rules-lawyering around debts and honor. Still, he recognized that Naberrie was attempting to give him a way out of what would, now that the war was over, otherwise be a suicidally heavy blood debt. If he took it, no Mand'alor worthy of the name could fault him for it. If he didn't, in fact, he'd probably be declared the same kind of insane as Viszla: dar'manda, with all that implied.
You do not give people blank cheques.
I do not. I will stand as your legal guardian until you hit galactic majority. Or I will give you a suit of armor, a fast ship, and some useful connections. It is up to you.
I want to talk to Windu.
That can be arranged.
I want to talk to Kyrze.
The response didn't come in for an hour, long enough that he'd stopped waiting for it and begun reading up on Mandalorian law by the time it did. The content explained the wait.
Kyrze does not want to talk to you. I think I can swing it, if I can show that my way works. You will have to pretend to be nice for at least a few months.
What would it be like, he thought, to be the kind of person who could just ask a planetary leader to talk to someone? 'Some useful connections,' indeed!
I want to talk to Viszla .
Talk, or negotiate?
He stared down at the pad. There was a particular meaning that the word 'negotiate' acquired in conjunction with Skywalker. So far, it didn't seem to apply the same way to Naberrie, and yet - assassinating Sidious. The Clone Personhood Act. The new Judicial Charter. Slowly, he felt a grin begin to spread over his face.
I want you to teach me.
You are not Force-sensitive.
He rolled his eyes, even though there was no one there to see.
You do not ever fight, and you do not ever lose. Teach me.
That will take more than a year and a day. Much more.
So?
He sat there, waiting for a response. It was a while coming. Probably someone on Naberrie's end was shouting. Probably, Naberrie was not fighting and not losing.
Done. Vode an .
When he needed something to happen, Naberrie did not mess around. Boba had known, of course. It just hadn't prepared him for the way that, a little more than two tendays after Naberrie's first message had popped up on his datapad, a judge was declaring that his imprisonment in the first place had been a war crime. Not that he was free, of course: he had attempted to assassinate Windu, and he had nearly succeeded. He just hadn't had a fair trial and, more importantly, he'd been twelve at the time and therefore the entire crime was subject to the juvenile courts.
In the meantime, he was to be released on bail, and a close relative was supposed to take charge of him. This "close relative" was, to Boba's surprise, a clone by the name of Cody. The judge had attempted to balk at that; at least, they had until his new lawyer- courtesy of the Naar- pointed out that he and the clones were genetically identical, and it didn't get closer than that. Besides, it wasn't like the state wasn't still stretched almost to the breaking point finding homes for war orphans, and there were far worse places for him to be than in the custody of a decorated war veteran. Boba was almost disappointed he folded, not sure if he wanted to be in the custody of someone that might resent him, if not for his connection to the death of one of theirs, then for being Jango's chosen son.
None of this fooled anyone, of course; but there wasn’t much argument against it either, and the judge signed off on it all the same.
There wasn’t any shouting. He got the distinct impression that everyone- the judge, the state attorney, even the bailiff- wanted to shout, wanted to fight, but they didn’t. The Naar lawyer spoke softly, and even without being in the same room, Naberrie didn’t lose.
A date for the beginning of his retrial was set six months into the future, then he was waved out of the room, his lawyer escorting him as the next case was called. A good thing, too; Boba wasn't sure he would have been able to find his way out in his stunned haze.
They were met in the lobby by a clone in white armor with yellow-orange markings. He had his bucket off, tucked under his arm, allowing Boba a clear view of neatly crewcut hair that was just starting to gray at the temples and a long scar that curved jaggedly around one of his eyes. His face was stern, but he offered Boba a small smile as he approached. Boba felt like the air was punched from his lungs at that smile, reminded far too closely of Buir. He scowled back at the clone, forcing himself to feel affronted by the cheap replica of his Buir. He was worried he might cry otherwise.
Cody, however, didn’t seem off-put at all by his hostility. Instead, he offered the Naar lawyer a polite nod that she returned before disappearing into the busy lobby without a word or backward glance, leaving Boba alone with this stranger. Once she was gone, Cody bent to grab the handle of a military-issue duffel by his feet, hefting it over his shoulder. “Ready to go?” he asked, businesslike, a slight Coruscanti accent to his Basic.
Boba blinked, thrown yet again. “What about my stuff?” he asked weakly.
Cody gave the duffel a small lift, drawing Boba’s attention back to it. “The prison packed it up for you. Got your gear and the gear they had in storage, too.”
Boba’s eyes were suddenly glued to the duffel. His Buir’s beskar’gam was right there. He hadn’t touched it in four years. His hands itched. Attempting to distract himself- he would not embarrass his Buir's memory by making a scene and demanding to look over the beskar’gam right now, damn the witnesses- he nodded vaguely to the earlier question. “I’m ready.”
The lie was delivered quite believably, he felt. Cody gave no indication one way or the other, merely nodding and turning to stride confidently off. Boba fell in behind him. He couldn’t help tensing slightly as they passed the guard station at the main entrance, the part of him that was used to being a prisoner at this point half-expecting them to tackle him and drag him back- but nothing happened. They barely even glanced at the pair as they marched past. Boba barely managed to contain a stupid grin, his belly swooping giddily. This was really happening. He had to admit, he was impressed.
Curiosity overcoming his fading shock, Boba glanced at his new guardian. “Where are we going?” he asked. Couldn’t hurt to ask, even if he probably wouldn’t answer.
Cody surprised him yet again. “Got to pick up the kids,” he replied easily. “Then it’s on to the spaceport. We have a ship to catch.”
Boba nodded, and was about to answer, when he startled, nearly tripping over his own feet and head whipping to stare at the clone. Cody had answered him in Mando’a. The older clone looked over his shoulder at his stumble, raising an eyebrow.
Boba scowled again, lifting his chin defiantly, daring him to say anything about his near face-plant. Cody didn’t. “Where are we picking up your kids from?” Boba asked tersely instead, switching to Mando’a as well. Partly to test Cody, and partly because it felt good to speak his cradle language. He hadn’t had a full conversation in pure Mando’a with someone since his Buir had died.
“Here,” Cody answered cheekily, turning to enter a storefront so fast Boba almost didn’t turn in time to keep up. Showoff , he thought sourly to himself.
‘Here’ turned out to be a small diner, primarily decorated in red and white. The air inside was hot and smelled greasy, the kind of smell that heralded delicious food that would kill you if you ate too much of it. A passing droid, obviously acting the part of the waitress, greeted them in a nasally tone as she rolled past, balancing a massive tray of dishes.
Cody had paused, scoping out the inside, but within a moment he was off again, making a beeline for a booth closer to the back currently occupied by four figures. Boba followed more slowly, reasonably confident he wouldn’t be left behind and wanting to take a moment to observe both his new guardian and his children more carefully.
“BU!” A sharp, excited cry went up, two small figures scrambling off the bench and darting over to collide with Cody’s hips. Boba blinked, recognizing a pair of clone younglings; maybe a year out of their tubes, at best. They looked just like Boba remembered most cadets looked; neatly trimmed hair in the same crewcut as Cody, dressed in simple blue uniforms with red sleeves, the standard outfit worn by all cadets on Kamino. Bluebacks, he dimly remembered. Before they graduated to armor and all red fatigues, they were sometimes called bluebacks thanks to their mostly blue uniforms.
But they moved like actual younglings, not cadets, all gangly growth spurt inelegance and eagerness. Uncontrolled. They grinned sunnily up at Cody, hero-worship shining in their eyes.
Cody chuckled indulgently, ruffling short hair with his free hand. “Hello, there,” he greeted them fondly, still in Mando’a. “Have you been good for your uncle?”
“Not even a little bit,” a vaguely familiar voice answered (also in Mando’a) on their behalf from the booth, the cadets giggling and nodding in agreement. Boba shifted his gaze back to the booth, finding the speaker; a fair-skinned human man with coppery colored hair that nearly reached his shoulders and a neat matching beard. He was dressed like a Jedi in tan layered tunics, but there was the high neck of a thermal peeking up past the collar of the tunics and his eyes were a warm yellow that allowed Boba to firmly peg him as Naar. Obi-Wan Kenobi, he identified the man, a distant memory of the same man standing in the doorway next to Taun We on Kamino springing to mind. Kenobi had come right before everything changed, like a harbinger of doom.
“They’re going to give me gray hair,” Kenobi continued with a put-upon sigh, seeming unaware of the storm currently brewing in the Mandalorian teen. The cadets giggled at his words, entirely unaffected by his mild glare.
“Oh good,” Cody replied flippantly. “You deserve every one.” He looked down to the cadets, stage whispering, “Your uncle used to give me the worst scares, him and his student. Always running off on some half-baked plan I would have to rescue them from.” The cadets giggled again, letting Cody herd them back to the booth.
“Har har,” Kenobi deadpanned. “I wouldn’t tease about gray hair if I was you, Commander.”
“On the contrary, General,” Cody- wait, what the kriff, Commander?! - replied, still snippy. “ You gave me every one of these gray hairs. You and your padawan. Compared to you two, the boys are practically docile.”
“Like nuna,” one of the cadets piped up, somehow coming off as completely sincere and mocking at the same time.
“Or porgs,” the other one chimed in.
“Little angels,” the last member of the group finished in a richly accented voice, the three nodding firmly at the same time in a move that spoke of an old, inside joke. The last one was a weedy, slender Zygerian about his own age, tawny furred and tawny eyed, sitting next to Kenobi in the booth in the same blue uniform as the cadets. Something about his body language was shy, reserved, but he broke out into a sincere smile when the joke finished, joining in on the laughter.
Cody guffawed heartily, reaching out to rub the top of the Zygerian's head like he had ruffled the young clones' hair. The Zygerian ducked his head, his ears twitching out of the way and batting the hand away, but he still smiled. "That's my son," Cody chuckled fondly, and Boba had to fight the tears again, along with a swell of jealousy.
Kenobi rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in mock offended exasperation. "Well I know when I'm outnumbered. I shall take my leave," he huffed. He was sitting on the inside of the booth, but that didn't even give him pause; he fluidly stood on the bench, then stepped up onto the back of the bench, walking along the narrow ledge casually and dropping down to the floor to stand by Cody, all fluid, confident Jedi grace and ease.
The younglings stared at him, their eyes bright and mouths dropped open in unabashed admiration.
Cody sighed. "Do you think you could take your revenge for my slights in ways that don't result in my sons causing damage to my furniture attempting to copy you? At least once?" He grumbled, tone resigned. One of the cadets was eyeing the back of his booth bench speculatively already.
Kenobi smirked. "Why Cody," he chuckled, "I'm offended. You know revenge isn't the Jedi way."
"You're Naar," Cody bit back, but returned the brothers' clasp Kenobi offered.
Kenobi merely laughed merrily and turned to the passing waitress droid. "Remember to put their bill on my tab, Dot," he instructed the droid in crisp Basic. The droid chirped an affirmative as it rolled off.
"You don't have to do that, General," Cody attempted to protest, but Kenobi waved it off, switching back to Mando’a.
"Nonsense. The least I could do for my old Commander," he deflected magnanimously. "The boys have already eaten. Please, be sure you eat something before you head out too." His tone turned fondly concerned, and Boba felt like he was glimpsing something much deeper than was said. "Force knows you take care of yourself about as well as I do."
"Learned from the best," Cody replied, with the same fondness. "Don't think I didn't notice only three plates."
"Don't worry about me, Anakin and Padame have been force feeding me regularly," Kenobi snorted, rolling his eyes. "I had hoped parenthood would curb both of their enthusiasm, or at least redirect it, but unfortunately it seems to have only exacerbated it. I am well fed."
"Good." Cody nodded firmly, finally releasing Kenobi's arm. "K’oyacyi, vod."
"K'oyacyi," Kenobi replied, then turned to offer the three others still sitting on the booth a warm, "Have a good trip home, boys!" in farewell. The three chorused their own goodbye.
Finally, Kenobi looked at him, and his eyes softened. Boba bristled at that expression of pity.
“Walk with me, Boba Fett,” he said gently, tipping his head toward the door and beginning to walk toward it.
Boba blinked in shock, hesitating. He glanced to Cody, who was sitting down in the booth next to the Zygerian, handing over his bucket to one of the cadets, the cadet eagerly snatching it to inspect the details. Cody shrugged, then nodded encouragingly.
Boba still lingered. “I could run off,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. He had just been released from prison, for kark’s sake.
“You could. But you won’t,” Cody replied lightly. “I have your gear.”
Fek.
Boba leveled a glare at the clone for even the oblique threat to his Buir’s beskar’gam, but turned to follow the ex-Jedi, falling in behind his shoulder like he had with Cody.
They walked for several moments in silence, weaving through the busy skywalks. Boba was honestly starting to get a little irritated with the crowd; he had gotten used to having a personal bubble in prison.
Finally, Kenobi spoke. “I also owe you a year and a day.”
Boba glanced sharply at him. “Do any of the Jedi not feel that way?” he sighed.
“Most don’t,” Kenobi chuckled, shaking his head. “I believe it’s just me and my former padawan. Though I do agree somewhat with the argument that perhaps all of the Jedi Order owes you and the rest of the clones something.”
Boba felt his frown deepen. Honestly, he had kind of forgiven the Jedi at large. Even Windu a little bit. He had kept up with the news after the... whatever had happened to Naberrie. He had read through everything the slicers, both official investigators and private citizens, had dug up and published on the holonet about Sideous’ crimes. He had come to realize that Sideous- and maybe Douku- had set him up. His Buir had never been meant to survive Geonosis, much less the war; if it hadn’t been Windu, it would have been someone else swinging the saber.
Didn’t make it easier. But it did make him want to kill Windu a little less.
“Why?” he finally asked, just to fill the silence.
Kenobi sighed. “I was the only one who knew about you. I knew Jango had a son, and he took you with him when he left Kamino. But in the excitement leading up to Geonosis, and Geonosis itself...” he trailed off and shrugged. “To be honest, I forgot all about you until I was writing up my official report for the Council and the archives a tenday later. I have a terrible memory for that sort of thing, a personal failing of mine. By that time you were nowhere to be found. I assumed your father had left you with friends, family; someone who would care for you. So I didn’t look.” He glanced over his shoulder at Boba, that soft look on his face again, but this time it looked less like pity and more like remorse. Boba still bristled, just on principle. “Perhaps I couldn’t have saved your father. But I could have prevented everything that happened after Geonosis if I had remembered. Made sure you were taken care of. But I didn’t. I accept that debt.”
Boba swallowed dryly. “And Naberrie?”
Kenobi shrugged. “Anakin drowns in guilt for everything. Events both in and out of his control. His own sins, the sins of others, and sins that were never committed, but he remembers, and thinks he must atone for them anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest, one hand coming up to stroke at his beard thoughtfully as he walked. “I have no doubt he has a reason, most likely several, but exactly what it is I do not know.”
Boba frowned at the cryptic response. “When will Naberrie start teaching me?”
Kenobi’s mouth twitched up in a sarcastic smile. “Who says he hasn’t already?”
Boba bit back a snarl. He was beginning to see why Buir hated Jedi.
“But my point is,” Kenobi appeared to finally take pity on him and speak plainly, “I owe you the same debt as Anakin. I, too, repay my debts. When it comes time to talk to Satine,” Boba looked at him sharply again, but Kenobi continued on without pause. “I will sit your corner. We have known each other a long time, she and I; my support will lend your words weight.” He nodded decisively. “And if you ever find yourself in a situation like Geonosis again, contact me. I will assist you in whatever way I can.” He finally drew to a halt, gesturing to a storefront, and said, “Your stop, I believe.”
Boba startled, realizing they were standing in front of the diner again. They must have just walked in a loop. He faced Kenobi, the ex-Jedi turning to face him squarely as well. He offered Boba a nod; Boba scowled in response and started to turn to go back in.
“Before you go,” Kenobi’s words stopped him, and he just barely refrained from groaning in annoyance. Long-winded Jedi! “I wasn’t joking when I said Anakin has probably already started teaching you. He has already shown you several lessons, both obvious and oblique; try to observe them.” He hesitated, seeming to want to add something further, but eventually just said, “Take care, young Fett.”
He turned to stride off confidently into the crowd. Boba watched him go with a frown, mulling over his words.
Arreru watched the angry looking teenling vod follow Uncle Obi out of Dex’s with concern. He had seen liberated slaves who looked like that, all anger and uncertainty, but never a vod, at least not one as young as he.
“Who’s that, Bu?” Tor asked curiously. Tal was still distracted by the back of the booth bench, obviously contemplating attempting to copy Uncle Obi, but perked up in interest as well.
“That,” Buir sighed, a complicated look flitting over his face, “Is Boba Fett.” He paused thoughtfully before adding, “Naberrie asked me to come and bring him back to Cin Vehtin, then watch over him. He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
“Is he going to be our ori’vod too?” Tor pressed, his hands absently tracing the ridges of Buir’s bucket.
Buir frowned, meeting each of their eyes before answering slowly. “Boba is different from most vode. He wasn’t raised with the rest of us, and doesn't really know what that means.” Tor’s attention finally turned away from the bench, both his and Tal’s eyes going wide in horror at that thought. “For now, he’s just going to bunk with us. If you decide you want him as your ori’vode, that’s between you and him, but he may not accept you. Just like you can decide not to accept him. Ok?”
Tor and Tal both nodded, though they were obviously still bothered by the idea of a vod being ignorant of their clan’s ways.
Dot came rolling up then, asking if they needed anything else. Buir ordered two plates of Kalla noodles, extra spicy, and four dishes of sweet cream, the promise of the frozen treat neatly taking the boy’s attention off their thoughts about Boba, beginning to babble excitedly about the available flavors.
Arreru smiled as well. He also liked sweet cream, but he was not so easily distracted. “Where has he been, Buir?” he asked Buir quietly.
Buir turned his deep gold eyes to him, something pained and regretful in them. “That is up to him to decide to tell you or not. I have not told him anything about you, and I will do the same for him.” Arreru nodded in acceptance; it was fair, though he felt his ear twitch in irritation at the mystery. Buir chuckled. “You’re not wrong to worry for him, my son. He will need a friend, I think. But do not push him.”
Arreru hummed thoughtfully.