Chapter Text
The first time they met was through an act of malice and betrayal.
Obi-Wan, not quite 13, taken captive to demoralise his not-quite-Master. Enslaved by Xanatos, his masters former padawan.
A darksider who’d promised he would never be found before sending him to the deep-sea mines below.
Jango , all of 14, taken captive to demoralise their Mand’alor , his Buir . Betrayed by Montross, his Buir ’s second in command.
A shabuir who had promised him Jaster would die grieving him before selling him to Off World Mining.
Neither knew which traitor had decided that it would be entertaining to imprison a Jedi and a Mandalorian together.
Neither had to guess the reason.
But trapped in cell-like rooms, bomb collars around their necks, forced into soul-crushing labour, neither boy was willing to further the feud.
.
Jango had understood that the child in the cell was supposed to be his enemy but, in his mind, he couldn’t quite connect the exhausted, dirty, scrawny child to the powerful dangerous Jetiise.
He'd been thrown into the cell with force by two guards, and the door squealed shut behind him. The man who had been following them swanned around on the other side of the cell, looking overjoyed, practically singing as he called out into the cell.
“Obi-Wan, little brother...?”
The boy looked up from where he’d been slumped against the wall, head down, and the... the shereshoy in his face surprised him. He hadn’t expected such a lust for life in the face of someone who looked so beaten down.
“You have a cell mate. This is Jango, he’s a Mandalorian. Have fun, little Jedi.”
There was a burning fire in the boy's eyes as the other had made his announcement, but he held his tongue. It vanished as soon as they left, and the boy, Obi-Wan dropped his head back down, shuffling back into the corner of the cell, curling up as though he fully expected Jango to hurt him and was completely resigned to it.
Then again, the yellow eyed man had called him brother ... If he couldn’t trust family what reason did he have to trust a Mando?
Clearly, he didn’t know that Mando’ade would never dare harm an ad.
“It’s ok, I won’t hurt you.”
“Why not?”
The question threw him slightly, the Jet’ika definitely didn’t know the finer points of Mandalorian culture. The amused huff, weary tone and bruises painted an awful image in his mind but they also steeled his determination.
“Because you’re adiik, because you’ve done no wrong. Because if we’re going to be stuck in here, we should at least be civil.”
“ So what, we’re in this together?”
“It looks that way, Jet’ika.”
“Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan Kenobi. He/him.”
“Jango Fett, he/him.”
“You should eat that, it’s the only meal you’ll get today.”
“It looks like mud.”
“Tastes like wet dust. But it’ll keep you alive.”
He complied with the... with Obi-Wan's recommendation.
It did taste like wet dust.
From what he could tell they were deep enough that there was no day or night, just work hours and rest period, but the cell was cold and the longer he stayed still the colder he got. As he started to get up to move about and warm up, however, Obi-Wan spoke up again.
“Don’t waste your energy. They'll work you to death, beat you, shock you for the slightest infraction and without good reason. Save whatever energy you have, you’ll need it.”
Even in the dull light, he could see that Obi-Wan was pale and practically emaciated and the bags under his eyes served as frames for eyes that held a deep exhaustion. Under the collar was livid red from the shocks, and his body was riddled with bruises of various ages. He had to have been here for some time, surely someone should have found him by now. He was so young. And a Jetii. Didn't the Jetiise look after their own?
“How long have you been here?”
“About a month, I think. Can’t be certain, but Xanatos likes to taunt me.”
“The shabuir who put us in here together and called you brother?”
“ M’hm . He... it’s complex. But he wants revenge for a perceived betrayal and taking me was a big part of it. He liked to taunt me with how far anyone is from finding me.”
If he had to guess, his dar’vod had fallen out with their Buir , and the huut’un had decided going after his vod’ika was revenge. He hadn’t even known Jetiise had aliit like this, but then, he’d never really thought about it.
“They will find us, my aliit or yours. They will, or we’ll escape ourselves.”
“You’re very willing to work with a Jedi.”
“You’re willing to work with a Mando. Besides, we’re trapped in here together, might as well work with it.”
“I’m willing to help you survive here. To be a Jedi is to help others no matter what.”
“Of course, it is. Although, let's be real, you’re half a Jetii. You're tiny.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, how old are you, 9?”
“9, how dare you? I'm 12. Or 13. I don’t know exactly. My birthday is somewhere around here.”
Oh Ka’ra, this poor ad. He did not look 12 or 13. He was tiny, but how much of that was weight loss and having his soul crushed by the slavers. At least his tone had been light, the fire back in his eyes.
At least.
Ka'ra , this boy was only a year or so younger than him. How was this scrap of a boy only a year younger than him?
“If I'm not supposed to waste energy, how am I supposed to stay warm?”
“Deal with it, like everyone else?”
His tone wasn’t harsh, more resigned than anything, but his answer was fair. They didn’t have blankets, or anything else that worked that way, the cell was tiny and basically bare and he’d already been suffering this a month.
It took a week for Jango to want to break down and cry. Forget being the Ad’be’Alor , forget being ori’ramikad, he just wanted to give up.
How the hells had Obi-Wan managed this for over a month?
His body had never hurt this much, he’d never felt so broken and unwanted. There was something so demoralising about this place, and it was likely designed that way. He wondered how awful it must be for someone who could ‘feel evil and hurt’ the way jetiise were supposed to be able to.
Their cell was small, enough room for them both to sit or lie down, but little more than that, a bucket in the corner for everything else. They were given water, but only one meal between them both. He was happy to share it, or to rotate who ate each day, but it hurt to think that his cellmate would be forced to eat even less than usual. He did his best to make sure Obi-Wan was getting larger portions but it was clearly beginning to slow him down.
Then there was the oppressive cold, seizing his muscles and weakening him little by little.
The fifth night was the coldest since he’d arrived, and Obi-Wan had been shivering so much it had to have been painful. Despite his generosity, the boy had been wary of him getting close, and he’d been happy to respect that, but Jango couldn’t let him freeze.
Ob’ika didn’t protest when Jango pulled him in close to his side, just curled his head into Jango’s shoulder with another shiver. It hadn’t been much, and he knew there was little he could really do, but it felt like he was doing something to protect this ad.
They slept that night together, sharing body heat through thin and torn clothes.
That night and every night after.
That was the catalyst, and from then on, they had become not just allies but friends.
They watched each other's backs, picked each other up when they fell, bandaged each other's wounds and protected one another wherever and whenever they could.
There was no-one else who cared so they had to.
Half way through of Obi- Wan's third month, and Jango’s second, they had a plan for escape, and with the discovery of bombs hidden around the mines, they had urgency and motivation to work fast. How the ad’ika had managed to hold such passion and fire though everything was stunning, and he had to wonder if this was what Jetii were really like... if all of them cared this much? Were this passionate about saving others, this willing to die to save even one other life?
Or was it just Ob’ika , a special soul among the Jetiise .
What if he came back to Mandalore instead, Jango couldn’t help but wonder? Be away from the Jetii who might destroy the fire he could see here? But they were his culture and his people and, in the darkness and cold of the night, all of Obi- Wan's stories had been told with love and wistfulness.
It was half way through their escape that the Jetii, Jinn, arrived, security forces in tow.
They were freed.
For a month and a half , their backgrounds hadn’t mattered, surviving had mattered.
But that time was over and the real world awaited them.
It was only as he watched the shuttle take off taking Obi-Wan back to the Jetiise to become Master Jinn’s padawan and that Jango realised they’d parted with no way to communicate.
And worse, that Obi-Wan might not want to...
It took a few hours to escape the healers that had come to help with freeing the slaves, making for a spaceport he knew was frequented by Haat Mando’ade. By the end of the day, he was on his way home.
His choice to burst into his Buir’s council chambers was questionable, and had certainly felt insensitive to his Buir afterwards, but the look on Montross’ face had been worth it.
His Buir had all but launched himself from his Throne, practically flying across the room, the force of his hug knocking the air out of Jango, checking his bruises and the thick marks on his neck from the collar and running his hands though his hair for bumps before pulling him in again.
“Oh ner ad. Oh Jan’ika. Gar su’cuyi. Gar nu kyr’adyc.”
“Buir.” he allowed himself to clasp on tightly. He was safe, he was home.
The guards, who’d allowed him entry and heard the brief of his story, were tackling Montross, who was still gaping in surprise as he was hauled out of the room.
He was safe in his Buir’s arms and the dar’manda being hauled away and for the first time in over a month, he let himself relax. There were hundreds of Mando’ade between him and any of the slavers that might have escaped. His Buir stood between him and the darkness of the galaxy.
Something in him, some mental security measure he’d created, broke when he relaxed, and he slumped into his Buir ’s hold, suddenly so exhausted he could barely hold himself. He didn’t notice his Buir dismiss the council or call for a baar’ur or lift him into his arms and carry him to his room.
He didn’t notice falling asleep either.
When he woke, he panicked a little, before he managed to realise the sheets and pillows were his own, that he was warm and safe, that the hand in his hair was no threat but comfort.
“Udesii. Udesii, ad’ika. Gar morut’yc.”
“ Buir ?”
“You’re ok, ad’ika.”
“I’m home?”
“Elek. Montross will be punished. I promise you. He told me you were dead, ad. He told me and I trusted him.”
“We both trusted him. He betrayed us.”
He was in his bed, he was safe, he was ok.
Well, he would be. The baar’ur had re-cleaned his injuries and declared him dangerously underweight. But he would recover, and he was home.
He would recover, he would retrain and join the war against the growing threat of Kyr’tsad.
His time with the Jetii who wasn’t at all like the ones in the songs faded from his thoughts.