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The baby floats in the growth tube, their unbelievably tiny limbs supported by clear, viscous fluid, unmistakably human and undeniably alive.
Jango watches his child's gentle movements, the peaceful expression on their face, and suddenly he's loath to disturb them, to remove them from the enveloping warmth that's the only thing they've ever known and bring them out into the harsh discomforts of the galaxy.
He's come prepared, a set of soft washcloths stacked on the table next to him, made of handspun fibers so fine they feel like nothing against his work-rough hands. He's already unfolded the blanket, purchased from an elderly Twi’lek’i tailor he’d only ever patronized for new flightsuits—the very first purchase he'd made with his child in mind. She had been delighted, spending an excited hour with him detailing various fabrics and patterns before he’d wised up and asked her what she preferred, reminded all the while of Roz’s fond, unsubtle maneuvering. He’s even remembered to mix and warm a bottle of the formula he’d bought after days upon days of careful research, ready for an eager mouth, a hungry stomach.
The Kaminoans work in silence around him, efficient and thorough as they prepare for the— decanting, is what they keep calling it, and even though it's probably more accurate a term than birth it feels far too impersonal for Jango’s taste. It’s too clinical, too efficient; there’s nothing in it of the months he’s spent watching his child grow, his discomfort and pain and emotional turmoil.
He’s still not sure he’s made the right decision, asking Tyranus and the Kaminoans for a child as payment. Standing there on Kohlma, in front of a man who’d just strangled a Dark Jedi to her death without so much as laying a hand on her, it had been a final, desperate bid—a way to make something out of an impossible contract he had no choice but to accept. He knows now, as he’d suspected even then, that his child is vulnerable; that they’ll be another method of control, something for Tyranus to use against him and insurance for the Kaminoans should anything happen to him. And yet, he can’t deny the yearning that’s been in his chest since Roz started pushing at him about his future: to pour all of the soft parts of himself into a life worth living, a purpose beyond just work.
He runs his fingers along the edge of the blanket, where the hand-stitched seams are so delicate they’re practically invisible. The thick, plush pile envelops his fingertips when he smoothes out the corner, restless in his nervousness as he waits for the Kaminoans to finish whatever it is they need to do before Jango can meet his child alone in this cold, sterile room. Idly, he hopes that the blanket will be warm enough, soft enough, to soothe their discomfort: from the harsh room, from his rough hands, from the aches and pains of early childhood.
He’s been around the Kaminoans for long enough that he’s no longer unnerved by their fluid motion as they leave the room one by one, just as silent as they’d been while working, until only Taun We is left.
“The child is ready for decanting,” she tells him.
Jango nods once in acknowledgement, straightening from the table.
“Would you like me to stay?” Taun We asks him.
Jango’s first instinct is to refuse her outright. He hesitates, though; mulls it over for a moment. Throughout this entire process, Jango’s time on Kamino being poked and prodded and tested by Kaminoan scientists who see him as a poorly-optimized curiosity at best, none of them have ever bothered to call this first clone Jango’s child. The product, they’ve said when he’s asked for updates. The Alpha. 00. None of them save Taun We, who didn’t apologize the first—the only—time Jango corrected her but who has never referred to his child as anything else ever since.
That doesn’t change the fact that she’s still one of them. Having her stay for the birth of Jango’s child feels like a cheap substitute—a sacrilege, if he’s being honest with himself—for all of the people who should be with him instead.
“No,” Jango says, and he has enough good will towards her that it doesn’t take much effort to keep his tone polite. “If it’s not necessary, I’d rather you leave.”
“Very well,” Taun We replies, bowing her neck slightly before gesturing smoothly towards the child. “Please allow the fluid to drain entirely before removing the child from the growth jar. We will continue work on the modified specimens.”
No mention of what he should do if something goes wrong, Jango thinks as she glides out of the room, the door swishing shut behind her. The Kaminoans take so much pride in their production that there’s no reason for them to think anything might go awry.
All those bitter thoughts disappear as he peers down at the child still serenely sleeping in front of him. His child, who he’s about to meet. Who’s stirring, ever-so-slightly, as the seal on their growth tube breaks with a near-silent hiss of air and the fluid inside begins to drain.
Jango reaches blindly for a washcloth, nearly knocking over the entire pile in his haste, but there’s no need to rush; the change is slow and gentle enough that the baby has time to adjust. And then the tube is drained, and the seal pops open, and the child is exposed to the open world.
They blink their eyes open groggily, their tiny wrinkled face scrunched up in concentration under the wet shock of tight black curls on their head. When they look up at him, their deep, familiar brown eyes meeting his gaze, Jango’s heart skips a beat.
The moment, quiet and world-shattering, is broken when the child lets out a healthy wail, putting their newly dry lungs to use in immediate protest.
“I know, I know,” Jango murmurs soothingly, reaching into the tube and pulling his child—his child—out and into his arms. The washcloth he’s still clutching in one hand has become an afterthought as he holds them close to his chest, thankful the shirt he’s wearing is soft and worn.
He settles the still-wailing child against himself, maneuvering gently to hold them with one arm, finally swabbing at any skin he can reach with the washcloth, hyperconscious of how the fluid still glistening on the baby’s warm brown skin must be making the cold of the room even more biting.
A washbasin, he thinks ruefully, bouncing the child lightly as he attempts to wipe them clean. In all of his preparation, he forgot to bring a bath of warm water to dip the washcloths into.
Still, something in his unpracticed motions seems to soothe the child. Maybe it’s the contact, or the softness of the fabric, or the way that whatever fluid Jango hasn’t yet cleaned is quickly drying, or maybe it’s simply the exhaustion of being thrust into so many new experiences at once. Regardless, the child quiets, loud wails mellowing into hiccupping sobs that settle into gratifyingly steady breaths as they fall asleep once again in Jango’s arms.
It’s the most natural thing in the galaxy, to lower his face to that of his child until their foreheads meet in a moment of connection that Jango hadn’t even realized he’d been starving for. The baby’s skin is damp and mildly sticky with the still-drying fluid from the growth chamber, but Jango knows his own brow is dotted with cold, nervous sweat. His eyes shut of their own accord, and he holds his breath just so he can feel his child’s steady exhales against his skin. His chest feels fit to burst, so full of this tangle of emotions that he could spend a lifetime picking apart: euphoria; relief; the too-familiar bitter taste of grief and a million other things he’s never felt before.
He’s a father.
The thought hits him full-force, all at once, and it feels overwhelmingly simple even in his own head but there’s a difference between knowing it in the abstract and knowing it in the shockingly slight weight of his child in his arms.
He pulls back before the prickle of tears building in his eyes manifests into something more tangible. He’ll have plenty of time for that later; now, his child needs his full attention.
The used washcloth is tossed haphazardly back onto the table’s surface. He lays the child delicately onto the unfolded blanket, taking care with their limbs, the back of their head. He folds the edges of the blanket up and around just the way the Twi’lek’i tailor taught him in her shop when he’d stopped by to pick up the finished linens, her son offering suggestions without looking up from his embroidery and her grandchild grinning gummily up at him, delighted to be the center of attention even as he’d worked clumsily to wrap her up.
It’s much easier to do with a sleeping child, he decides as he finishes the final tuck. Satisfied, he steps back to just breathe a moment, to collect himself even a little; as he does, he realizes he’s forgotten the most important part of swaddling a child.
The noise he makes is full of resignation, all of it directed at himself, unexpectedly loud in the silent room. It rings in his head a little, and as he reaches for the diamond-woven diapercloth he remembers another piece of child-rearing advice, this one from the countless parenting blogs he’s anxiously scoured over the past several months: children need stimulation, to be spoken to, reminded and reassured that they’re not alone.
Jango has made silence his friend over the past several years, out of necessity more than anything. He’d never particularly enjoyed talking in the first place, but— well. When he’d had people, they had been more than happy to fill his quiet for him.
He doesn’t know where the memory comes from. It’s an old song, passed down between the old farmers’ clans on Concord Dawn. The words escape him after all these years, but the melody remains clear in his mind even though he hasn’t heard it since he was a boy himself. It’s a gentle song, low and slow enough that he can hum it unselfconsciously, without any worry of waking his child as he pulls the blanket back and wraps their lower half in the soft diaper, snug and secure.
The blanket is even easier to wrap the second time. The entire process, fumbling and redone, has taken a matter of minutes, but his arms still feel bereft without the weight of his child. He lifts them back up carefully, supporting their body and the base of their head, and the entire time the only coherent thought in his head is a mild sort of shock at how perfectly they fit against him; how their vulnerable neck and soft head fit into his cupped palm, how he can tuck them in against his chest with one arm.
He dips his chin down automatically, brushing his mouth against his child’s forehead in a kiss light enough that they won’t wake. From there it’s all too simple to tilt his head down until their foreheads meet again, noses brushing gently in another Keldabe kiss that’s equally gentle. When he pulls back, though, the baby is staring up at him, their warm brown eyes wide and bright in their warm brown face.
“Hello, little one,” Jango murmurs, the Mando’a rolling off his tongue with ease even though he can’t remember the last time he spoke it aloud.
The baby blinks up at him, curious, and while Jango could stand here for the rest of his life staring down at his child in quiet awe, he needs to feed them before they start crying from discomfort again.
He reaches for the bottle with his free hand, checking the temperature against his wrist without looking away from his child. It’s perfect, warm enough on the outside that he knows the liquid inside will be just right for drinking, and when he brings the bottle up to their mouth they latch on, curious and trusting as they suck once before diving in eagerly to drink the rest.
“Easy,” Jango soothes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a fond smile. “What’s the rush, hmm?”
He keeps a firm grasp on the bottle, tilting it gently as his child drinks their fill. Finally, they turn their head away, and Jango sets the bottle aside in favor of a fresh washcloth to wipe the errant drops from their cheek and the hollow of their throat.
The child blinks up at him drowsily, but Jango has one more thing he needs to do before he can let them sleep.
He opens his mouth to say the words, but they get caught in his throat, snagging on the jagged edges of his emotions and their own weight. He swallows, once, clears his throat roughly, before he tries again.
“Boba,” he blurts, and the child opens their eyes again, startled from where they’d begun settling into sleep. “Boba,” he says again, steadier this time and quieter, too, “I know your name as my child.” He bites the inside of his lip hard enough to ground himself in the moment, watching Boba’s eyes droop shut before he continues in a hoarse whisper, “And I give you my name as your clan.”
There’s more, he knows, in the traditional vows for the birth of a child on Concord Dawn, but he’s never been one for words even if he could remember them. The promises are all ones he intends to keep, anyway; love and protection and the sharing of all he has.
Later, when he's alone in his apartment, Boba sleeping soundly in the only room he's outfitted enough to be able to call a home, he will weep at the miracle that is his child, alive only because Jango wanted them. At all the empty spaces in his life where every person he’s ever cared for should be, in flesh and blood and not just in the memories they’ve left him. Now, though, he arranges Boba so that their head is tucked securely against his shoulder, cradles their sleeping form close and rocks them gently, and allows himself one moment of pure, quiet peace.