Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"If I may, Masters," Kenobi says, "This can also be a sign of greater unity. A Mandalorian and a Jedi's marriage can be an official first step to better relations."

It should be noted that he hasn't let go of Jango's hand since they landed on Coruscant. Jango, a grown man and experienced hunter, is wearing his trying-not-to-blush face, sporadically tapping his buy'ce as if he's regretting taking it off. He keeps looking at Jaster, as if sensing his father's smothered laughter.

Master Windu considers them impassively. He doesn't seem impressed by Jango, but Jaster knows Jedi aren't known for their good taste. Kenobi excluded, of course. "You make a point, Master Kenobi. However, you can hardly fulfill your duties away from Coruscant."

"I would travel between here and Mandalore," Jango replies, "Kenobi will remain on Coruscant."

Kenobi squeezes his fingers. "With the Mand'alor's unique situation," funny way of putting blood-sucking immortality, "his successor can make time for this arrangement."

"And what if something happens to the Mand'alor?" Windu asks.

Jaster crosses his arms. "Do you doubt my abilities, Jetti?"

"One should always have a sense of humility about one's place in the universe."

That's rich.

Kenobi speaks before Jaster or Jango can retaliate. "The arrangement would stand. In-person meetings would be less frequent, but..." he smiles at Jango, who can never help smiling back at him. "We are willing to make the concession."

The chamber falls into contemplative quiet. Master Yoda gazes at an unseen cosmos in the floor.

"Mand'alor," the gremlin finally says, "your position, give us."

Jaster snorts. "Believe me, you'd know if I objected to this. And even if I did," nodding to the couple, "they'd elope anyway."

Jango doesn't try to hide his goading smirk. Kenobi projects passive friendliness but denies nothing. A few paces from Jaster, Myles quietly coughs so he doesn't laugh. A few of the unflappable Masters look seconds away from rolling their eyes.

The doors swish open. Jaster glances over his shoulder, expecting a service droid. A tiny child is there instead, toddling as quick as his little legs can carry him. They look to be the same species as Yoda. Or maybe they are Yoda's? Though Yoda's not bonded to anyone, and he doesn't seem like the type for one-night stands.

Jaster immediately turns his thoughts from that.

The child collides with his leg, making baby noises that would melt any self-respecting Mandalorian. Jaster instantly bends to pick them up.

"Hello, little one," he says fondly, "Did you sneak off?"

"Eh!" the child says, claws clicking on Jaster's buy'ce.

"Really? You're a clever one."

"Grogu!"

The doors swish open again and Jaster thinks, Oh.

Hello.

He's never met this Mandalorian. He would have definitely remembered the glistening beskar and heaving chest. Tall, well-armed (there's a solid beskar spear on his back, where did he even get that), steady build. Capable-looking hands. Expressive buy'ce. Determined gait.

Jaster catches himself licking his lips like a fledgling. Honestly.

"Kid," the Mandalorian says, arms outstretched, "you can't just run off!" His hold on the child is practiced, affectionate despite his scolding. "I apologize, Masters."

If he finds the sight of Jango and Kenobi strange, he doesn't comment. His child is clearly his priority, as they should be.

"Not necessary," Jaster says, "Adorable troublemaker you have there, vod."

The Mandalorian huffs. "That's one way of putting it." Grogu hums happily and grips his finger. "We'll get out of your way."

"Excuse me," Kenobi calls, "I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, but what are you doing in the Temple?"

The Mandalorian looks at Grogu. "He's my Foundling, but I can't give him the training he needs. Someone who can understand him told me about this place. Said there was someone called Kenobi I could talk to."

Myles coughs louder. Jango looks almost disgustedly confused. Master Windu is very unimpressed.

Kenobi, on the other hand, is beaming. "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi!"

The Mandalorian's buy'ce tilts back a bit. "Oh. Well, good. If you have time after this meeting, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"If you could assist me first," Kenobi replies, "You are a Mandalorian, yes?"

The Mandalorian gives the distinct impression of are you kidding me. Jaster is in trouble. "....yes."

"You are parent to a child who will receive Jedi training?"

"That's the hope."

Kenobi triumphantly turns back to the Masters. "You see then, Masters, that we are not the only ones building bridges. I believe our position is a sound one."

The Mandalorian seems lost, looking back and forth between Kenobi and the Council. Jaster wants to put an arm around him. The urge is growing at a ridiculous rate. Jaster is being ridiculous.

Master Yoda hums. "Sound, it is." After a moment, he nods. "Willing to allow this, I am. Vote, we will."

"Dismissed," Windu says.

Jaster lingers behind his eager ad to fall into step with the Mandalorian, who's probably resigned himself to just go along. Because he is a good friend, Myles keeps a careful distance.

"Are you hoping Kenobi will teach your little one?" Jaster asks as they step into the corridor.

The Mandalorian shrugs, mindful of Grogu. "I was told he would help Grogu settle in. Nothing about teaching him."

When Jaster looks, Kenobi's face is shuttered. It's gone in an instant. Jango steps closer.

"Yes," Kenobi says, "I'm afraid I'm not looking for a Padawan. But there is plenty of room with the Younglings!"

"How old is he?" Jango asks.

The Mandalorian says, "Fifty."

"Really?" Kenobi says, "He looks to be of Master Yoda's species. It would make sense he ages differently."

The curious gleam in his eye is how he won Jaster over. That, and the promise of access to the Jedi Archives.

And, of course, he treats Jango well.

But also the other thing.

"I was told he could live many centuries," the Mandalorian says. "He'll be with the Younglings for a while."

Jaster doesn't think he's aware he's bouncing Grogu. Jaster is in trouble.

"That's alright," Kenobi says.

"I was...also told that your Creed allows attachments."

Kenobi takes Jango's hand again. "It was almost the opposite, if you can believe it. But that was a long time ago. You're more than welcome to visit him."

Grogu babbles excitedly. The Mandalorian's shoulders slump, just enough for the trained eye to catch.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to often," he says, voice notably lighter, "but I appreciate the opportunity." He glances at his fellows. "I'm a beroya for my tribe."

"You could always have longer visits when the others take their turn," Jango says.

The Mandalorian looks between them like he did with Kenobi and the Masters. Confused.

Jaster peers at him. "There are others? There must be."

"We're a small tribe" is the straightforward and borderline unsettling reply.

Jaster turns fully to him. "I would like to visit. As soon as your Foundling is settled."

The Mandalorian nods.

"I can direct you to one of the Masters in charge of the Younglings," Kenobi says, "I doubt you want to wait for the Council to reach a verdict."

"Thank you. That's very kind."

Kenobi smiles at Jango. "Won't be a moment, my dear."

Jango can't hide his blush this time.

Chapter Text

Din’s covert is on Nevarro, a long shot from Coruscant even with Jaster’s ship. But it’s not a hardship, especially with Din’s words still swirling in Jaster’s head.

He consoles himself with the fact that it’s an easy fix. If Jaster can speak to a Kryze without busting out a pulse rifle he can deal with whatever moron is in charge of Din’s tribe.

He and Myles alone board the ship with Din in tow. His part in Jango’s engagement is done. The Archive can wait until after this problem is solved.

Din is understandably quiet. It’s not easy to give up a foundling, even if it’s for school. Jaster and Myles give him space, talking about nothing amongst themselves. Eventually, their conversation about slug throwers coaxes Din out of his glimmering shell. It turns out he’s very knowledgeable about the subject, despite not owning one himself.

Maybe Jaster can get him one. That’s a good courting gift. Din is a good father and his arsenal—both weaponry and knowledge—is impressive. Not to mention his armor, which he reveals came from a high bounty on the very child he’s adopted. Stubborn bastards still wanting an Empire are still around—shocking—and they want Force-sensitives.

Din had taken down their base to rescue the child. After his armor had been forged.

Perhaps a few modifications on the thrower too. Yes, that will do nicely.

Three things become clear when Jaster visits Din’s covert: Din has misunderstood Jaster, Jaster has misunderstood Din, and the Armorer could steal the throne from the Mand’alor if she wanted.

She puts a fist to her chest and bows. “Mand’alor.” Her tone is no different when she addresses Din. “The foundling is secure?”

“Yes,” Din replies. Then, “Forgive me. You said Mand’alor?”

Myles’ cough is the loudest yet.

Jaster stares at the shiny helmet. “Did you…not know that?”

Din looks at the floor. “I apologize. I should have—”

“Don’t trouble yourself. Really.” Jaster chuckles. “It’s almost refreshing.”

Din looks like he’s about to say something when the Armorer interjects, “Perhaps your slip is due to fatigue, Din Djarin.” Is she his buir? That sounds like a buir name drop. “Perhaps our Mand’alor can convince you to sit.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need it,” Din instantly replies. He bows to Jaster. “As I said, there are no others like me.”

The Armorer approaches with measured steps. She is, without a doubt, this tribe’s leader. “Not here, no. That does not excuse you.”

“That is why I’m here,” Jaster says. “I’ve been told you only have one beroya. You must know that is unacceptable.”

The Armorer tilts her head. “Mand’alor, there are three beroya for this tribe.”

This is where the three things come together.

Jaster looks at Din, who looks at the Armorer, who also looks at Din.

“This hunter believes the ability to go without food or rest longer than most means he has no need for respite. His efforts are appreciated. To a point.” She bows once again to Jaster. “He is like you, Mand’alor.”

…oh.

Oh, hello again.

Jaster’s not surprised he hadn’t recognized Din as a vampire. Their armor can be imbued with strong scent blockers to assist with hunts. Din seems just as surprised as he is, turning fully to him with helmet tilted.

Although, Din really shouldn’t be. Jaster’s status is common knowledge, like his rule. Then again, he also hadn’t known Obi-Wan Kenobi. And needed to be told where to bring his foundling for Jedi training, when the largest Temple in the galaxy is obviously on Coruscant, complete with a, dare Jaster say it, sexy Archive.

You know what? Yes, he dares to say it. The Jedi Archive is the most attractive thing he’s encountered. Before today.

“All respect,” Myles says, “but—you do leave your tribe, yes? You are a beroya?”

The offense is palpable.

“Just checking.”

“So when you said there were no others like you,” Jaster says slowly, “you meant you’re the only vampire.”

Din nods.

“I believe your Armorer is correct, vod. You need to rest.”

Din’s fists clench at his sides. “I’m good for more jobs.”

“I’m sure you are, but not right now.” Jaster cocks his head. “Would you like me to make it an order?”

There’s a. Well, there’s no other word for it. Din sways—a little bit, barely noticeable. If you weren’t Mandalorian.

“Go,” Jaster orders, low and quiet.

Din staggers a step back. Then, on almost silent feet, leaves.

“I bow to your prowess,” the Armorer says amusedly. “We thank you for your assistance, Mand’alor.”

Jaster tries to laugh. He ends up awkwardly clearing his throat and, stupidly, finds himself stopping from asking if Din’s being courted by anyone. He hasn’t been this impulsive in over half a century. He swears.

“Why do you live in these sewers?” he settles on asking.

The Armorer surveys her forge. “An odd choice, perhaps, with the prosperity you have brought us. However,” looking at Jaster straight on, “you will find that if we went to the light, we would be shunned for following our Way. We do not show our faces, Mand’alor. This makes us relics, reminders of a time when our people spoke with more blood than voice.”

Jaster stiffens. “Shunning their own is not in any version of the Way.” Beside him, Myles vehemently shakes his head. “If others are so easily offended, then they should turn their resentment to me, for I have approved my son’s marriage to a Jedi.”

The Armorer says nothing. Jaster stares at her pauldron a moment, thoughts whirring. This is not a problem that can be solved in a day, perhaps even a year. But movements must start with a step.

Jaster steps forward. “If you would consent, your tribe may come with me to Mandalore. Not permanently—I would never ask what is not wanted. But I believe, if we are to be shunned, we should be shunned together.” After a pause, he adds, “Your beroya will enjoy milder weather as well.”

He doesn’t know why he mentions Din. The tribe surely has foundlings. Bringing them up would’ve made more sense.

“Yes,” Myles says, “the beroya will be very comfortable.”

Jaster is going to punch him.

“I will speak with the others,” the Armorer replies, “You are welcome to refresh yourselves in the interim.”

She sounds satisfied, as if Jaster has done exactly what she wants.

Din emerges barely half an hour later, bending down to greet a gaggle of foundlings as they rush from Jaster and Myles to clutch his waist and hang from his arms.

“He’s a natural,” Myles says.

“Shut up,” Jaster replies.

“Just saying.”

“You’re ‘just saying’ a lot of things today.”

“You get what you pay for, Mand’alor.”

Din looks around. “Where are the others?”

“The instructors are meeting with the Armorer,” Jaster says, standing, “I have invited your tribe to Mandalore.”

Din looks up sharply.

“The prejudice your Armorer spoke of is abhorrent,” Jaster continues, hands on his hips, “I will not allow it.”

With his heightened ears, he hears Din swallow.

“That’s. Very kind.” Din bows his head, only for it to be caught by a little girl who wants to use it as a drum. He gently removes her hands and scoops her up, to her raucous laughter. “Thank you for the invitation, and for looking after these little whomp rats.”

He gets plenty of shouting for this remark. He does nothing but ruffle a few heads, seemingly unaffected by the volume. Myles is annoying but he’s right: Din is a natural with children.

“So, why are you up and about?” Jaster asks, “I thought I told you to rest.”

“I did.”

“That is hardly enough time.”

Din shakes his head. “I appreciate your concern, but I know my limits.”

“Do you not have native soil to rest on?”

The comment is meant to tease. Instead, Din replies, “No.”

There’s a dull thunk as Myles smacks his palm to his forehelm.

Jaster wades through the children, almost chest to chest with Din. “What do you mean, you have no native soil.”

“I…have no native soil…?”

“What of the planet of your birth?”

“Went back for some. Didn’t work.”

“This planet?”

“No.”

“Then how the hell do you sleep?”

“I lie down and close my eyes.”

Jaster wants to bang his head. With his own head.

“If your tribe does not consent to coming with me, I am still requesting I take you.”

“…um.”

Jaster jabs his finger at Din’s breastplate. “I am Mand’alor. I will not stand by when one of my own has the self-preservation of a sand pit.” He pats a few of the children. “I will go discuss it with your Armorer.”

At first, Din doesn’t respond. When he does, it’s in a whisper: “Yes, Alor.”

Jaster makes an incredibly undignified sound. Because this day is already turning him into an idiot, so why not go the extra parsec.

Myles doesn’t even try coughing this time.

Chapter Text

They start the day after Din's tribe lands on Mandalore. Din's presence is not out of place in the windowless chamber Jaster guides him to, on the upper floors of the palace.

"This is where I go when the sun starts to ache," Jaster says, bidding Din to sit with him at the table nestled in the corner. "Are you comfortable?"

Din nods.

"Let's start with some basic questions." Jaster plants his palms on the table. "Do you remember how you were made?"

"My village was invaded," Din replies, "I felt pain. I woke in the covert. They said I kept attacking people."

A feral turning. Jaster grimaces. "I'm sorry. Your progenitor did you a great disservice."

Din's head moves slightly. "It worked out."

"The Mandalorians are fortunate. So, am I to understand you received no tutelage about our kind?"

"The others did what they could. I know I have to drink blood to survive. If I take my armor off in the sun, I burn. I sleep best underground. I don't age. I'm faster than anyone in my covert."

"Can I ask when you were turned?"

"My biological age is thirty-eight. My blood age is sixty."

"...I see. And you never thought to seek out another?"

"I had a job to do."

"You also have a duty to yourself." Jaster looks at him, this undead statue with a gentle heart. "I'd like to help you."

Din's covert stays on Mandalore for three weeks. The children are enthralled by the new sights and smells. Most of the adults are understandably wary. Yet, despite the Armorer's convictions, the tribe doesn't encounter any pushback outside of a few glances during public outings. Jaster is thrilled to give them a reason to seek the surface.

However, the tribe doesn't want to stay. The Armorer confesses her lack of knowledge of the outside world and says Mandalore has given her and her fellows much to think about. But Nevarro is their home. Nevarro is where they will stay.

Jaster gives them an open invitation to return. And an order to leave Din for another two weeks.

Turns out, Din doesn't talk much in general. He mostly speaks when spoken to, if a remark or question implies he must. For all his shining armor, he blends into the background with startling ease. Jaster finds himself compensating for it, going off on ridiculous tangents until Din is being smothered in a tale of a thirteen year old Jango shoving Myles into a sand pit only to discover the pit was actually a secret entrance to a Death Watch base. How does that relate to touring a bazaar?

But Din doesn't complain. He even laughs a few times, little tumbling huffs and nods. Jaster manages to get one story out of him in the first three weeks: Grogu, the Foundling, once out a dead womp rat in his bunk as a sign of affection. He was very proud of his kill, as was Din.

The lessons go well. Jaster can't see Din's face, but he can hear how Din's bite technique improves on the practice dummies, far more efficient and sustainable than the previous quick fixes. He makes sure Din gets a sufficient amount of blood, noting the differences between warm- and cold-blooded. Because of its ruler's species, Mandalore hosts quite a collection of vampiric texts, which Din is given free reign over during his stay. He takes advantage outside of practical learning.

It's a crash course. Jaster doesn't know the full extent of vampire history, nor does he think Din would be interested in it. He also doesn't know many other prominent vampire figures to point Din to, because as a whole vampires aren't exactly trustworthy. If Din hadn't been a Mandalorian, Jaster wouldn't have allowed him so close so quickly.

But he would have eventually. Din is everything a Mandalorian should strive to be: capable warrior and caring parent, quick to defend his beliefs and respectful of others'. He states his opinions honestly. He is good.

"I'm not calling him buir," Jango says.

"I barely know him," Jaster replies.

Jango hangs up on him. Jaster complains to Din without giving context.

Din says, "Silence is a statement."

When Jaster calls back, he tells Jango, "No one said you had to. I don't think he'd be comfortable regardless."

"I'm the newly engaged one," Jango says, "You're not stealing my thunder."

"I never said I was."

Jango hangs up again. Brat.

A month into Din's stay, Jaster receives a special delivery: a sleek, modified slugthrower.

He takes it to his office to give it a thorough look. Enhanced sights, lighter weight. The trigger and nozzle are beskar. There's a small beskar mudhorn carved exquisitely on the side, where the gun rests on the shoulder. Jaster made sure to order a belt to store the rounds. He doesn't have Din's exact measurements, but it's adjustable, sporting a mudhorn buckle.

"Damn," Silas mutters when Jaster asks his opinion. "Can I marry you instead?"

Jaster smacks his helmet.

"I'm serious, though." Silas gestures to the office's large windows, where Sundari gleams. "Any Mandalorian would kill for this thing, even if he wasn't already mooning after you."

Jaster's head snaps up. "He what."

"...I'm not paid enough. How are you doing this? No, don't answer that. I'm telling you how you're doing this."

"No you're not."

"So..."

Din has three days left on Mandalore unless he says otherwise. Since he has never once asked for anything outside of bare necessities, Jaster isn't holding his unnecessary breath.

Jaster doesn't follow Silas' advice to take Din to the gardens. After growing up in a sewer, Din likes dark, quiet spaces best. Jaster has a perfectly serviceable ship, far more impressive, with big guns and the latest tech.

Very casually, Jaster's tour leads to the small armory. He's hidden the slugthrower among the other guns, planning on revealing it once he's pulled his shit together.

He should've known better. Din sees it instantly, all but snatching it off the rack. Takes less than a second for him to freeze, gloved fingers hovering over the mudhorn signet.

Jaster snorts. "Well, there you have it, I suppose."

"This is..." Din's visor bores into Jaster's.

Jaster steps closer, keeping his gait loose. "I had a plan. But you have a warrior's eye."

Din's not breathing.

Jaster nods to the slugthrower. "Do you like it?"

"It's...it's well made."

"Comes with an ammo belt. A well made weapon for a true Mandalorian."

"I only follow the Way."

"There is no 'only' about you or your deeds, Din. I would like to show you that, if you'll let me."

Din's fingers flex around the gun. "I can't leave my tribe."

That's not a no. Keep calm, Mereel. "I would never ask you to." Jaster touches the slugthrower. "One when apart."

Din stiffens. "You. You mean it."

"Did you want another slugthrower?"

"Mand'alor, I'm...honored." Din carefully places the slugthrower back on the rack. "May I?"

Jaster doesn't know what he means, but he nods. Slowly, gently, Din grips his upper arms and presses their foreheads together.

Oh.

"I can't give you anything like that," Din whispers.

"You give me something better."

"Better than a slugthrower?"

Jaster places his hands on his hips. "Yes."

Din clearly hadn't expected a serious answer. Jaster slides his arms all the way around his waist, lightly nuzzling their helmets. Din gasps.

"Is this a yes?" Jaster murmurs.

Tentatively, Din nuzzles back. "Yes."

Mandalore's soil lets Din rest.