Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“ Buir , can you tell me the story about Ben again?”

“Again? It feels like you ask for this every night, Bob’ika.”

“Nuh-uh! I asked for the one about Mand’alor Vizsla last night!”

“Oh, how could I forget? Alright, Boba, Ben it is.”

“Vor’e!”

“Alright, eyaya’ika, get tucked in real good, because this is the story of Ben, the greatest man I ever knew and the only one I ever loved…”

There was a figure on the horizon, slowly yet steadily making their way across the barren landscape towards the camp. They limped, clutching one arm close to their chest, and stumbled often, yet they never ceased their trek. For a while, Jango had just stood there at the edge of camp, Myles by his side, watching them. He wasn’t quite sure what to do yet; the person could be anyone, after all, up to and including Kyr’tsad. Jango couldn’t rule anything out.

As the figure marched onwards, Myles elbowed him none-too-gently. “Come on, ‘Alor, you’re not just gonna leave them to it?”

“I’m considering it.” Jango’s arms remained stiffly crossed over his chest.

“Come on , Jango, you can’t seriously think that mess right there is Kyr’tsad?”

“Who else would be this far out?”

“Uh, for one, us .”

Against his will, Jango snorted. “That we are, vod. I wonder whose bright idea that was?”

“I wonder indeed.” Beneath his blue-lined helmet, Myles was no doubt eyeing Jango. Right. This may or may not have been Jango’s idea.

They held their positions for a moment, Jango staring out at the person crossing the waste, Myles drilling holes into the side of his head. Finally, Jango relented. When Myles really, really got stuck on something, in some cases it was best to let him win. “Fine. I’ll go get them.”

Myles threw his hands up in the air. “Mar’e! Thank the manda, he gives in! There is hope for Mandalore!”

“Myles?”

“Yes, ‘Alor?”

“Remind me to smack you first thing when I get back.”

“Osik.”

Jetpack flaring, Jango took to the sky, letting the grainy dirt of the planet’s surface cloud up over Myles’s visor behind him. 

As he approached the humanoid, he was able to pick out more details of their appearance. Beneath a ratty, torn cloak walked what appeared to be a Human. Their face was pale and burned from the harsh desert sunlight, and the rest of their exposed skin was similarly red. Blood, clotting and sticky, smeared around several visible wounds. Clearly exhausted and running on tibanna fumes, they still managed to keenly track Jango as he approached. 

Jango pulled to a stop, his jetpack once again kicking up a tiny storm as he landed. The force of the wind blew the hood from the being’s head, revealing a close-cropped head of red - coppery, metallic, glinting beneath the sunlight - hair.

“It’s him! It’s Ben!”

“Do you want to be the one to tell the story, ad’ika?”

“No, no, you do it better! I want you to tell it!”

“I’m glad I’m still good at something in your eyes. Now, where were we…”

Jango stared at the humanoid. Matching that red hair was a slash across their head; not deep enough to expose bone, but certainly enough that Jango worried about a concussion. “Hey, verd, you alright?” He stepped closer, wrapping their unhurt arm around his shoulder to get some of the weight off whichever leg of theirs was bothering them most; by the looks of it, their left one.

“Hm?” they asked, their pupils struggling to focus on Jango. Yep, definitely concussed. “Oh, no, no need. I’m quite alright, thank you.” 

That was a Core accent, and up close they looked to be about Jango’s age. What were they doing here, stranded in the desert? Had they walked all this way? “Yeah, no, that’s not happening. You’re coming with me.”

Jango must have said something wrong, because that immediately incited a struggle from the person, despite their wrecked state. They flung their injured arm - now that Jango could see it clearly, he spotted a bad break in the forearm, a hint of jagged bone poking through the skin - at his face. Being smacked by a horrifically broken arm was not an experience that he’d recommend. At any rate, their increased flailing only seemed to hurt them more, Jango’s beskar’gam keeping him from being anything more than inconvenienced by the errant limbs.

Sighing, Jango unslung their free arm and faced the humanoid head-on, holding their arms in his own. They only had a moment to pause their protests with a look of confusion on their face before Jango hit them with a Keldabe Kiss. A bit intimate, sure, but when he was stuck trying to hold them in place, it got the job done. 

Unable to protect themself from a direct hit from a beskar helm, they dropped like a stone. Jango caught them deftly and swung them up into his arms. He gave himself a moment to settle into position before igniting his jetpack and setting off back toward camp.

“What’s that look for, Boba?”

“Nothing, buir.”

“You haven’t been able to fool me with that innocent look since you were five.”

“How’re they looking, Mij?”

The doctor turned around to face Jango with a sigh, rolling his eyes heavily. Jango took note of the scalpel gripped tight in his hand. “They’d be looking better if you didn’t come into my tent every two minutes just to ask that, ‘Alor.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I endeavor to make your life difficult,” Mij granted. “I have no clue how they were still walking by the time you found them - by all means, they should’ve collapsed ages ago - but it certainly isn’t pretty.”

Jango grunted. “I saw the arm, and the leg.”

“How observant of you, to spot the two most obvious injuries of all time.”

Raising one hand to rub at his brow, Jango replied, “You know, at some point this should be labeled insubordination.”

“And when that happens you know exactly where to find me. Now. Your mystery humanoid. You’ve found us a Stewjoni’ad, roughly your age, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with quite a few nasty scars already. If I’m not mistaken - and I never am - a couple of them look like slugthrower remnants.”

Slugthrowers? Now those were a rare sight in the galaxy. Reserved mostly for underdeveloped worlds that didn’t have access to tibanna gas trade for blaster packs, as well as the odd Mando’ad looking to take down a Force-user, most sentients could live their lives without ever seeing one. Being shot by one? 

Jango looked down at the unconscious body with newfound respect, and no small amount of curiosity. Just what had this person been doing to end up here?

“Go on.”

“In addition to the open fracture on the left forearm and the torn MCL, they’ve got a hell of a concussion and a few new stitches in their head. Ribs are bruised, not broken, but I’m putting them on fluids; they’re dehydrated and not as well-fed as I’d like. I’ve got a bit more to do here, mostly on the arm, but after that it’s just a waiting game to see what they do when they wake up.”

Jango nodded. “Let me know when that happens. Vor’e, Mij.”

“Just doing my job, ‘Alor.”

With that, Jango left the tent behind, stepping back out into the desolate glare of Mandalore’s sun and quickly stifling it beneath his buy’ce. His first stop? Back to Myles. He still needed to smack the idiot.

Passing through the camp, Jango made sure to acknowledge as many of his people as he could. The Haat Mando’ade were a ragged, displaced group, and frequent encounters with Kyr’tsad, the so-called ‘New Mandalorians,’ and Republic forces had thinned their numbers. They were certainly the best of his people, veins running strong with mandokar, but times were hard. Sometimes the sight of their Mand’alor was what it took to raise morale, and that was barely any hardship to provide. 

Sometimes Jango stopped for conversation: a greeting here, a polite inquiry about someone’s ade there, and the occasional mark about someone’s performance in their last skirmish with Kyr’tsad. Finally, crossing the densely-packed tents, he found his target. “Myles!”

“Yeah?”

“C’mere, vod!”

Wide-eyed, Myles turned to spot Jango marching toward him with deadly intent in his step. “Oh, kriff!”

“I’ve got a promise to deliver on!”

“Usen’ye!”

“Is that any way to talk to your Mand’alor, vod?”

Darting through the tents, Myles continued his stream of profanities.

“Come on, Myles, there are children present!”

“The children can deal with it! I’m trying to save my face! My beautiful, beautiful face!”

“Sure, if the backside of a rancor is beautiful!”

At that, Myles actually stopped, an abrupt thing straight out of the holovids. One finger raised accusingly, he spun to face Jango, a sputtering “How dare you!” on the tip of his tongue before Jango caught up to him. His gambit had paid off. 

Slap!

Myles crumpled to the ground, both gloved hands clutching his cheek as he turned to face the sky. “Oh, great stars, take me now! My leader has forsaken me, my childhood friend betrayed me, the love of my life-”

Chuckling, Jango butted in. “The only love you have is for a mirror, di’kut.”

“How will I tell him what you’ve done to me, Jango? Our love will never be the same.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll get over it.”

He sat up like the pain he’d moaned over hadn’t existed in the first place. “Jango, no! You can’t leave me like this! Think of the children!”

“The ade can view this as a lesson in why you don’t piss off your ‘alor. Isn’t that right?”

Several small faces peeked out from tent flaps before one enterprising ad darted out, the rest quickly following suit. Ka’ra, the oldest of them must have only been nine standard. Had he ever been this small? “‘Lek, ‘Alor!”

“Who can tell me what Myles did wrong?”

One little zabrak actually raised her hand like she was in a classroom. “He stopped when you made fun of him.”

“Jate, Evim! He let his emotions make the wrong choice, and he got punished for it. If he hadn’t gotten so angry and stopped, he might’ve made it. I only say ‘might’ because, well.” He winked. “Nothing really gets away from me.”

The ade tittered, and then another one - this one a Kiffar named Yorel - ducked away from the group to stand by Myles. Sitting up, Myles was still taller than the kid, but he obligingly leaned closer when Yorel waved him over. The kid stood on his tiptoes and gave Myles a kiss on his slightly-reddened cheek, saying, “My buir always gives me kisses when I get hurt! Now you’re all better!”

“My hero! I feel better already!” Myles fawned, squeezing Yorel in a hug and looking over at Jango as if to say how is he this adorable? Jango only shrugged in response. Such was the wonderful mind of an adiik.

An idea popped into Jango’s head. Crouching down, he gestured for the ade to huddle up around him. As Myles stayed with Yorel, soaking up the little Kiffar’s ministrations, Jango shared his plan with the crowd. Giggles fluttered across the group, mischievous smiles gracing every face. This was what it meant to be Mandolorian. Jango grinned.

“On three, adike. Sol,” and the kids turned around, eagerly facing Myles, “t’ad,” and Myles, still oblivious, stayed focused on Yorel, engaged in quiet conversation with the little boy, “ehn! Oya!”

The shout alerted Myles, who looked at him sharply, but it was too late. The minor army of adike was already on their way, tiny arms raised as they shouted tiny battlecries, echoing “Oya!” in their high-pitched voices. Without any hesitation, they dogpiled Myles, pulling Yorel in after them, leaving the ori’ramikad, renowned for his strength and capability in battle, one of the people Jango trusted most, to fall back to the ground, buried beneath the ade.

He raised one arm through the squirming pile, grasping at air, shouting “No! I...am...defeated!” With an exaggerated “ Blegh !” in his death throes, Myles let his arm go limp. The ade had won.

“Oya!” Evim shouted, prompting an array of cheers from the rest of the adike, victorious in their hunt. Laughing, Jango echoed the sentiment. 

“Go find your buire! Tell them I sent you to get your spoils of war. Tonight, you feast!”

Celebrating once more, the children darted off of Myles and scattered to find their buire, no doubt with embellished retellings of their glorious battle and aak-eyes ready to get their candy. Jango plopped down next to his second. “Come on, vod, up you get.”

“No, I’m dead.” His head stayed tilted to the side, his tongue stuck out. “You got the ade to kill me.”

“I’ve seen you take on four Kyr’tsad barehanded and win. You’ll be fine .”

“Don’t underestimate them, Jango! They’re devious! Their hands can fit anywhere!”

“Sure, Myles. Sure.”

“Now leave me to my rightful demise. Maybe then you’ll appreciate what I did for you.” He hmphed dramatically. 

Rolling his eyes, Jango nudged him with the toe of his boot. “Get up.”

“Ancestors? Ba’buire? Ba’vodu’e? I can see your faces!”

“You’re hallucinating, di’kut. Maybe those kids really did get to you. Seems all it takes to rattle your thick skull are a couple adike.”

Myles reached an arm out to grab him, latching onto his leg and pulling himself forward. “You haven’t seen the thing I’ve seen, vod. The horrors.” His eyes went wide. “The atrocities.”

Chuckling good-naturedly, Jango shoved him back. It quickly devolved into a war of pushing each other, Myles rising to wrestle with him. Two of their leaders roughhousing on the ground like younglings was no unusual sight to see, so really the most any passerby would do was step around them and shout encouragements at them. The pair rolled and rolled over each other until a shout drew them from their game. “Mand’alor!”

Instantly, they stopped. Separating, Jango scrambled to his feet, offering a hand up to Myles. Approaching from across camp was Silas, a younger soldier who’d completed his verd’goten only a year or so prior. His beskar’gam - green with blue accents, duty and reliability - was shiny and polished despite the dust that pervaded the camp, an easy marker of a newer verd. Shininess still mattered to the shinies. “Report,” came his sharp bark, no time wasted in switching from Jango Fett, the regular man, to Mand’alor Fett, the responsible leader. 

“Baar’ur Gilmar sent me, ‘Alor.” Silas was panting a bit from his rush to get to Jango. “The person you found; they’re awake.”

“Finally, the good part!”

“The good part? What, me going about my day isn’t the good part?”

“Well, you’re boring , buir.”

“My own ad, betraying me. I don’t know where I went wrong in raising you.”

The medical tent’s flap flew open as Jango rushed in. He slowed his pace upon entering its confines, cautious of the beds with patients and many sharp surgical tools placed on rolling tables. Removing his buy’ce, his eyes caught on Mij, whose back was turned to him as he attempted to placate the redhead, who was sitting up despite their injured state. 

They’d been unconscious not long ago. How had they had the strength to get up already? Jango’s assessment of them rose. “ Ahem .”

“Ah, Mand’alor!” Mij turned to him with relief written plainly across his face. “Maybe you’ll be the one to convince this di’kut that this is for their own good .” He wasted no time in glaring at the Stewjoni, wielding a hypo in one hand threateningly.

“Mand’alor?” the Stewjoni’ad asked, turning their attention to Jango. They were still concussed, but far more lucid than when Jango had found them, and he found himself feeling uncomfortably exposed under their pale blue gaze. One pupil was noticeably more dilated than the other, and yet they stared contemplatively. “Last I checked, Tor Vizsla was paler. And his beskar’gam was painted differently.”

Jango stiffened. “Tor Vizsla? That hut’tuun? You think he’s Mand’alor?”

“Oh, goodness, no.” Their gaze didn’t waver. “But last I checked, he was the one they called Mand’alor around me.”

“Kyr’tsad.”

“It appears to be so.”

Glancing at Mij, Jango pulled out a chair and sat at the human’s bedside, helmet balanced on his thigh. “You escaped them, then?”

“So it would seem.” Great. They were annoyingly evasive. Jango sighed.

“Well then. Jango Fett, he/him, Mand’alor and Haat Mando’ad, at your service. Do you know how you got here?” 

Their eyes widened and though the tension didn’t leave their frame, it at least lessened somewhat. That was a good sign. “ Oh .” They did their best approximation of a bow as Mij tsked warningly. “Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor Fett. Ben Kenobi, he/him. I’m not quite sure how I got here, actually. It’s something of a blur.”

Kenobi, Kenobi, where did Jango recognize that name from? It was Stewjoni, unlike the name Ben, but - oh, haar’chak, his mind was blanking on it. It was likely unimportant, and he’d have plenty of time to figure it out later. For now, “I found you out in the wastes, just walking. We don’t know of any Kyr’tsad camps near here. So either you walked one hell of a long way here, there’s a camp we don’t know about near here, or,” he leaned in, “Kyr’tsad left you here for us as a spy.”

Kenobi flinched, though he met Jango’s eyes. “Would Kyr’tsad really leave one of their own like this?”

“Based on what we’ve seen? That, and worse.” Jango raised one eyebrow.

Spreading his hands as best he could with one arm in a sling, Kenobi replied, “I don’t know how I am to convince you, Mand’alor. What, exactly, could I do to assure you of my allegiances, or lack thereof?”

The Core accent; that stubbornly roundabout manner of speaking, as if every sentence was a riddle Jango had to solve for himself; the steadfast, searching gaze; all of it combined set something aflame in Jango, a vague heat in the space between his ribcage and his gut. He couldn’t define it, or even really properly describe it, if someone were to ask, but he sure as haran noticed it. His face shuttered, and Jango stood up again. “Baar’ur,” he nodded, “I will leave you to your patient.” 

The sudden formality clearly surprised Mij, but he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to corral a willing patient, and Jango knew it. As he made his exit, those too-keen Concordian-sky eyes followed him, their pressure penetrating his beskar’gam unlike any weapon he’d faced in battle. The tent flap falling shut behind him, he picked up the beginning of Mij’s fussing, a familiar tirade he’d heard many a time, and Jango stuffed his buy’ce back on. The time for action was now. 

“Myles!”

“Elek, ‘Alor?” the man asked, popping up from behind a nearby tent. He’d been waiting there during Jango’s conversation with the rescue, no doubt. 

“Walk with me.” Opsec was something Jaster had drilled into him, hard, during his early years - back when Jaster was still alive. He’d need to alert his commandos, and everyone else who came with that, but Myles needed to know first. Jango picked up his pace, Myles half-jogging alongside him. “Ge’tal in there let us know we may have missed something around here. You know the type.” He jerked his head away sharply. “Call the al’verde. Meet me in my tent.” 

“Elek.” Myles nodded and started off, only to pause for a moment to toss over his shoulder, “And don’t think we’re not going to talk about that nickname later!”

Always the one to get the last word. Jango sighed. Time to return to the unenviable job of Mand’alor.

“ Buir , it’s getting boring again.”

“I can stop, Boba. That’s always an option.”

“No, no, just skip ahead to the parts with Ben! I asked for a story about him , not one about you.”

“Ner nehutyc ad’ika, any story I have to tell about Ben will inevitably be tied with me. Besides, you might just be Mand’alor after me. This could be an important lesson for you.”

“Buir, I’m ten.”

“Alright, alright. Another time then.”

There had been a rushed two tendays or so as Jango and his people searched, scouted, and set up a raid on a Kyr’tsad camp that had somehow managed to slip by their patrols. Like the hut’uune they were, they had hidden away in a nearby village. What the Haat Mando’ade had thought was an innocently positioned group of farmers doing their best in such a desolate landscape had actually been a disguise. Or, at least, partially one. Those farmers were genuine about their trade, but at some point, Kyr’tsad had forced their way in, taking up residence in the farmers’ homes and leaving them to sleep on the floors of their belowground dens. It was one plucky Mando’ad - Silas, again, proving himself a promising verd in the future - who had spotted the tiny note slipped under one of the doors. It would have been almost unnoticeable if not for its bright pink color, which stood out plainly against such a uniformly beige landscape. 

Somehow, note retrieval had become one of their most-planned and highest-stakes operations as of late, and it was thanks to Nurul, one of his ori’ramikade who had been blessed with the Ka’ra, that it had gone so smoothly. While several of the commandos in the field whispered vicious arguments about who should be the one to grab it, Nurul had simply closed their eyes, held out one hand, and waited for the note to float itself over to them. 

Jango had nearly broken down laughing when they’d reported the story. That had changed quickly into rage when Nurul handed him the crumpled pink note.

The note was a serious one, penned in a child’s untidy scrawl, a plea asking for “Mr. Ben” to come back and chase the bad men away. 

So there was Jango’s proof twice over, with additional reason for fury to boil his veins. He was still curious, though. The village had been closer than the closest known Kyr’tsad camp, sure, but it was still a considerable distance away. How Ben had reached them with his injuries, dehydration, and exhaustion was nothing short of a spite-driven miracle. If he had gone any other direction, if he had given out just a bit earlier, it very well may have spelled his end. He had jate’kara, that was for sure. 

Maybe he could spare some for the rest of them. By the way this mission was looking, with the numbers they were estimating for Kyr’tsad and the volume of hostages at risk, they were going to need it.

Jango sighed. He hadn’t spoken to Ben since he’d first woken up, too suspicious and perhaps a bit unsettled to dare. That didn’t mean he didn’t get reports. Apparently, he was quick to build rapport with Myles, who visited him regularly, and despite his caginess as a patient, Mij had said that even he couldn’t help but be charmed. 

Apparently, as the concussion had healed, Ben’s sentences had gotten longer and longer until he was running metaphorical circles around Myles. Myles had laughed good-naturedly, though. “He’s trying to get as much from us while giving as little about himself as possible,” he’d reported. “Nothing malicious, as far as I can tell. That kid’s just paranoid.”

“Is it really paranoia if they’re really out to get you?” Jango had retorted.

“See, that right there is why I think you two would get along so well. He said nearly the exact same thing to me. Give him a chance, Jango!”

“Not until we can trust him.”

And, well. Looked like now was the time for him to live up to his word. Making his way to a corner of camp he’d done his best to avoid, Jango paused for a moment. Was it weird to feel the need to steel himself for a guest in his own camp? 

He thought of those far-too-perceptive eyes, how they’d locked on despite dehydration and a concussion and blood dripping into them. No, not for this guest. 

Still, Jango was no coward. In he went. 

He was somewhat surprised by the sight that awaited him. In contrast to the pale, drawn, visibly-concussed man two tendays prior, Ben up and about, chatting amicably with Mij as he helped the baar’ur organize his cabinets. 

“Are you sure you aren’t a medic yourself, Kenobi?” Mij asked, elbow-deep in a storage bin containing all manner of equipment. It almost looked like torture devices; though, Jango supposed, anything misused properly could be a torture device. 

Ben scoffed. “Baar’ur Gilamar, I have told you this before and I will say it again. I have no training in this, though I am grateful for the compliment. I have simply seen my fair share of field injuries, and one of my vode is a baar’ur herself. Whatever knowledge I have is gleaned secondhand.”

“Any knowledge is helpful in a crisis situation, Kenobi. I’d rather have even the most basic of experience than a shiny who faints at the sight of blood.”

“Well, wouldn’t anybody?”

“Point,” Mij allowed.

“Am I interrupting something?” Jango asked pointedly.

The two of them startled, apparently having missed the entrance of the Mand’alor himself . “‘Alor! My apologies, did you need something?” Mij scrambled to extricate himself from his equipment.

Jango shook his head. “I’m just here to check up on Kenobi. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Twenty-one sols, Mand’alor.” Ben raised an eyebrow. “What has happened?”

“What, can’t a man just check up on someone that’s his responsibility?”

“After disappearing and staying away for two tendays? Forgive me if I find that improbable.” That damned eyebrow didn’t move. Really, it did wonders for the judgemental look on his face, it really added a level of expectant condescension that ground at Jango’s gears. 

Removing his buy’ce, Jango relented. “Alright, alright.” Some previously unrecognized tension in Ben’s face eased, and that eyebrow lowered by two degrees. “We found your proof.”

“His...proof?” Mij asked.

Jango tapped a few times on his left vambrace, pulling up a localized holomap. “There’s a Kyr’tsad camp right about...here,” he pointed, “and one of our squads found a note. Apparently a few people in camp miss ‘Mister Ben.’” He looked at Kenobi. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Ben, whose face had hardened into that of a commando during a briefing - which this essentially was - nearly drooped with relief. “So they haven’t killed them yet. That means there’s still time.”

“Time?” 

“Well, time to get them, of course. We only have so long, though.” Suddenly Ben wasn’t looking at the holomap, but through it. “There are only two options for ade with Kyr’tsad. Death, or-”

“Indoctrination,” Jango finished. “Which I’d argue is worse.”

“I’d agree with you there, Mand’alor.”

“So I need to authorize the rescue op as soon as we can.” Jango turned, intent on making straight for the command tent and upping the timetable on that raid, when a firm grip on his arm stopped him.

Ben gazed at him, their eyes nearly at an equal height, and declared, “I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah! That’s Ben!”

“That’s Ben to the core. Always the first to volunteer, always the hero.”

“That’s why he’s my favorite.”

“That’s part of why he’s mine, too.”

The night of the operation dawned, an ominous red-orange sky marking the final light before the squad was to head out. It would be a long and fast-paced trek, with additional time taken out to circle the village and hide the direction of their approach.

Ben, with his various injuries, should by all rights still be on bedrest. Mij had practically insisted, arguing to haran and back. It didn’t deter Ben, though, and every test the medic forced on him as a measure of his recovery he passed with flying colors.

“I don’t get it,” Mij had whispered to Jango, watching Ben execute a perfect back handspring and land without a flinch. Jango may have been more impressed by the demonstration than he’d care to admit. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near this well-healed by now. His arm should still be in a damn cast and yet it looks fine. It’s been two tendays, Jango. Normally a verd with these injuries would be in my tent for four, and still need PT after that.”

“Maybe it’s a Stewjon thing.”

“Maybe.” Mij hadn’t looked convinced, but he’d let it go. What else was he supposed to do with the evidence right in front of him?

So now Ben was here with Jango and the rest of his ori’ramikade, suiting up for battle. He didn’t have armor, but when he’d been offered a loan of one of the fallen’s, he’d waved it off. “I know what armor means to your people. I won’t dishonor them by making them watch an aruetii don the beskar of their lost families.”

An aruetii he may have been, but he had mandokar in spades, and his grasp of Mando’a was nearly native. The only issue Jango was having was that annoying fact that Ben wouldn’t wear armor. But Ben was insistent, and Jango had spotted several relieved faces at his declaration, so he’d let it go. At least Ben was well-armed, strapping several vibroknives to his belt, a pair of blasters holstered to his thighs, and a cortosis kad slung over his back. Even without the armor, he was every inch a verd ready for battle, a spare kute replacing the tattered tunics he’d arrived in and his distinctively copper hair tucked beneath a desert wrap. It was far more form-fitting than any of the Mando’ade - something Jango was trying hard not to notice, he’s under your care, di’kut! - and clearly marked him separate, other.

Still, they were united in this mission, and Jango would take all the help he could get. 

“You all know the plan. We’ve mapped this, discussed this, plotted every single step each of you will take. When we hit the village, expect dirty, hut’uun’la tactics from them. Ambushes, hostage-taking, the works.” He took the time to look at each of his supercommandos in turn: steadfast, dependable Myles; Nurul, with their connection to the Ka’ra; Cahya, and her uniquely-modified blaster; Kal and his legendary devotion to ade; Ikaia, and, never far behind, Ikaio, the terrible twins; and several more. All his people who had answered his call to duty and to arms, who shared his passionate devotion to all that it meant to be Mando’ade. Jango was so proud to have earned their loyalty. “But they are Kyr’tsad, they are dar’manda, and they fight not for love of Manda’yaim but for lust for power. We are better than they are, and we will prove that today.” He raised his fist high, strong, and smacked the other on his breastplate. “Oya!”

Every single voice in the command tent echoed it, every chestpiece rattled with the metallic clang of beskar-on-beskar, and slowly, Jango heard the camp outside pick up the call, until the whole of his people that he had brought with him were raising their voices for the Manda to hear. 

Jango jammed his buy’ce on and tried to pretend that this time, just like every other time, it hadn’t made him go misty-eyed. This show of support had been so very universal in Jaster’s day, a battle-cry Jango had taken part in excitedly when his buir was Mand’alor. All he could do now was live, day by day, and do his best to follow that example.

They marched out of the tent, a procession of beskar in all the colors Jango’s near-human eyes could see, and more that he couldn’t, for the species with wider visible spectrums. Those staying behind reached out, slapping helmets and shouting their support. Some ori’ramikade split away for a few moments, sharing individual goodbyes with riduur’e or ade. 

As they reached the edge of camp, Jango turned around. There was no dramatic launch of jetpacks this time, only a long march ahead of them, but, as always, he took a moment to look over the people he fought for. This battle could be his last, just like every one that had come before could have been his last. Still, he was confident that they’d make it out alright, and so he raised one hand and cried, “Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur!”

“Oya!” they responded, as one, and then they were off.

Trekking across the long, barren stretch of scorched earth in full armor was always a tedious task. Each of them here had been training for this for nearly their whole lives, and they still struggled. Jango chanced a glance at Ben. 

He was doing surprisingly well for being just out of the medic’s grasp, though his lack of heavy plate metal was probably in his favor there. He jogged easily beside them, looking not the slightest bit winded. Whatever he’d been doing before his captivity at Kyr’tsad’s hands, it had made him fit on a level equal with Jango’s ori’ramikade. That was no small feat.

Was it his fate to be continually impressed by this mystery man?

It would seem so, because as they finished the last stretch of their nighttime hike, navigating by night vision in their HUDs - or whatever Ben had going for him, since he didn’t have that technological benefit but hadn’t misstepped once - they split away and took the long way to circle around the village, marked helpfully on their maps. 

Jango took Ben with him, the other man lacking the internal comms Jango had with the Mando’ade, and perhaps some leftover suspicion pushing him to keep an eye on the Stewjoni. Ben moved with preternatural grace as he followed Jango into position, almost seeming to glide across the the ground rather than letting his feet fall with the steady thumps of an armored Mando’ad. Each step was precise, delicate, every motion economical and deliberate. It was an odd contrast to the movements and body language Jango was accustomed to, but strangely captivating as well.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to get caught up in hapless observation. It was operation time. 

Tapping into his comms, Jango waited to give the signal. His eyes strained as he stared at the village, waiting for the perfect moment. One breath, another. He exhaled, letting the jitteriness running through his veins escape. “Jii!”

As one, the Haat Mando’ade streamed from their waiting positions and launched themselves into the air, their jetpacks setting the night sky aflame. Dawn was approaching, but not yet arrived, and so the orange-red exhaust stood out all that much more. Slowly, a ruckus began emerging from the village, Kyr’tsad taking notice of their approach. 

Jango couldn’t see Ben, but with the battle begun, there wasn’t much more direction he could provide. All he could hope was that Ben could hold his own in combat as he had on their march.

A person in that black-and-blue armor of Kyr’tsad sprinted out of a hut and took to the skies, aiming straight for Jango, and all other input went out the window. Jango met them head-on, wrestling them midair, their jetpacks propelling them over and under and twisting around in the skies. He reached around one grasping arm and pointed one of his Westars into the junction between buy’ce and the top of the kute. He felt the gun settle into place and fired.

The Kyr’tsad member went limp, plummeting down, their jetpack exploding under the force of their sudden stop. 

Diving, Jango followed, and suddenly he was standing on his own two feet and right in the thick of battle. 

He twisted and turned, firing intermittently with a pistol in each hand. The trick with fighting people armored in beskar was knowing all the points where beskar didn’t cover, and Jango had been training in that for years. 

The space between pauldron and chestplate.

The backs of the knees.

The neck, the targets there always going limp right after.

Jango holstered his blasters as another Kyr’tsad grunt approached him, in too close for him to use them comfortably. A quick press on his cuisse opened a compartment, letting him grab a length of vibrowire and thread it through his fingers. His opponent growled, revealing a dagger of their own and brandishing it. With their longer arms, they slashed at him, but they were slower, too, and Jango dodged easily.

He swung behind them, jumping to reach their back and fit the vibrowire across their neck. He pulled.

“Urk!”

That was all his opponent could muster, hands flying to grasp at the wire, before Jango pulled again and felt something give.

There was a spurt of blood, adding to the already metallic scent in the air, and a faint hissing noise, before they collapsed. Jango rolled free, tugging on the wire to untangle it from the corpse. He flicked it once, twice, ridding it of at least some of the blood and flesh. 

Somehow he’d found a momentary lull in the battle, and he took the time to look around. He was glad to see no casualties on his side, at least not yet, and no shortage of Kyr’tsad bodies. There had been more of them here than anticipated, but they were always equipped to handle it. 

A shadow flitted between houses. Was that-? He darted after it to investigate.

It was indeed. Ben, kad in one hand and vibroknife in another, was dueling two of Kyr’tsad at once, and somehow winning. Though his wrap had come undone, leaving his head exposed, he didn’t seem bothered. With an impressive combination of swordfighting skills, gymnastics, and dirty tactics, he was fending off the pair. One swung at him with their own kad, a swipe with a great deal of power behind it, and Ben used his knife to divert it to the side while he jabbed at the gap between cuisse and codpiece. It must have hit, because that one went down with a hiss of pain. He spun to put his full attention on the other - and wasn’t that something, that he’d been doing so well with his attention split? - and started a flurry of strokes, feinting and jabbing and switching movements so often his opponent struggled to keep up. 

Worryingly, Jango spotted the one Ben had stabbed start to get up, limping but very much alive, and began to shout a warning he feared would go unheard beneath the clamor of battle. He needn’t have worried, though, because in some feat of situational awareness, Ben placed himself firmly between the two. They lunged in unison, kads extended for blows that would have been fatal.

Would have been, because Ben dropped to the ground in literal splits, leaving the two allies to impale each other.

Jango whistled lowly.

Ben leaned back in a graceful arc, pressing his hands to the ground, and sprung up. He landed soundlessly, steadily, and turned like he knew Jango had been there, watching, all along. “Well, ‘Alor? Shall we?”

And really, who was Jango to deny that? “Let’s go kick their shebs.”

“That’s a bad word, buir.”

“Boba, if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I said a lot of bad words. Don’t kids your age normally want to start swearing?”

“But this way I get to make fun of you.”

“Oh, I see how it is.”

They sprinted in time with each other, turning corners and providing errant shots or swipes in support of their comrades. One final sprint between houses and they nearly ran headfirst into someone Jango had never expected to see. 

The armor was a dead giveaway, though. Pure black, with a short red cape that reminded Jango too much of Jaster, long-gone, to be accidental. The Vizsla shriek-hawk splattered his shoulders in deep red, almost matching the blood of oh Manda that’s Ikaia. Where’s her brother? 

Jango didn’t know, couldn’t see him, but if he were still alive there was no doubt he would need to be put on watch. They were twins and their devotion to each other was legendary. 

The loss of one of his own set a righteous anger coursing through him.

Tor turned to him, his matte-black buy’ce revealing nothing. It was almost more intimidating than looking at his face, scarred from the explosion Jango had caused years ago. Jango refused to be cowed, though, and he was glad to see Ben seemed similarly unmoved.

“Ah, the errant boy returns. Tell me, when will you give up your father’s useless quest?” came his modulated voice, grating at Jango’s ears like shrapnel.

“When you and your dar’manda sheb’urcyine are long dead and forgotten, that’s when,” Jango growled.

“You couldn’t win if you tried, aruetii. No blood of our glorious forefathers runs in your veins, only a simple farmer’s, Vhett .”

“Kote lo'shebs'ul narit!”

“Such language, and especially in front of a guest!”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall you being so considerate last time we met.”

They’d met? Jango wanted to ask any manner of questions, but that would be revealing a weakness to a man who would pounce on it within the minute. He kept his mouth shut.

“Come on, tal’gemas, why so hostile?”

“Let me count the reasons.”

Beneath that helmet, Tor was grinning, Jango could feel it. “Let’s see if you perform more... impressively this time around.”

Ben flourished his kad. “I look forward to it.”

A feral snarl across his face, Jango lunged. In an instant, Tor had ignited the dha’kad’au, its unnatural void-glow nearly invisible in the darkness if not for the faint white outline. Jango dodged, the next step in the back-and-forth dance he and Tor had been choreographing for years. But for a bare moment, a misstep, the realization that Tor had predicted this and redirected the weightless blade of the dha’kad’au in a blow that would no doubt be crippling.

Jango braced.

The sizzling pain never came.

Bent almost impossibly far, in a position that shouldn’t have any leverage at all, was Ben, his kad blocking Tor’s. For the velocity of Tor’s swing, Ben must have been using an incredible amount of core strength. Which Jango was not thinking about, not with Tor Vizsla above him, the dha’kad’au sparking above his neck.

And then the unthinkable happened. The dha’kad’au fizzled, flickered, and disappeared with an angry hiss.

“What?” Jango asked.

“WHAT!” Tor shouted.

Ben winked. “Cortosis, my dear.”

Osik. Cortosis. Ben knew his stuff. Not only that, he’d been planning for this. He knew the weakness of the dha’kad’au, and, indeed, every lightsaber, and had exploited it to a ruthless degree.

Jango watched, stunned, confused, and with his heart thudding far too loudly in his chest, as Ben turned on Vizsla, his kad biting through the air to clatter against beskar. Close to death as he had been, he felt it was a bit warranted to sit back and let Ben finish this fight off. He could handle himself.

With a detached feeling that he recognized as an oncoming breakdown, Jango stared at Ben as the Stewjoni dogged after Tor, forcing the Kyr’tsad’alor to the skies with a shout of “Tok’kadii!”

Panting, but barely, Ben turned and sheathed his kad, the pyramidal light of the false dawn providing a white silhouette behind him. He ran one hand through his hair and laughed, a quiet, gentle thing. “That went well, I think."

Who was he?

“And that’s enough for tonight, I think.”

“Wait, buir , what about Tor Vizsla? He’s not dead, what happened to him?”

“Well, it’s past your bedtime, kiddo. We’ll pick up tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, okay, it’s time to keep going with the Ben story!”

“Manda, adiik, let your old man at least sit down first!”

“Right, I forgot your old bones need support.”

“I appreciate your consideration. Now, where did I leave off again?”

“Ben just totally beat Tor Vizsla!”

“Ah, yes, I remember now…”

The air stunk of ozone and iron as Jango stood up, the second wave of realization of his closeness to death nearly physical with its force. He staggered for a second, caught off-balance, and it was only Ben’s quick reflexes that saved him from collapsing all the way to the ground again. 

Ben was in remarkably good shape for having just engaged in a duel with a Darksaber-wielding Tor Vizsla armed with nothing but a kute and a sword. The most that could be said about him was perhaps a few hairs out of place, an uptick in his breathing rate. Jango could not claim the same. 

Beneath his armor, he was shaken and sweating. Though his beskar, never one to fail him, had repelled the dha’kad’au multiple times, there were small scorch marks on his skin in the gaps between plating. Besides, he had no doubt that he’d have several burns in places the Darksaber had lingered particularly long; beskar could hold back the blade, it couldn’t hold back all the heat that accompanied it. He ached, he wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next tenday, but he knew that he had after-op duties to fulfill.

With his arm hooked around Ben’s surprisingly muscular shoulder, Jango made his way to the rendezvous point at the edge of the village closest to camp. There was a pickup waiting for them, thank the Manda, but there was a bit of work left to do.

Jango turned and directed Ben to take them to Kal Skirata, his sandy gold armor blending in well with the desert environment and a crowd of rescued ade around him. As was typical.

“Mister Ben! Mister Ben!” Two of the children split off from the herd, running towards Jango and Ben on tiny legs, smiling with faces that had too many bruises. Jango seethed internally for a moment, furious that some of them had gotten away and hadn’t faced worse deaths like the demagolkase they were. He hissed as Ben abruptly dropped his arm and he was forced to stand on his own, though he could hardly fault the man. He would’ve done the same for the ade. Still, he couldn’t have been any gentler with it, or given him any warning?

“Rul, Zassem!” Ben crouched down and caught them. “Are you two alright?”

“Uh-huh!” said one of them, a tiny human with huge brown eyes. “Mister Kal chased all the bad people off and we were brave, like you!”

The other one, practically a mirror image, nodded enthusiastically. 

“I have no doubt you were. You two did so well, I’m so proud of you.” 

“Zassem even wrote a note! She only did it ‘cause she’s better at spelling but I helped!”

“Of course! You know, that note is how we found you all.”

Their eyes sparkled. “Really?” 

“I promise. You two are heroes.”

Zassem, wide-eyed and nearly glowing from excitement, pulled back from Ben to start signing rapidly. Ben, enigmatic wonder that he was, had no trouble following along. I did this? she asked. 

“If you hadn’t written that note, my friend Jango here and his friends wouldn’t have known the bad people were here.” He stared at her dead-on, a slight smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “Be proud of yourself, Zassem. You did excellently.”

The tiny girl’s eyes welled up, and she ducked into Ben’s arms again. Over the little bundles in his arms, Ben glanced at Jango and smiled. It was the happiest expression he’d ever seen on the man’s face.

“Well, we’ve saved the day,” Jango said, his aches and pains falling into a dull background. “Would you like to stay?”

That smile widened, something sparkling merrily in Ben’s eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Buir, you’re a sappy, cliched mess.”

“Where did you even learn all those words?”

“The Alphas talk.”

The dropship - and thank the Manda for small mercies - let them off back at their camp without much fanfare. Though there would be time to mourn later - and certainly they would, for those they’d lost and those they couldn’t save - now was the time for Jango to let his leader’s mantle fall away again and just be another Mandalorian celebrating their victory. 

He hopped over the edge with a grin on his face and his buy’ce tucked beneath his arm. Myles, who had taken another ship, jogged over to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Jango! Jan’ika, vod, you were amazing out there!”

“And what about you, huh? Don’t think I didn’t see that roundhouse to dagger combo, that was one they’ll teach the ade to.”

“Aww, Jango, stop ,” Myles grinned, tipping his head to the side and covering his eyes. When Jango obliged, he peeked through his fingers. “No, no, keep going, I wanna hear more.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.” As Jango groaned good-naturedly, Myles turned to Ben. “And you! Damn, when they said you were clear for this op, I didn’t expect a kriffing armed acrobat ! Those were some moves, verd!”

Ben, who had dismounted after Jango, smiled, though the tips of his ears pinked. Huh, Jango thought, he goes toe-to-toe with Tor like it’s just another day, but a bit of praise and he’s practically blushing . “As I told Baar’ur Gilamar, I heal quickly.”

“Quickly! It’s like you hadn’t been in with like three broken bones at all! And that swordplay? I mean,” Myles waggled his eyebrows, “I had no clue you were so skilled with a kad. There were a couple of verde out there who couldn’t look away.”

This time it was Jango’s turn to blush, the heat rising to his face. He’d never been so grateful that his skin tone hid it so well. Ben, for his part, looked confused. Not a native speaker, then, and Jango was glad that he missed that intricacy of Mando’a. “I’d hope they were able to focus when it counted, then,” Ben replied. “I’d hate to have caused someone to lose their life.”

Myles threw his hands up into the air and groaned loudly. “I don’t believe this! He’s hopeless!” He knocked Jango on the shoulder once more and took his leave, shouting as he went, “Good luck with that one, Jan’ika!”

“That’s ‘Alor Jan’ika to you, Myles!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Jango focused on Ben once more just in time to glimpse his smirk, a blink-and-you-miss-it expression. At his raised eyebrow, Ben winked.

A slow smile spread across Jango’s face. “You sly bastard.”

“How long until he realizes, do you think?” he asked, mischief dancing in his eyes. 

“Oh, not until you drop an innuendo right in front of him, easy.”

A false pout appeared on Ben’s face out of nowhere, an innocent look as transparent as glass. “But I don’t know what it means, Mand’alor. You can’t fault a non-native speaker for his mistakes, can you?” 

Jango reached up and literally placed one gloved hand over Ben’s face. “No. Stop that. I hated that, what the kriff was that?” Ben rolled his eyes and pointed sharply at the hand over his face. Jango stared at him. “Nope, not doing that.” One eyebrow went up. “Still a no.” It arched even higher. “You’ve lost speaking privileges.”

Ben sighed, the warmth of his exhale sneaking through the weave of his kute. His expression read ‘you asked for this’ clear as day. And then Ben licked his glove.

Jango sprang away in an instant, shaking out his hand like it was diseased. “What the kriff? Copaani mirshmure'cye?”

Several meters away from him, Ben was coughing and spluttering. “You couldn’t be bothered to wash the dust off that glove? Have you never heard of laundry?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we just came off a battlefield!”

“That didn’t taste like a battlefield, that tasted like three centuries of stale sand!”

“That’s what all the sand tastes like, di’kut!”

Ben stood abruptly straight, his composure back in an instant. “And you would know this how?”

Osik. “It’s a Mand’alor’s duty to know everything about their people and planet, Kenobi.”

Unconvinced, he stared at Jango disapprovingly. “Right. I’ll just go tell Myles that his Mand’alor eats sand regularly. I’m sure he’ll be glad.”

“Like a rancor’s dusty shebs you will!” Jango lunged forward and tackled Ben, disregarding the already-fading sting of his burns.

Ben rolled with it, not fazed in the least. He had some measure of an advantage, at least, what with being less injured than Jango, but he didn’t have the indignance powering him. Jango was a Mando’ad with a purpose, and that purpose was getting Ben pinned and ruffling that insufferably unruffled exterior. “I suppose you’d know what that tasted like, too. After all, you seem to be a thorough man, you wouldn’t leave your sand-tasting survey incomplete.”

With a wordless cry, Jango grabbed for Ben’s arms, rearing up to try to hamper him. But the man was slipperier than a greased varactyl, and each and every time Jango managed to grasp one of his limbs, he’d manage to twist it just so and escape. 

“AM I LOOKING AT TWO BRAIN-DEAD CHILDREN OR A PAIR OF ADULTS WHO KNOW BETTER THAN TO TUSSLE LIKE PRETEENS WHEN THEY’RE INJURED?”

Caught in the act, Ben and Jango froze. One of Ben’s legs was caught between Jango’s arm and his head, with Jango’s mouth conspicuously open and leaning forward to bite it. The rest of Ben’s body was twisted around Jango, contorted just shy of unnaturally, and he’d managed to trap Jango’s other arm. They looked at Mij guiltily.

“Hi, Mij,” Jango said, valiantly pretending that he didn’t sound like an ad with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“Hello, Baar’ur Gilamar,” Ben echoed, and curse him for the more formal response. Was he trying to make Jango look bad - well, worse?

Actually, that was probably exactly what he was planning, getting off with a lighter sentence from the doctor in return. That sneaky shabuir. 

“Both of you. Med tent. Right now. You can take this to the sparring circle after I clear you. And, trust me,” he smiled with too many teeth, and Jango shuddered, “I will be conducting a very thorough examination.”

“And this, ad’ika, is why we always listen to doctors.”

“Was Trainer Gilamar really that scary?”

“ Any medic you get on the bad side of is that scary.”

A tenday of prescribed bedrest later - and Jango would insist until the day he died that he didn’t need that much rest, it was only Mij’s revenge - Jango stood, sans armor, in the sparring circle across from Ben, a ring of excited Mando’ade around them.

Ben was wearing borrowed clothes again this time, though the leggings were skintight while the tank top fluttered loosely over his torso; either he’d been lent items from two different people, or whoever it was was much broader in the chest. With his hands wrapped with the experience of someone who’d done it a thousand times before, he looked completely at home here.

Jango tried not to examine that thought too deeply. Or Ben’s legs.

He stepped forward, confident, to the roaring cheers of his people. It warmed him, a brazier behind his ribcage, and though he knew it wouldn’t be an easy fight by any measure, he was better prepared for it this time instead of the spontaneity of their little wrestling match.

Cahya, who had won the right to referee this match through her own series of spars, raised her hands for silence. “You all know the drill!” Indeed they did, cheers restarting, and no shortage of wolf-whistles piercing the air. “You go until someone yields. Yielding is constituted by speaking or tapping out. No broken bones, but blood is allowed, and encouraged.” She smiled with her sharp teeth. “Bare hands for this round, no weapons. Ben versus our Mand’alor, Jango Fett!”

There was a moment of bated breath, silence as the crowd waited for that perfect moment of action. Jango bounced a bit on the balls of his feet. Ben shifted his stance.

Cahya dropped her hands. “Akaani!”

The fight was on. 

Jango struck out first, a lightning-quick jab towards Ben’s head that he dodged just as fast. His opponent didn’t strike in return, rather, he took slow, deliberate steps to maintain distance, keeping his knees bent low and stable. With that barely-there height advantage he had, it was a smart move. But Jango was used to fighting taller, longer-armed opponents, and he knew he’d be able to deal with it. They circled each other a few seconds more. 

He lunged again, darting into Ben’s space and kicking up. His shin impacted Ben's ribs, which, ow, but it had probably hurt the other more. Still, Ben grabbed his foot on the downswing, pulling hard to unbalance him.

Rather than collapsing, though, Jango let the momentum carry him into Ben, even leaning into it. How long had it been so far? Thirty seconds? A minute? Didn’t matter. He knew Ben had a kriffing incredible endurance; it was on him to end this quickly.

As he fell onto Ben, he felt an arm wrap around his neck, pushing him downwards. Jango grabbed into it in turn, twisting his torso around to free his head. The impact staggered Ben, but he didn’t fall, instead bracing for it and extending Jango’s leg further up. He wasn’t used to this ridiculous degree of flexibility, his hamstring burning, but he moved with it. Jango latched his knee over Ben’s shoulder and jumped, using his grip on one of Ben’s arms as additional leverage. With a quick turn and a pull at the hip, he managed to seat himself atop Ben’s shoulders.

Someone whooped in the distance, the sound muted beneath his tunnel vision of the fight. More than a few Mando’ade whistled obnoxiously. Jango would have laughed if he wasn’t so focused on this.

Ben dealt with the added weight admirably, exhaling harshly but remaining upright. He beat at Jango’s thighs, scrabbling to get him off, but Jango hooked his ankles together and held on tightly. Maybe a bit too tightly, though, because as he snagged Ben’s nose, he felt something give and a jolt go down Ben’s spine. 

Something tensed in Ben’s shoulders, the muscles coiling beneath Jango’s legs, and so he wasn’t entirely surprised when Ben’s legs folded and his back collided harshly with the ground. Still, it wasn’t pleasant, and he felt the air rush out of his lungs. 

Quick to pounce on an advantage, Ben used his newfound leverage to turn over, and, rather than trying to escape the hold, he dove further into it, squeezing his shoulders through the gap and leaving Jango’s legs wrapped around his waist instead. 

Facing each other once again, Jango was greeted by the sight of Ben with wild glee in his eyes and blood running from his nose. He knew he looked similarly manic, caught up in the exhilaration of the fight. 

Ben reached up to grab for Jango’s arms and complete the pin, but Jango was faster. He breathed in quickly, then, with a harsh exhale, he pulled with his legs, flipping Kenobi over his head and somersaulting with the motion.

Their positions flipped, and Ben perhaps a bit stunned, Jango pinned his arms above his head with one hand and leaned the other elbow onto Ben’s neck. The noise of the crowd intensified, sensing the end was near. 

One.

Two.

Three seconds, and finally Ben tapped three times on Jango’s knuckle.

The fight was his. Jango sat back on his haunches, releasing his opponent's hands, and took a few moments to breathe. As the onlookers cheered raucously, Ben laughed without air, panting. He wiped at the blood running down his face, only succeeding at smearing the blood across his lips and painting them in crimson. That wildness in his gaze hadn’t disappeared, and with his too-sharp canines peeking through his smile, Jango was abruptly stunned by the creature beneath him, something fey and unchained. His heart stuttered a triple-tap in his chest.

Oh.

With that realization startling him from whatever spell he was under, Jango hopped to his feet. He held out his hand.

It was mere seconds before Ben took it, and now Jango couldn’t tear his gaze away from the corded muscle in his arm as he pulled the redhead up, the way his hair fell as he ran his fingers through it absentmindedly.

Surrounded by his people as they congratulated him, smacking him on the back and shoulder and really, whatever part of him they could reach, he couldn’t look away, only responding with automatic agreeing noises. 

Ben, meanwhile, was enduring a similar treatment, smiling and laughing as the crowd assuaged him with “You’ll get him next time, Ben! He’s a tough one!” and responding in turn, “I look forward to it.”

“You’ve gotta use your wiles next time!” someone shouted and Jango wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry as Ben tilted his head to search for them but otherwise let other conversations, practically a dozen at once, take center focus.

Caught up in their flow, Ben drifted away, no doubt off to be treated to conciliatory drinks and tavern tales. Jango, though, didn’t move, his hand still outstretched from where Ben had grabbed it, staring at the space left behind.

An abrupt smack on the back snapped him out of it, and Jango jumped, startled. 

“You’re a kriffin’ mess, vod,” Myles muttered.

“I know, but hey .” The response was automatic, one ingrained by years of banter.

“You know where to find me when you figure it out,” he called, already following the trailing crowd to get his own share of gal.

To nobody but himself, Jango whispered, “It’s too late for that.”

“Ewww, buir, that’s gross.”

“I warned you at the very start! You asked for this!”

“Yeah, but you’re super mushy.”

“Boba, I swear, if you start spreading this around and ruining my reputation, you’re grounded.”

“Buir, no!”

Twilight settling into its space in earnest, Jango crept around the camp, the quiet walk of the watch trying not to awaken too-alert warriors getting the sleep they so rarely found. Even the Mand’alor worked the same menial jobs on campaign, so little distinction between them and their people. Jango didn’t mind. Most days he didn’t feel like anything more than a regular Mando anyways. 

Ducking between tents and peering around corners, he was relieved to see things seemed normal. Only a scant few Mando’ade wandered around. On watch or escaping nightmares, it didn’t matter; Jango greeted them each with a nod. 

The desert, though, was not kind to its guests, and so while days were scorching and unbearable, the nights brought a cold that settled into bones and beskar in equal measure, chilling interlopers with the same terrifying efficiency that made the planet as mandokarla as its people. If his helmet wasn’t blocking it, Jango was sure that he’d be able to see wisps of his breath as it left his lungs. 

To the fire it was then. Banking the flame to preserve the embers was as much the job of the watch as scouting out threats, and it was one Jango would happily take refuge in. As he approached the flickering orange glow - one of the only sources of light at this hour, everything else dependent on distant pinpricks of stars in the open sky or night vision embedded in a buy’ce - he slowed his steps, taking in the unexpected sight.

As was somehow his custom, Ben was there, always in just the right place for Jango to stumble upon, a prize he hadn’t realized he’d been tracking. He wasn’t simply sitting in place, though. Curling syllables filled the air, the sound of Ben reciting lines in time with the crackling of the fire. 

“Which a brave People into light can bring/Or hide, at will,-for freedom combating/By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase/No eye can follow, to a fatal place.” Every word rang well-worn and well-loved, broken in by repetition beforehand, and wasn’t that so perfectly unsurprising? The prim Coruscanti accent that had greeted Jango from the first concussion-addled conversation certainly fit the image of a pristine poet, but the battle-tested and wild man that Jango had come to know and appreciate as a kindred spirit didn’t match at all. Suddenly, Jango felt like an intruder on a ritual not meant for his ears, his dusty, coarse, world-weary farmer’s ears.

And yet with the same heightened awareness he’d always had, Ben turned to him, firelight igniting his hair and bathing his face in gold, and kept his stream of poetry alive. “That power, that spirit, whether on the wing/Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind/Within its awful caves.-From year to year,” and he waved Jango to sit in the sand beside him, never faltering, never ceasing, never treating his words like the precious gems they were, “Springs this indigenous produce far and near/No craft this subtle element can bind/Rising like water from the soil, to find/In every nook a lip that it may cheer.” 

“What was that?” Jango asked, not bothering to disguise the wonder - and perhaps a bit of longing, too - in his voice. This night, this firelight, it was not the place to hide behind false bravado. Something in Jango told him Ben wouldn’t betray his trust. He took off his helmet.

“A particular Chandrilan poet. ‘The Power of Armies is a Visible Thing.’ Of course, he never personally experienced war, only saw its fringes, but.” Ben shrugged. “I haven’t found it particularly inaccurate.”

“I haven’t - I’ve never - well,” Jango looked down, abruptly a bit ashamed. “Jaster always enjoyed learning; mostly histories, though I don’t doubt that he knew a lot of poetry, too. But he never - I never got the chance to learn much. Only bigger ones, like Dha Werda Verda, not much else.”

Intently focused on his hands as they fiddled with his gauntlets, he only noticed Ben’s approach once Ben had wrapped his fingers - again, so elegant and out of place next to the thick fingers in thicker gloves that belonged to Jango - around Jango’s wrist. A breath in, a breath out, and Jango faced Ben.

There was no judgment on his face. Nor was there pity, or sympathy, or a hundred other emotions that Jango would’ve scorned. There was only earnestness, a sudden excitement.

“Can I - I mean,” Ben restarted, “would you mind if I shared some with you?” 

With that look on his face, how could Jango refuse?

His wrist still sat securely in Ben’s grasp, his nerves tingling at the touch, and oh Jango wished it was skin upon skin instead of armorweave. He settled back into the sand’s cradle and watched the shadow-light play across the planes of Ben’s face. The subtle roundness of his jaw, the way the light curved into it as his mouth opened. The divot in his chin, and how the darkness deepened and lessened as it smoothed when Ben smiled. The orange-yellow firelight, the color ringing Ben’s iris but never breaching the barrier.

And, of course, the poem itself, the roundness of the consonants and wideness of the vowels as Ben brought the words to life.

“From blossoms comes/this brown paper bag of peaches/we bought from the boy/at the bend in the road where we turned toward/signs painted Peaches .” And in his mind’s eye, Jango could see it. He’d been that boy in another lifetime, when he was a Fett in more than name, when he was a Vhett, Concordian rough on his palate and childhood fruity-sweet on his tongue. Ben painted it anew, memories he’d long buried once again brought forth, an offering.

“From laden boughs, from hands/from sweet fellowship in the bins/comes nectar at the roadside, succulent/peaches we devour, dusty skin and all/comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.” Now was the sand, which he hadn’t eaten, Ben, you’re wrong about that , and that unbothered joy as they’d laughed and tussled like their boyhoods weren’t yet over.

“O, to take what we love inside/to carry within us an orchard, to eat/not only the skin, but the shade/not only the sugar, but the days, to hold/the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into/the round jubilance of peach.” How had Ben known? How had he assembled this pitter-patter rhythm in a perfect knifeblade to pierce at parts of Jango he’d left to scar over and forget?

“There are days we live/as if death were nowhere/in the background; from joy/to joy to joy, from wing to wing/from blossom to blossom to/impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.” The story ended, the poem complete, and all that remained was the fire and Ben’s concern. Intent on waving it off, Jango instead tasted salt on his lips, felt cracks in the dust on his face. 

Oh. That explained it.

Something small unfurled in the back of his mind, and Jango shifted so that Ben’s fingers didn’t circle his wrist, but instead entwined with his own.

“Tell me another one?” he asked, and they both pretended his voice wasn’t as rough as it was.

“And you still remember them?”

“Every word, ad’ika, every word.”

Council meetings were never Jango’s favorite activity. In fact, he would go so far as to say that they were universally despised if not for the vigor with which some of the heads of houses debated and dug their feet in against every statement someone else said. Nobody could argue with that level of passion if they didn’t secretly enjoy it.

Now, though, with his chance to bring the good news of another victory against Kyr’tsad and the appearance of someone who could beat Tor Vizsla back with ease, he thought it would be easier. At least a little bit. Nobody could take issue with a win, right?

Well, he was half-right, he supposed, as he stood in full beskar’gam in his command tent, the holocall to the house leaders shining in blue in front of him. They had been glad about the victory, taking pride in the success of their people and ideas. But watching them tear into the man next to him about every bit of his personal history, perhaps he’d once again underestimated their drive to take issue with something. Because this? This interrogation? It grated at Jango’s nerves, especially as he watched Ben stand tall and unmoving. His face betrayed nothing, and equally unreadable were the lines of his body. On the call, Ben looked the picture of unbothered, practically robotic.

But behind his back, his fingers curled tightly together. They flexed in and out of interlocking shapes, knuckles going white under the pressure. The tendons in his hands stood out in stark relief. 

“And so you expect us to believe that you who are Kenobi, you appeared out of nowhere and struck down Vizsla without a struggle, and we should accept you based on that alone?” cried Bruveax Kast, of House Kast. The Nautolan woman scoffed imperiously as she stared down at Ben.

“I expect nothing of you,” Ben replied evenly. “You don’t know me, I don’t know you. All I know is the truth that I have given you and the reality of my actions. I leave the rest to you to determine your own reaction.”

It was an eloquent statement, of that there was no doubt, but it was far too evasive to be wise. Jango winced internally. That would earn Ben no favors with the council.

“You see, my fellow Mando’ade, how he hides behind pretty words and the spaces between them? He has not claimed the right of Naasade, nor could he, as an aruetii. No, instead he parades himself in front of us as Kenobi and acts as if that renders him trustworthy! He could be anything or anyone,” said Grete Fawr, of House Fawr. “We demand clarity! We demand openness! We demand truth!”

And suddenly, the impossible happened. The five ornery heads of house nodded in agreement with each other. What alternate universe had Jango fallen into? Why did it have to be Ben who united the council, and against himself, for that matter?

Kriff it. Jango had taken the backseat for most of the meeting, but it was time to change that.

“Enough!” he shouted, slamming his hands onto the commdeck. “Fine, you will not trust his word. But will you listen to mine? That of your Mand’alor?” He glared at each of them in turn. “Ben Kenobi doesn’t need to earn your trust. He’s earned mine. He saved my life, and that of a whole village of civilians and ade.” And then that niggling thought at the back of his head, that distant recollection of Kenobi, sparked into full recognition. “And Kenobi? Are we not Mando’ade? Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la. Or had you all forgotten that in your quest to find something wrong with him? No, enough is enough. I am not asking you to invite him into your own clans, only to acknowledge his presence in this camp. If that is all you had to complain about, then I think this meeting is over.”

“Elek, Mand’alor,” the council heads replied in unison. In appropriately Mandalorian fashion, not one looked cowed, only mutinously submissive. That was the best he’d be able to get out of them, though, so he’d take it. He ended the transmission and immediately focused his attention on Ben, who was stubbornly retaining his emotionless posture.

“Hey, Ben, you alright?” There was no response, only that continued curling and uncurling of his fingers. “I apologize for them, really, they were out of line.” The Mandalorian paced one hand on Ben’s shoulder, and suddenly the redhead startled. “You good?”

“I - I’m fine,” he said, his brows furrowed. “I just wonder, well, what was all that about Kenobi?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t exactly grow up with my birth family.”

“That part doesn’t surprise me,” and Ben looked at him confusedly, “but not even on Stewjon?”

“I wouldn’t have this accent if I had.”

“Point,” Jango allowed. He sighed. “It’s - well, it means ‘child of no one’ in Basic, and, on Stewjon, it’s a marker of someone who’s no longer a part of their family.”

Ben deflated. “Oh.”

“In most cases, it aligns with Naasade on Mandalore; a person removing themself from their family. But Stewjon has additional practices and beliefs that Mandalore doesn’t. You can’t be removed from your family here without being declared dar’manda, but sometimes, very rarely, a family on Stewjon might reject a child. Almost universally for signs of Force sensitivity. Except,” Jango wondered, tapping on his chin, “those children are given a new first name that aligns with it, stripping away their ties to their birth family entirely. You don’t have that, so,” he shrugged, “they assumed the first case.”

Looking pale, eyes wide, Ben asked hesitantly, “What is that first name?”

“If I remember correctly, Obi-wan. ‘Nothing.’”

Ben shut his eyes, almost unsteady on his feet. “That’s - that’s awful.”

“Yeah. Jetiise are one thing, but a child whose only crime was a quirk of their birth? That’s unimaginable for us.”

Silently nodding, Ben felt his way over to a chair and sat down heavily. It was harsh, having a part of his identity be so cruel. Jango wished the word meant something, anything else, anything that better fit the wonder of a man before him. He knelt beside Ben’s chair and took one hand, peppered with rapidly fading crescent-shaped indentations, in his. 

“Listen, Ben. I don’t,” he fumbled for the words, “I don’t know what this knowledge feels like for you. I can’t. But I can offer you what little bit of comfort I can provide. It matters not who your father was, only the father you will be. Your past is irrelevant here. You can’t change it; nobody can. The only thing that matters is the future you pave going forward. We have a rite called cin vhetin here. It’s a wiping away of the past to create a new future with us. I don’t know if you want that. But I swear, you'll have the same privacy to your past that cin vhetin can bring. I won’t pry. Nor will anybody else.”

With a shaky exhale, Ben nodded. It wasn’t clear what part he was nodding at, but Jango would take whatever response he could get. 

“You will always be welcome here. That, I can promise you.”

He released Ben’s hand, standing to leave. As he reached the tent flap, intent on leaving Ben to his emotions, he heard a choked-up voice call after him. “Thank you, Jango.”

He let the flap fall shut.

“Do you think, if he’d been around for longer, he would’ve taken it?”

“Hm?”

“Cin vhetin. Do you think he would’ve done it?”

“I don’t know, Boba. I can dream, but we’ll never know for sure.”

Jango lay leisurely beneath a tent canopy on a day with a sky as pale as the sand, Myles lounging beside him. For once, he didn’t have anything to worry about, no pressing concerns or anything. There was no need for them to move camp anytime soon, no looming threats or upcoming jobs, and Jango was so grateful for the chance to just breathe and let time pass him by. 

“So,” Myles started, breaking the casual silence they’d fallen into. He rolled over to face Jango on his stomach, kicking his feet up into the air like an adiik at a sleepover. “Tell me about the thing between you and Ben.”

“There is nothing between me and Ben, di’kut.” 

“See, the three night patrolmen I bribed say otherwise.”

Jango twisted, abruptly alert. “Should I worry about the rampant corruption among the verde?”

“Nah.” Myles waved it off. “It’s not like Kyr’tsad is gonna have KP shifts or juicy gossip on you to trade them for our fatal weaknesses.”

“Of course, of course,” Jango allowed graciously. “So long as you don’t trade Kyr’tsad some of that blackmail on me for a few credits or a nice gun.”

“Like they’d have a nice gun,” Myles scoffed. “Blackmail on you is worth the dha’kad’au, I promise.”

“Thanks for the flattering assessment.”

“I aim to please.”

“Unlike on the training grounds, where you don’t aim at all.”

“Hey, you take that back!”

As Myles reached around to cuff him, his own hands raised to block it, the pair were interrupted by an uncertain cough. “Um.”

Before them stood Silas, shifting his weight awkwardly and rubbing the back of his neck. “Mand’alor. Sir.” He nodded at Myles. “Al’verd.” 

“Silas. What brings you to our secluded corner of camp?” There was not an ounce of emotion on Myles’s face, his expression wiped clean in moments. A twitch in his eyebrow, though, told Jango it wasn’t serious. 

“Um. Well.” The young boy took a deep breath in, straightening his posture to something almost wooden. “Ben doesn’t have anybody to do this for him so I’m doing it. All due respect, Mand’alor, but if you hurt him I - well, I won’t hurt you, but I’ll be very upset and disappointed in you. I can’t really challenge you but I could probably get Myles to do something.” He deflated a bit, his shoulders folding. “Sir.”

For a moment, silence reigned, Silas shifting nervously under the combined impassive stares of the two highest-ranking people in the camp. Jango glanced at Myles. He glanced back. 

They stayed frozen for a second longer. Then, Myles burst out laughing, Jango following soon after. Deep guffaws filled the air, Myles leaning onto Jango and using him as support from the force of his mirth. 

Jango shoved his second off him, standing to clap a rapidly-reddening Silas on the back. His chuckles easing, he smiled at the verd’ika. “As your Mand’alor, if I ever kriff up with him, you have my full permission to smack my di’kut’la kovid.”

“Yeah - um, yes, sir.” Ducking his head, having apparently used up his bravery for the day, Silas made his abrupt retreat. Not a word of goodbye, even, just the kid jamming his buy’ce back on his head, hiding his scarlet face.

Snickering again, Myles pushed himself upright. “How long do you think he practiced that one in the mirror?”

“Oh, a mirror? Out here? He showed it to his buir first, no question.”

“You think he wrote it down first?”

“He had to have had like three drafts.”

Myles shook his head. “What is the youth coming to?”

“We’re five years older than him.”

“And I feel every one of those years in my bones! They ache, Jango!”

“Then get a better mattress,” he retorted, giving the man a shove. 

Myles, though, didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at Jango with new mischief growing in his eyes. Never a good sign for Jango’s sanity. “Now wait a moment. You accepted and acknowledged that performance from Sil’ika.”

“Myles…”

“Which proves I’m right. There absolutely is something between you and Ben.” Unholy glee spread across his face. “Hah! You’re absolutely gone on him, Jan’ika!”

“Myles.”

“Oh, I never thought I’d see the day.” He raised one dramatic hand to rest against his forehead. “Our little Jan’ika, all grown up and finding a cute boy, writing about him in his diary, trying to figure out which last name combination sounds better, oh, it’s a dream come true for his desperate family!”

“Myles!”

And suddenly his second’s voice went irate and shocked. “Which means Silas beat me to it! The little chakaar! Osik, I’ve gotta prepare - quick, which is more threatening, ‘I will prevent your legacy from ever existing’ or ‘You won’t ever get a memorial’? Oh, what am I saying, like you’d offer advice on this! I’ve got to get to it, right now!” He waved merrily, already well out of their shady spot. “See you, Jan’ika!”

With nothing else to say, Jango just repeated himself again, with feeling. “MYLES!”

Sure enough, a few hours later, the temperature slowly easing to something a few degrees beneath ‘boiling,’ Ben walked up to him with a smirk across his face, the expression meaning nothing good for Jango’s peace of mind. Without any fanfare, he plopped himself down across from Jango. “So, I just had quite the interesting conversation.”

Jango groaned. “Don’t tell me-”

“Oh, I see you’ve already got an idea. Myles gave me a very impressive shovel talk. How did he phrase it? ‘If you so much as pluck a hair from his head without his consent, I’ll introduce you to the wonders of intestines as a fashion accessory.’ Quite creative, if I do say so myself.”

“I’m so sorry about him.”

“Don’t be, it was very entertaining. I mean, for one, we aren’t even together. And I’ve been operating under the impression that if those circumstances were to occur, you’d be able to deal with it yourself.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I can get him to back off…”

“Nonsense.” He waved it off. “I find it admirable that you’ve inspired such loyalty in not just him, but everyone else in this camp.”

“I’m just a man doing the best that I can.”

“And you do it well. You have this habit of drawing people towards you, you know.”

“Well.” How was he supposed to respond to that? “Thank you?”

“Buir, you really were oblivious.”

“Just wait until you start dealing with this, gremlin. You’ll be just as oblivious and I will laugh at you every chance I get.”

“Is that good parenting?”

“It’s what I’ll deserve after dealing with you through puberty.”

Two nights later and he’d been drawn back to Ben yet again. Such was the improbability of the man, initiating a careful give-and-take without even acting like he had a clue about it. A star, Jango supposed, with his own gravitational pull Jango couldn’t help but surrender himself to.

Tonight, they were bundled up in Jango’s tent, poring over paperwork and plans for their next job. Oh, Ben hadn’t taken the Resol’nare, but nobody was questioning his presence in the upcoming operation. They’d done their share of planning during the day, but something in Jango always worked best in the twilight hours. When Ben had glanced at him questioningly, he hadn’t hesitated to invite him along. 

And if it gave Jango additional time to watch Ben at work without the niceties of dealing with anybody else? Well, that was a benefit he’d keep to himself.

The present focus was drawing up ambush plans for the main portion of the assignment. Some rebellion or other had pissed off the government, and who better to shut it down than a fully-armed task force of Mandalorians? It felt a bit overkill for Jango, but the pay was good, and having more of his people was far preferable to being outnumbered. 

Ben had quickly drawn out projected lines and fortifications for the locals they’d encounter, and together they’d been brainstorming the best ways to exploit them. The many snowy mountains would provide a terrain advantage to those already well-established in them, but there were small weaknesses, if only they could find them.

“There,” Ben pointed, directing Jango’s attention to a small indentation in the topographical map. “There are probably quite a few critical supplies here. Based on what we’ve been told, they’ve been planning this for some time; they’ll be looking to survive whatever is thrown at them as long as possible.”

“Guerrilla warfare,” Jango nodded.

“Luckily, they’re not likely to have much we can’t anticipate, knowing that.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of guerrilla warfare?”

“Ah, but they’re operating under the assumption we’ll be working under a strike force’s mindset. They won’t predict that we already know every trick in the book.”

Jango crossed his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “Do we?”

The other man grinned wolfishly, those too-sharp canines flashing. “I invented half of them.”

“Well then.” Something hot and heavy settled in Jango’s gut. “Take the lead, Kenobi.”

And indeed he did, directing Jango and his militaristic mindset through every dirty tactic he could think of, all the ways a revolutionary force would twist every minute advantage into something to ruthlessly capitalize on. He wove his hands through the air, drawing up metaphors and examples that certainly brought worry to the back of Jango’s mind to be examined later, when the knowledge causing it wasn’t so vital to their success. 

Slowly, though, as the night wore on, Ben’s stream of words grew thick and viscous like molasses, stuck to his tongue and lacking the liveliness they’d had earlier. It synced up well with the dimming of the braziers, fires dying to crackling embers. Their tired eyes struggled to keep track of the pile of datapads strewn across the desk, every word fuzzy in Jango’s vision. 

He yawned. His jaw popped a few times. 

Ben, looking dead on his feet and still better than Jango felt, blinked blearily. He glanced out the tent flap. “Well, my dear, I do believe we’ve worked through the night.”

“Huh. Mij would probably be mad at me for that.” He slid down the desk to the floor, grabbing a blanket from a nearby chair as he did. Operating only on the ease of a lifetime of repetitions and the knowledge of the consequences if he didn’t, Jango began the arduous task of unclasping his armor. 

Somehow, in the barely-there firelight, he felt Ben’s eyes on him, cataloging the nightly ritual. And, maybe, just maybe, if he let himself hope for a minute, he was staring at something else, too. He stretched to slide his chestplate off and heard a quickly-stifled gasp. Turning his face away, he smirked. Maybe not such a distant hope after all.

Casually leaning forward to reach his outstretched legs, Jango asked, “Are you going to stand there all night, Kenobi? Come on, the ground’s great this time of year.”

“You are a wicked man, Jango Fett,” Ben said, his accent just missing that rough Concordian rasp on ‘Fett.’ Normally that missed subtlety would grate at Jango, but when paired with the tall vowels in Ben’s tenor, he suddenly didn’t find it so bad. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Ben.” He snickered at the Stewjoni’s offended look as he poorly imitated his Coruscant accent. “Are you gonna sit down or not?”

He rolled his eyes, but he relented, joining Jango. Ben didn’t have any armor to remove, but he watched every step of Jango’s process with hungry eyes. 

“Here,” Jango offered, extending his arm. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You seem to be curious enough. Want to try putting what you’ve learned to use?” He shook his arm, vambrace still in place, for emphasis.

With gentle, delicate movements, Ben grasped Jango’s arm. His fingers were just shy of trembling, the man practically holding his breath. Slowly, almost painfully so, he slid his hand down the painted vambrace, almost stroking the small scratches and dents in the beskar. It was far more carefully than Jango remembered being treated for years, and something in the atmosphere shifted left. A change of phase, a gas cooling to a liquid. Ben’s fingers probed around the armor piece, feeling for the clasps without once breaking eye contact with Jango. He swallowed reflexively. 

Tugging lightly, Ben slid the vambrace off, leaving Jango feeling more exposed than he should for the loss of a single piece of beskar. He cradled the piece, though one hand stayed put on Jango’s arm, still outstretched. 

A snap of static. The weight of ozone. Every single nerve firing where Ben’s fingers lingered. 

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Ben whispered, the air too filled with something to fracture with volume, “but I was under the impression that this sort of routine was reserved for a relationship more...intimate than ours.”

Lost for words, Jango nodded.

“Then-?”

“I trust you, Ben. With my people, with my family, and,” he nodded at the vambrace sheltered in the curve of Ben’s arm, “with my life.”

“So this is…?”

“An offering, if you’ll have it - me.”

There they lay, those damning words, sweeping out from his tongue and into the air between them. He waited with bated breath.

But, of course, Ben, with his silver tongue and utter impossibility, didn’t say a word. His fingers pressed down on Jango’s arm, touch turning to grasp. He shifted forward, Jango’s vambrace still held securely, and with the same tenderness that colored the moments shared just for the two of them, he tilted his head and kissed Jango. 

The instant their lips met, what was obviously intended to be chaste and light turned hungry as Jango surged to meet him. Heat flooded Jango’s veins, chasing away the creeping desert night and the ozone in the air crackled. He raised one hand to cup at Ben’s neck, twisting his fingers in the wispy hairs that laid there. Like dust , Jango thought, he tastes like dust and copper .

Something popped in the air, and Ben yelped, static shocking him. He pulled away with an offended look on his face, outraged that electricity had chosen to break the moment, and Jango couldn’t help but laugh. 

Battle tactics to silent declarations of love, as if it couldn’t get more mandokarla. And everything about this was as impossible as the man in front of him, that Jango had found him only a few months ago, that Ben had even survived to meet him, that they’d paid each other life debts already and he could picture Ben with the dha’kad’au, illuminated in its void-glow and wielding it with seasoned grace , and he kept laughing, helpless under the lightness of it. 

“What?” Ben asked, his voice nearly a whine as he carefully set the vambrace down, and Jango shook his head, still laughing, and stood up. He pulled Ben with him, letting his questions of “What are you doing, you ridiculous man?” go unanswered as his smile grew to where it didn’t fit the confines of his face, so great was his joy. Jango lifted him up, arms wrapped around his thighs, and as Ben’s legs wrapped around his waist instinctually, he spun him around and around.

Ben beamed, though his ears were redder than his hair, and he started to chuckle lightly in turn. With his arms steady on Jango’s shoulders, the Mando’ad carried him out of the tent and into the predawn morning, still whirling them around with wild abandon. Like the stars themselves were carrying his feet, he let himself move and just stared into Ben’s eyes, at his nose as it scrunched, at the grooves carved from his smile, at the divot in his chin, at the fall of his slowly-growing hair. 

“Jango, please, you’ll wake the whole camp at this rate!”

“Let them come! We share everything around here!”

“Not me, you don’t.”

Jango threw his head back and laughed once more, long and loud. “Not like that, di’kut!” Ben only waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “You little nerfherder!” Jango let go, but Ben landed easily. Just to be contrary, he was sure. 

“Is that really how you’re starting this relationship, Jango Fett?” he asked, and Jango’s eyes widened, his cheeks prickling as the blood rushed to them. So that’s how he was playing it, then.

But then someone shouted “Relationship?” and Jango realized the twofold nature of it. “Sneaky bastard,” he whispered. 

As if summoned by it, what felt like the whole camp rushed out of the woodworks. Had they recruited new people recently? It seemed like more than there should be. “‘Alor! ‘Alor! Spill it, ‘Alor!”

The crowd took up the chant, yelling, “Spill it!” and far more invested in this than they had any right to be as onlookers. Jango sighed, putting up his hands in surrender. Ben smirked at him from his side, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You wanna know?” he asked.

“Yeah!” cried hundreds of voices.

“You really wanna know?”

“YEAH!”

He glanced at Ben, looking for permission. With a lift of his hand, a gracious king humoring a mere peasant, the redhead allowed it, as if to say, “Oh, by all means, amuse me,” the gesture even conveying the haughtiness of his imagined voice. Jango took it as a challenge. 

“Alright then!” He spun Ben around, slung an arm behind his waist, and dipped him into a searing kiss any verd returning from war would’ve been proud of. To Ben and Ben alone, Jango winked. His partner rolled his eyes but flung his arms around Jango’s neck and leaned into it with equal intensity, giving as good as he got. 

By the time they parted for air, the crowd had already descended into whoops and cheers and bets exchanging hands. The ring surged inwards, and suddenly someone had broken out the gal, and thus the sun rose on a camp of partying Haat Mando’ade.

With a glint in his eye and a tight grip on Jango’s hand, Ben tugged him away from the many, many well-wishers and slipped through the crowd. As they reached the fringes of the crowd, the noise managed to lighten its press on him until he could hear himself speak again. “That was eventful.”

“They are way too invested in this, you know,” Ben muttered, pulling Jango along. 

“I don’t control it!” he protested.

“You encourage them.”

“Yeah, well, I thought they could use some happy news.”

The Stewjoni sighed sarcastically. “Sap.”

“You love it,” Jango teased.

“I do, don’t I?”

He froze. The sudden pause jerked on Ben’s arm, and he turned back, concern on his face. “Jango?”

“Say it again.”

Crinkles appeared at the corner of Ben’s eyes. “I love you.”

“Again?”

“I love you.”

“Again?”

Circling his hands around Jango’s waist, Ben asked, “You endearingly oblivious man, how many times do you need me to say it to get it through your thick skull that I love you?”

“Every time, at least once more.”

A tug again, towards a secluded corner of the camp. The reflection of the sun, always ringing his irises, never passing into the blue. A quirk at his lips. “I’ve heard that Mando’ade hear actions louder than words. Shall I convince you another way?”

This was the easiest surrender of Jango’s life. “Gladly, naubriik.”

“And that’s as far as that bit goes.”

“Aww, buir!”

“Nope! You are ten standard, and by the time I’d let you hear this part you wouldn’t want to.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’ll thank me for this later.”

“Jango, what is this?” Ben asked, a blindfold wrapped over his eyes, though he didn’t stumble as his partner pulled him along. “Where are you taking me?”

“Just hold on! Patience, isn’t that your whole thing?”

“Usually I can see while I wait!”

“Then consider this an exercise in self-improvement!”

He laughed once, a loud bark. “I see you’ve at least picked up a few things from me!”

“Your turn!” Jango announced, letting go of his hand and pushing the blindfold from Ben’s eyes. He blinked a few times as he readjusted to the light again, and promptly faced Jango again.

“It’s an empty stretch of land.” 

And his assessment was accurate. Before them lay a stretch of bare, untouched desert, no tents in sight. Jango had taken them a short distance away from camp. Surprisingly flat for its lack of sentient interference, it served its intended purpose well. Or, what its intended purpose was about to be.

“Well, that’s not the important part of this.”

“What is?”

“What we’re going to do on it.”

Ben sighed. “Jango, please, I love you,” and a thrill raced down Jango’s spine, just like it did every time Ben said that, “but there are places that I would like to keep untouched by sand.”

“Not like that! Get your mind out of the gutter.” He cracked a smile for a moment, but it twisted into something sheepish. Jango scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. It didn’t make sense - Ben had already seen so much of him that was secretive and flawed, it wouldn’t change his mind, he knew that, logically - but Jango always wanted to impress him, to be confident and sure and a reflection of what he so admired in the man before him. But they were not reflections, they were matching parts, and he pressed on. “But, well, there’s-” He stopped, breathed, started over. “I want to share everything with you. I want you to know the culture that raised me. Would you humor me, for a bit?”

“Like you even have to ask.”

Wonderful, wonderful man. “Then, just...follow my lead, and don’t think too much about it?”

Without another word, Ben reached out his hand. Rather than taking it, though, Jango stepped back, leading Ben in the beginnings of a vague circle. Slow, steady, an introduction. Just the two of them walking, the same space dividing them. The Stewjoni’s confusion was clear on his face, but it was not an unwilling one. 

Though they stood alone, in the special kind of privacy only an open landscape could provide, Jango could hear the cheerful tune of the bes’bev, the stomp-stomp-pause the sand muffled from his feet. And, as he watched, Ben began picking up on the rhythm, his stride bouncing on that third, silent beat.

On instinct, he reached out, taking Ben’s still-outstretched hand and crossing it over his own. The position was awkward as he fumbled for Ben’s opposite hand, the two of them struggling to find the overlapping hold Jango was so used to, but their feet stepped in time, always alighting for the third beat. 

Eventually, they managed to slide their way into it, and the wide circle decreased its radius, the pair pressed arm-to-arm-to-chest. He could feel Ben’s heartbeat thudding in the same pattern. No doubt his own matched. 

He leaned forward and guided Ben in switching their arms, turning their backward spin into a forward one without ever breaking stride. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, tilting his head towards Ben.

“I’m just following your lead.”

Jango tugged on Ben’s hands and twisted himself a bit, adjusting their constant spin. Rotating around each other instead of together. Their arms crossed between them, Jango lifted them up and folded himself beneath them. 

“What now?” Ben asked, turning to keep his arms from twisting uncomfortably.

“Now we spin!” Jango laughed gleefully.

Like schoolchildren, they turned in tandem, arms interlaced above their heads, circling back to between them, always in orbit. They lacked all of the traditional dressing that came with this dance: the audience, the music, the proper floor. But the core was constant, the two of them, never breaking contact, never ceasing their revolutions of each other.

It was a simple dance, one that was easy to learn by doing. But it had always been one of Jango’s favorites to watch his parents perform. They’d always looked so bright, like a pair of binary stars, and he remembered dreaming of the first time he’d be able to take part. A younger, less jaded Jango had practiced alone in his room, trying to picture the one he’d dance with. It was funny how he’d always imagined it being perfect, down to the last little flare of a hand.

This was far from perfect. This was messy and uncoordinated, only kept in time by the pervasively silent beat. Ben didn’t know any of the steps, had never even heard of this. Jango didn’t have the jaunty band he’d put on over his buy’ce. It was far too quiet for a Mandalorian dance.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

In all his preteen days, he’d never had the most important piece of the puzzle. Now, he was finding that the rest of the pieces were irrelevant, so long as he had Ben’s hands in his own.

He released one of those hands, lightening his grasp on the other and raising it over Ben’s head. This, at least, was an easily recognizable signal. Ben twirled, his steps gaining confidence with the move he knew. 

At some unsaid cue, they sped up, Ben whirling faster and faster as Jango followed, always keeping their hands together. 

“There’s certainly a lot of spinning in this!”

“That’s what makes it so fun!”

Ben huffed out a laugh, smiling indulgently. “Well, you’re not wrong!”

“You ready to switch it up?”

Ben turned his head to stare challengingly at Jango instead of responding verbally, keeping his twirling going. Their arms changed positions again, Jango now offering his elbow like some fancy Core noble at a ball. With a little stumbling, they found their way into the rhythm again, one turning away from the other, reaching blindly for the next handhold, and then switching. One circle, then another, always in that stomp-stomp-pause pattern. 

In his head, Jango heard the music lighten, the tune turning jauntier, the rhythm exaggerating into a lighthearted, swingy bounce. The next time Ben spun in, Jango pulled him with him, raising his arms and sliding his hands under Ben’s triceps. Their chests went flush, their heads only offset from each other by a few centimeters. If Jango angled his face to the right even a little bit, they’d be nose-to-nose. 

From one united rotation to orbiting each other, and back again. It was a marker of their relationship, what every Mando’ad aspired to.

Unbidden, a few lines of the riduurok flew to the forefront of Jango’s mind.

Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome.

We are one when together, we are one when parted.

And if that wasn’t a sign of how gone he was, well, he’d need a kriffing meteorite to the mirshe. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ben asked, some inflection in his voice turning it teasing, yet genuine. A contradiction, like everything else about the man.

Jango hummed noncommittally, closing his eyes. “Oh, nothing,” he said, “just the next move.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

His eyes flew open and he grinned rakishly. “This!” Without any further warning, he dropped one hand to Ben’s waist and dipped him, pushing their faces closer together. 

“You know,” Ben commented, his hair unkempt and tousled from their momentum, “I think I could get used to this.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“Always.”

And, foreheads pressed together, they breathed in tandem. Breath to breath, life to life, heart to heart.

“I like happy endings.”

“The story isn’t over yet, ad’ika.”

“I know, but I wish that was where it ended.”

“No, don’t wish for that. Wish that it was still being told with every moment that passes because he’s still with us.”

Chapter Text

“One more night, alright Bob’ika?”

“‘Lek, buir.”

“Let’s continue.”

Jango found Ben pacing just outside their tent, running his hands through his hair and gesturing like he was holding a conversation with somebody who wasn’t there. His mouth moved, though no words escaped it, and his forehead creased with the distress on his face. Whatever he was parsing through, it was serious.

“You alright, naubriik?”

Ben jumped, his shoulders rising defensively. Like a teenager caught sneaking out. Though, considering they were both barely out of those years, the assessment was not particularly inaccurate. “Jango! Hello.”

“Hi,” he replied, drawing out the word. 

“Um, it’s not what it looks like?”

“I’d hope so, considering it looks like you’re having a mental break and seeing things that aren’t there.”

Something in Ben’s posture loosened, just barely. Like turning a pressure dial by a hair and releasing the pressure inside. “Okay, it’s definitely not that.”

“Uh-huh. I figured.”

“Hi?” Ben repeated sheepishly.

With a sigh, Jango moved to run his hands down Ben’s arms. “If something is wrong, Ben, you can tell me. We can fix it. I can help.”

“It’s - it’s nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

“Let me rephrase,” Ben said, abruptly looking exhausted. Bags appeared under his eyes from out of nowhere. What was going on? “It’s nothing you can help with.”

He guided Ben to sit down inside the tent, holding the flap open for Ben to enter first. “It must be pretty bad if it’s not something the ruler of a planet and his army of lifelong warriors can help with.”

“It’s not a war thing, Jango.”

“We’ve got quite a few resources at our disposal. We’re not just warriors around here; most of us have an ‘and’ in there somewhere.”

“I don’t think-”

Jango leaned back and crossed his arms. “Try me.”

Ben was stubborn. Jango had seen that from their very first meeting, when a heavily-concussed and still-bleeding man had tried to fight his way away. He would hold out for as long as he deemed it necessary. 

Hopefully, Jango would be able to convince him it wasn’t. 

“Come on, Ben,” he said, almost pleading. “We have farmers, businesspeople, doctors, lawyers, just about everything. Despite what the rest of the galaxy seems to think, we’ve got a wide range of trades. Someone in there has to be able to help you. Haran, I’ve even got some measure of political training. There’s any number of people who can help. All you have to do is ask.”

Wordlessly, Ben shook his head, covering his face with his hands. 

“Please, Ben, just say the word.” Jango crouched in front of Ben, pulling his hands away. There were crescent-shaped indents on his forehead. “I want to be able to help you with whatever is troubling you.”

He stayed silent.

For a culture famed for its prowess in war, Jango knew when to pick his battles. Ben was an adult. He would respect his boundaries. He’d promised that, after all. “If you need me, or change your mind, at any point, I am happy to help.”

He pushed himself back to a standing position, leaving Ben bent nearly in half in the chair. The man looked so old, sitting there. Lines traversed his face, his hair greasy and rumpled, bags sitting heavily beneath his eyes. He stared at his knees, his hands stretching the corners of his mouth into something exhausted and pessimistic. 

He looked lost. But Jango had offered him one path, of many he could take. It was up to Ben to take it. For all Jango knew, there was something preventing Ben from reaching for help. Though it was frustrating, something unpleasant twisting his gut at the inaction, he didn’t push. 

He’d promised Ben, and Jango was a man of his word.

If it was truly dire, Ben would tell him.

He trusted him.

“Sometimes I regret not having pushed more.”

“And the other times?”

“And the other times I think there was nothing I could have done. You never want to force someone into something, Boba.”

“Even if it’s for their own good?”

“Even then. There might be something you don’t realize or understand.”

“They know themself best.”

“Exactly.”

The ships flared their engines in unison, a coordinated display of power. Jango grinned at it. Nurul and Cahya had an ongoing lighthearted rivalry when it came to flying, one that always expressed itself in daring flips and rolls, driving themselves as close to each other without impacting. 

Their revving was, of course, their signal for a competition.

“Alright, alright,” Jango called over comms, “Passengers aboard the Bloated Porg and the Starlight are advised to hold on for their lives. You all know what’s coming; you signed yourself up for it when you got on the ships Nurul and Cahya were piloting.”

“Haar’chak,” he heard someone curse. “Is it too late to get off this flying deathtrap?”

“Sorry, Virr,” Myles shouted, too loud in his mic. He was probably standing near an exhaust port or something. “Guess it’s finally your turn to get the fun ride!”

“I’ve somehow been on one every time!”

“Damn, the Manda does not like you, then. What’d you do to piss off fate?”

Cahya’s comm crackled to life. “Fate? Idiot just doesn’t think we’d realize he secretly enjoys it.”

“Quit the jabber, Cahya. My ship’s been raring to get off the ground. Let’s go already!” There was Nurul, pent-up energy clear in their impatient tone. 

“See you on the other side, Mand’alor. Bloated Porg is off!”

“ Starlight is airborne. Don’t get lost on the way there!”

Jango laughed as the two heavily-modified ships alighted, twisting into position and shooting off out of atmo. Those two could always be counted on to make a simple trip complicated for no reason other than that they could. 

Something pointy dug into his shoulder. 

“So, are we going to be dealing with any such airborne dramatics as I’ve heard horror stories of?”

“Horror stories?” Jango chuckled, letting Ben keep his chin in place. “Those were tales of prowess and victory.”

“To a madman, sure.”

“Killjoy,” he teased.

“It’s called having a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

At that, Jango actually turned to stare at Ben, who gazed innocently back at him. “Self-preservation? Coming from you ?” The thought of it boggled the mind. “Remind me of what you did two weeks after we found you half-dead?”

Ben’s innocent face quickly morphed into a scowl. “That was a calculated move. I knew I’d be able to beat him.”

“Yeah, with ribs two seconds healed, and then you pissed off the medic right after.”

Opening his mouth to retort, Ben paused. “Okay, I can’t argue with you there.”

This was nice. After the odd, one-sided conversation of a few days prior and Ben’s uncharacteristic silence, he was glad for a return to the normalcy they’d established.

Did Jango hope it was a one-off, spurred on by a nightmare and only temporary? Absolutely. He would love it if he didn’t have to see that aged, hopeless look on his partner’s face ever again. But Jango was a realistic man. Experience had shown him that reactions like that weren’t from something as simple as a nightmare. Nightmares brought terror, not despondence.

He resolved to keep a close eye on Ben as they flew in Jaster’s Legacy , once the rest of the ships had taken off.

Their intense nights of planning and preparation for this job - coupled with, perhaps, some other intense activities - were finally coming to a head. Half the verde were escorting the noncombatant Haat Mando’ade to the main body of their population on Manda’yaim, on the other side of the planet. He’d entrusted the safety of that half of the operation, as well as the lives of the ade and elderly with it, to Myles. 

The rest of the verde, Jango and Ben included, were off to Galidraan.

“Buir? Are you okay?”

“Yeah...I’m alright, kiddo. It’s just unpleasant memories.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Nah. We’ve got a story to finish, don’t we?”

“So what’s the deal with Ben?” Mij asked, one hand on his hip.

“Hm?” Jango wasn’t quite paying attention, focused on coordinating the setup of a camp on the outskirts of the capital and how to get everyone where they needed to be. Ben’s name, though, as it usually tended to, drew him from the blue holomaps swimming in front of his eyes.

“He’s been acting...off, recently. You have to have noticed, right?”

So it was going to be this kind of conversation. Jango sighed. “Yeah, I noticed. I talked to him about it, too.”

“And?”

“And, nothing, Mij,” Jango huffed. “He clammed up, didn’t respond, and the look on his face told me not to press.”

Stepping forward, Mij pressed one pointed finger into Jango’s chest, right in the bes’kar’ta. “You didn’t press? Not when it could be something important? Jango, we still don’t know where he came from. He may be great and all, and he’s shown that we can trust him, but what if there’s somebody coming for him or something?” He glared. “This isn’t something you let slide because he looked sad .”

Jango met him blow for blow, pushing into Mij’s space. “You can’t hypo him and wrestle him into the medbay for this. I respect you as a baar’ur, but you’ve got to respect boundaries! Especially if it’s not something life-threatening!”

“And what if it is?”

“Then we’ll deal with it as it comes!” Jango shouted. “Just like every other time!”

Mij shook his head. “I want it on the record that I don’t like this.”

“It’s been noted.” He turned back to the datapads and holomaps, a physical dismissal.

The doctor stomped down the ship’s ramp, swinging on one of the support struts as he went. With a confused glance as he passed him, Ben switched places. “What was that about?”

“Don’t worry about it. It was a minor difference of opinion, that’s all.”

Now was not the time or place to focus on the thoughts of his chief medic whose thoughts, unfortunately, matched quite a few of Jango’s. He wanted to drag the answers out of Ben, but held himself back. Boundaries , he reminded himself, thinking of Jaster’s gentle admonishments when a young Jango had tried to demand every second of his time and threw a tantrum every time he left for a council meeting the child hadn’t been allowed to attend. 

Ben snorted softly.

“What’s so funny?” Jango asked, tilting his head curiously.

“Nothing, nothing.” He finished his path up to Jango’s side. “Rayn Shahl and her farmers have finished their assessment. The local population can hold our group for a tenday, maybe another half, but we’re putting a lot of pressure on their resources.”

“Do they have a recommendation?”

“Of course they do. Would they be among your best if they didn’t?” Jango shrugged, then waved for Ben to continue. “She suggested an equivalent exchange. We use their resources as a supplement to the rations we brought, and a small group of vhette focus their energy on improving the agricultural infrastructure.” He paused for a moment, hand tapping his chin pensively. “Looking at the current setup, I can’t say I disagree. Apparently, permafrost came early this year and they weren’t prepared for it. The ground is rock-solid and I could’ve sworn I saw a local take out a blaster and shoot the dirt just to break through it.”

“Sounds like something a younger version of me would’ve done.”

“Oh?”

Concord Dawn sun searing the sky in their long, long days. The taste of salt on his tongue as he and Arla toiled away for hours, racing to see who could finish planting a row of seedlings the fastest. For as fast as she had been, Arla had won surprisingly few of those races. It was only in hindsight that Jango had realized she’d intentionally lost. It made him miss her that much more. “The similarity in names isn’t a coincidence.”

“You know I was almost a farmer, too?”

“Really?”

Ben nodded, winding his arms around Jango’s waist. “What a pair we make.”

“The farmers-turned-whatever-we-are?” Jango chuckled. “It’s certainly a funny coincidence.”

“Oh, come on,” Ben hummed, “you don’t think it could be something greater? A sign? Fate at work?”

Jango leaned his head against Ben’s. It was comfortable like this, standing in the ship’s cargo hold, just sharing space like this. “It doesn’t really matter. I don’t care what brought you here. I’m just grateful that it happened, however it did.”

Chuckling, Ben kissed him on the cheek. “Sap.”

“Only for you.”

“It’s weird, hearing it like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, it’s Galidraan. But you make it sound so normal.”

“For a time, it was.”

The night before they’d scheduled their assault.

Jango had trekked back to Jaster’s Legacy alone, intent on finally getting off his feet. He’d done his part, he’d told Cahya not to let anyone wake him up unless they’d been shot three times at a minimum, and he intended to skip past the nervous anticipation for tomorrow with well-deserved rest.

Signaling it with his HUD, the ship’s cargo bay opened, and Jango sighed in relief. A few more meters and the press of a button and he’d be free for the next seven hours. He couldn’t wait.

He made it up the ramp uninterrupted, which was always a good sign. Closing it behind him, he started shedding pieces of armor, shucking off his boots as he passed the threshold of his room.

A startled breath shook Jango into alertness.

He flicked on the cabin light.

Huddled in the middle of the bed, wrapped in blankets, was Ben, blinking away the sudden brightness. “Jango?”

“Ben?” Jango replied in turn, voice soft in the still air. “Is this where you’ve been all day?” The pile of fabric shifted slightly in what Jango interpreted as assent. “What’s wrong?” Muffled, Ben murmured something Jango couldn’t make out. “What was that?”

The bundled-up man poked his chin out of his pile and repeated, “Could you just hold me?”

That was concerning. Ben’s silent periods had decreased in frequency, and Jango had hoped it was a sign that he was doing something right. He should’ve known better. Mentally, he kicked himself. He’s exactly the type to hide it as long as possible.

Still, Jango was never one to deny his partner, not when he sounded so uncertain and shaken. It didn’t matter what was causing it, not right now. All he could do was help Ben through it. 

The fact that he was even asking for something so small was a cause for worry. Ben denied help, even when it was freely offered. When it came to personal matters, he lived by a very ‘deal with it yourself’ mindset. He had to be in serious distress to break his silent stoicism and ask for something, even if it was only comfort.

First thing after they finished the job, he was taking Ben to the mir’baar’ur. As soon as he could convince him it wasn’t a burden. In the privacy of his mind, Jango scoffed. Like a therapist would consider a patient a burden.

That was later, though. As soon as we’re done here. 

Right now, Ben needed him.

“Of course, cyare.” Jango finished removing the rest of his armor and kute in record time. And while normally, he would have felt appreciative eyes follow him as he changed, there was no sensation of being watched. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Ben was staring into empty space, his eyes unfocused. He grabbed the softest clothes he could and clambered onto the bed. “Do you want any more blankets?”

Ben nodded. “It’s still cold.”

It wasn’t. The cabin of his ship was always well-heated, a feature Jaster had installed after a nasty hit to his knee had pain flaring up whenever it got too cold. Jango knew for a fact that the bedroom was being heated to match a summer day on Coruscant. 

He grabbed more blankets.

“I’ve been told I’m quite the radiator, too. Do you want me in there with you?” 

A shake of the head. Jango’s ears popped. He flexed his jaw a few times and winced. He watched Ben spot the motion and glance away. 

With no easy way to really reach Ben, Jango decided to lean against the approximate location of his partner’s side. He laid his head on the shoulder-shaped bump. 

“I can’t feel the light,” Ben murmured, which Jango found odd. It was clear that Ben hadn’t intended to share that thought; he appeared startled by the sound of his own voice. But the room was fully lit, the interior environment modeled to have the same orange-purple hues as a sunset. He didn’t comment on it; only tapped a few times on the headboard to raise the brightness to a Tatooinian noon. It glared at him, stinging his retinas, so Jango closed his eyes and leaned further into Ben.

“Whatever you need. I’ll be here.”

Ben shivered, though from what, Jango couldn’t tell. But he did tip himself against Jango, just barely. 

It was progress.

“What do you think was going on with him?”

“To this day, I don’t know. It’s one of the many mysteries he left behind.”

Galidraan’s morning dawned grey and dreary, not that Jango could see it. He was quite comfortable in his bed, resting against the tipped-over pile of blankets that was Ben. A soft snuffle pierced the air, an adorable sound that let Jango start his day smiling.

The planet could be as dreary and dull as it liked; it wouldn’t get to him, not when his mornings got to look like this. 

Ben looked better, at least, in sleep. Those furrowed lines had eased away as he dreamed, his expression was unbothered, and he’d stretched out to splay across the bed beneath Jango, no longer curled up and hunched over. Loathe as he was to break that peace, though, he knew he had to. It was with a twinge of guilt that he nudged Ben on the shoulder, whispering, “Hey.”

“Mmmm.” Ben pressed into the mattress, stretching a bit. “Jango?”

“Morning, love. You ready for the op?”

Alertness flooded into Ben’s posture, his eyes snapping open as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Haar’chak. That’s today.”

“What, did you forget or something?”

“I don’t wake up knowing what day it is, di’kut.”

“Ouch. You really went for the throat there. I’m hurt, Ben, truly.”

“Oh, you’ll live,” he laughed. Still at ease, then, though that likely wouldn’t last for long. 

Jango resolved not to mention the previous night and that peculiar state he’d been in until after the battle was over. He didn’t want to break that lightened air for as long as possible. He leaned forward to briefly peck Ben on the lips, darting away to get ready as Ben swiped at him. “You’re going to have to be faster than that today!” he teased.

“I’ll show you fast, Jango Fett.” With that challenge, Ben flew from the bed, discarding blankets and yesterday’s clothes in equal measure. Jango rolled his eyes fondly, but that didn’t stop him from speeding up his own morning routine in turn. A challenge was a challenge, after all, and he was a Mandalorian hard-pressed to back down from one. 

Perhaps slightly rumpled as they left the ship - and Jango would pretend that he was only running a hand through his slightly-curly hair from pre-battle nerves, not because of any other reason - the two of them took up a long stride to the command tent. 

The tension in the air was palpable throughout the camp. Everywhere he turned, Jango could spot someone buffing out dents in their beskar or sharpening a sword. He caught a glimpse of Cahya, disassembling her prized blaster and painstakingly polishing each tiny, handmade piece. Beside her was Nurul, who was sitting perfectly still, unbothered by the world around them. Force osik, Jango decided, and moved on. 

Silas sprinted up to Jango and Ben, once again out of breath from his sprint. He carried a parcel with him. “Myles commed me,” he panted, “told me to make you eat something because ‘Manda knows he wouldn’t otherwise.’ His words, not mine. Sir,” he added hastily, apparently having forgotten his typical politeness until now.

Jango approved. It was about time the kid got used to Jango as just another Mando. Hopefully, that whole shovel talk conversation had helped with that. He glanced to the side to see Ben smiling fondly at the verd’ika. “We appreciate it, Silas,” his partner said with all the refined airs so typical of the upper levels of Coruscant. Jango rolled his eyes. 

With food in their bellies and anxiety twitching his fingers, Jango escorted Ben the rest of the way. Nobody else had arrived yet; the morning was still early, the assault hours out. Everyone was prepared. He could taste it in the air, how it thrummed with tibanna gas imprinted on spent blaster cartridges, the way that the beskar nearly came alive in turn with the Mando’ade raring for a fight.

This was their birthright, their inheritance, the source of the mandokar of their forebearers before them. This was what Jango was made for. 

He breathed in deeply and let the blood waiting to be spilled fill his lungs. His heart pumped harder, stronger. 

They were ready. They could do this.

“You know, I have a bad feeling about this,” Ben whispered next to him, a cold wash running down Jango’s spine at the words. He’d never heard the phrase from Ben before, but he could hear their weight as it took shape. 

Well, prepare for the worst and hope for the best. A ragtag group of rebels stood no chance at defeating Jango’s people. They would endure. They would triumph. They would revel.

“Ships go live in one hour!” he shouted, jamming his buy’ce on with newly clammy hands. “Be ready! Oya!”

“That was the start of it all.”

“Do you think he knew it was coming?”

“He knew something was coming, at least. I don’t know if he knew what. He probably would have gone into battle either way, the di’kut.”

“Buir, you’re crying.”

“It’s alright, Boba. On with the story, yeah?”

There was blood on the muzzle of his blaster. Absentminded, Jango rubbed it off on the backside of his hand. There were more important things to worry about.

Despite Ben’s foreboding words before the battle, the operation had turned out a complete success. With no losses on their end, only a few casualties from injuries that were easily treatable, and the capture of the rebels’ leader - a man named Bredul - Jango could confidently call an end to the fighting and transition into post-op procedures. 

Though a few of his verde would remain on-guard, scouting the mountainous base of the rebel group for any strays, the majority of the group would focus on clearing out their own camp. With a small contingent of vhette to stay behind and fulfill their agreement with the local farmers, that only left the simple job of picking up their payment from the governor to Jango. 

With a sigh - the man was by no means pleasant to deal with - Jango opened up his wrist comm and inputted the governor’s code. 

It took only a few seconds for the governor to pick up, his face harried, even across the distorted blue screen of the holocomm. With his full beskar’gam still in place, Jango knew he looked an intimidating sight, especially to the aruetii governor with his Core sensibilities. Manda, if all the Coreworlders were more like Ben, interplanetary relations would be so much better. He shelved that for another time. Jango was in full business mode now. “Governor,” he said, nodding politely.

“Mister Fett,” the governor replied. That kind of purposeful slight on his title would normally get Jango’s blood boiling, but now, with the weight of a battle nearly over pulling him down like a black hole’s singular hold, he only felt a muted sort of frustration. Much easier to manage. “I trust that you have completed your task?”

“Yes. The rebel force has been defeated. We have their leader in our custody, and we’re on the lookout for any survivors. So far, we haven’t found any. It was a complete success.”

“Right.” The governor - and Jango still hadn’t bothered to learn his name, oh well - drew out the word, his gaze flicking to the left. He wrung his hands in the long sleeves of his robe, a bad habit for a politician. Behind his helmet, Jango narrowed his eyes.

“What time would be most convenient for us to pick up our payment?”

“Payment? What - oh, right, yes, payment !” The man was as nervous as a first-time smuggler trying to skim off the top of a Hutt’s goods. That was never a good sign. Hutt scammers never lived long. “Well, yes, um, if you could come and pick it up tomorrow, maybe?”

“I’ll be there with a few of my ori’rami’kade.”

“No, no!” The governor hurried to interrupt. “Just you, Mister Fett. Too many people get my security nervous. And you know what they say about a nervous soldier, right?” He laughed halfheartedly, looking desperate for someone to step in and end the conversation. 

“No.” His soldiers were better trained than that.

“O-oh. Um. Well.”

The aruetii probably didn’t even know what an ori’rami’kad was. Still, best not to anger a client. “I’ll be there at four.”

“Yes, yes, very good, that works perfectly. Thank you, Mister Fett. You’ve done a great service to this planet.” With that final line, somehow delivered with significantly more confidence than anything else the governor had said, he ended the call. 

Left staring at his wrist, Jango sighed and removed his helmet, dragging a hand down his face. They’d been promised good money, that was for sure, but these clients just kept getting jumpier. In fact, Jango’s instincts, which rarely led him wrong, were practically screaming at him about this man. Flight risk , Jango thought, probably doesn’t want to pay, especially with that fumble when I brought it up. 

But he was an older man, reliant on shoddy security and a towering fortress to keep him out of harm’s way, and Jango already had a solution to one of those problems with his invitation. If worst came to worst, he could easily pull his blasters and deal with the security himself. 

For now, though, he had preparations to oversee. He pulled his buy’ce back on and left the tent. “Alright, di’kute, what osik is going on out here? Huh?”

“That was my biggest mistake, Boba. I ignored my instincts, or at least downplayed them, and everyone suffered for my mistake.”

“Well, what could you have done?”

“I should have taken every single one of those Mandos and stuffed them onto ships and taken them away as fast as I could.”

“But then everyone would have lost out on money they really needed. There was nothing you could have done, buir. It’s their fault, not yours.”

“When did you get so smart, kid?”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Ugh,” Jango groaned, raking a hand through his hair as he climbed aboard Jaster’s Legacy . It had been a long day of working and clearing up shop, and Jango was not looking forward to meeting with the governor. The man just set his instincts off in ways that were never good. He had that skittish, slimy look about him, with his receding hairline and perpetually wide eyes. 

Thankfully, Jango didn’t have to see him yet, instead finding the significantly more pleasant sight of Ben waiting for him just inside the ship, half-hidden in its shadows. 

A smile spread its way onto Jango’s face as he made a beeline for his partner. “Well, hello there.”

“Jango,” Ben replied easily, reaching out for him. Jango tangled their fingers together. “How goes the workload?”

He sighed. “Don’t remind me. I have to leave to deal with the governor in a few and I am decidedly not looking forward to it.”

“He’s a politician, dearheart, of course you wouldn’t be.”

“Technically, I’m a politician, too.”

Ben rolled his eyes fondly. “I suppose there must be exceptions to the rule.”

“Rules were made to be broken, after all.”

“As the leader of a very politically unstable system, that worries me.”

“Relax,” Jango laughed, delighting in the way Ben’s eyes sparkled in turn. “It’s just some simple small talk until he coughs up our money.”

“You make it sound so vulgar,” Ben teased. 

Waggling his eyebrows, Jango replied, “There’s a few other things I can make sound vulgar.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me.”

And, responding to the challenge like he always did, Ben leaned forward to instigate a searing kiss.

Just like every other part of his life, this moment was an action, an exchange. The thrumming sense of duty roiling in his gut fell to the wayside at the push and pull of Ben’s lips against his own. On instinct, Jango’s hand raised to cup the base of Ben’s head, his other arm wrapping around his waist to pull their bodies flush against each other. 

In the shadow of Jaster’s Legacy as they were, this moment was just for the two of them. Even as their feet stayed planted firmly on the floor, they stayed in motion, a minute tilt of the head here, an opening of the mouth there. Jango knew himself to be a greedy man; not with his people, for whom he would give himself away entirely. But for those things that he could call truly his own, he coveted them with a krayt’s jealousy. And though he wouldn’t call Ben his, knowing the man wouldn’t stand for being anybody’s possession, he grasped this moment with hungry intensity. 

Whatever was coming could wait for this short time. For now, he reveled in memorizing Ben with his touch and his tongue, eagerly pushing him back and letting Ben retaliate in turn. Like the tides, control flowed back and forth between them, neither ever getting an edge over the other as their lips moved together. It was no battle for dominance; there was so much battle in the rest of their lives. Jango wouldn’t let this precious bit of gentleness in his life turn into a struggle. 

For all that the galaxy thought Mandalorians were a warlike people, they never seemed to realize how much Jango’s people coveted peace. 

Ben broke the kiss, Jango trailing after him, searching for the painless scorch of his lips again, and smiled. “For luck,” he said, a wry smile on his face as he moved forward again. This time, though, he pressed gentle kisses against Jango’s hairline, making him shiver. 

“You are a wicked man,” he groaned, Ben only humming mildly in response and continuing his ministrations. Against his better instincts, Jango smiled, letting both his hands drift down to rest gently on Ben’s waist. 

It was peaceful, just existing like this, like there were no great responsibilities on Jango’s shoulders or creeping fears trailing in Ben’s wake. Right now, they could be any sentient couple, content to let the world pass them by as they simply shared in each others’ company. 

A beep sounded from Jango’s vambrace, loud and annoying. Ben pulled away lazily, with all the affrontedness of a tooka pushed from a lap. Knowing what it was for, Jango groaned. That damn governor had to ruin this, didn’t he? “I have to go, naubriik.”

“Mhm,” Ben affirmed, though he made no move to separate himself from Jango’s embrace. 

“Like, if I don’t leave now, we might not get paid.”

“Absolutely.”

“Come on, Ben, you know I have to do this.”

“Fine, I suppose,” Ben drawled, slowly unwinding himself from Jango’s arms. Separated, they still only stood centimeters apart. Their breaths mingled.

“I’ll see you soon.” With that simple goodbye, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Ben’s mouth and shepherded him out of Jaster’s Legacy , closing the ramp behind him. 

As he did, he caught a glimpse of Ben, standing on tiptoe and staring into the ship for as long as he could, wringing his fingers. He was nervous. That was fine. This wasn’t Jango’s first time with a flighty client. He could handle it.

A fond sigh escaping him, he took his seat in the cockpit and launched the ship into the air. With Ben heading the remainder of the Mando’ade at their camp, Jango knew they were in good hands. For the short amount of time he would be gone, they’d be okay.

The trip to the governor’s castle wouldn’t take long; the coordinates in the navicomputer gave Jango a short estimate of only ten or so minutes until he arrived. He fiddled with his vambrace as they flew, twisting the beskar piece around. It was the same one that Ben had cradled so gently that first night they’d gotten together, and Jango couldn’t help but picture it in his hands again, how carefully Ben’s calloused fingers had curled around it, how it had felt right, and if that wasn’t a sign of how far gone Jango was, then, well. He would have had to have the emotional recognition of a toddler to miss exactly what that meant for him. 

They’d known each other for such a short time, was he already thinking about the riduurok? It wasn’t the first time, sure, but it was certainly the most serious, especially if he was mentally considering which colors would be the best to paint it for Ben - blue, perhaps, to match his eyes, white for the cin vhetin he hoped he would take, and some niggling part of Jango’s brain was thinking about red, no matter how little he actually knew about Ben’s past - and that realization jolted him a bit. Of course, Mando’ade were no strangers to shotgun weddings, marriages appearing practically from thin air because nobody knew when they’d next have the chance.

But he had time. Their people were thriving, this job was done, Kyr’tsad was diminishing day by day, and things were looking up for the Haat Mando’ade. With the lines of the riduurok circling through his mind, Jango let himself be content with what he had. Everything else about their relationship had been as sudden and fortuitous as their first meeting. He would let this part go slow. 

It was with that resolution set that his navicomputer beeped, alerting him to his arrival at the governor’s castle. He turned off the autopilot and guided the ship to the landing pad, setting down with the perfect ease that came from years of practice and muscle memory. A few flipped switches and the ship was armed in sentry mode, ready for Jango to come back at a moment’s notice. With a fond pat at the Firespray’s cargo bay, Jango lowered the ramp and descended once more into the chilly air of Galidraan’s mountains. 

Waiting for him was a small contingent of security guards, each of them helmeted and bearing pikes. Jango scoffed mentally as he looked at them. No armor besides their shoddily designed helmets and some pauldrons that were far more decorative than function. By the particular pattern of the glint of their over-polished weapons - and Jango snorted as he categorized each of these guards as shinies - they were nothing more than durasteel, a metal that was practically flimsi compared to Jango’s own beskar. The leader of the group, easily identified by their ridiculous feathered plume, stepped forward. “Mister Fett,” they said, once again ignoring his rightfully earned title, “If you would yield your weapons and follow me.”

“I’m gonna have to stop you there. You don’t separate a Mandalorian from his weapons.”

“It is for the safety and security of the governor. There is no danger within the estate.”

“Then surely you don’t mind me having a bit of insurance on that. You would probably benefit more from me having my gear on me.”

“Apologies, Mister Fett, but it is the governor’s orders.”

Jango rolled his eyes, frustratedly entertained by the governor’s pitiful attempt at a power play. Fine then. He’d see just how good these guards were. “Well then, if the governor says so.” He handed over his Westars and the vibroknife strapped to his thigh, as well as the obvious grenades hanging from his belt. And he stopped there.

One of the other guards stepped forward at some unseen signal, carrying what looked like a serving platter of all things, and the leader gingerly placed each item Jango had yielded on it. “Very good, Mister Fett. The governor thanks you for your compliance.”

Yeah, right. Jango had given up all of six items. Like a Mando’ade wouldn’t come carrying a full weapons depot on their backs at any given time. Off the top of his head, he could think of at least a dozen other weapons hidden unobtrusively on his person, and there were surely more nestled in convenient storage areas that he’d forgotten about and would find again when the time came for it. 

So his assessment had been right, then. The guards were as decorative as their armor. This would be easy, then. 

He allowed the guards to escort him into the ostentatious castle and down its high-ceilinged hallways, the walls decorated with all manner of tapestries depicting various parts of historic wars. Why a Core governor would have these, Jango wasn’t sure. But, distantly, he could appreciate the art, even if it was a bit overly gory for his taste. Jango preferred his gore live and in-person. 

With a few more turns in the labyrinthine castle, Jango found himself in the entrance to a grand throne room. With far more gold than was probably necessary, especially considering the state of the locals that Jango had just run a whole operation to aid, he couldn’t help but wonder if the old governor was compensating for something. The man himself was seated in a raised throne, a few steps leading up to a dais. Really, he looked as if he fancied himself a king, but he certainly didn’t look the part. Jango’s arrival alone had the man shifting anxiously in his seat, his fingers clenching on the arms of his fancy seat. One probably-arthritic hand reached up to fix his stupid-looking hat, only succeeding at knocking it further askew. 

Jango came to a stop a few steps in front of the throne, probably several closer than either the governor or his guard wanted. But, well, how could they stop him? Beneath his buy’ce, he smirked, and fell into perfect parade rest. He waited silently.

Taking his lack of a greeting as a cue, the governor straightened his back beyond a human’s normal healthy limits and said, “Ah, Mister Fett. So, uh, so glad you were able to take care of our little problem so well.”

Jango continued to say nothing.

“I’m sure that - um, yes, that the rebels were no match for a militant force as strong as your own. I take it there was no, uh, shall we say, collateral damage?”

Again, he stayed silent.

Clearly growing more and more agitated, the governor continued, “Right then. Uh, well, your payment, yes, um. I shall get the treasurer to authorize the payment of uh, how much was it again?”

“Three million Republic credits.”

“Right, yes, um.” He dabbed at his forehead. “To the account of?”

“Mand’alor Jango Fett.”

“Uh, yes, Mand’alor , you say?” He chuckled nervously. “I wasn’t aware that you had been awarded such a, uh, prestigious honor.”

“I was granted the right by my people.”

“Uh, yes. Well.” The governor’s gaze flicked around the room, clearly looking for an out. His eyes catching on a balcony, he practically wilted with relief even as he stood up from his throne. “How about we take a little walk, Mister Fett?” Now the continued refusal to use his title was definitely intentional. Just how dense could this man get?

“I will follow you,” Jango said mildly, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken but not unheard. Until I get my payment, that is.

The governor, looking more and more like a cornered womp rat, escorted Jango to a large terrace balcony overlooking a sheer drop over a cliff. With two of the guards still following them, Jango sighed internally and consigned himself to a long session of stalling. 

Nearly an hour later, Jango and the governor were still on the balcony, the governor pacing back and forth as he expounded at length on some topic Jango didn’t care about. He thought it might have been Republic tariffs on an obscure Galidraan export, but he really couldn’t be bothered to remember it. 

Just as it seemed the governor was winding down, finally giving Jango a chance to remind him of his outstanding payment, Jango’s internal comm went off. With a quick flick of his eyes in his HUD, he opened up the channel.

He was greeted by the panicked voice of Nurul, breathless and high. “Hello? Can anyone hear me? Oh, Manda, they’re coming, somebody, anybody, this is an emergency call for assistance!”

His blood running cold, Jango turned off his external speakers. “Nurul, report. What’s going on, verd?”

“Mand’alor?” they asked, panting heavily. “Thank the Manda, sir, I can’t - I don’t - ZHAC, GET DOWN!” Their mic picked up the muffled sounds of an explosion. “ZHAC, REPORT! ZHAC?” Nurul proceeded to descend into some of the dirtiest cursing he’d ever heard, especially from the normally much more reserved Mando’ad. 

The governor and his mindless babble fell to the wayside as knots twisted themselves into Jango’s intestinal tract. “Nurul, report! That is an order , verd!”

“Zhac is down. I can’t count how many others, ‘Alor. It’s - it was a trap, sir. All along. They think - they think we killed innocents. We didn’t! The governor hired us! We’re just doing our jobs and trying to feed our families!” He could hear their breaths increasing in tempo, teetering on the edge of hyperventilating if not for their battle-hardened instincts keeping them going. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Jango! But they’re coming after us like we’re kriffing demagolkase!”

“Who, Nurul? Who is?” 

A loud, rumbling hum crackled through the comm. Nurul’s voice went impossibly high and desperate. “The jetiise!” The hum increased in volume, cutting Nurul off. On his HUD, the damning message ‘COMM SIGNAL LOST’ blared in bright, bloody red.

“Please, just…don’t interrupt now, Boba. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish otherwise.”

“Okay, buir. Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Yeah, yeah...that’d be nice. Thanks, ad’ika.”

Suddenly terrified and dealing with what could be nothing else but Nurul’s death, Jango turned on the governor. “What in the Sith hells is going on?”

The governor shied back, raising his hands in surrender and flinching. “What do you want?”

Distantly, Jango realized his speakers were still off. With a quick flick of a switch, they turned back on, and he was free to growl loudly and relish in the governor’s squeak. “ What ,” he snarled, “have you done ?”

He needed to get answers, he needed to find out what was happening, because his people needed him, his people were dying and he was so far away from them all when they needed him most and he needed to know, now . His blood roared in his ears, his heart beat a quick staccato, and his vision tunneled in to focus on the governor alone, disregarding the useless guards behind him. They could poke their little sticks around all they wanted, it wasn’t going to do anything to beskar. 

Nurul is dead, so is Zhac, nobody else went on comms, they’re facing Ka’ra knows how many jetiise, and I’m not there. 

He mentally catalogued each and every person whose life was in more and more danger the longer he stayed here. Cahya, Silas, Virr, Mij, Rayn, Ikaio, Ben, oh Manda, Ben. 

His eyes widening behind his visor, his hands trembling in a way that would make any of his old instructors roll over in their graves, Jango missed the new presence’s arrival. He was only alerted by the sudden, harsh grip on his signaling vambrace and the press of something cold and sharp into his neck. A hypo.

It didn’t take much effort to whip around and free himself, but by then it was too late. Face to face with Tor Vizsla, some unknown substance now tearing its way through his system, and his emotional control crumbling around him, Jango could hardly defend himself. With a haughty backhand to the face, Vizsla sent him spiraling to the stone floor, his helmet askew but still firmly on his head. “What? Y-you?”

“Me,” Vizla laughed, his mockery of a cape fluttering in the mountain wind. “The Jedi think your lot are all terrorists. How convenient that they’re all gathered in one place, hmmm, whelp?”

The realization struck him harder than Vizsla’s blow. “You can’t mean-”

“Oh, I very much do.”

“With the jetiise? Of all people? You would lower yourself to that ?”

“The Republic’s attack dogs must have some use. And,” Vizsla crouched down in front of him, his gaze completely hidden by his black visor but burning nonetheless, “I seem to have given them a very good cause. It didn’t even take much to get them going. Imagine that. For all of Jaster Mereel’s ‘revisionist’ work, the Republic was all too eager to kill you off.”

“You keep his name out of your traitorous mouth!” Jango cried, lunging towards the Kyr’tsad’alor. He nearly made it, too, but the sudden motion made his vision go abruptly white. Vizsla slapped him again and returned him to the ground. 

“You’re not in a position to do anything, Vhett.” Vizsla placed one heavy boot on Jango’s side, flipping him over. He grabbed Jango by the back of his plate and hauled him upright, Jango’s limbs refusing to respond to his commands. “The illegitimate ruler of a doomed people...how does that feel, I wonder?” He leaned Jango against the edge of the balcony, the harsh stone digging into his side. From here, Jango could clearly see the long drop ahead of him, and his wobbly vision was making it seem even further. Vizsla turned his head to where Jango’s ear was, hidden beneath his buy’ce, something far more intimate than anything he’d want to associate Tor Vizsla with, and hissed, “Let’s see what you do with it, pretender to the throne.” 

With a single heave, he lifted Jango onto the parapet and shoved him over the edge.

There were a few blissful moments where the only thing Jango could hear was the rush of wind as gravity took hold. His thoughts were woozy, distant, but his emotions were not given that same luxury, and every single one pounded through him in increased intensity. His eyes stung, and it took him far too long to realize it wasn’t from wind - it couldn’t breach his helmet - but from the all-consuming fear that gripped him. 

He didn’t know if this was where he’d die. What an ignoble death that would be. Falling from a cliff while the rest of his people were battling for their lives. 

Jango had never been a religious man, too caught up in the realities of life to care, but now he prayed like he never had before. Buire, please. I don’t care about myself. Just give me the strength to let them live.

He hit the snow hard.

The thing nobody ever talks about, with impacting snow, is that it isn’t a fluffy bed of cotton to land on. It’s water in powdered, solid form. But even powdered as it is, too high of a velocity makes it feel like concrete. 

And thus it was the feeling of concrete that Jango was greeted with.

His drugged state, though, seemed to actually work in his favor in this circumstance. Though sobriety would have allowed him to fight off Tor and perhaps prevented his unceremonious fall, it would have left him crippled by the pain of impact. But with his nerves dulled and every muscle lagging behind his signals, he hardly noticed it.

Winded, Jango laid there for a second, two, taking in his survival and the events of the last two minutes. That was all he allowed himself, though. With only a moment’s pause at the painful task ahead of him, he forced his rebellious limbs into submission and pulled himself upright.

There was no time like the present to descend a mountain.

The protests of his battered body were only white noise. His muscles, tender and sore, nothing more than flies buzzing in his ears. The massive bruise that was no doubt forming along his spine was a problem for the Jango of the future. All that he cared about was the steady rhythm of his steps as he found purchase down the snowy landscape, hurrying along as quickly as he could. Nurul had called for help only a few short minutes ago; there was still a chance, there was still hope. So long as he kept going, he could do something, anything .

One step after another.

Keep going.

Don’t stop.

They need you.

Don’t you dare fail them.

Just one more step.

Just one more after that.

Distance doesn’t matter.

Would a real Mand’alor let something like a hike stop them?

Would they let drugs stop them?

Would they let the terrifying fear of what they’d find stop them?

Come on, Jango Fett.

Come on, Jango Fett.

“Come on, Jango,” he muttered to himself. 

Unsure of how much time had passed in his drug-addled haze, the fog of which only continued to build, Jango found himself standing on the outskirts of the village the Haat Mando’ade had camped at. 

Only one day more and they would have been gone. 

Instead of the peaceful community of welcoming villagers, whose farmlands Jango himself had helped till with the same techniques he'd learned as a child, Jango found smoke. Thick, grey, moving like only something alive had the right to. It swirled into lifelike shapes, curling over and around itself like some foreign serpent, spitting and hissing.

Jango couldn’t see any of the villagers. He hoped they’d gone to shelter. 

What he could see were bodies, so many bodies. Strewn carelessly across the frosty earth, their armored forms were left lifeless and hollow. Some had even been relieved of limbs, the errant body parts littering the empty spaces between corpses. Though they were scorched and scored, every set of beskar’gam he spotted brought a name to mind, another figure to remember and never see alive again. 

Jango choked back a sob, the smoke creeping in through his helmet and stinging his nostrils.

He was too late. He’d traversed a mountain for them all, but he was too late. 

His ears popped. A footstep cracked the delicate layer of frost. Jango spun around, coming face to face with a militia of Jedi. Though they were battered and bruised, there were still too many for his drugged brain to count. In their creamy robes, off-white from the pearlescent landscape, they stood as a cleansing force, for all that the genocide of his people was a cleansing. In their minds it probably was. 

“Well, then,” the lead one drawled, their voice deep and aristocratic, practically sneering down their hooked nose at him, “it seems we missed one.”

“Surely, Master Dooku, there is no need to use deadly force on this one?” asked another Jedi, a tall Lasat with a long saber handle resting casually in their hand. 

A few snowflakes drifted from the sky, their gentle fall turning into chaotic flurries in an instant. As the sky darkened and the Jedi approached him, weapons gripped tightly but not ignited, Jango looked around at the carnage once more. Though there were a few Jedi bodies, all his eyes caught on was armor, vivid against the snow. The more he looked, the more he saw, and the more his grieving fury spiked. 

He reached for his Westars, only to realize they weren’t there. Right. Still at the hut’uun’la governor’s castle, then. With lightning-quick fingers, he pulled open concealed ports in his beskar’gam and assembled a slugthrower. It had been a gift from Cahya, a reminder that intensified the red rising around the edges of his vision. 

Kriff ‘Mand’alor the Reformer’ or ‘Mand’alor the Preserver.’ Jango would carve a new legacy for himself as he fell with his people, left to rot forever in their final grave. He would be Mand’alor the Reaper, and he would bring as many of these bastard jetiise to their deaths with him as he damn well could. 

Whirling around, his cape following behind him, Jango brandished the slugthrower, already loaded and with several more rounds sitting in his belt. The Jedi that had been casually striding towards him ignited their sabers defensively. They clearly hadn’t been expecting a single stray Mandalorian to respond to violence with more violence. 

That was their own mistake, twofold. 

Jango fired.

With the consistent, annoying reflexes so typical of a Jedi, they reacted as one, bringing their lightsabers around to deflect the incoming round. But, apparently, they’d grown lax in their cushy Core temple, because they clearly had no idea how to deal with a slugthrower’s rounds.

Rather than deflecting a laser shot back at him, the Jedi he’d hit - a Selonian, by the looks of it, which was a shame, since he’d been aiming for the smarmy shabuir who’d first spoken - went down in a spray of metal and blood. From there, it was simple to cock another round and shoot again; the Jedi were packed so close together it was nearly impossible to miss, even with the drugs coursing through his veins. A second Jedi fell, then a third, and even as they sprinted with Force-enhanced speed to catch him, Jango kept firing, kept downing more and more of these murderers. 

Even though he knew it was a futile fight, however many Jedi left against a single Mando’ad, no matter how furious that Mando’ad was, he wasn’t about to go out quietly. Jango was going to make these jetiise fight with every ounce of themselves to bring him to his knees. If he was to be the last, he would go out with mandokar. 

Jango hopped into the air, firing his jetpack, going higher and higher into the thin mountainous atmosphere, to a point where even a Jedi’s impossible leaps wouldn’t be able to reach him, and kept firing. Rounds blurred together, his fingers going numb with the cold and the repetitive motion of loading and firing, loading and firing. He kept his eyes peeled for those distinctive spurts of red, the signs that he was draining these Jedi of their lifeblood just as they’d done to so many good, kind Mando’ade in turn. 

He didn’t know how many he’d killed. Nothing made sense, just a whirl of sensations and pinpricks of color on white and the familiar motion of pulling a trigger over and over again. When he went spiraling to the ground with the sensation of a star’s heat on his back, he couldn’t quite determine what it was, even though he knew he once would have been able to. When his slugthrower was ripped from his hands and sliced to shreds, he didn’t recognize much besides the sudden lack of resistance against his trigger finger. And when he pulled vibroknives from somewhere on his body, he couldn’t say where from, and began ducking around Jedi and cutting through vital points, he wasn’t aware of anything besides his body’s unconscious movement and the color red. 

Eventually, his knees gave out beneath him. Jango kept snarling and stabbing anything that came within reach.

Soon, his arms went limp too, and he whipped his head around to smack things with no weapon but the force of beskar.

And when even his body gave out, leaving him lying lifeless on the snow, another body distinct from the others only by the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he spat and snarled beneath his buy’ce, cursing every god he could name and more besides.

As his final bits of consciousness left him, the red in his vision giving way to gradually growing black spots, he smiled with bloody teeth, his final defiance against the so-called Light of the Jedi. “You killed them. You killed them all. We’re all dead.”

Nothing remained but the distant thrum of voices. Jango let the darkness cave in over him. 

“...”

“...Buir?”

“...Let’s get on with the story.”

There was no peace for Jango Fett. Not now, and perhaps not ever. 

Rather than being greeted by those marching on ahead of him and granted entry into the halls of his ancestors, or thrown into the depths of haran for his failures, Jango was granted a slow journey into painful awareness. Every centimeter of his body hurt, aching and burning in ways he’d never experienced before. The slightest twinge of a muscle sent cramps shooting up his spine, which only clenched more overtired muscles and brought even more cramps. A vicious cycle began, Jango doing his best to simply ride out the white-hot pain. 

When at last his body saw fit to gift him some respite, Jango found himself in what could barely be classified as rags, the coarse fabric hanging off his body like it had been made for a sentient three times his size. He shifted, perhaps to stand up, though he was quickly dissuaded from that notion by the combined shot of pain and tug of cold metal. He turned his head to the side.

There was a thick manacle wrapped around his wrist. He glanced to his other hand, stretched out from his body. Another manacle. 

The revelation had him scrambling upwards, heedless of the warning signs of his body. Backing up against the wall, across from what he now realized were cell bars, he used the sudden slack on the manacles to prod at his neck.

Sitting heavily like a crown of laurels was a thick collar, beeping faintly. 

No, Jango hadn’t been given the finality of death. The jetiise, the Republic, the governor, Tor Vizsla, whoever, they’d left him to suffer the slow, torturous existence of a slave. His people were marching ahead of him, and they would be forced to guide him through this . His neck prickled, an itch beneath his skin and under the collar. 

“Have I failed you all so badly?” he asked the emptiness of his cell. “Have I committed a crime worthy of this? I couldn’t save them, but you didn’t let me die.” He rattled the manacles and their thick chains, a grating noise that bit at his ears but at least hurt less than the gaping loss in his core. “Is this my penance?”

His eyes felt like the desert he’d first met Ben in, abruptly dry of any moisture. He couldn’t summon up tears, no matter how hard he tried. Not for Ben, not for any of his people, not for himself. 

Numb to the rumbling takeoff of whatever ship he’d been thrown in, he pulled his knees to his chest and held himself tight, wishing the weight he felt was from arms beside his own. 

The ship was cold. Space always had a way of creeping into every warm crevice and stealing the heat away. It was a vacuum in more ways than one, after all. He missed Ben’s radiator heat, the warmth of familiar voices at firelight, the comfort of his beskar’gam.

If it was possible, he curled up even tighter. 

If this were to be his penance, then he would bear it. He would sit and labor through the day until he could free himself and exact his revenge. The list was clear in his mind:

The governor of Galidraan.

The Republic Senate.

The Jedi.

Tor Vizsla.

Jango would never forget those names as long as he lived, nor the many of those he’d lost. He stared, unseeing, at the bars of his cell, and began to count the days.

With wide eyes, Boba stared up at his father, watching him mindlessly caress his left forearm. For anybody else, this would seem like a simple fidgety habit, but Boba had seen his father in full beskar’gam before; or, what amounted to Jango Fett’s full beskar’gam.

He’d never once seen his father wear a vambrace on his left arm. He had it, that Boba knew for certain. He’d seen it, carefully displayed in the Slave-1 , but he never put it on.

Reaching up from beneath the covers of his bed, Boba put his hand on his buir’s thigh. Jango startled for a moment, brought out of whatever far-off place he’d been in, but quickly calmed and looked at Boba fondly. He would always treasure that special sort of gaze, reserved just for him, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. No matter that Boba was one among thousands of copies; his buir had chosen him , and he loved him all the more for it. 

“So...is that it?” Boba asked, scooching up on his pillow. “Is that the end of the story?”

“That’s the end of Ben’s story, at least.” Jango sighed, flexing his fingers. “It was so long ago now.” To himself, he added, “Has it really been twenty years?” He fell silent again, his gaze distant, not quite seeing Boba. 

“Buir?” With no response, Boba prodded his father’s leg again, repeating, “Buir?”

“He was in my life for such a short time,” Jango mused, his voice barely audible and teeming with something delicate that Boba didn’t want to break. “But I can’t bear to let the memory of him die with me.”

The clone child sat up straight in his bed, shifting his feet out from under the covers and getting on his knees. He leaned forward. “I’ll remember him!” At Jango’s just-left-of-amused glance, he continued, “Everyone should know about Ben, buir. Ni partayli, gar darasuum!”

One large, worn hand reached up to cup Boba’s face. “He’d be so proud of you, Boba. If he could have met you-” He cut himself off.

“I love you, buir,” Boba said, wrapping his arms around Jango in a hug. Jango didn’t hesitate to return the gesture. He squeezed him tight for a few moments, then released him. He sighed heavily, releasing some of that tightly-knotted emotion with it. His eyes cleared. 

“I love you too, Bob’ika. Now, I’ve got a job to leave for early in the morning, probably before you’re awake - I should be back in a tenday, maybe less.”

“You’ll comm me?” Boba asked hopefully.

“Every day. Haat, ijaa, haa’it. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You would get in crazy fights and clone an army of yourself. How about I don’t do anything Ben wouldn’t do?”

Jango laughed, and it wasn’t hollow this time. “You’re a smarter kid than I was at your age - are you sure we’re related?”

“You won’t let me forget it, buir,” Boba said, burrowing back under the covers of his bed. 

“Alright, bedtime now - for real! I’ll see you soon.” Jango stood up and kissed Boba’s forehead, ruffling his hair affectionately.

“Night, buir.”

“Goodnight, Boba.” He flicked the bedside lamp off and walked out the door. Boba kept his eyes open until he heard the familiar shhk noise of his buir’s bedroom door sliding shut. 

He closed his eyes and wondered what Ben looked like, beyond his buir’s descriptions of him. Copper hair and blue eyes, fair skin littered with scars, an easy smile that brought dimples to his cheeks. He could try to put these pieces together into a face, but it never quite worked. They never came together into a whole picture, and, without any holos of the man - Jango had never taken any, and everyone who might have had one was dead - Boba was left to try his best with his limited imagination. 

With those features floating around his mind, still faceless, Boba drifted off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

It was a rain-soaked and hunt-exhausted Jango that greeted Boba upon his return, shedding bits of armor as he walked through their quarters and collapsed heavily on the couch, heedless of the way he was dripping all over it. It would stink later, Boba knew this from experience and a few too many times that his father had chided him for doing just that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. Not when his dad looked so drained. 

“So…” he started, extending the single syllable, “how’d it go?”

Jango groaned softly, throwing one hand over his face and letting his head roll back limply. “Two Jedi. Senator isn’t dead. Wessel is. Tyrannus is happy with whatever this result is.” He sighed. “Not the most complicated op I’ve ever run, but I don’t like it. Now leave your old man to his rest.”

Oh, he wanted to press further so badly. He always did, to hear anything he could about the galaxy outside the watery world of Kamino. But, well.

Jango had mentioned Jedi. And Boba knew exactly how much that kind of thing hurt his dad.

He dimmed the lights in their quarters and slowly picked up the piece of beskar’gam. Each had their place to sit in the closet, but Boba couldn’t reach all of them. He stacked them as best he could in some kind of order, glaring mulishly at the stubbornly tall shelves, and closed the door. With his simple cleanup done, he left his father to his rest. 

He was old, after all. He did need it.

Following his usual sort of routine, Boba pattered around the facility, poking his head in on training sessions or education modules or whatever clandestine moments he could find. There was a degree of separation between himself and the clones, starting as simply as his unique, handpicked clothes over their dime-a-dozen uniforms, and ending at the single fact that Boba had a father. The clones only had a Prime. 

If Boba ever got to thinking about it too hard, his stomach knotted tight and his gaze always fell to the floor. But his buir always said to hold his head high, to show the world that they couldn’t cow him. So Boba just didn’t think about it much. 

After sneaking into the crowd watching a pair of Alphas spar in the central salle, the older, bulkier clones always a deadly sight to behold, Boba couldn’t help but smirk at a familiar sight. 

A few tendays earlier, he’d been out past curfew, trying to see how far he could get before his dad realized he was missing. It had been going fantastically, Boba creeping around corners like he was on a stealth mission and imitating tactical rolls he’d seen in the simulations. The eternally bright lights of the facility were a bit off-putting, maybe, especially when Boba was so used to the approximated day-night cycle of his quarters, but it only served to give him more energy. And also to make him a sitting duck of a target for whatever goody-two-shoes clone had been out that late. 

Apparently , he’d been on night patrol, and apparently , he had to report it to his superiors. Which meant that Boba had been frog-marched to Nala Se’s office at oh-three-hundred hours by a clone who somehow didn’t recognize him and forced to sit through a lecture about proper protocol for cadets and punishments and other big words that Boba didn’t pay attention to until he heard the word “decommissioning .” 

Every single clone knew that word and the dread it brought. Even Boba, as distanced from the rest as he was, had that same instinctual fear response to it.

The clone standing next to him with one big hand on his shoulder had tensed. His grip had tightened to where it was almost painful, and Boba knew that, if he hadn’t had that final Idiot’s Array up his sleeve, that threat would’ve been a lot more serious.

But Kaminoans were terrible at recognizing differences between human-passing sentients, much less millions of identical ones, and so they’d been treating him like a standard, unspecial cadet. He’d been able to say, “If my father hears about this-” with the kind of emphasis that typical clones never quite reached, and, upon identifying himself as the solely untouchable clone on the planet, he’d received a prompt apology from Nala Se and an escort back to his buir’s rooms at an unreasonable hour, Jango pulled from sleep to his sheepish son and the impassive face of the Chief Medical Scientist. 

He’d been fine, in the end, and Boba had only missed dessert for the next three days as punishment, but Boba hadn’t forgotten exactly which clone had put him in that situation. He’d never gotten a name from him, not that they’d ever use one in front of a Kaminoan, but he was one of those clones that had gotten lucky with a distinctive feature that the Kaminoans couldn’t do a damn thing about.

And now here he was, standing right in front of Boba, his attention fully on the two Alpha-gens as the victor pulled his opponent back upright. At the edge of the ring of the crowd, one of the clones, someone with bright eyes and a voice that carried easily, shouted, “And the winner, yet again! Alpha-Seventeen! ” Cheers rose up in time with Boba’s eyebrows. So that was the legendary Seventeen; a hardass Alpha with a reputation for not taking any shit and being an overall titan of a man. 

He stared. Seventeen had a harsh gaze, his eyebrows sitting low and giving him an eternally stern expression, which wasn’t helped by the impassive set of his lips, even in victory. He lacked scars on his face, or really any defining, unique features, but something in the set of his shoulders or the step of his stride made him impossible to miss.

As caught up in his observations as he was, Boba almost missed the designated announcer calling for “Anybody? Any challengers to the undefeated Alpha?”

Oh, this was too perfect.

It took only a simple shift and a shove to get the clone in front of him, that same one as before, to stumble out of the safety of the crowd and into the ring. He nearly dropped his helmet, too, but through some trick of luck, managed to retain his grasp.

The clone abruptly looked around, eyes wide, searching for an escape route. But the crowd had closed in around where he’d been standing, Boba hiding safely behind a pair of legs, and with the audience ramping up their energy, there was no way out.

“Oh, who’s this?” the announcer yelled. “Who’s this standard who wants to challenge Alpha-Seventeen?”

The scar caressing the side of the clone’s face rippled as he answered, “CC-2224.”

“A CC? One without a name, no less? Alright then, let’s see what you can do.”

Alpha huffed, a snarl that looked completely at home on his face setting in. The CC tossed his helmet to the side and settled into a ready stance. Though he certainly seemed small and unready, compared to the Alpha in front of him, he didn’t waver or hesitate.

Boba settled in to watch. He’d enjoy watching CC-2224 get his comeuppance.

Staring at each other, the two clones faced off. The CC raised his hands up to his face in a classic fighting stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Alpha, in contrast, stood casually, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Still, his leg muscles tensed, just slightly, revealed through the plain blacks he was wearing. 

He’d move quicker than CC-2224, Boba decided, even with his bulkier muscle mass, but the CC had the advantage of buffering armor. 

Whether that would stop an Alpha was a whole other question. 

Alpha shifted his stance, facing the CC from the side. 

Like it was an unspoken signal, CC-2224 launched himself forward, thrusting his left arm in a lightning-quick punch. Still, it wasn’t quick enough to reach Alpha, who leaned to the side and batted it away. That same arm lashed out again, once again parried away. A third time, then, because the third time was always the charm, right?

Against Alpha-Seventeen, that was very wrong. 

What would have been a harsh uppercut quickly turned into a windup for a high kick. The fact that CC-2224 could even kick that high in the awkward plastisteel armor was impressive; the fact that Alpha could still anticipate it was even more so.

The larger of the two clones ducked his head beneath the strike and reached up, blocking the kick with his forearm. CC-2224 backtracked quickly. 

Suddenly it was Alpha’s turn to go on the offensive. He jabbed with his right hand, a move that CC-2224 lunged to the side to avoid. He switched sides, and the CC ducked again, this time coming up to face Alpha head-on once again. To regain control of the fight, maybe? To plan his next attack?

Whatever his reasoning, it didn’t turn out well for him. 

As focused on avoiding the high-up blows as he was, CC-2224 nearly missed the devastating uppercut launched toward his gut. He quickly moved both his arms to defend against the blow, stumbling back a step from the force of it. On his back foot, he narrowly avoided the haymaker aimed directly at his face. 

Boba cheered from the front of the ring. Oh, this was a beautiful comeuppance. 

Using his front, defensive arm, CC-2224 whipped out a punch at Alpha in turn, another blow that was summarily avoided. 

This time, with a low roar, CC-2224 swung his arm out in an aggressive punch.

Instead of avoiding it, though, Alpha locked their arms together at the elbow. 

Normally, in fights, blocking and avoidance was the name of the game. So long as either of the clones could control where they were being hit, they could go on for longer. Right now, Alpha was the one who held all the power. 

Blindsided, CC-2224 lashed out with his free arm to try to free himself from the hold. But in that time, Alpha was hitting him hard in the side, a blow that had much of the crowd wincing in sympathy. Another punch hit the CC in the head, and he was sent reeling for a single second. 

Boba could almost see the stars swimming in his eyes as the CC desperately shoved himself away from Alpha. The arm lock broken, CC-2224 swung again. But he’d put more space between them than he’d anticipated, and the punch fell short. 

He adapted quickly, Boba had to give that to him. With a sharp lunge forward, he pressed down on Alpha, a second punch turning into a pressure point between the two. A contest of strength, then.

Regrettably, that was another mistake. A standard model couldn’t beat out an Alpha for sheer brawn. 

Alpha heaved up and away, and it was over from there. CC-2224 stumbled back, his arms raising in a bid to protect himself, but he couldn’t keep pace with Alpha’s explosive burst of energy. One punch hit his stomach, the wind rushing from the CC’s lungs in a way that was almost audible from where Boba stood, and he never recovered from there.

With one final leap into the air, Alpha reared back and kneed CC-2224 in the jaw. His head snapped back, his body soon following suit. 

Alpha landed with more grace than a man of his size should and looked down at the downed CC.

All around them both, the clones erupted into cheers.

CC-2224 laid on the ground, groaning, his arms slowly rising to clutch at his abdomen. Standing tall over him, Alpha-Seventeen smirked. The expression brought premature age lines onto his face, ones that nearly matched Boba’s father in their depth and crinkliness.

A hush fell over the crowd.

“You did pretty good, vod’ika,” he said, his voice subtly different from Jango's. Maybe it was the gruffness of it that Boba never heard from his father, or the way that it directed kindness at a clone besides Boba. He wasn’t sure, but it stuck in the back of his mind. “Tell me, 24, what do you fight for?” Alpha reached out one hand to help the CC up.

“For the glory of the Republic,” he answered.

Alpha pulled his hand back. “Wrong.” He put his hands on his hips and loomed . “ What do you fight for ?”

The CC squeezed his eyes shut and spoke again, the words almost seeming like they were pulled from his lips. “For the glory of the Vode.” 

“Much better,” Alpha replied, grasping the CC by the arm and heaving him to his feet. His smirk widened and something gleamed in his eyes as he continued, “Kote.”

The CC didn’t process the statement for a second, but he was quick. He whirled to face Alpha-Seventeen with his mouth gaping wide, his arms dropping to his sides. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Kote.”

“I - but - huh?”

The CC - Kote, now, Boba supposed, and wasn’t that a hell of a name to live up to - didn’t strike Boba as one to be caught off-guard often, despite each of the situations that Boba had caught him in. Call it a gut instinct. Boba’s gut never led him wrong, anyways. He couldn’t blame him, though. It wasn’t often that a clone was given a name rather than declaring one for themself. For him to be suddenly Named like that, in a circle of hundreds of Vode, and given one that resounded as such a core tenet? Boba would have been stuttering too.

Alpha’s expression softened a bit, recognizing Kote’s distress. “You’ve earned yourself some bunk time, Kote. Go find your batchmates, huh?”

Kote just nodded silently, his jaw still slack. With a sloppy, distant salute, he walked away dazedly, the ring parting for him as he went. 

“Well, then, folks,” the announcer cut in, “it seems like that’ll be all for the night! A fantastic show from all parties, but Alpha-Seventeen remains undefeated! The challenge’ll continue in half a tenday, right here. We’ll see you all then!”

With such a dramatic ending, the crowd of clones milled about for a bit. Murmurs bounced from group to group, but Boba didn’t stick around to hear what they said. Something in his gut was telling him there were other things for him to do. 

Abandoning the salle behind him, Boba snuck out into the hallway. The various corridors of Kamino all looked fairly identical to the human eye. There were apparently more visual receptors in the Kaminoans’ eyes, allowing them to see on spectrums that the majority of the planet’s current inhabitants couldn’t. It was an unintentionally genius security measure, but incredibly inconvenient for all of the clones and trainers. 

There were a few places whose locations Boba had memorized by rote in the labyrinth: the medbay, the salles, the mess hall, the landing pad his father used. 

Tonight, part of him craving a breath of fresh air instead of the highly processed and filtered version filling the facility, Boba headed for the landing pad. There wouldn’t be anybody else there, which was perfect. Nobody to bother him. 

Down the empty, clinically white halls he went, operating off of learned memory alone. His feet trod familiar paths as his mind wandered. Maybe he’d be able to sneak into the Slave-1 . Jango was normally quite happy to show his son around the ship, but there was something different about exploring on his own. It was the feeling of breaking the rules, Boba was certain. After all, his dad was Jango Fett , a man who made his name by breaking them. It was only natural, after all.

Reaching the final portal leading to the outside of the facility, Boba raised his hand to activate the door-opening mechanism.

Someone got there first.

Before his hand even made contact with the pad, the door slid open. Accompanied by pouring rain and rapidly-growing puddles, a soggy, robed sentient lurched in. They almost stumbled over Boba before he managed to warn them with a startled yelp.

“Oh, my apologies,” they said, still shedding water. “I didn’t realize-” They cut themself off.

The sentient, who Boba was tentatively identifying as human beneath their long, wet hair, stared at him with wide eyes. Their gaze raked him up and down, uncomfortably assessing. Boba found himself observing them in return.

He wasn’t the best determiner of human age, what with his main exposure being artificially accelerated aging of the same genome over and over, but they looked...older? Boba wasn’t sure, but they looked close in age to his buir. They at least had similar amounts of wrinkles, and a pretty cool beard, too. Boba didn’t get to see beards often. Their hair, bedraggled in its wetness, looked dark brown, though the darkness clearly came from the water rather than its actual coloration. Those eyes, still staring at him, were a startling shade of blue, made especially clear by how wide they were. Shock, maybe? They may not have anticipated finding a child when they got here, or at least one to greet them, however unintentionally. Boba figured he might as well fulfill that role. 

“Hi there,” he started, aware that they probably didn’t know Mando’a. The Basic greeting was a bit foreign on his tongue, but he continued onwards. “I’m Boba! He/him, and, um…” he trailed off. Nobody ever really taught him how to properly greet someone. Oh, he knew how to disassemble and reassemble a gun in seconds, but conventional social norms? Nope, that wasn’t in his curriculum. “Oh! Welcome to Kamino!”

“Thank you,” they replied, bowing with their hands tucked in their robes. That was a gesture Boba definitely wasn’t used to. “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, he/him as well.” 

Boba thought back to Jango’s story with a small wince. He really hoped this guy didn’t know the meaning of his name. “So, uh, what brings you to Kamino?”

“Official Jedi Council business, I’m afraid. I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

His blood ran cold.

A Jedi? 

The stories his buir had told about Jedi flooded Boba’s head, the people they’d hurt and the tragedy they’d brought. They were powerful, unstoppable, especially for him, only ten years old. He could stew about it all he wanted, but he was no match for a fully grown one of them. 

He slammed those thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him here, would only serve to make him angry when he couldn’t afford to be. Suddenly there was so much risk in the situation.

Kenobi gave him an odd look, his head tilting sideways. 

His gut was what made the choice for him. Despite the danger, despite everything he’d ever heard about the Jedi, despite the things they’d ensured he’d never know, his gut was telling him to take the Jedi inside. It was saying that, at least for the moment, he could trust this Jedi not to hurt him. He would be cautious, he decided, but he’d play along. 

“Do you want me to take you to the Kaminoans? They’re in charge around here,” Boba asked politely.

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

Without any further hesitation, Boba grabbed Kenobi’s hand and dragged him back the way he came. The clones all had a shared hero-worship for the Jedi; Boba had no idea what it felt like, to have that sort of single-minded devotion to a people they’d never met, but he supposed he could understand it. They didn’t know anything else, after all. Boba had been told about all that the Jedi had done. 

The clones all had no idea. 

And suddenly there was additional drive pushing him forward. They were clones, yes, millions of identical copies, but, then, as much as he loathed to admit it, so was he. 

There was something about Boba that made him special, that made Jango choose him. Which meant that Boba had a duty to the rest of them. He’d keep them all safe. He’d make sure this Jedi didn’t do what the other ones had done to his buir. 

Jedi had a moral code, apparently, although he didn’t know how that matched up with the mass slaughter of the Haat Mando’ade. But maybe he could use that to his advantage.

At the next hallway junction, Boba made a sharp left, changing his course. If he was right about his path, and he was pretty sure he was, then it would only take a few more turns, another left here, a right next, straight on, and then the corridor opened up into an observation deck and he brought the Jedi to stand at the window. Below them sat a sea of fluid-filled tubes, each one containing a developing clone. A Jedi couldn’t just advocate for the murder of the tubies, right? They were tubies, they were adorable .

His instinct was right. Next to him, Kenobi gasped loudly. Boba was pretty sure that Jedi were supposed to be emotionless or something, but this one was practically radiating shock. Like, Boba could feel it, he was that struck. If he really focused and tried to decode it, he thought the Jedi might have also felt dread? Compassion? A really weird mix of the two? 

“These are the tubies,” Boba explained. “They incubate for a while, and then once they’re five standard, I think? They’re decanted and move on to cadet training. It’s kinda cool, seeing so many future siblings.”

Was he pulling at every single one of this Jedi’s heartstrings? Kriff yeah he was. In the very back of his mind, he smirked. 

“Anyways, they’re all gonna be CT class. Oh, CT stands for clone trooper, by the way. There’s a couple other classes, but from here on they’re basically all gonna be CTs. It makes it easier to produce them all if it’s to one universal specification.”

“What…what other classes are there?” Kenobi asked, sounding a bit faint.

“Well, there’s CC, which is for clone commander, and those are like the officers. They all get special training, but I heard that some CTs that really stand out get to go through command training too. There’s the Nulls, which were like the very very very first generation, and they all ended up super weird. They’re kinda scary, and they don’t even listen to buir, only Instructor Skirata. I think he’s basically adopted them all. And there’re the Alphas, too, which are like the second generation. They’re less scary but still kinda crazy. They’re really big, too, way bigger than buir. Which doesn’t make sense, if they’re clones, but I think the longnecks - sorry, the Kaminoans - messed around with their genes a bit. Apparently they did that for all of us.” Boba started drawing Kenobi away from the observation deck and back through the halls as he explained. Next stop was to visit the cadets.

“Do you know, exactly, how they altered your genes?”

“Well,” Boba started, tapping his chin in fake thought, “I remember the trainers saying something about making us more obedient? Hardier, too. We got a really strong immune system so we rarely get sick and heal better. They made us all age faster, too. The Alphas are all about fourteen, but physically they’re fully grown adults.” He opened the door to one of the cadet barracks, revealing a scene of dozens of identically-dressed clones, all looking like they were eight standard, play-fighting or sitting in their open tubes.

Kenobi’s face was pale as he peered in, scanning the cadets and the way they all scrambled to attention at the sight of an adult face. “And how old are they?”

“Three, I think. It looks about right.” Boba abruptly closed the door, leaving the cadets to their antics. No use making them panic by thinking this was a sudden inspection and punishment was on its way. Actually, now that he thought about it, it probably would still seem that way to them. He hissed at his lack of foresight.

Kenobi picked up on that easily. “What’s wrong?”

“I probably…” Boba hesitated. “I probably made them think something bad was going to happen to them.”

“By showing me around?”

“We don’t exactly get a lot of visitors. They probably thought you were a trainer. And trainers coming in late at night to see that isn’t a good sign. The really bad punishments are over, at least, buir got rid of the trainers who did them, but still.”

“The really bad ones?” 

Boba winced. “A few of the trainers were, um.” He looked up at Kenobi with a grimace. “They used to force cadets to be in a fight ring. Not, like, sparring. Cadets died.”

“Oh, Force.”

“Yeah...Buir kicked them out, nearly killed one of the trainers, I think. Called him a bunch of awful things and chased them off-planet. He can’t stop the longnecks, though.”

Kenobi looked like he didn’t even want to hear this part. “What do the longnecks do?”

“Well, any clone who’s too different, or acts out too often or too badly, gets decommissioned. That’s when, um-”

“I think I get what that means, Boba.” The Jedi carefully closed his eyes, reigning in the anger he was feeling. “Thank you for telling me, that’s very brave of you. I might have a few more things to...discuss, shall we say, with the Kaminoans when I meet with them.”

“Right, um.” Boba really wanted to move on from this. Even he didn’t like thinking about decommissioning, and he was one of the least at risk. He changed the subject. “Um, do you want to meet some of the older clones?”

Kenobi seemed equally glad for the out. “Yes, Boba, I think that would be an excellent idea.”

Boba grabbed his hand again and pulled him away. He wasn’t sure how many of the clones would be left at the salle, but it was the best place to start, he figured. He could at least figure his way from the salle to the trooper barracks. It was a good place to give the conversation a break, allowing Kenobi to process everything he was seeing. Boba’s plan was working fantastically, at least. The Jedi was clearly already emotionally invested; he’d already said he was planning to confront the Kaminoans about the decommissioning, for Manda’s sake! 

All that was left was to hope that the troopers didn’t screw anything up and poison Kenobi’s goodwill. So long as he kept away from the Alphas and found a CT or CC, with their encoded devotion to the Jedi, they’d be fine. 

Boba was not about to have a second Galidraan fall onto his father’s shoulders. 

When he finally reached the salle, Kenobi in tow, he was greeted by possibly the best scenario he could’ve imagined. A nearly empty room, only two clones, who, going by their ages, were CTs. One of them even had a cosmetic mutation he could mention to Kenobi! 

“Hey!” he shouted in greeting, interrupting the casual spar between the two. He didn’t recognize either, not that that said much, considering he didn’t really recognize any clones, but that was fine. Hopefully that meant that neither would recognize him in turn. Boba waved the two of them over. “Hey, look who I brought!”

One of the two - the blond one - smiled down at him with the sort of indulgent expression that he always saw given to cadets. “Who is this, cadet?”

Score. They didn’t know who he was. His ruse was intact. “This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi! He’s a Jedi!”

In an instant, both of the troopers’ heads shot to stare at Kenobi, their spines snapping straight and hands moving into sharp salutes. “Sir!” they shouted in unison.

Boba turned to look at Kenobi. To his shock, Kenobi’s face was nearly slack, his jaw hanging on for dear life. This was no expressionless, emotionless Jedi in front of him. This man was experiencing nearly every emotion possible at once. Still, Boba couldn’t understand it. What was so surprising about two grown troopers that wasn’t about dozens of cadets fearing for their lives or thousands of incubating tubies ?

“Hello there,” Kenobi said shakily. 

The standard trooper of the two stepped forward. “CT-6116, sir! It's an honor!”

The other matched him. “CT-7567, sir!”

Eyes darting between the two of them wildly, rapidly scanning their faces, Kenobi waved them down. “At ease, gentlemen.”

“How can we help you, sir?” CT-6116 asked, moving into parade rest. 

“Well, this cadet here has been kind enough to show me around before I meet with the Kaminoans. I like to take time to get to know the locals before talking to the planetary leadership. How is Kamino?”

“The army is nearly complete, sir.”

“The...army, yes. I suppose I meant on a more personal level. How has Kamino been treating you?”

“We’ve completed our classes to proper specifications. CT-6116 was within the top ten of his batch, even specializing in field medicine.”

“And you would have been at the top of yours if they hadn’t been biased against you, R-er, um, CT-7567.”

“What do you mean?” Kenobi asked.

The blond trooper closed off, his face darkening, but Boba didn’t need to worry. The other clone clearly had a lot to say on the topic. “Well, his hair is blond. That’s practically a crime here. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.”

“You mean the decommissioning, don’t you?” It wasn’t even a question from Kenobi, just a solemn confirmation of what he already must have been suspecting. 

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Alright then. Boba?” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the two troopers jolt at the realization of just which clone they’d been talking to. “Is there an unused room around here? I need to make a call.”

Boba’s heart sank. Was it not enough? He rattled off a series of directions that led to a mostly unused storage room and watched with concern as Kenobi strode off. It would have been casual and unassuming if not for the harried expression on his face or the way he twisted at his robe’s sleeves. 

He needed to get his buir. With a hasty goodbye to the two stunned troopers, Boba sprinted out of the salle.

Absentmindedly, he noted that the Jedi’s hair had dried significantly since they’d been inside. It almost looked copper now.

Boba took corners more recklessly, nearly stumbling a few times in his hurry. He rushed past anybody who got in his way, heedless of the way they called after him for being out so late. They could wait, he was more focused on getting help with the drastic situation that was the Jedi. 

Another corridor passed him by, another corner turned in a flurry, and suddenly Boba was colliding, hard , with someone else. He bounced off what felt like a kriffing wall and landed flat on his shebs, almost a meter away. Rubbing his nose petulantly, he looked up at whoever he’d run into. 

Shiny silver-grey armor accented in blue towered in front of Boba. For a moment, he thought it was his buir, out of bed after his job for whatever reason, but a flash of orange disproved that. That orange pauldron with a blue Mythosaur emblem meant that this could only be Myles. Boba peered around the wall of a man and spotted another set of armor, this time a base of rust-green lined in the same blue. Silas, then, accompanying him. Really, Boba shouldn’t have been surprised to see them together; the two went nearly everywhere together. He scrambled to his feet.

“Woah there, kiddo, what’s going on?” Myles asked, raising his arms slightly. “What’s got you in such a rush?”

“I need to get my buir!” 

“Why? What do you need?”

“I think I messed up! There was this man at the landing pad and I let him in and it turns out he’s a Jedi and he was nice and everything but then he started talking to two of the troopers and he got this funny look on his face and then ran off and he said he had to make a call and I don’t know why and I think it’s my fault and I need to get buir!” Boba gasped for breath, his chest heaving. 

“Woah, woah, what?” Silas asked. “A Jedi?”

Boba nodded frantically. 

“Where is he, kid?”

“He’s in one of the old storage rooms, 243-Besk, it’s over back by the big training hall!”

Myles crouched down to put his hands on Boba’s shoulders. “Listen, Boba, this isn’t your fault. Go find your buir, we’ll go take care of this, okay?”

“But - but he’s a Jedi! You can’t take him on alone!”

“I won’t be alone. Silas is with me, and you know that that di’kut is like a rot-wing, he just doesn’t die.” Silas nodded in agreement, though Boba could tell he was exasperated by the rot-wing comment. “Go find Jango, Boba.”

“Okay.” He darted forward to hug Myles. “Be safe, okay?”

Large, heavy arms draped around him in turn, the hard press of beskar a comforting weight. “Of course, Boba.”

With a quick twist, Boba extricated himself from the embrace and continued his sprint. He was closing in, he knew it, he knew all the tiny little pockmarks of the hallway near his shared quarters with his buir like the back of his hand. He was so close, everything was going to be alright, he was so close to getting his buir, and he blindly turned another corner and collided with somebody, again .

“Kriff, again ?” His poor nose. “I don’t have time for this!”

“Time for what?”

For a moment, the voice was perfect, and Boba looked up hopefully. But the armor was all wrong, too pristinely white and misshapen. This was no strong, sturdy beskar. It was simple plastisteel, and the accent was just slightly off, and Boba’s hopes were dashed.

There really were downsides to trying to find one man in a sea of clones of him. 

And then Boba looked again, because this clone wasn’t wearing a helmet, and that scar pattern was very familiar .

Kriff.

“Oh, come on ,” he huffed, “you again?”

“Wait, hold on, it’s you! ” The clone - Kote, Boba supposed now - stared down at him. “You’re Prime’s kid! You’re the one who shoved me out to fight Alpha-Seventeen!”

Boba rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, that was me, hooray you caught me, now can we move along with this?”

“Not so fast, kid.” Kote grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. “Why are you in such a rush?”

“Manda, it’s because there’s a Jedi! ”

“A Jedi?” 

“Yes, yes, a Jedi, with the whole glowy laser sword and the robes and everything, now will you please let go? ”

“Where’s the Jedi?”

“Over back by the training hall, the one where you got your shebs kicked.” Boba thrashed for a second, twisting to grab Kote’s wrist and tear himself free. His shirt ripped a bit, but that was the least of his worries right now. “Anyways I have to go now!”

As he darted off down the hallway, reaching the home stretch, he heard Kote mutter, “A real Jedi...wow.”

That wasn’t his focus right now. He finally arrived at the portal into their rooms and shot in. “Dad! Dad! Dad dad dad dad dad!”

There was a muffled grunt from Jango’s bedroom. Boba honed in on it like a strill catching a whiff of its prey. He sprinted into Jango’s room and threw himself on the bed. “Daddaddaddad!”

“Mmmmfffwhhat?” Jango mumbled, head buried in his pillow.

“Dad there’s a Jedi here and I need help I think I messed up but I’m not sure I got Myles and Silas but help please there’s a Jedi!” 

“A what?” Jango shouted, shooting upright. “Boba, are you okay?”

Nodding his head vigorously, Boba replied, “Yeah, yeah, but he said he had to make a call and he ran off with a funny look on his face and I don’t know what to do! ”

Jango caught a glimpse of the tear in Boba’s shirt. “Was this from him?”

“What?” Craning his head back to try to see the rip, Boba answered, “No, no, that was Kote, dad there are bigger issues like the Jedi! That is here! In the 243-Besk storage room!”

He watched Jango mouth Kote? to himself confusedly, then quickly shake himself back to attention. Thank the Manda for the fact that he hadn’t changed out of his kute that night. All he had to do was slide his armor pieces on, a process that took less than a minute with all the practice he’d had. Jango pressed a kiss to his single empty arm, whispering something in Mando’a that Boba couldn’t make out, then grabbed his Westars and a slugthrower and holster them in a single fluid motion. He whirled to face Boba, shouting, “Stay here!” before leaving at a dead sprint. 

Boba waited there for one second. Two. And then he ran out the door after his buir.

What, like being told to stay behind was going to stop a ten-year-old?

Though it was nearly impossible to keep up with Jango, a fully grown Mandalorian running all-out, it certainly wasn’t hard to follow his tracks. All Boba had to do was listen for the clanking of armor. Besides, he knew where they were going anyway. 

It was exhausting, sprinting back and forth for who-knew-how-long, but with the frightened adrenalin flooding his system, Boba was doing surprisingly well. Desperation really was a fantastic motivator. 

Was that how his buir had made it out of Galidraan alive? 

Manda, he really didn’t want to think about Galidraan right now. He didn’t want to think of how he could have kriffed up enough to start a second one. He really, really hoped that his buir and Myles and Silas would be able to fix it all. 

He just wanted everyone here to be okay.

It didn’t take long to find Myles and Silas; the run almost felt shorter, this time, with his buir guiding the way. Boba nearly crashed into Jango - that was an unfortunate trend of the night, he wasn’t enjoying that part - who had stopped, staring at Myles and Silas outside the storage room.

Myles and Silas who were perfectly fine, completely unharmed and untouched, their weapons still holstered, and were sitting with their helmets off, astonished expressions on their faces. Silas had his head in his hands and was just muttering, over and over, “What the hell, what the kriff, what kind of osik-”

At the sight of Jango, Myles looked up and slumped back a bit against the wall. “Oh, thank the Ka’ra, you’re here. This one is way past my pay grade. You get to deal with this, ‘Alor.”

Silas snorted and then resumed his murmuring.

“Myles?” Jango asked. “Are you - what’s going on?”

“I don’t even know. But, Jango ,” and he emphasized the name, “don’t - don’t freak out too much.” He waved Jango away and leaned his head back with a thunk , idly toying with his helmet.

Wary, Jango slung the slugthrower from his back and cocked it. Boba scurried over to sit by Myles and peer inside the room.

The room was a mess, with the few odds and ends that had been stored there flung about, a few crates even dented. One conspicuous hole, roughly hand-sized, decorated the furthest wall. The lights flickered a bit.

The star attraction, though, was the Jedi seated silently in the center of the mess. His robe pooled around him, his legs neatly crossed. With his back facing the entry, he looked the picture of an immovable statue. Boba supposed this was what people saw when they pictured Jedi: calm and steady amidst chaos, untouched by the world around them. Other.

“Hey!” Jango shouted gruffly, gesturing with his gun. “Get up! I wanna see your hands!”

Slowly, very slowly, Kenobi clambered to his feet, his hands raising. The sleeves of his robe fell to his elbows, leaving just the beige tunic covering his forearms. His hair glinted.

“Come on, turn around!” Boba had never heard his father sound so threatening before. The way his voice rumbled and filled the air around them was jarring. “Don’t hesitate, hut’uun! Let me see your face!”

“Are you sure about that?” Kenobi asked, bowing his head slightly. He’d lowered his voice slightly, Boba noticed. It hadn’t been that deep when he’d been talking to the Jedi. 

“You’re kriffing right I’m sure about that! Turn around, right now!”

And Kenobi did as ordered. He gingerly turned to face Jango and the rest of them at the door. His face looked like he was bracing for pain. His lightsaber hilt shone at his side. 

And Jango.

Dropped.

The gun.

At the sound of it clattering to the floor, Kenobi winced, his head twisting a bit. His hands moved closer to his head but stayed raised high.

Boba was shocked. His father, dropping his weapon when faced with a Jedi? He didn’t know what to think. Jango was the epitome of professionalism, the kind of Mando’ad that couldn’t be caught off-guard or blindsided in battle. He’d made a point of it since Galidraan, Boba knew. Never, once, in all of his years of living, had he heard even the barest hint of Jango losing a weapon since Galidraan. 

And yet he stood in front of his son, trembling, one weapon on the floor, and didn’t make a move for any of his others.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Kenobi began, like he knew him . “I know that this must come as a betrayal of sorts. The Jedi committed a grievous crime against you and your people, one that cannot be undone or paid for, and then me? Being here? Being one of them? I - I know, and I’m sorry .”

Jango took one step closer. 

Boba stared, wide-eyed. The way Kenobi was speaking, it sounded like - like he’d been at Galidraan. And yet Jango wasn’t rushing in for the kill?

“I never intended to get involved in any of this. You must know, and I say this with every ounce of honesty in my body, that I never wanted any of that to happen. I had no idea that it was coming. Force, I wasn’t supposed to have been there, I was supposed to be on a protection mission, but then Kyr’tsad got in the way, and I escaped, and you know the rest of that story. They didn’t know I was there. I didn’t know they were there. They took me and had me tested for hostage syndrome, did you know that? No, of course you didn’t, what am I saying, how could you have known that? After what we did to you?”

Another step.

A lot of uncomfortable thoughts were starting to fill Boba’s head. It sounded like he’d been there before Galidraan? But-

“I told them all that they were wrong, I told them, I testified in front of the Council that the Haat Mando’ade hadn’t done anything wrong, that we’d been led astray by the Governor, and they believed me, but it was too late. By that time, you were already gone and everyone was dead, and I wanted to look for you, but you wouldn’t want to see me, of course you wouldn’t. To find out that I’d been a Jedi the whole time? You would have been crushed.”

Another step.

No, surely not. Surely not.

“But it was real, all of it, I swear on my padawan’s life that it was. Everything between us was real, and I missed you for so many years, but, well.” He dropped his hands to his sides, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “You wouldn’t have wanted Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, not after all we’d done.”

Jango removed his helmet, letting it clatter to the floor. Boba couldn’t see his face from here, but he could definitely see Kenobi’s eyes flicker to it, widen, and then fixate back on the floor.

“And I’m sorry for turning up here. I didn’t mean to, I had no idea that you were here, and if you want me to go, I’ll go. If you want me dead, then do it. I’m so, so sorry.” He descended to the floor with a Jedi’s grace, but the way he knelt and shook was anything but. “Ni ceta, ni ceta, ni ceta.”

Jango followed him down, hands hovering barely a breath from Kenobi, like he was afraid to touch him. Maybe he was. If Boba’s sudden realization was right, then he wouldn’t blame him.

Kenobi remained, unmoving, on his knees in front of Jango. The air was thick with the weight of truth. Boba found himself leaning closer, desperate to hear what came next.

One gloved hand, the one whose forearm was bare of any beskar, reached out to ever-so-gently ghost over Kenobi’s jaw, guiding his head upwards. Kenobi’s eyes, meeting Jango’s, were bloodshot and misty.

Jango’s spine bent forward slightly, a breath released. “Mesh’la,” he breathed, reverent and delicate, “more than in my wildest dreams.”

“What?” Kenobi - Obi-Wan - asked, the barest of whispers.

“Your eyes haven’t changed a bit, naubriik. Just as light as ever.”

And there was the final confirmation. For all of Jango’s bedtime stories, Boba had never thought he’d be able to see Ben. His hair was browner than Jango had made it out to be, but it caught the light with a distinctive metallic undertone that matched that consistent copper description. 

Carefully, Boba picked his way forward, ignoring Myles passing Silas a handful of credits. He grabbed his buir’s arm, peering out from behind his back. 

Ben laughed wetly, burying his face in his hands. 

“I think we’ve done things a bit out of order, cyare.” Jango smiled softly, some of the lines on his face easing. “I thought there’d be marriage before kids.”

“I only adopted one. You went and had millions!” 

Something in Jango’s eyes turned wondering. “I did, didn’t I?” He leaned to the side, letting Boba come forward. “Introduce yourself, Bob’ika.”

“Su’cuy!” he said. “Ner gai Boba Fett!”

Ben lowered his hands, meeting Boba’s eyes with a wide, disbelieving smile. “Su’cuy, Boba.”

Something reached out for Boba. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it in that same part of his head that housed his gut feelings. It felt like a deep, swirling puddle pooling around his feet, but warm and secure. He gasped. “Woah, what was that?”

“That was me, Boba.”

“Is there something I’m missing here?” Jango asked.

“It seems you’ve got yourself a Force-sensitive son.”

His eyes widened. “Woah.” A pause. “Wait, do I have to be a Jedi then?”

“No,” Jango said. “Remember Nurul from the stories?” Boba nodded. “They were Force-sensitive too, but they were never a Jedi.”

“Woah.”

And Ben - Obi-Wan? Boba wasn’t sure of the right name to call him - started laughing, a resonant, tenor sound coming straight from his chest. It was a bit hysterical, and Boba could only imagine everything Obi-Wan was feeling at that moment, but he reached up and hugged him. It looked like he needed it, and, at this point, he doubted that any of the clones were in danger. It was Ben, after all. He squeezed him tight, and Obi-Wan hugged him back. It was solid, though softer than the beskar hugs he was used to. Boba found that he liked it. Ben gave just as good hugs as he’d imagined.

A second set of arms wrapped around them, and then came the press of beskar, and suddenly Boba’s family was one dearly-missed person bigger.

The hug grew tighter as Jango leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Obi-Wan’s above Boba, a long-awaited Keldabe Kiss. Boba smiled and burrowed in closer.

Chapter Text

He didn’t have armor. For what was maybe the first time since he’d stumbled into the Haat Mando’ade, he regretted that. He wasn’t one of them, he knew that wearing their armor was tantamount to sacrilege, and he respected that. But, for one, he wished that he was wearing more than a thin undersuit.

Especially when he stood at the front of a wall of Mandalorians, staring down an opposing force of Jedi. 

His people. Both of them? 

He didn’t know what was going on.

“In the name of the Republic, we are here to enact justice for the crimes you committed against the people of Galidraan.”

What? What?

No, no, that couldn’t be right, they were here on a legal contract to counteract a rebellion. The people of Galidraan were fine! He’d stood side by side with them and helped the farmers restructure their irrigation to better survive the early winter! They hadn’t harmed any civilians!

“But the governor-” someone shouted, and oh, it’s Cahya, please, Cahya, tell them.

“The governor is the one who called us here,” the lead Jedi interrupted, his voice commanding and impenetrable like the defense of a plasma lightsaber. He recognized that voice, he knew it, why wasn’t his brain working properly?”

“That backstabbing shabuir!” another Mando’ad yelled. The Jedi only raised one condescending eyebrow. 

Where was his voice? Why couldn’t he speak? Haar’chak, the one time people needed him to speak most and he just couldn’t do it.

“If you will not surrender yourselves into Republic custody, I regret that we will have no choice but to respond accordingly.”

There weren’t supposed to be any Jedi here. Galidraan was supposed to just be a contract, and then they’d move on, and he’d be picked up by his Master and he’d go back to the Temple and his quarters and try uselessly to forget everything he’d felt here. He was supposed to have more time! There wasn’t supposed to be a strike force!

“Surrender my shebs! Haat Mando’ade! Par kote! Par Manda’yaim! Par aliit!” 

Every single bad feeling he’d felt piling up for the past few tendays burst into bloom before him. The unrelenting dread? Realized. The paranoia? Proven correct.

The pressing feeling of encroaching Darkness?

Pouring over the scene before him in a tidal wave.

“STOP!”

Even if he died trying, even if he lost the trust of the people he’d come to know and care for, even if he never got to see them again, he found himself acting. He could not allow the Dark to stain this pristine white land with the blood of innocents.

He had no lightsaber. He hadn’t for some time.

He continued anyway.

“Ben?” someone asked.

“Obi-Wan?” someone else murmured.

“Don’t do this!” he cried, facing the Jedi with his arms spread wide. They were far too short to cover all the Haat Mando’ade behind him, his ‘crude matter’ inadequate for the task, but he let his Force presence unfurl and envelop them in tandem. 

Off to his right, he heard Nurul, breathless, whisper, “ Oh .” He didn’t have time to think about it. 

“You’ve been set up! This - it isn’t true! We haven’t done anything!”

The lead Jedi, so very familiar, raised one placating hand. “Grandpadawan,” he said, and suddenly he knew, “Qui-Gon has been awaiting your return rather impatiently.”

Those damning words. Beneath his protective coat, he felt the cold realization strike every Mandalorian who had heard. If any of them survived this, he would never be allowed back.

That was fine. So long as they survived this, he would bear whatever punishment they required. 

“Don’t do this, Master Dooku.”

“Look at you, Grandpadawan. They’ve gotten to you, haven’t they?”

“I’ll come back, just don’t hurt them.”

His fingers were going numb. He couldn’t feel his nose. It was so cold. 

One of the accompanying Jedi stepped forward as if in protest. Master Dooku stopped them. “That is entirely up to them. If they surrender, then all will be well.”

“You know that they cannot.”

“Then we stand at an impasse.”

Where was the Light? Where was Jango? Force, he wanted Jango to be here so badly. He was just a Padawan, he wasn’t meant to hold so many lives in his hands. 

“Please.” It was the only word left to speak.

Master Dooku flexed his outstretched hand. The world swam across his vision, dark spots appearing and staining the white snow. It took too many precious seconds to recognize the prickling feeling in his skull as a Force suggestion, and by the time he gasped out, “No!” it was too late. He pulled his Force presence inwards, withdrawing his protective shield from the Haat Mando’ade and shaping it into whatever he could to batter Master Dooku’s mental attack. But he was a mere student, and Master Dooku sat on the Council. He held him off for mere moments before his legs gave out beneath him. 

His head colliding with the freezing snow, he watched as one of the Haat Mando’ade flew forward, jetpack engaging with a matching roar from their throat, only to be cut down by the elegant sweep of a green lightsaber. 

The upper half of their body landed facing him, one desperate arm reaching his way. It barely moved a few centimeters before falling limp.

Blasterfire and plasma hums filled the air.

Obi-Wan - Ben - succumbed to the cold and the Dark.

Metal. Hard, unyielding metal. His neck ached.

Obi-Wan groaned at the pain, rolling his head back to a natural resting position. Sleeping seated upright was always a terrible idea. Why had Jango let him pass out here?

Jango.

Wait.

Suddenly, the metal wasn’t a comforting reminder of his partner; it turned into a warning. Fear flooded his veins as he jolted fully awake.

Where was Jango?

The lights flickered as the ship he was on rattled, the resistance of the atmosphere making the ship shake. Next to him, someone scoffed slightly. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

Blonde hair, pinned back in a traditional Padawan haircut. Obi-Wan hadn’t missed the sight of those. Frosty eyes narrowed at him. Though a few scratches marred her face, she seemed satisfied, radiating it in the Force around her like a sunbathing nexu. 

Considering the blood droplets on her face, Obi-Wan felt his immediate reaction was warranted. “Gah!”

“Oh, please, Sleeping Beauty. Calm down. You’re safe now and whatnot, you know, the whole deal.” She rolled her eyes.

“What? I don’t - what happened?”

A slow smirk spread across her face. “We dealt with those Mandalorian scum is what happened.”

“Now, now, Padawan Vosa, it doesn’t do to speak ill of the fallen.” Across from them, and in fact on all sides, sat more Jedi. A few seats were conspicuously empty, lightsaber hilts strapped in to replace the life lost, but still, so many Jedi remained. 

“Apologies, Master Kydrol.” 

She sounded anything but apologetic, Obi-Wan thought in the back of his mind. The rest of his brainpower was focused on her previous statement and its implications. Because - the fallen? Mandalorian scum? There were very few ways that those two statements could be construed when put together, and Obi-Wan didn’t like the picture they painted. Those were his people out there, ones he had laughed and cried and bled with. They hadn’t - they couldn’t be - surely not - they wouldn’t have-

No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t so much as think those cruel, final words. 

Master Kydrol, a tall, black-haired human with eyes that Obi-Wan would in any other situation describe as kind, refocused his attention on Obi-Wan. “We were called by the Republic on a mission from the governor of Galidraan. Those Mandalorians we found you with were terrorists who arrived on the planet and immediately launched a planned assault on Galidraan citizens. With such a display of aggression and manpower, we had little choice but to dispatch them.”

“No, no.” Obi-Wan shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong! They weren’t citizens, they were a rebellion! The governor called us there himself! It was a legal contract for aid from a mercenary force!”

“Legal? Padawan Kenobi, it was anything but. I saw the message from the governor personally.”

“And I was there personally! I was there for every step of the planning process, it was not an unprompted assault! ”

“Padawan Kenobi, that kind of statement could very well get you implicated with the rest of the Mandalorians.” In stepped Master Dooku, his chin tilted high and his gaze chilling. “As it stands, however, in regard for your status as one of our own and your delicate mental state, I will choose to overlook it.” He stopped in front of Obi-Wan and loomed over him. “Do not let your foolish attachments rule you, Grandpadawan.”

There was blood on the hem of his robe. Obi-Wan’s mind flashed through any number of faces and names that that blood could have belonged to. Which one of his comrades, his friends , had Master Dooku-

A heavy, commanding presence swept aside his tattered excuse for shields. “Do make an attempt to adjust your conduct, Padawan Kenobi.”

“You-” he breathed heavily, his hands trembling on his knees, “you killed them. You killed them all!” 

“They gave us no choice, Padawan Kenobi. They were violent, deranged mass murderers.”

He laughed harshly. “No, you are! You all are! I tried to warn you, I tried to stop you, but you didn’t listen!”

“Padawan Kenobi, pull yourself together! They attacked us with extreme prejudice! If that isn’t an assumption of guilt, I don’t know what is!” Master Dooku spoke like a man who was used to having his voice obeyed unquestioningly. Laced with a smidgeon of the Force, his words fell harshly onto the ship’s passengers.

Luckily for him, or perhaps unluckily, Obi-Wan was far past the point of obeying unquestioningly. His teachings as an initiate were flying out the window as he leaned back in his seat, pressure building behind his eyes. “They attacked you because they thought you hurt me!”

“Do you know how many Jedi they cut down in battle?” Master Dooku thundered.

“Do you know how many Haat Mando’ade you didn’t?” Obi-Wan retorted.

Silence reigned over the cabin. With his Force presence laid bare before them all, Obi-Wan could practically feel their judgment. Look at him, the poor, attached Padawan, got in too deep in his mission and now look at him, a wreck. He didn’t care. Who would give a damn about the opinions of murderers? He had spoken nothing but the truth.

Padawan Vosa scoffed. “Listen to how he uses their language. He’s practically gone native!”

“He is clearly suffering from hostage syndrome,” Master Dooku agreed, smoothing down the front of his robes and folding his arms behind his back. “Who knows what they did to him in his time missing.” To the rest of the Jedi onlookers, he said, “Disregard him. He does not know what he is saying.”

As he curled inwards with Padawan Vosa’s prickling, condescending presence next to him, Obi-Wan felt the doubt that subtly permeated the air. He pressed his face into his knees and let silent tears stain his borrowed kute. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep it. 

If he really concentrated, he could still smell Jango on it.

As much as he wanted to appreciate the thought behind sending him to a mind healer, the eyes boring into him from the chair opposite his were far too intense and scrutinizing to make him feel truly comfortable. 

“We want to help you, Padawan Kenobi,” the Rodian said, her large eyes reflecting the dim light in the private room. Healer Kritriis was kind, Obi-Wan could tell, but she had come in expecting a specific result. When he didn’t align with that, he felt the barest thread of annoyance slip past her shields. “But I cannot do that if you don’t cooperate with me.”

To Obi-Wan, who thought he had been cooperating just fine, this was laughable. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” His spine was practically vibrating with how stiffly he was holding it upright.

“I’m talking about this, Obi-Wan. This obstinance, your refusal to share what you are feeling with me.”

“I thought I was being quite open, especially considering everything the Jedi have done.”

“Everything the Jedi have done? Tell me, where did this sudden disdain for the Order come from?” She latched onto it quickly, an akk dog with a bone. 

“I thought it would have been obvious. I watched a whole contingent approach innocent people that I considered friends, disregard my warnings, and then I was later informed that they murdered them all.” He spat the final phrase.

“Why do you use that word? ‘Murdered.’” 

“Because that’s what it was!” he exploded. “They were innocent, they had done nothing wrong, and yet because they upheld their cultural values, they were slaughtered wholesale!”

“Why this insistence on their innocence?”

“How many times do I need to reiterate this? The Haat Mando’ade were innocent. We didn’t kill any civilians. The only people we went after were armed rebels, and we did so on a contract from the governor himself!”

“‘We?’” She raised her eyebrow scales, pen poised over her datapad.

Obi-Wan crossed his arms in a huff. “Yes, we. I participated in that, I was a key part of the planning process for that operation, and as such I can tell you all the ins and outs of the operation and the governor’s exact specifications for the job!”

“How can you be so sure that those orders actually came for the governor?” she asked.

“Force, why does nobody believe me?”

“Well,” she began, “you were trapped in a very unusual situation, and it’s a natural part of the mind’s defense mechanism to reframe distressing scenarios in order to reduce the stress on the mind-”

“No.” Obi-Wan stood from his chair to point one accusing finger at Healer Kritriis. He was done with all this bantha kark. Kriff this, kriff the Council, kriff the Jedi. “Nobody believes me because the Council doesn’t want to confront their own guilt on this. Never mind that all you have to do is listen to the Force to know that I’m telling the TRUTH! NO, the Council says I must have hostage syndrome, Master Dooku says so, and they can’t be wrong, right?” He glared at her. “ Right? ”

“Padawan Kenobi, if you could-”

“Oh, no, Healer Kritriis, this is the most you’ve gotten from me this whole session! Don’t you want to hear more? Maybe it’ll help your diagnosis! Here’s a fact! I was never their hostage! ”

“But Master Jinn’s report indicates that-”

“That was an entirely different group! One that was ideologically and politically opposed to the one you slaughtered! It’s not that complex! There’s literally only three political parties, compared to the web of who-knows-what in the Senate!”

“And how are you so sure of this?”

“I literally fought the group that held me hostage with the Haat Mando’ade! The leader of Kyr’tsad killed the previous leader of the Haat Mando’ade, who just so happens to be the father of the current one! How much more explanation do you need?”

Everything about this room irritated him. The soft, gentle lighting that made him drowsy, the chairs that were too plush so that he sunk into them like a stranglehold, the total lack of windows and a single door positioned closer to Healer Kritriis than himself. The blue glow on Healer Kritriis’s face from her datapad. The way she spun her pen around in her fingers. His leg that wouldn’t stop bouncing. The bareness of the room, decorated only by a block for a side table and a soft, harmless houseplant. Even the way the room lacked proper corners, only rounding at the edges instead of providing proper, sharp ninety-degree angles. 

A thick, calming essence swept through the room, prickling at his mind, encouraging him to relax, sit down, don’t worry, we’re helping you . Obi-Wan glared harder and shored up his mental defenses even further. Like beskar , he thought, like Jango’s armor . After Master Dooku, nothing was getting into his head, even if he had to fend off the whole Council himself. He refused.

“If that’s all, then,” he grit, his hands fisted at his sides, “then I think I will be going.”

“Padawan Kenobi, this session isn’t-”

The door slammed shut between them. Natural light finally illuminated his vision, as harsh and white as any Coruscant day. He could distantly hear speeders honking in the eternal traffic that coated the planet, the trillions of electronics buzzing at the edge of his senses. 

It was any other day on Coruscant.

Why did that feel so wrong?

The spot at his side where his lightsaber hilt normally hung was still empty. They didn’t trust him with it. 

They ignored the fact that he’d survived for months in battles without it. 

Obi-Wan sighed as he turned down a familiar hallway. He inputted a keycode he barely remembered and waited.

A door that he hadn’t opened for nearly a year slid open. Darkness permeated the room, smelling of sweet jogan fruit and a hint of bleach; the scent of a recent cleaning. Nothing seemed out of place from the dim outlines he could spot. Dishes stacked in windowed cabinets waited patiently. A single plate and glass, dirty, sat next to the sink. In the Force, he could feel the liveliness of the many plants scattered across the windowsill. They hadn’t died in their absence, then. That was good. 

Obi-Wan ran his fingers over the small table at the center of the room. Fresh green onions swam in the vase at the center of the table, their roots stretching into the water. One of its chairs had been turned askew, a recent visitor to the table forgetting to push it in. He smiled, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. Typical. 

Almost dreamily, he drifted to the door leading into one of the adjoining rooms. This one left him feeling nervous, though he couldn’t place why. By all means, he had no reason to be. He belonged here, he knew it, he’d been told it time and time again, and he believed it. But then why had his stomach twisted itself into knots? Why did his hand hesitate to open it?

He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Obi-Wan pressed on the door and stepped inside as it opened. 

The same jogan fruit cleaner’s smell assaulted his nostrils, much stronger than it had been outside. However, an additional, underlying aroma settled beneath it. Obi-Wan could almost name it. A set of curtains at the window had been drawn, leaving everything even darker than outside. Obi-Wan didn’t bother turning on the lights he knew were there. 

The bed had been made, though there was an indentation in the middle of it, sheets wrinkled around it. Items on the desk that he knew had been scattered messily the last time he was here had been straightened out by some unseen hand. Datapads sat neatly on a shelf, assorted pens lined up in a row. Here, the chair was pushed into the desk, unused. Various model starships, kept simply for display, noticeably lacked dust. 

Inside the open closet, all the tunics hung in order. New robes had been added to empty hangers, pants had been lovingly folded and stacked. Everything smelled and looked freshly laundered. 

Obi-Wan spun slowly in the center of it all, taking it in. He cast off his boots and robe, letting them fall to the floor. He dropped onto the bed, turning and laying down.

His feet hung over the edge. They hadn’t used to do that. 

A deep inhale, a deep exhale. He couldn’t see his breath in here, not like he could at Galidraan. Funny, he’d almost gotten used to the constant, biting chill. He almost felt overdressed for Coruscant, mild as it was.

Obi-Wan’s head fell to the side, his gaze drifting over a small object. He refocused on it.

A simple, unassuming rock laid on his nightstand. He reached over and grabbed it.

It was just as unnaturally warm as he remembered. As he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, though, intent on centering himself with it like he always had, something was different. 

It was still warm in his hands, but not in his head. He tried again, focusing harder on releasing the tension from his frame. It didn’t work. The rock simply wasn’t strong enough to get through his shields of beskar, many-layered and thick as they were. 

But he couldn’t lower them. He couldn’t. Not with Master Dooku also in the Temple, and any number of other Jedi Masters. He couldn’t risk it.

Pressure started building in his eyes. His breaths increased in tempo. He sat up in the bed and stared at the tiny rock in his hands like it had all the answers. Practically boring holes in it with his gaze, he concentrated on it, wishing and hoping and praying for that warmth in his mind. 

It still didn’t work.

A hiccuping sob cut through the air. Obi-Wan’s hand flew to his mouth as soon as he heard it, but the floodgates had opened. Suddenly his breaths started heaving, catching on themselves as he struggled to take in air. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, finally flowing and releasing some of the pressure. He tried to be quiet as he cried, keeping his hand glued over his mouth as he continued to stare and cry over this little rock, but he had a feeling it hadn’t worked. He hunched over his knees, a few tears falling onto the rock’s surface.

“Obi-Wan?” Lights flicked on outside, spilling under the door frame just in time for Obi-Wan to glimpse shadowed footsteps arriving at his door. He curled up tighter, drawing his legs higher up.

The door opened. He glanced up.

There, meeting his gaze, was Master Qui-Gon, his large frame filling the portal. Obi-Wan couldn’t look away.

He was sure he looked a sight, a sobbing mess, his grip white-knuckled on his face, clutching a rock desperately in his hand, but Qui-Gon just melted in that particular way of his. “Oh, Obi-Wan.”

Suddenly, Obi-Wan didn’t care that Qui-Gon was looking at him the way he looked at those ‘pathetic lifeforms’ he’d decided needed saving. Obi-Wan certainly felt like a pathetic lifeform right now. And there was his Master, and Obi-Wan was twelve again, just realizing how closely he’d brushed with death. He leaped forward to clutch desperately at Qui-Gon’s waist, wrapping himself around his Master. He’d always been bigger than Obi-Wan; even if Obi-Wan didn’t fit on his bed anymore, Qui-Gon was still larger than him. He was so, so glad for that right now.

One hand fisted in Qui-Gon’s tunic beneath his robe, the other still holding the rock tightly. Qui-Gon practically folded over him, letting his great, oversized robes wrap around Obi-Wan and hide him away. 

Obi-Wan didn’t care about being quiet as he cried anymore. He wept and wailed into his Master’s chest, letting his tears soak into Qui-Gon’s tunic. Force, he’d missed his Master so much, his steadfastness and his dependability and his simple presence. He’d even missed Qui-Gon’s womp rat-nest hair! 

“Shh, shh, just let it all out, Obi-Wan, breathe, okay?” Qui-Gon’s hand ran up and down the back of his head, fingers threading through Obi-Wan’s hair, and it had never been long enough for him to do this, and Obi-Wan cried harder. Like a man possessed, he sobbed great, chest-rattling sobs, burying himself deeper into his Master’s embrace. There were no words from him; he didn’t know what he would say, much less how he would get it out when his body was otherwise occupied. But the way Qui-Gon just kept his grip firm and present told him he didn’t need any. 

He could cry, and Qui-Gon wouldn’t judge.

Force, he loved his Master.

He kept crying. Qui-Gon was warm; he’d always run hot, something Obi-Wan was grateful for when space’s cold had a way of creeping in. But it wasn’t the warmth he was looking for.

Even for his beloved Master, Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to soften his shields, not a single bit.

“-and while he shows signs of post-traumatic stress and survivor’s guilt, his report and his behavior simply don’t support a diagnosis of hostage syndrome. I’m sorry, Masters, but even the Force agrees.”

“Thank you, Healer Kritriis, that will be all.”

“Masters.” She bowed deeply and left the Council chambers. 

Master Windu turned his attention to Obi-Wan. He knew Master Qui-Gon was outside and waiting for him, but that wasn’t particularly helpful right now. Behind his back, he twisted his fingers into his sleeves.

“So, Padawan Kenobi.” The Head of the Order stared at him from the center of the ring of Councilmembers. “Would you care to share your experiences with the Council once again?”

He breathed deeply, missing the sharp twinge of pine or grit of fine sand. It’s fine. It’s just the entire Council. Qui-Gon does this all the time. You do it all the time. His shields grew by another hair. “As I told the Council in my previous report, I was separated from Master Jinn and Duchess Kryze near the eighth or ninth month of our mission; I’m not sure which. We were being pursued by Kyr’tsad - Death Watch - a political group of Mandalore that has been classified by the Republic as terrorists. Between our two diverging paths, I assume they followed me. Perhaps they thought I had the Duchess with me; perhaps they thought I would be an easier target. I don’t know.

“What I do know is that after roughly a tenday of pursuit, they ambushed me. I had hidden in a cellar in a village, but a group of them must have gotten there before me, because I had barely been there for half an hour before a group of five or so Kyr’tsad members burst in, fully armed and wielding blaster rifles and slugthrowers. I didn’t have my lightsaber - I gave it to Master Jinn for safekeeping after I split off - and though I was able to overpower several of them, I was eventually knocked unconscious and captured. From there, I was brought to a different village, deep in a desert, and held captive. These villagers were not allied with Death Watch. By their countenances and the fact that their children were locked away, I came to the conclusion they were operating under duress. Children are sacred to proper Mandalorians, after all. They would take almost any action to ensure their safety, including sacrificing their own life. But Kyr’tsad are not proper Mandalorians, they operate under a highly militaristic, crusader-like mindset. I digress.

“I hadn’t been there long before Tor Vizsla showed up. He is the current leader of Death Watch, and he wields Tarre Vizsla’s Darksaber. I endured several days of interrogation, advances, and mild torture before I escaped with the aid of the Force and several of the children I was imprisoned with. I am unsure of whether or not Vizsla was aware of my status as a Jedi. If he wasn’t, I am grateful for that.”

Obi-Wan shuffled in place slightly. He still felt twinges of distaste at the thought of Vizsla and his crudeness, but he’d had the chance to release the more intense emotions he felt for the man with the Haat Mando’ade. This, at least, he could still claim to be a proper Jedi in. 

The rest of his roiling emotions begged to differ.

He took a moment to scan the faces of the assembled Masters, carefully not looking at Master Dooku, far on the right wing. Though they seemed outwardly impassive, there were still minutiae he could read. A twitching muscle in Master Windu’s cheek. Flicks of Master Yoda’s ears. Master Rancisis’s tail. It was these small details that told him to go on. They didn’t like where his story was going, but they would hear him out.

“I ran into the desert, following where the Force told me to go. I had nearly passed out from dehydration and various injuries when the Haat Mando’ade found me. This was the True Mandalorians, another political group led by Jango Fett. They follow the Supercommando Codex, a modernized version of ancient warrior codes written by Jaster Mereel, the previous leader of the Haat Mando’ade, and Jango Fett’s father. He was also titled Mand’alor: the leader of the whole Mandalorian system. In that Codex, Mereel specifically states that Mandalorians - or Mando’ade, as the Codex refers to them - who wish to fight would no longer conduct themselves as raiders or brigands. Instead, they would present themselves as highly-paid soldiers and mercenaries who earned coin from their skills rather than stealing it.”

He took a moment to harden his gaze as he stared at Master Windu.

“Which is why I find it so incredibly disturbing that this Council believes that they have violated the core beliefs their faction was founded upon. Especially right under my nose.”

Obi-Wan did not look at Master Dooku, but he could feel the icy glare hitting the side of his head. He breathed deeply once more. They are Jedi, they are your peers and your Masters. Do not be afraid of them. Do not act like you are afraid of them.

“From the moment they found me until I was forcibly recovered at Galidraan, I stayed with the True Mandalorians. They provided me medical care as I recovered from Death Watch’s tender mercies. Upon informing them of the existence of such an installation so close to them, and their realization that children were in danger, they mounted a rescue operation, which I took part in. We liberated that village, I dueled Tor Vizsla with a cortosis blade provided to me by the Haat Mando’ade, and he called for a retreat. I continued staying with them after that, getting to know them and their culture. They have a deep-seated dislike and suspicion for the Jedi, no doubt because of our shared history. One that I am certain has worsened.” He kept his eyes firmly forwards. “Because of this, I did not reveal myself to them. They did not pry into my past, and I stayed quiet about it.

“The Haat Mando’ade and I grew...close,” he said, pointedly not thinking of gentle, calloused hands or warm, chapped lips. “Though I did not join their ranks, I became a trusted comrade and, in some cases, friend. Thus, when we received a job from the governor of Galidraan, I went along with them.”

This was where things would get ugly. He felt more than saw several Masters lean forwards in their seats. Master Windu gestured for him to continue. 

“The job was a simple, if rather large, one. We were informed of a group of rebels on Galidraan, and the governor requested our aid in dispatching them. That was all. We set up camp with a small town of locals, near where reports of these rebels were concentrated. While the majority of us prepared for the actual task of dealing with the rebels, one which I was highly involved in the planning for, a smaller group turned to aid the townspeople who were kind enough to share their supplies with us. Frost had arrived early, and snow was coming, so we assessed their irrigation systems and other agricultural infrastructure. Once again, I can confirm that this happened because the person in charge of that segment reported directly to me . Once our job was over, most of us were going to move on to the next, leaving only a small number of farmers to stay and help the locals.

“We took out the rebels, captured their leader, destroyed their supplies, and set up scouts to look for stragglers. Jango went to pick up payment from the governor. That was the last I saw of him before Master Dooku and the rest of the Jedi arrived and attacked.”

Master Windu raised a placating hand before Master Dooku could even begin his defensive tirade. “Tell us more about your perspective of the attack, Padawan Kenobi.”

“Master Dooku announced that they were there to ‘enact justice’ in the name of the Republic. I was at the front of the line of Haat Mando’ade, just as shocked as all of them. Several protested, saying that we were there on the governor’s orders - which we were - to which Master Dooku responded that the governor had called the Jedi there. When the Haat Mando’ade reacted accordingly to this news of the governor’s betrayal, Master Dooku said that they would have ‘no choice but to respond accordingly.’ His words. I finally interjected, running between the two groups and calling for them to stop. I extended a shield over the Haat Mando’ade and attempted to explain the circumstances to Master Dooku. He didn’t believe me, thought that I was under some kind of sway, and ignored me. He proceeded to use a Force suggestion on me to force me unconscious, using my vulnerability because of my shielding against me. I attempted to fight it off, but was unable to. The last I saw before I fell unconscious was the very beginning of the attack, and one of the Mandalorians being sliced in half.

“The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the transport, surrounded by Jedi, and being told that every one of those people was dead.”

He bowed. “That is all, Masters.”

Yoda scratched at his chin. “Very distressing, this is, yes, Padawan Kenobi?”

“Indeed, Master.”

“If, a formal assessment, you were to give? Say, what would you?”

Obi-Wan straightened up, his hands finally leaving his robe. “I would say that the Jedi and Haat Mando’ade were set up to ensure the slaughter of one or both parties, and that the Jedi strike force that arrived was set on a battle taking place that day rather than peacefully resolving conflict, perhaps due to deep-seated prejudices against Mandalorians.”

“That’s quite the accusation,” Master Windu stated. There was no question, no doubt, simply a fact. Obi-Wan nodded at him.

“Much to discuss, this Council has. Dismissed, you are, Padawan Kenobi.”

“Masters, if I may?” He only had one shot at this. “Do you know what happened to Jango Fett?”

“He arrived at the scene of the battle after it was all over. After killing a great number of Jedi singlehandedly, we managed to capture him. We rescinded him into the custody of the governor,” Master Dooku finally spoke up. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but turn his eyes towards the imposing man. There was no guilt in his gaze, no doubt, simply cold resolve. “The last I heard of it, he had been sold into slavery.”

Obi-Wan went numb.

Master Dooku hadn’t said it cruelly; his voice wasn’t colored with satisfaction or glee. Neither did it have compassion or regret. To Master Dooku, it simply was.

Was this what the Jedi had come to?

Complacency in one of the worst practices of sentient life?

No. Obi-Wan watched Master Yoda’s ears droop, Master Windu’s hands clench on his seat, Master Mundi’s great bushy eyebrows rise. This was what Master Dooku had come to.

He turned away from the man he could no longer call Master. With a final bow, he strode out the Council chamber’s doors with his back straight and his chin tilted high. His robes swept behind him, his newly restarted Padawan braid the last thing the Council saw before the doors closed once more. 

Walking with all the imperious confidence of a Core Senator, Obi-Wan moves unmolested through the Temple halls. There were whispers behind him, but weren’t there always? Ever the controversial Padawan, he supposed. There was no escaping the voices that always followed Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Descending deeper into the Temple, Obi-Wan found his way to a lesser-used set of stairs, following them up, higher and higher, until he reached the peak. It wasn’t any of the four stalwart towers, but it got him what he needed. 

Alone at last, Obi-Wan folded his legs beneath him, letting the Coruscanti sun wash over him, and tried to pretend that the past few months hadn’t happened.

But with the roiling beneath his skin, locked behind beskar shields that he didn’t dare to remove, and the phantom sensations of Jango’s hands, Jango’s lips, Jango’s tongue, Jango Jango Jango, it was impossible. They’d woven themselves into a core part of himself, and Obi-Wan couldn’t forget that.

He was a terrible Jedi.

What kind of Jedi fell in love and started dreaming of a future outside the Order, where nobody knew his name or his past? What kind of Jedi wanted a clean slate?

But then, he was also a terrible Mandalorian.

He’d left them to die. Not willingly, never willingly, but the truth was he had survived unharmed and they had died. At the hands of people he’d thought he had trusted. 

And he was a Jedi, even if a terrible one. Not since the days of Tarre Vizsla had the groups aligned in ways that didn’t end up tragedies in history books. 

Kriff, he’d even caused the newest one.

They couldn’t all be dead, though, right?

Strong, lighthearted Cahya? Nurul, who’d sensed him a moment before the rest, with such wonder in their voice? Silas, with so much of himself to grow into?

He didn’t even know all their names. He couldn’t give them the recitations they deserved, not from the lips of a Jedi. 

Myles and his group weren’t dead, of that Obi-Wan was certain, but. But. He winced. Word had to have gotten out. The Jedi had murdered Haat Mando’ade, without remorse, believing that justice was on their side. Obi-Wan didn’t dare try to reach out. Besides, he didn’t know how many eyes were watching him. He didn’t know if the Council would believe him yet; he wouldn’t put their lives at stake, not for his desperate, unwanted apologies. 

And Jango.

Oh, Jango.

Perhaps the one who had been wronged most of all. Slavery was a torturous existence for any being. For one as headstrong and stubborn as Jango, who had been taught never to bow his head to any undeserving of his respect? With the additional weight of his people’s deaths on his back, because Obi-Wan knew that he would feel each one? 

He would survive it, Obi-Wan knew, because he refused to believe otherwise. But he would suffer so much.

If nothing else, if he could right no other wrongs, he would find Jango. Even if he never wanted to see him again, even if he wanted Obi-Wan dead, he would give him this much. 

Ben let his head roll back under the setting Coruscant sun and allowed himself just one indulgence, one final reminder of his failure in all aspects. “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. Jango Fett.”

Dooku had been removed from the Council.

That was all anybody had been talking about for the past few days, carried around the hallowed halls in hushed whispers and wondering words. They hadn’t publicly revealed why, leaving the gossip-mongering Padawans with all sorts of radical theories, ranging from blowout arguments of ideological differences to racier thoughts like a secret lover.

Sitting in the cafeteria with Bant and Garen, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but scoff as he heard one Junior Padawan share that particular rumor with her companion. “As if Dooku would take a lover.”

Bant tilted her head at him consideringly. “Oh? You used to call him Master Dooku, Obi-Wan. What changed?”

“That man is no Master.” He glowered at the tray in front of him. “I’m surprised he’s still a Jedi at all.”

His childhood friends, smelling the gossip immediately, leaned forward with gleaming eyes. “Do tell, Obi.”

“He betrayed the very ideals that we hold dear, Garen. He murdered people, for Force’s sake!”

“What?” The two glanced at each other with confusion. “Murder? That’s a big accusation, Obi.” Garen nodded in agreement.

“Well considering I watched it happen, I think it’s fair for me to level it.” He stabbed at his salad. 

Garen waved his hands disbelievingly. “Okay, no, this is not cafeteria talk, this is ‘let’s get the gang together and get stupid drunk’ talk.”

“ Please ,” Obi-Wan pleaded. “I need to drink my problems away, and fast.”

With a healer’s glare that Obi-Wan hadn’t missed, Bant turned on him. “That’s not a healthy way to deal with things, Obi.”

“The mind healer listened to Dooku and went in right after I got back thinking I had hostage syndrome. Which I don’t , mind you. She spent the whole time getting upset with me for telling the truth. Between the two, I think I’ll go with the more productive of the two options, thanks.”

“And what’s so productive about getting blackout drunk?”

“Well, I also get to taste it.” He high-fived Garen across the table as Bant shook her head disapprovingly. “But seriously, yeah. Get everyone together. I have so much to tell you all.”

It took some time to gather their former crechemates - and Quinlan, who was an honorary member - to meet up again. Reeft was on the tail-end of a mission, so it was almost half a tenday before he even got back to the Temple. He was surely surprised when, the second he hopped out of his ship’s cockpit, he was accosted by Bant and Siri, their arms hooking through each of his own and frog-marching him to a lower-level room.

For Obi-Wan, who had been the subject of searching glances and concern so thick it was almost physical, it was a welcome change. He had no sympathy for the Dresselian. Reeft could deal with a little lopsided manhandling.

The room they’d commandeered was small and dimly lit, hiding deep within the Temple. But considering that Garen had lugged a warehouse’s worth of plush pillows down here, it really only added to the intimate atmosphere. A few candles and a pile of drinks in the one clear spot in the center, and they were set to go with their own private hangout. 

Already lounging back on a pile of pillows, a bottle of Corellian whiskey open in his hand, Obi-Wan was well on his way to drunk. He thought Quinlan might have been staring at him because he was impressed, but something in his gut told him it was probably worry instead. Oh well. Quinlan could deal. Obi-Wan was going to drain as many bottles as he wanted. 

Drinking much more sedately and politely with a cup in hand, Garen smiled at the newcomers. “Hey, welcome back, man!”

“Can I get an explanation now?” Reeft complained, rubbing at his arms once Bant and Siri released him. The two women each grabbed their own drinks, Siri even taking a whole bottle of juri juice to match Obi-Wan. 

He groaned. “My life is terrible and I drink to forget!” One hand raised his bottle in a salute. 

“Great, what else is new?”

“I got Dooku kicked off the Council.”

Garen spat his drink out. Sucked for him. He should’ve had better timing. Obi-Wan smiled as he took another swig. “Wait, when you said you knew why, I wasn’t expecting this! ”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Reeft interjected, holding his hands up. “Master Dooku is off the Council?”

“He killed, like, so many people. Actually, a lot of Jedi killed people. And then he got another sold into slavery and didn’t do anything about it. I’m a little bit pissed off about it.”

“Okay, okay,” Siri said, tapping Obi-Wan on the head with her bottle, “we’re gonna need more context on this one, Kenobi.”

“Let me mope drunkenly in peace, Tachi!”

Bant, settling down next to her, sighed. “Siri’s right, Obi. You promised that you’d tell us once everyone was here.” She leveled a glare at him. “Spill.”

“Force, it’s like you’re all the Council except I like you more.” All of them gave him the same disbelieving expression simultaneously. “Fine! Fine . Let me just-” He raised the bottle to his lips and chugged it, letting the faint sting of the whiskey tickled at his throat. It was nothing compared to tihaar’s proper burn, but in the absence of the Mandalorian liquor, it’d have to do. Slamming the empty bottle down next to him, he grabbed another and flicked off the lid, though he didn’t start drinking this one yet. “So I was on Mandalore for a year or so. And, essentially, I made friends with a whole group of Mandalorians - they didn’t know I was a Jedi - and so I went with them on a job on this planet Galidraan. We finish the job, and it turns out the governor double-crosses us and calls the Order, says we’re terrorists or something. Dooku and a whole armed strike force show up, proceed to Force me unconscious, and slaughter the entire group.”

Silence. Obi-Wan took a sip of his new bottle of whiskey. “And then he gave the leader of the group up to the governor, who sold him into slavery. Meanwhile, he’s convincing everyone I have hostage syndrome - which I don’t , I was held hostage by a different group entirely - so that nobody believes me. I finally managed to get the shrink to stop trying to force me into that box, and then I went to the Council, snitched on Dooku, and now he’s on the outs.” Another sip. “Any questions?”

Quinlan groaned loudly. “Kark, Obi, what even is your life?”

“No kriffing clue, Vos.”

“Are you okay?” Bant asked, one hand reaching across Siri to settle on his knee. It was large and warm and maybe slightly moist, but Obi-Wan was used to that by now. 

Obi-Wan snorted, clutching his bottle to his chest. “Do I look okay? I just got my saber back, like, two days ago, and I haven’t even touched it.”

“Wait, you were undercover the whole time?” Reeft sprawled across Garen with his head perched atop his hands, feet kicking in the air like this was one of their childhood sleepovers.

“Didn’t even have Master Qui-Gon with me. If any of the people I was with knew I was a Jedi, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Are you telling me I missed Obi without the awful haircut? Oh, this is an awful day, I’m so sad.” Quinlan laid one hand across his head and pretended to faint onto Reeft. “Hold me, Reeft, I don’t know if my heart can bear it.”

“No, yeah, I’m sorry to say that you did miss it.” Bant rolled her eyes but still patted Quinlan on the head comfortingly. “It looked so good, too. Like some rogue spacer or something.”

“If you’d gotten him in the right outfit, he would’ve looked straight off the cover of a romance novel. The things I could’ve done with that hair,” Garen sighed, his gaze far away, hands flexing in his lap, “the things I could have done.”

“The universe lost a truly precious thing when they cut his hair,” Siri mourned, though Obi-Wan could see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Raising his bottle again, Obi-Wan smothered a grin. You’re not the only ones who liked it. 

Five pairs of eyes swiveled to him in perfect sync. “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

Bant practically screeched and pounced on him, leaving Siri to scramble out of the way. Nobody got between Bant and her target when she was like this. They’d all learned that the hard way. “Obi- Wan! ”

“Bant?”

“Obi-Wan!”

“Bant, you’re suffocating me.”

She moved her weight off his chest, but her hands didn’t move from his shoulders. Probably for the best. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he would flee for his life or not. “WHO? WHO? OBI- WAN! ”

Quinlan leaned forward, his gaze nearly a leer, a lopsided smirk stretching across his face. “Now this is what I wanted to hear. Tell us everything .”

“I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t!” they chorused together. 

Burying his head in his hands, his bottle still held in one of them, Obi-Wan groaned. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Two bottles later, he definitely was. Practically boneless on his pillow throne, he waved his arms about as he expounded about Jango’s many gifts at length.

“-and like? He just listens to me? He just sat there and listened to me talk about poetry and he didn’t interrupt me for a second and normally people get bored by it, you know? Don’t look at me like that, Quin, you know you nod off after two minutes of it. But he didn’t, and he was paying so much attention and he was feeling it and oh Force it was amazing.”

Siri leaned over to Bant, who was watching Obi-Wan’s tirade, entranced. “He’s gone on this guy.”

Without even looking in their direction, Obi-Wan pointed their way unerringly. “Kriffing right I’m gone on him! He’s so kriffing hot and respectful? Hello? He listens when I set boundaries and respects them? Quin doesn’t even do that all the time, and he’s one of my closest friends!”

“Hey, I resemble that remark!”

“Shut up, Quin!” Obi-Wan threw his hands up in the air, spilling some of his latest bottle in the process. “Don’t even get me started on his legs! Like, we sparred and he climbed me like a kriffing tree and oh Force I wanted to pass out right then and there.”

“When you say ‘climbed,’ do you mean-?” Reeft started hesitantly, as if afraid of where this was going.

“I mean he literally got on top of me and started choking me out with his thighs and it was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced.”

“Sweet Force,” Bant whispered. 

Siri chuckled, a sound that meant nothing good, though it was hard for Obi-Wan to process through his drunken haze and focus on Jango. “You can say that again.”

“Sweet For-” Bant was cut off by a hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t mean literally.” A moment later, Siri screeched, flapping her hand about. “Did you just lick me?”

“Payback, bitch,” Bant said sweetly.

“Force, I want him to lick me.”

A pillow landed on his head. Obi-Wan didn’t even try to throw it off, accepting his fate of slow, torturous suffocation. “Stop being horny on main, Kenobi,” Garen complained. “We can’t all go on deep cover missions and then have the best sex of our lives.”

Quinlan laughed. “But it’s so fun , Garen! That’s like half the draw of being a Shadow!”

“Classified information, I didn’t hear that, la la la!” Reeft shouted. 

“He’s not wrong, though.”

With a delighted gasp, Quinlan turned his attention to Siri. “Tachi, you’ve been holding out on me!”

“No, unlike you, I know how to keep my mouth shut!”

As his friends descended into arguing, Obi-Wan smiled. The pillow still sat heavily on top of him, but he didn’t mind. He let the familiar, comforting sounds of the people he knew best distract him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t remember this come morning. He’d retold this story enough to last a lifetime. Though he hadn’t had the opportunity to share the brighter parts of his mission outside this room, it was probably for the best. 

It was time to be a Jedi again. He would have to let go of it.

“Quinlan Vos, you whore! ”

A single blue crystal sat plainly on the ground in front of a kneeling Obi-Wan. 

He stared at it accusingly.

The crystal didn’t move.

Within its particular light sheen, a blue as clear and pristine as the lakes of Naboo, Obi-Wan thought he might detect a hint of frustration. Which didn’t make sense. It was a crystal. No matter that kyber was semi-sentient, a rock should not have been able to physically convey emotion like that.

Maybe he was projecting.

He was probably projecting. 

It was just - well. 

This kyber crystal was his , had been for years. It had guided and defended him faithfully through thick and thin, never faltering. It had been his near-constant companion, their times together only broken up by a few moments where Obi-Wan hadn’t been labeled as a Jedi, whether by choice or by circumstance. Each time, though, it had always eagerly welcomed him back with a soothing, resonant hum in his skull. 

He had thought this would be like those times. 

But, just like with Qui-Gon’s river rock, he couldn’t bear to open his mind up.

For kyber, that shouldn’t have been an issue. When a crystal resonated properly with a Jedi, it matched with their very soul. Even the thickest mental shields couldn’t stop a kyber crystal when its song matched. 

So, loathe as Obi-Wan was to admit it, he and his crystal were no longer in harmony.

It hurt, honestly. He wanted to be a Jedi again, he wanted to move on and try to forget that he’d felt things no Jedi should have felt, but the crystal sitting stubbornly in front of him said otherwise. 

Something in Obi-Wan had changed. He wasn’t the same person he’d been before the Haat Mando’ade. And he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 

He certainly didn’t like it, though. 

He sighed. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered to the little blue crystal, the size of a single knuckle on his finger, like it could hear him. “I’m just not in tune with you anymore.” 

A proper Jedi would have discarded a kyber crystal that no longer resonated with them, surrendering it to the Quartermaster for safekeeping, before departing to Ilum to collect a new one. 

The crystal in his hand proved that he couldn’t call himself a proper Jedi.

He pushed himself to his feet, padding over to his desk and rifling through his drawers. It took a few minutes to find what he was looking for - he didn’t exactly use it often - but he emerged triumphant, a length of synthleather cord in his hand. With gentle, reverent hands, Obi-Wan wrapped the cord several times around the crystal, ensuring it wouldn’t fall out. It was nearly mummified, only small peeks of blue shining through tiny gaps, but that was fine. It would probably draw less attention anyway.

Obi-Wan tied the rest of the synthleather around his neck. The crystal didn’t resonate with him anymore, but he wasn’t going to let it languish, unheard and alone, in a pile in some dark room. It was still his crystal, and he refused to forget everything it had brought him through.

Now, though, he needed a new one. 

Something told him Ilum wasn’t going to be the place for him. 

The Quartermaster looked at him with something akin to suspicion when he asked to go look at the discarded kyber crystals, peering at him with narrowed eyes and glasses pushed down his long beak, but he let Obi-Wan through. 

Just like he’d suspected, the room was barely touched. Dust motes fluttered through the air and directly into his nostrils, making him cough. The light took several seconds to flicker on, but when it did, it revealed a large bin, piled high with dull crystals, each of them scratched.

Unlike Ilum, whose crystals hid their songs until the right person arrived to find them, this room was full of competing harmonies. They practically wailed at him, pounding against his shields with enough force to push some of their tunes at him. Oh, these crystals were so lonely. They missed the completions to their songs, the parts that would make them whole.

Even someone as Force-blind as Jango would have been hard-pressed to miss the evidence of kyber’s sentience in front of them. They couldn’t move, but they felt so much.

Cautiously, Obi-Wan approached the pile, doing his best to continue, though the sheer volume in his head made him wince. Amid all these crystals, he needed to find the single one that matched him. 

With a deep breath, he reinforced his shields, tuning out the many discordant notes. There. He felt it now, the quiet, tentative hum that nestled in the back of his skull. Obi-Wan poked at it gently, and it suddenly doubled in volume, the song turning bright and hopeful. “Where are you?”

Following the thread, he let a whisper of the Force coax the crystal from the pile. A few other shards of kyber tinkled as they were moved out of the way, but Obi-Wan only had ears for the one that was floating into his outstretched palm. “Hello, you.”

In his hand sat a single blue crystal. Several edges were scratched, white clouding the normally perfect translucency of kyber, and Obi-Wan whispered, “Oh, you’ve seen quite a bit, haven’t you, darling?”

The crystal almost seemed to glow in response, humming lowly. 

And that was when Obi-Wan recognized the shade. 

Where his previous crystal had been almost purely cyan, the shade of gentle ponds and summer skies, this one was deeper and darker.

In fact, it almost perfectly matched the cobalt accents on Jango’s armor. 

That was what sealed the deal for him. 

There would be no forgetting Galidraan, or Mandalore, or anything about the Haat Mando’ade. He would forever remember those hot desert days, occupying themselves with poetry and laughter and learning the ins and outs of each other. Jango and his people had changed Obi-Wan irrevocably and irreversibly. 

After all, this wasn’t Obi-Wan’s kyber crystal.

It was Ben’s.

When Obi-Wan showed up to training the next day with an intensely cobalt-colored lightsaber, Qui-Gon was kind enough not to comment on either the color or the way Obi-Wan’s eyes were red-rimmed. The saber, if anyone were to look closer, also had an additional piece added to the hilt. Inlaid in thin cortosis wires was the shape of an oblong hexagon, right over the kyber casing. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers could often be found tracing its outline in particularly thoughtful moments. Nobody ever said a word.

Years later, the Haat Mando’ade would be fond memories in Obi-Wan’s mind, a time gone by. Not forgotten - never forgotten - but faded with time and distance. It wouldn’t hurt when his lightsaber hums in a deeper blue, or when his friends managed to get their hands on a bottle of tihaar and pass it on to Obi-Wan, or when he stares at a holomap of Mandalore in the dark. 

Years later, Obi-Wan would finally stumble onto news of Jango Fett again as the word of a new, highly skilled mercenary hit the underworld. “He’s unstoppable,” they would say. “Always gets the job done.” Some would even turn to each other and surreptitiously whisper, “He killed six Jedi with his bare hands, and even more armed.” Each of these stories would make their way into Obi-Wan’s ears, and he would shrink inwards, glad that Jango was free and glad that he hadn’t managed to find him. Selfishly so, and then he would scold himself for it. But Jango would free himself, and Obi-Wan would stop looking for him.

Years later, Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi would take part in the freeing of Naboo, breaking the Trade Federation blockade and creating new peace between the Naboo and the Gungans. Qui-Gon would die at the hands of a mysterious, unnamed warrior in black robes with a red kyber crystal screaming in pain. Obi-Wan would battle him with tears in his eyes and resolve in his step because this was not the first time he’d known this pain and how dare this man make him feel it again. The warrior would fall down a reactor shaft, torso flipping in a separate piece from his legs, and Obi-Wan would bring forward his report that this man had raged against his shields like none he’d ever experienced. A Sith, Obi-Wan would say, and the Council would believe him.

Years later, Obi-Wan would be knighted. He would place his Padawan braid on the pyre of the man he might have called father, and watch it burn to ashes. His hand would not move from the shoulder of one small boy.

Years later, Dooku would leave the Order. Obi-Wan would not care. His shields would remain just as strong, but they would open up occasionally, some of his long-held tension easing in quiet moments.

Years later, he would unravel the cord around his neck and pass it on to that same small boy, whose song sang in harmony with the faithful little crystal, and he would call the boy ‘Padawan’ but he would really mean ‘brother’.

Years later, Komari Vosa would die in mysterious circumstances, long since removed from the Order in disgrace and Darkness.

Years later, all words of Jango Fett would quiet.

And then, years later, Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and his Padawan Anakin Skywalker would receive a mission to protect the young, bright Senator Padme Amidala of Naboo.

And Obi-Wan would watch a distant, armored figure fly away, holding the cooling body of a Clawdite in his arms, and he would wonder.

And while Anakin would stay with Senator Amidala, Obi-Wan would input the coordinates for a planet missing from the Archives and fly off to Kamino, not knowing what was in store for him there.

Chapter Text

“Shh...don’t disturb them.”

Even as absorbed in the feeling of his family as he was, Jango couldn’t miss the completely unsubtle whispers of Myles. His greatest friend for years, and, in this moment, his greatest nuisance. He tightened his arms and tried to ignore it.

“Well, now you’re the one disturbing them, di’kut!”

And there was Silas, right there with him, whisper-shouting in a gunshot that pounded at the barrier of rightness Jango was burying himself in. 

Ben started to slowly extract himself from the two pairs of arms wrapped around him. Chuckling softly, he called out, “Myles? Is that you?”

The large man strode over to him, and after a moment of looking each other up and down in a standoffish display that brought back fond memories of a distant past, they both smiled widely and embraced each other in a back-slapping hug. Of course, it probably hurt Ben more than it hurt Myles, considering only one of them was fully armored and Jango would be damned if those robes had any sort of protective value. Still, as they backed off and Ben held Myles at an arm’s length to study him, it was like no time had passed for them at all.

“Look at you!” Ben exclaimed. “You got even taller! How does that work out?”

“Eh, apparently I still had one last growth spurt in me after the whole,” he waved his hand vaguely, “thing, you know.” He quickly changed the subject. “And what about you, huh? You’ve been holding out on us! I mean really, look at the beard!”

“The beard? Myles, you've gone full salt-and-pepper already!” At Myles’s dramatic pout, Ben laughed and patted his arm indulgently. “It looks good, I swear.”

“I’ve gotta say, though, we need to get you out of those robes.”

“Myles.”

“Come on, Ben, they’re not doing you any favors. Besides, I know I’m not the only one who wants you out of them!”

Ben swatted him. “There is a child present, idiot!”

Sitting casually on the floor, Boba tilted his head. “You mean sex?”

Myles burst into startled guffaws as Ben groaned. “I just got here, do I need to be the responsible adult already?”

“Nah, I’ve got that one covered.” Silas took that as his cue to walk in. “Long time, no see, Ben.”

It took a bit for Ben to place him. Whereas Jango and Myles had been mostly grown twenty years ago, Silas had barely entered puberty. He’d changed a lot since then, filling out, getting stronger, and growing the confidence he’d sorely lacked as a fourteen-year-old. “Wait…Silas?”

“In the flesh.”

Rather than the more sedate hug he’d given Myles, Ben rushed to practically crush Silas in his grip. “I thought you’d died!”

“It’s like I told Boba,” Myles butted in, “he’s a rot-wing! He doesn’t die!”

“It was nothing like that. I was just the one on scout detail that day. Which meant-”

“-that you weren’t there at the battle,” Ben finished, realization and relief thick in his voice. 

“Exactly.”

“Oh, Force, you have no idea how fantastic that news is. How has everyone else been?”

Everyone else? Jango was confused. He was even more puzzled when Myles answered easily. “Well, besides someone being a di’kut, we’ve been doing alright. For the most part, we stay on-planet, but I leave every now and then to check in. You’d be surprised at how well little Evim has been running the show. Of course, she’s not so little anymore, but-”

Evim? But - wait, hold on, something wasn’t adding up. Jango gathered Boba into his lap, ignoring the quiet protests from his son. 

“That’s - that’s good. I’m glad. It’s a good thing there haven’t been any Jedi in Mandalorian space for a while, wouldn’t you say?”

Myles’s eyes widened as Silas started laughing. “Are you saying - you had something to do with it, didn’t you?”

“I may or may not have raised complaints to the Council about the Jedi’s ability to prevent further diplomatic incidents on Mandalore. Of course, I could only offer my counsel as a Knight, but for whatever reason, they seem to listen to me. I wonder why.”

“Ben - Obi-Wan - osik, that’s gonna be weird, sorry.”

“No worries. I wouldn’t expect you to be able to get it right straight away.”

“You really let those stuffy jetii have it, huh?”

“I only did my duty as a concerned citizen.”

“Ha!” Myles barked. “At least your whole skipping-around-the-question thing hasn’t changed, even after twenty years! Ah, some things can always be counted on to remain the same. Silas can’t hold his drink, Jango is short and emotionally repressed, and you talk in, like, quadruple-speak!”

“Hey!” Silas and Jango chorused, Ben too busy laughing to be offended. He looked at home, Jango thought fondly, slotting back into place with them like he never left. If he were simply wearing different clothes, Jedi robes exchanged for cortosis-weave kute, it would have been like he’d never left. And, really, that thought was so tantalizing to Jango that he had only a moment of thought to spare for shooing Boba off his lap before he stood up and strode over to Ben, practically drawn magnetically.

He’d never really thought that the galaxy could be so kind as to give him this. And even though he’d held him in his arms a scant few minutes ago, he needed the reassurance once more. 

As Ben laughed with Silas and Myles, warm and alive and so real that it hurt to think of all the lost time, Jango stepped into place beside him, their arms brushing. This was how it had been, so long ago; this was how it was supposed to have been: the two of them, together, laughing, surrounded by family. Ready to face anything the galaxy could throw at them. But the galaxy had gotten in the way, and the only times Jango had been able to see Ben so vividly had been on that slave ship, his bloodshot, over-dilated eyes fashioning dreams of a man who wasn’t there. 

Still, never had Jango pictured Ben as he was now: twenty years older, his hair long, his jaw no longer clean-shaven, the plain brown robes of a Jedi adorning him like some sort of people’s saint. The contrast between the man who had been Ben and the man who was always Obi-Wan was odd. 

Some things hadn’t changed, though. Transfixed, Jango’s hand slowly crept upwards. As Ben - Obi-Wan now, he supposed - exchanged anecdotes with the two Mando’ade, Boba interrupting occasionally for clarification on the stories he’d never heard Jango tell, Jango ever-so-carefully reached out to touch Ben’s hair. He jumped, turning to quirk an eyebrow at Jango. 

Jango yanked his hand back, stubbornly ignoring the way Myles and Silas bent in half laughing. He could practically feel Boba rolling his eyes judgmentally, and since when had he been able to be judged like that by a ten-year-old?

“Yes?” Be- Obi-Wan asked, the teasing note in his voice obvious. “Can I help you?”

Heat rose up in Jango’s cheeks, and for the first time in two decades, he had the chance to be grateful that his blush wasn’t noticeable. And then he looked at Obi-Wan again, thought Jedi , and realized that he probably could tell anyways. Maybe he’d been able to the whole time, and wasn’t that an interesting idea? “Sorry,” he muttered. 

He’d been reunited with Ben for all of ten minutes and already he’d reverted to a smitten teenager. The things that could do to his reputation. He paused for a second, examined the thought, and decided that his reputation could go kriff itself. 

Obi-Wan smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

Damn him.

Jango was about to reach out, to say or do something, though he was unsure of what, when a loud, insistent beeping filled the air. All eyes fell to Obi-Wan’s belt. “Well,” he said, “I appear to have been summoned. Boba, would you mind showing me to a place I can take a call? A real one, this time?”

“Sure!” his son chirped. “There’s the observation deck, but like nobody goes there, it’ll be perfect!”

As Obi-Wan walked away, already tapping away at his comm with Boba chattering away at his side, Jango let his legs drop him onto the floor, sliding down the wall in a mirror of the position he’d found Myles and Silas in when he’d first entered the room. He barely even registered the two Mando’ade leaving him to his thoughts.

What even. 

He hadn’t had the chance to process it yet, too focused on Ben, alive and whole in front of him, but this was nearly world-shattering.

For years, decades , even, Jango had hated the Jedi. He would spit at the mere mention of their name, thick, viscous hatred roiling in his gut. 

When he stood, chained, on that spice freighter, nearly trembling with rage at the injustice of it all, it was his burning desire for vengeance that kept him from snapping. If Jango hadn’t had a target to pin his hatred on, he would have gone mad, frothing at the mouth and attacking his captors in a spice-filled haze before they would have hit the button on his shock collar and put him down. He’d seen it happen, watched a slave, driven past the brink, snort up a line of the precious product they were supposed to refine and let it push his body to lengths that no normal sentient would have been able to go. For a man who previously had struggled to even stand upright for long periods of time, it had taken far too much blaster fire to finally end his rampage. The body had been more hole than flesh by the time Jango had been escorted past it. 

When he finally escaped, sneering at the pitiful offer of the slavers as they tried to enlist him to fend off pirates, it was his continuous pursuit of the Jedi that kept him going. Jango Fett would die a free man, of that he was certain no matter what, but his drive for revenge ensured he lived longer to attain it. After all, in the wake of such a tragedy, finding only the bodies of his people when he’d expected to see smiling faces at a job well-done, he could hardly stand. The guilt might have eaten him alive and set him to let his reacquired ship, himself in his rightfully owned armor, drift off into dead space. He might have let Jaster’s Legacy die. Instead, his boiling fury carved a different path. He retired his father’s legacy, both the ship and the dream, and alighted in the Slave-1 to wreak havoc on the galaxy.

Though he was no Mand’alor, not with how long his nightly remembrances were, he would gladly bear the title of Reaper. Wherever he went in the galaxy, death followed in his wake. He became the ultimate bounty hunter, the one who never failed, whose aim never faltered and resolve never ran dry. 

And when Tyrannus asked him to take on a job to kill a Jedi, even a former one? Oh, he couldn’t have accepted a job faster. Upon seeing the woman, her eyes glowing unnaturally yellow and hair so white it couldn’t possibly be natural, something pricked at the back of his mind. And when she’d spoken, her voice had been gravelly yet high, and the way she’d laughed and laughed as she recognized him had turned that suspicion into fact. The she-witch had been at Galidraan. Had she laughed like this when she killed his people? Had her eyes still been so yellow, or had she only gone mad afterward? She certainly felt no guilt, of that he was certain as she cackled and taunted him. His only regret was that he hadn’t been given the opportunity to kill her himself, that great honor reserved for his employer.

He’d built an army on the back of Mandalorian culture, bringing in the resolve and honor and sheer strength that he refused to leave out of such a group built in his image. It didn’t matter that the Kaminoans were told that this army was ‘for’ the Jedi. With how he designed their training, life would eventually get in the way.

Mandalorians and Jedi didn’t mix, after all. They were too diametrically opposed. Tension would rise between the Jedi and their ‘army’ until their precious Republic fell.

But...Ben?

Obi-Wan, whoever he was?

If Mandalorians and Jedi didn’t mix, what did that make Ben? What did that make Jango? 

Ben was...Obi-Wan was everything that the Jedi weren’t. He didn’t preach about righteousness; he acted righteously. He wasn’t a killer; he was a defender. He didn’t blindly expect the galaxy to be nice and pure; he worked to make it better himself. 

But as Jango examined these thoughts, another came to mind.

If Ben hadn’t been on his side, would Jango still think the same? These differences, they operated on semantics and technicalities. Was Obi-Wan truly a Jedi? 

Well, of course he was. Jango had seen the evidence right in front of him, from that damning silver hilt at his side to the chaos in the room. Obi-Wan could exude that same destructive energy the rest of the Jedi could. He could turn against them with as much deadly power as Jango had seen already. 

Except that he hadn’t . By his account, Obi-Wan had opposed every single move the rest of the Jedi had made. Had argued for the Haat’ade’s innocence, even posthumously. Had stood firmly in front of his leaders and said, “No, you were wrong, and you must accept the consequences of that.” Lives were on their hands. Yet some part of Jango told him that they weren’t on Ben’s. 

Jango buried his head in his hands. He didn’t know enough! He’d known Ben for months, seen more of him than perhaps any other Mando’ad, and yet he’d missed such a central part of the man. By contrast, he’d only known Obi-Wan for minutes . 

He didn’t know the man anymore. And he felt like Obi-Wan could say the same for him in return. 

His fingers twitched. He wanted to go after Obi-Wan again, to grab him by the hand and trace the new lines on his face and catalog each way that time had changed him. 

Jango was at war with himself, he could admit it. Ruthless, cold logic fended off by the desperate sentiment in his chest that he’d long buried. But it was bursting forth once more, unleashed by the sight of Ben, and Jango didn’t think that the logical side of him would win this time. He’d had two decades to bottle up those feelings for Ben; it was about time they came loose.

Obi-Wan may have possessed a similar silver tongue to other Jedi Jango had encountered. He might have wielded their same signature weapon, worn robes cut from the same cloth, and shared the same Temple. 

Jango was a Mandalorian. To him and his people, actions spoke louder than words. A Jedi Obi-Wan might have been, but his actions showed mandokar. Jango would not tar him with the same brush as his people’s killers. He could share their name, but he would not share their fate. 

Anxiety buzzed beneath his skin. He’d just spent enough time touching Obi-Wan, having that physical reminder that he was there, because even in the deepest throes of spice-addled hallucinations his mind hadn’t been able to mimic the spark of static that had seemed to accompany Ben or the exact texture of his skin, that he felt adrift again without it. It was stupid, it shouldn’t be hitting him this hard, and yet there he sat, panic held off by willpower alone, hand flexing in the empty air.

He sighed and let his head drop onto his knees. Pathetic. He was pathetic. Because he only allowed himself to remain like that for a few seconds before getting to his feet and following whatever vague path Obi-Wan had followed Boba down. What Tor Vizsla would say if he saw this. 

All the hallways on Kamino looked the same, to some degree. Jango was constantly exasperated by it, how kriffing clinical and apathetic the unmarked white was, but he wasn’t about to criticize his hosts’ home. 

At least not verbally.

Still, it was out of sheer survival instinct that he - and the rest of the Cuy’val Dar - had learned them. It didn’t take him long to get to the observation deck that Boba had described. He was pretty sure it was the right one, at least. The issue was that Obi-Wan wasn’t there.

Nothing to worry about , he thought. He probably finished the call and went back.

That restlessness increased its intensity slightly, now prickling instead of buzzing.

“I’m a mess,” he bemoaned aloud, even as he turned around to try to find his wayward Jedi-slash-former-maybe-not-lover. He’d need to work on the proper title more, and just the sheer prospect of having the time to do that sent a thrill through him, the prickling abating slightly. Time. The galaxy could be kind, sometimes. For a man who’d constantly been spat on by it and spit back, it felt like the reward of coming home after a long campaign.

Though he didn’t spot Obi-Wan, he did spot several clones. It was past curfew, and though Jango wasn’t one to disapprove of mild rule-breaking like this, it was odd. Especially when he picked up their badly-hushed whispers of excitement.

“A Jedi,” they were saying, like it was a lifeday present they’d found out about early. “Here! In the salle! We always knew they were coming!”

Well, there was only one person on-planet who fit that description. His target set, Jango breezed past the clones and toward the large central salle. 

It didn’t take long to get there, but he wasn’t mentally prepared when he turned the final corner and entered the doorway.

Blue was the first thing Jango could see, a great, powerful wash, the impression of sunlight beaming through deep water, swirling eddies beneath a still surface.

Oh no was the first thing Jango thought, panic flooding his veins because this was it, Obi-Wan had betrayed them, it was all a lie, a ruse, and Jango should never have trusted a Jedi no matter what because look what was happening now.

But the second thing Jango saw was a spellbound crowd of clones, practically bathing in that blue, staring with identical wide eyes and identical awestruck looks. 

The second thing Jango thought was what?

He sidled through the clones, picking his way between armored and unarmored bodies alike. It was late at night on Kamino, after all, but Obi-Wan was something new , and he was the first Jedi they had ever seen. With all the lessons of how they’d been promised for the Jedi, none could resist the opportunity to even catch a glimpse of him.

Eventually, he arrived at the front of the crowd, and then, just like the clones around him, he gasped. 

Crouched in the center of the room, Obi-Wan held out his lightsaber, its blade extended. It resonated with the same otherworldly hum from Jango’s nightmares, plasma hissing and spitting about being contained within its vessel. The blade glowed steadily, no cracks or scratches in its pristine, perfect cylinder. Though white-hot at its core, it descended into deep blue around the edges, the same blue that illuminated the planes of the clones’ faces. How one single blade could do it, Jango wasn’t sure. 

Next to Obi-Wan, though, stood Boba, his hands wrapped around the hilt of the saber and a gleeful smile on his face. Even if Jango had raised him on stories decrying the Jedi, the kid, just like any other, still clearly relished in the power of the weapon at his fingertips. That, at least, Jango understood. At Boba’s age, he’d probably react the same way. 

What he didn’t understand was why this was happening in the first place. 

“Now reach out,” Obi-Wan was lecturing gently, “and try to find the kyber crystal. Here, I’ll show you.” With guiding hands, Obi-Wan brought Boba’s fingers to the center of the hilt, and Boba gasped delightedly. “Yes, there it is, do you feel it?”

“It’s...it’s old?”

“Oh yes, older than you or me. What else?”

Boba’s answers began gaining confidence. “It’s kind of...weathered? If that makes sense? Like armor that’s been in a lot of battles.”

“Mhm!”

“But it’s still steady. Like a final stand. Oh!” And here Boba’s smile turned mischievous. “It reminds me of buir!”

Obi-Wan laughed, and the familiar resonant tenor was deeper than Jango remembered, but it mixed oddly with the hum in the air. A reminder that Obi-Wan was something different and other. “You know, I think you’re right!” He took it back from Boba, the boy slouching slightly at the loss. “Now, normally I would start going into lectures on Force theory and the like, but that’s probably rather boring to you all, so how about saber forms instead.”

Though clearly hesitant and wrongfooted, the clones quickly shouted their assent. None of them were going to miss out on this chance. Jango couldn’t blame them.

Obi-Wan smiled, full of charisma, as he shuffled Boba to a safe distance and raised the saber to his side, the blade parallel to his face. “Form One is called Shii-Cho, or the Determination Form. It is simple, what every youngling begins with. In fact, this form can be applied equally to traditional metal swords, because it was created to transition the Jedi from those swords to our lightsabers.” He snapped the sword up, turning it horizontally to block an invisible opponent striking at his face. “There are six target areas, and you learn to block and attack each of them. First, the head.” He whipped the saber down and across his body, the blade now twisted diagonally, and stepped forward with the motion. “Then the right side of the torso.” The blade turned ninety degrees, Obi-Wan’s elbows switching heights in turn as he moved up again. “The left side.” He moved his lightsaber up and over his head, stepping sideways into a lunge and holding the saber behind him. “The back.” The lightsaber left a trail of blue light that Jango had to blink away as it moved once more. “The right leg.” It switched sides again. “And the left leg.” 

With a quick whirl of the lightsaber in a move that could only be called flashy, Obi-Wan returned to his starting position. “Similarly, you use those blocking positions as starting points for attacks.” He stepped forward with a powerful swing from overhead, moving then to attack in diagonal strikes in each direction, matching each of the target zones. His blade moved much faster than it had while blocking, trails in great circles following in its wake. “Though it is what every initiate must learn first, there are still accomplished Knights and Masters that use this form, and do so fantastically.”

“What form do you use, sir?” one plucky cadet asked, stepping out of the safety of the crowd. Boba glowered at him. Jango could tell there was a growl building in his throat. 

Obi-Wan, though, smiled the same way he had at Boba and answered. “I use Form Three, which is called Soresu, or the Resilience Form.” He gestured for the space around him to widen. It almost surprised Jango, just how quickly the clones squished together to comply. Obi-Wan bent his back knee and extended his front leg forward, lowering his center of gravity and settling into a clearly well-practiced position. His lightsaber hovered perpendicular to his face, his other hand outstretched parallel to it, two fingers pointed forward. “Soresu is highly reliant on momentum. I start moving, and from there I do not stop. However, it is also focused on defense.” A tilt of his head, a quirk of his lips. “I do not attack in this form. I simply redirect those of my opponents, whether with lightsabers or blasters.”

“So...it’s like...a lot of parrying?” the same cadet questioned, one of his batchmates coming up behind him to peer over his shoulder. 

“In a way.” Obi-Wan smirked, a man in his element. “But allow me to demonstrate.”

With that dramatic proclamation, he let the saber fall forward and carried the movement on, sweeping it into a figure-eight across his body. From there, the blade blurred, streaking around Obi-Wan continuously in movements almost too quick to categorize. Sometimes both hands would be on the hilt, sometimes only one would grasp it, sometimes it would switch sides. In what almost looked like orbits around a star, the lightsaber turned, changing planes and angles to cover every side of Obi-Wan’s body. He took next to no steps, only pivoting over and over again. To watch the sight of a man in his element, the untouched center in the maelstrom of blue streaks surrounding him, was truly a treat. Jango was almost upset that he’d been deprived of this before. 

Then he remembered before, and promptly squashed the thought.

The blue light bounced around the room, always reaching every corner but changing in intensity depending on where it was in its orbit. Beneath it, Obi-Wan’s face almost seemed to constantly change shapes as the light defining it continued to change directions. Sometimes his eyes gleamed; sometimes his chin grew more pointed; sometimes his jaw stood in stark relief; sometimes, those metallic undertones in his hair almost seemed to glow as they reflected the light, looking less copper and more steel in the unnatural tone. 

At some signal that Jango couldn’t spot, Obi-Wan ceased his hurricane-like motion, his saber swiping in the inversion of his opening move as he returned to his same opening stance. Where most sentients would be panting at such constant, rapid motion, Obi-Wan barely seemed ruffled. He flicked his hair back over his shoulder, but besides that, there was no sign that he’d just performed such an exhausting demonstration. His breaths remained steady and light, his face was devoid of sweat, and his legs didn’t shake in that half-lunge pose they held. He straightened up once more, flourishing his lightsaber a final time before deactivating it. “And that, my dears, is Soresu.”

Jango wasn’t exactly certain what he was supposed to do next. Applaud? Laugh? Retreat? He didn’t get to make a choice, though, as a swarm of cadets descended on Obi-Wan, all fawning over his lightsaber and his movements and everything about him, asking a hundred questions and speaking at a mile a minute. Obi-Wan crouched down to their level, smile incandescent as someone else hit the lights to brighten up the training hall.

“Where do you even find kyber crystals?”

“Can we learn that?”

“Can you teach it to us?”

“How many forms are there?”

“Which one is the coolest?”

“How many battles have you won with that?”

“How do you become a Jedi?”

“Can I be a Jedi?”

“Don’t be stupid, ‘84, we’re clones , we can’t be Jedi.”

“Well the General hasn’t said no yet so how do you know?”

“Because we just can’t !”

For the first time that Jango had ever seen them, they weren’t cadets. He was used to passively staring on observation decks, watching identical rows of identical boys stare at identical screens, mouthing along to Vode An as flash training seared information into their heads. There was no speaking there, no fondness, only grim satisfaction. The cadets were silent in their tasks, utterly and completely focused. And Jango paced back and forth and knew that he’d done well.

But there was no trace of that same blank focus here. The young clones all sported different expressions, pushing and shoving each other as they jostled for Obi-Wan’s attention, spouting off any question that came to mind. With all the liveliness they exuded now, Jango couldn’t see them as anything but children. What was wrong with him?

Watching Obi-Wan interact with them, answering as many questions as he could before being accosted by the next ones, letting the cadets reverently touch his lightsaber and copy the stances he moved through, a cold feeling settling in Jango’s gut. One of the cadets moved off to the side and started his own childish rendition of Obi-Wan’s demonstration, slashing at invisible enemies with an imaginary sword and a high battle cry. As his batchmates started criticizing him, pointing out errors in his stance, and Obi-Wan moved over to physically correct his form with kind readjustments, sudden, uncharacteristic uncertainty took root in his gut. He shook himself. 

A fully grown trooper walked over. For the most part, the older clones had been content to stand back, letting their younger siblings take up Obi-Wan’s attention with their boundless enthusiasm. By the hesitance on this one’s expression, though, he had something he wanted to bring up.

“Excuse me, sir?” he asked politely.

“Hmm?” Obi-Wan turned to face the trooper, still guiding the ad through the motions. 

“I was just wondering, sir, what else the Jedi can do?” He fidgeted, fiddling with the underside of his right vambrace in a clearly habitual motion. 

“Well, there’s certainly more to it than lightsaber combat. We use the Force, a sort of universal energy that is present in all things. Or, at least, that’s the best way I can describe it to a non-Force sensitive. It’s a bit hard to explain.”

“Would,” the trooper started, pulling back for a moment before forging onwards, “would it be kind of like connections between things? Like cords or cables, all mixing together?”

Obi-Wan stroked his beard. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” Dread began building; Jango suddenly felt the urge to move, fidget, do anything to expend the nervous energy trapped in his body. “What makes you say that?”

The cadets fell back, clearly sensing the change in atmosphere. “Is, um, is seeing things before they happen a Jedi thing? Not like guessing it, but like nightmares of places you’ve never been?”

His attention firmly focused on the trooper now, Obi-Wan moved to stand in front of him. The trooper ducked his head, staring at the floor. Obi-Wan raised his hands to the trooper’s chin, lifting his head to meet his eyes. “Yes, that’s a sign of Force sensitivity. They’re called visions. It’s a rare gift of a Force-sensitive, though some who experience it may be more inclined to call it a curse.” At some look in the trooper’s eyes, Obi-Wan’s expression softened. “What happened?”

Something in the trooper snapped, then. His shoulders started trembling as he clutched Obi-Wan’s robes like a lifeline. Suddenly, more adult clones began gathering behind him, placing supportive hands on his shoulders, his back, his head, any part of him that they could reach. Silent, unwavering support. “They - they took him!” he cried, sounding so young that it hurt. “His name was Alarm and everybody says it’s because he always woke us up screaming but it’s because he always knew when something bad was going to happen and he’d warn us and they took him away and decommissioned him!” He kept looking at Obi-Wan, searching for answers, for reassurance, for something he’d never been provided before. “His favorite color was orange because you never see orange on Kamino and he told stupid jokes that weren’t funny and he snuck treats to the cadets and he was alive! ”

Robes flaring wide, Obi-Wan enveloped the trooper in a hug, heedless of the plastoid armor or the many clones tugged along behind him. The trooper shuddered and buried his head in Obi-Wan’s shoulder, looking so much younger than the biological adult that he was. “He was alive. I believe you, I know it.” He rubbed the trooper’s back. “Do you know the remembrances?”

Sniffling, the trooper shook his head.

Obi-Wan guided the trooper downwards, settling them onto the floor as the clones followed his lead. “Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. That’s what you say, every night, and you say their names. ‘I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.’ We are the ones who remember that they were alive. We make sure that their names are heard.” He pulled the trooper’s head up, making eye contact once more. “Say his name.”

“Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” the trooper repeated, eyes shining. “Alarm.”

Another clone spoke up behind him. “Blanch.”

“Hook.”

“Charger.”

“Six-four.”

“Four-eyes.”

“Zoot.”

“Akul.”

“Dreamer.”

“Dira.”

On and on the list went, so many names Jango hadn’t even realized the clones held in their chests. Each one hung in the air as a sudden marker of - of something. He wasn’t sure if he could put a name to it yet. What had happened to these clones when he hadn’t been watching?

Was it when you weren’t watching, though? his mind whispered from somewhere he didn’t want to acknowledge. He scoffed back at it. There was no room for this sudden doubt in himself. He’d already done plenty more than was needed.

He’d stopped Priest and Reau when they’d run a fight ring with the cadets.

Wasn’t that just an excuse to get those Kyr’tsad scum out?

He’d smuggled that Alpha off-world.

As a favor that Mij called in.

They were clones. They were an army, his army, the Jedi’s army. That was all they were.

“What’s your name?” Obi-Wan asked kindly.

“I’m CT-4502.” His voice hardened. “But my name is Bebop.”

“Alright, then, Bebop,” Obi-Wan said, shepherding the clone to his feet and never once commenting on the ridiculous name, “I do believe that we have a mission at hand. Would you all mind coming with me?” He addressed the crowd at large, the massive group of clones saluting in unison. It was truly an intimidating sight. All those feet snapping together, plastoid armor clanking in time, a resounding shout of “Oya!” not in words but in actions.

With Bebop at his side, Obi-Wan led the clones out of the salle. He leaned over to Bebop, some question that Jango couldn’t hear passing between the two, and then fell back a step. A single CT now headed their march.

They were still on Kamino. The Grand Army of the Republic hadn’t yet been called into action. And yet, to Jango, who had done this song and dance before, this was the true first battle for these boys. He didn’t know what Obi-Wan had planned, but he watched him handle it with the unerring hand of a decorated general, marching with the front lines in the faithful manner of a soldier. 

Bebop’s path slowly morphed into something Jango could recognize, hallways turning from indistinct to more sloping corridors that Jango knew meant they were reaching territory that was less clone and more Kaminoan, for all that this world belonged to them. Few Kaminoans on Tipoca City ever left their section, preferring to remain distant while the Cuy’val Dar and occasional up-close inspector intermingled with the ‘product.’ 

Most clones were wary of coming up here, though. There was safety in numbers, in the known, and clones in the Kaminoan areas were nearly always alone.

Most didn’t return.

But Bebop led them fearlessly, and with so many brothers in one place, not one clone turned back. For all that they’d been engineered for obedience, their progenitor was still Jango Fett . Submission may have been in their skin, but defiance was in their bones. Not even Kaminoan engineering could fully excise such a Mandalorian trait from them. 

Up the final ramp they went, the power of the many pushing these clones to enter what many of them considered no man’s land. Dawn, for all that the whitewashed facility knew dawn, was still a ways off. The Kaminoans weren’t expecting it. How could they, when their magnum opus, their glorious clone army, had been so docile before? To them, nothing had changed.

To every sentient on this march, everything had. 

They arrived at the door with little fanfare, the air thick with anticipation. Obi-Wan stepped forward and knocked, three sharp raps that should not have meant as much as they did. Collectively, the clones - and Jango - held their breaths, postures growing straighter, many falling into parade rest. Helmets slammed onto the heads of those who brought them, and those who lacked them took up positions behind their armored siblings. 

A long, slowly-blinking head peered through the door. Lama Su, the Prime Minister himself, stepped out. “Hello?” he asked in that meandering, melodic tone that was so prevalent in the Kaminoans. 

“Ah, yes, hello,” Obi-Wan returned, quickly seizing the conversation by the reins. “Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service.” He bowed briefly, and, Jango noted, quite shallowly. “I’m here to discuss several aspects of the clone army, if you would be amenable to that?”

Blinking again - in surprise or in his regular way, Jango could never tell - Lama Su stepped back to usher Obi-Wan in. When it became clear that the room wouldn’t fit the many clones he’d brought with him, Obi-Wan split off a small segment; whoever had been closest to the front, and luckily, that included Jango, was allowed in. The rest stood outside, a visible show of force. 

As they assembled in a semicircle behind Obi-Wan, the man and Prime Minister taking the only available seats, another clone leaned forward to whisper something in Obi-Wan’s ear. He smiled back and nodded, clapping the clone on the shoulder and settling into his chair with the sort of casualness that made it seem as though he owned the place. “Now, Prime Minister,” and that was what the clone had told him, Obi-Wan couldn’t have known beforehand, “thank you for being willing to meet with me on such short notice. You have certainly created a fine group here; they are a testament to their heritage and training. However, several things have been brought to my attention concerning your operation, and I’d like to discuss them.”

“It is certainly nice to finally have one of you coming to check in on our progress, Master Jedi,” Su replied, sounding even slower than before in contrast to Obi-Wan. It was quite the effect. “Have you found any issues with the product?”

“No, actually. Quite the opposite. From my discernment, it actually appears that you have found more issues than there were.”

“I assure you, we are intent on providing only the finest-”

“Yes, I’m sure, however, it seems that you have removed many fine men in the interest of meeting that goal. As a Jedi, I really must protest. The loss of life, in any form, goes against our beliefs. Most especially when it is done in our name.”

Jango mentally snorted. As a Jedi . Really. No, his own personal values guided him, not the Jedi. Jango had enough experience with the loss of life the Jedi could cause.

“Master Sifo-Dyas had no issue with our methods when he commissioned us.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Master Sifo-Dyas also died a decade ago. Most certainly before your ‘decommissionings’, as you call them, could begin. And you’ve stated earlier that you’ve had no Jedi oversight since. Surely you didn’t think we could support this?”

“The ways of the Jedi are foreign to us,” Su replied serenely. “We get little contact with your Order.”

“Then it is a good thing that I am here to rectify that mistake.” From his position at the side of the discussion, Jango watched Obi-Wan’s polite smile turn predatorial. “Stop the decommissionings. Effective immediately.”

For the first time, Jango got to see Lama Su, the unfazeable Prime Minister, grow agitated. His long, spindly fingers grew ever more skeletal in the harsh white light as he clutched the arms of his chair. “I cannot allow this, Master Jedi. We have worked this way for generations. We are always reliable in our quality. I will not allow flawed products to reach our customers.”

“You and I have very different definitions of flawed, Prime Minister.” Though his voice remained pleasant, there was a muscle clenching in Obi-Wan’s jaw. Jango doubted the Prime Minister would be able to detect it. Kaminoans were consistently bad at reading other sentients’ body language. “While I can understand that mentality with previous cloning projects, such as those focused around non-sentient creations, you have created millions of living, breathing, thinking, feeling people. You cannot simply kill them when they don’t fit an identical mold.”

“They are not sentient, Master Jedi. By the Republic’s own laws, clones do not fall under the category of sentient beings.”

Obi-Wan finally stood up. Though the Prime Minister was still sitting, the two now stared at each other, eye-level. “The laws of the Republic are not of concern to me here, Prime Minister. The Jedi Order has predated the Republic, and we will continue to exist even after it falls. We work with them, but our only ultimate law is the Will of the Force. And the Force is screaming that every single one of these clones is alive.” He raised his chin slightly, looking down his nose at Su in a way that tickled at the back of Jango’s mind. “Stop the decommissionings, Prime Minister.” Or else went unspoken but not unheard, a challenge that sent a thrill down Jango’s spine. 

Enough was enough. Jango stepped out of the circle of clones. “You heard him, Prime Minister. I’m quite happy to rescind your rights to use my genetic material if you don’t agree.” Stopping at Obi-Wan’s side, he slid his helmet off and tucked it under his arm.

If it weren’t for the robes that Obi-Wan wore or the hilt resting at his side, it could almost have been like old times. When Jango and Ben stood side-by-side, talking strategy until the sun rose in the morning, or lining up to face off against Kyr’tsad or the Galidraan rebels. It felt right, natural, and some part of him that had grown cold when Ben died settled into place, warm like a hearth. 

He felt more than he saw the clones behind him tense, something disbelieving in the stances of those he could see. Though all the ones who’d come into the room with him and Obi-Wan had worn their helmets, Jango hadn’t grown up Mandalorian for nothing. Their body language still displayed their shock, clear as day, and suspicion from a few of those wearing kama.

Jango filed that away for later.

Lama Su lowered his head, finally shorter than Obi-Wan. “I will do as you say, then, Master Jedi. Though I do not approve, I suppose that the customer has a say in the methods of production we use.”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, bowing cordially once more. “The Jedi Order appreciates your cooperation on this matter.”

If Jango were a petty man - and he definitely was - he would say that Lama Su fled the room. He certainly left it in a brisker glide than was normal. Jango would take whatever small victories he could get.

He turned to Obi-Wan, a wide grin on his face at a victory well done. But Obi-Wan had already moved his attention elsewhere, sliding between the clones to open the door. Anxious, open faces greeted him, and when Obi-Wan simply smiled and nodded his head, they began cheering. It was almost comical, watching Obi-Wan get stuck between two walls of celebratory clones as helmets flew into the air and siblings jumped for joy. It was infectious, but something about it all tasted unpleasantly bittersweet on Jango’s tongue. 

Obi-Wan was celebrating, surrounded by Jango’s face and Jango’s body and Jango’s voice, but not Jango. He felt other , right now, in a sea of copies of himself . 

Funny how that worked.

Despite knowing, clearly and plainly, what had changed, Jango wasn’t sure what had caused this. There was a difference between revelations of true identities and whatever had possessed Obi-Wan to simply… leave , abandoning the man right next to him for however many echoes. Had he done something wrong? Was it simply a consequence of two decades of separation? 

What had Jango done to deserve this sudden casting aside? 

They were copies of himself, mere imitations that lacked the substance and Manda of a true Mandalorian. There were imprints of it, of course there were, Jango wouldn’t have allowed anything less for an army that was designed as this one was.

Wait.

An army that was designed like this one.

Ice-cold dread washed over Jango in a flood, his childish jealousy giving way to something far more frightening. He’d just gotten Ben back - granted, the man was different, some new aspect of him unfurling with the reveal of his ever-mysterious background, but it was still Ben at his core - and now all he could think was oh no .

It would be just like him, wouldn’t it, to finally be given something wonderful, a gift from the Ka’ra, only for his own stupidity to take it away within moments.

The clones weren’t for the Jedi, after all.

They were for the Jedi.

Why else make them in the famed Jedi Killer’s image? Why else have him prove himself by putting down the maddened, white-haired dar’jetii who taunted him with jeers about Galidraan that she had no right to know? Why else have Jango devise their training, giving them all the tools they needed to fight Force users, if not for them to face Force users?

Osik, he’d been so caught up in the blinding joy of getting Ben back that he’d forgotten what Ben had stumbled upon.

And now, looking around to see himself, standing alone in the meeting room, faint traces of laughter echoing down the hall and back to the clones’ section of the city, he realized his mistake.

Obi-Wan was sitting on a ticking time bomb and he had no idea. 

Cursing, Jango sprinted out of the room and after them. What had he done? It was for the Jedi, sure, as his rightful, fiery vengeance for the decimation of his people, but it terrified him, just how perfect of a trap he’d unwittingly designed for Obi-Wan. The worst of the Jedi, and thus also the best of them. Of course he would see nothing wrong with opening himself up to the clones, each wearing his lover’s face. Of course he would turn his back to them, trusting that they’d protect it rather than stab it. Why would he expect otherwise? Each of them looked exactly like Jango, imitating him from his Concordian accent to his armor-laden stride, and so bright-eyed and hopeful that he could do nothing else except welcome them with open arms.

He hadn’t seen it. Jango had only seen an opportunity, shining bright, and forgotten that sunlight glaring off of snow blinded and burned, too. He’d thought Ben was dead, that men like him didn’t exist among the Jedi, and that those unfeeling bastards would fall for the clones because of the siren call of power entirely beholden to them, a final chance to spit on the graves of his kin, to say, “Look at them all, docile and domesticated. See what your blood has come to.” That would have been when Jango struck, turning the facsimile against them in his ultimate revenge. Down with the Jedi, down with the Republic, down with every remaining shabuir who had doomed his people. Mand’alor the Reaper indeed.

But he hadn’t anticipated Ben.

When had he ever, really?

He turned a corner, catching Obi-Wan as he waved a few scattered clones away, the last of the crowd dispersing to their barracks to catch what little sleep they could get in what remained of the night. He waited for the last of them to leave his line of sight before grabbing Obi-Wan by the arm. 

“What the - Jango? What are you doing?” Indignant, that’s how he sounded, but Jango didn’t have time to worry about that. Didn’t Obi-Wan have whatever kind of magic Force powers? Couldn’t he tell that he was in danger? 

Shoving Obi-Wan into the nearest storage closet, Jango forced the door shut behind them. In any other circumstance, he would have been ecstatic to have Obi-Wan pressed this close against him, like they were teenagers trying to hide their relationship and messing around in whatever dark corner they could find. Now wasn’t the time, though. Now, Obi-Wan was in danger with every breath he took on this planet. He leaned in, hissing out his warning. “You need to stay away from the clones.”

Sputtering, Obi-Wan shoved him away, or, as far away as he could get in a storage closet. There wasn’t really much room to maneuver in here. “Stay away from them? Jango, what are you talking about? I was about to ask the exact opposite thing!”

“You have to trust me on this, Ben. Those clones out there - I’m always willing to stick it to the Kaminoans, but it’s better for you to stay away from them.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, no, you don’t get to give me that shoddy excuse for an explanation and expect me to abide by it.”

“I can’t-” He sighed, starting over. Already, he hated the tension in the air, one that hadn’t existed since their very first meeting when Ben had thought he was Kyr’tsad. Simpler times, then, when they’d been two mere strangers, brought together by improbable circumstances. Jango would admit it freely: he missed that time. Though he’d had the burden of leading a whole culture then, his shoulders still felt lighter than they did now. “Look, I can’t tell you why. You need to trust me.” Reaching out to run his hand down Obi-Wan’s arm, he tried again, softening his voice. “Please, trust me?”

“Why do you hate them so much?” Obi-Wan demanded, wrenching his arm free and jamming it into a shelf behind them. It rattled, but Obi-Wan seemed unbothered. Or, rather, too focused on other things. “They are children , Jango, ade . How can you abandon them like this?”

What? “Abandon? I stayed with them for years, I oversaw all their training, I turned them into soldiers to be proud of!” The softness was gone from his voice, replaced by incredulity. Never had they argued like this, never had Jango heard Obi-Wan take that tone with him. Like he was disgusted. Like he was no better than Tor Vizsla.

“Soldiers? Jango, do you hear yourself? The oldest of them is fourteen! They would have barely been past their verd’goten by now! You certainly didn’t treat Silas like this at that age! You held him back as much as you could, set him on lighter missions or kept him from the front lines!”

“They’re not Silas, though! They aren’t Mandalorians, they’re shoddy imitations at best!” No cloner could manufacture mandokar. They could look and walk and act Mandalorian all they wanted, but they wouldn’t truly be Mando’ade. Not like him. Not like Ben.

Obi-Wan leaned forward with fire in his eyes, so different to the veneer of etiquette he’d shown Lama Su. Here, he wasn’t even showing Jango a modicum of respect, and didn’t that sting? “Each and every single one of those ade out there is unique, Jango. They aren’t carbon copies of you. They are their own individuals.”

“How would you know? Because, from where I’m standing, they’re clones. That’s the literal definition of the term!”

Rather than responding verbally, Obi-Wan knocked his head into Jango’s. Though he wasn’t sure if he remembered it, it was a startling mirror to the Keldabe when they’d first met, right down to the force and violence of the motion. This was no intimate moment; the meaning was secondary to the purpose behind it. He nearly rocked back with the impact, and his vision went sideways with it, and suddenly there was a new dimension to what Jango saw, except not quite with sight, more like awareness, like he was viscerally aware of Obi-Wan, seething, in front of him, and the shelves high above him, and the cold radiating from the metal walls that surrounded them.

There were…spots of heat on an infrared scope was the closest thing he could compare it to, though even that was inadequate. Infrared only showed a limited spectrum, translated to something his mostly human eyes could see. This was more like he was borrowing the color receptors he needed to see infrared and ultraviolet and even more that he had no name for. It was overwhelming. It was incredible.

Though walls should have stopped him, he was aware of them anyways, so many clones, spread out in a crowd too many to count, and though this new perception filled out innumerable identical shapes, whatever he was seeing contained within each was different.

They were beautiful, a sea of every color there was, showing shifting, iridescent patterns, and there was Boba, glowing so brightly, like a ship’s thrusters as it escaped atmo, and he was nearly breathless from it all, what he was seeing yet not seeing, and though he could not see Obi-Wan like this he knew he would be just as vivid. He didn’t even need this strange new perception to know, he could feel it radiating off of him in waves that seared him with a heat he’d felt before, but never with this sort of whirling, chaotic nature to it.

Obi-Wan separated them with as much force as he began the experience with, and Jango surfaced, gasping, as his vision righted itself and his mind realigned and promptly lost all ability to qualify what he’d just seen. “What…was that?” he panted, leaning heavily on the shelf behind him, half held up by Obi-Wan’s body pressed against his.

“ That is what they look like in the Force. But,” he nearly growled, the rough timbre of it sending reflexive shivers down Jango’s spine, “you certainly don’t need that to know they are each their own person.” He looked Jango up and down scathingly. “All you need is to spend just two seconds with them and you’d be able to see how their personalities differ.”

“I don’t - I didn’t know,” Jango said, and he sounded like was pleading, even though he could scarcely remember a time when he’d done that. Not even beaten down, starving, spice rattling its way through his body, with threats of a fate worse than death levied against him, had he pleaded. 

“You had a responsibility to those ade,” Obi-Wan condemned, “and you failed . You could have stopped them from dying at any time, you showed all of them that in that meeting room, and you didn’t .” He shook his head. “You are not the Mando’ad I knew.”

Jango suddenly felt smaller than he’d ever been. In this tight room, nearly eye-level with Obi-Wan, his sinking heart brought the rest of him along with it. He was losing hold of everything. The single most important words he’d had to say, and he’d failed to convey them. This wasn’t supposed to have been the point of this conversation. If Ben would just listen to him! 

But no. Obi-Wan was disentangling himself and opening the door once more, and the words were lodged in Jango’s throat, too large and important to escape his chest, leaving him to choke on them instead. All he could cough out was “Ben!” but even that was turned away.

“I’m leaving. My padawan needs my assistance elsewhere.” He didn’t look behind him. “Perhaps it would be best if you called me Obi-Wan.” Though he left the door wide open, it still seemed as though an impenetrable wall had sprung up between them, Jango shattering alone on the other side. 

How had it all gone so wrong?

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi was no better than the rest of them. 

Jango nearly felt wrecked enough to believe it.

The galaxy laughed at him as his freshly resurrected optimism was promptly crushed.

Chapter Text

Space was vast. That was one of the first things that many sentients learned: space was big, so big that one could never hope to traverse it all. Even for all their advanced technology, the known universe was confined to the span of a single galaxy, with few stragglers entering from the Unknown Regions directly outside its borders. 

With that vastness came, logically, distance. The emptiness between star systems was a daunting thing, one that few actually ever braved, despite how common it was.

And thus, following after distance was time. Distance skewed it, so that standing atop the Jedi Temple and looking out at the night sky - what little of it could be seen from all the light pollution of the planet that never slept - the stars Obi-Wan could see were decades in the past. If he timed it right and imagined hard enough, the light he could just barely distinguish as coming from Mandalore – identified by helpful star maps and then many nights of wistful study – could have been the light from when he was there. Even years later, for a short time he would get to relive it all, a film so minuscule that the only thing about it that mattered was its presence; the rest of it he could fill in from memory.

It was like that with Jango now, he figured. As his ship shot through hyperspace on a course for Geonosis, he couldn’t help but compare the blurring streaks of light to the man he’d known and loved. 

When he’d first seen Jango again, it had been like that light from Mandalore: replaying fond memories even years after they’d happened. He’d lived so long worried about what Jango would say, what he would do, how he would react should they ever cross paths again. Finding acceptance and open arms had been euphoric, a joy he’d never thought he’d get to experience. Obi-Wan’s life, after all, had been marked by a series of rejections. His family, his Order, his Master, and his Order yet again. He’d fought his way through the ones that he could, using sheer determination and stubbornness to find his way back, but they still stung faintly, years later, in the way that long-healed scars did: only on rainy days, when his mind rebelled against him and brought his failures to the forefront. To be accepted within moments, not a shred of anger or bitterness on Jango’s end, it was like twenty years hadn’t passed at all, like he was still the same Jango before everything had gone so wrong.

But even if Jango harbored no resentment towards him, it didn't mean he hadn’t changed. That superimposed image of the man two decades past faded. Time left nobody untouched, after all. And as Obi-Wan learned more about the clones, discovering where they’d been wronged in so many ways, he saw exactly the kind of marks that had been left on Jango.

Somehow, he’d been blind to the individuality and sentience of the clones made in his own image. Intellectually, Obi-Wan could understand not getting it from a distance. Clones weren’t granted sentient rights by the Republic, nor anywhere else in the galaxy. While he hated it, he could somewhat understand how someone who’d never met a clone could come to that conclusion.

Jango, though, had lived among them for nearly fifteen years. He’d been there to see them grow, watching them progress from fetuses to fine young men. He’d walked with them, hearing them talk, seeing them subtly express themselves within the limits they were allowed, giving themselves names, growing opinions, loving, mourning, and yet he had not recognized them for the sentient lives they were.

Force, Boba had told him about the fact that he himself was a clone, albeit one without any of the genetic modifications of the others, and Jango treated him like a son. If all that separated Boba from the rest was Kaminoan tampering, how had Jango tossed them aside?

The man Obi-Wan had known and loved so long ago would never have stood for this. Jango of the past had cared so much for ade, even taking time out of his busy days to play with the camp’s children. But, Obi-Wan supposed, the Jango of the past hadn’t experienced the horrors that this more weathered version had. That Jango hadn’t lost a massive amount of his people in one fell swoop, or been enslaved for years, or chased after the dredges of society as a bounty hunter. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t fault him for changing; that was how people survived. If he’d found Jango harsher, colder, untrusting, that would have been fine.

But he could not forgive what he’d done to the clones. This was no simple change; it was a crime committed against millions of ade who had never gotten the chance to know anything else.

R4 beeped through the ship’s speakers. Approaching Geonosis, his navicomputer read, prepare to exit hyperspace. He sighed. No more time for that sort of musing. He had a Padawan and a Senator to rescue.

Geonosis, as expected, was red. Red-tinged sand under the orangish sky of the craggy, unremarkable planet. Really, it reminded Obi-Wan far too much of Tatooine, though much more isolated and lacking the diverse populace of the planet orbiting twin suns. He was sure that Anakin, wherever he was in this place, would not be missing the similarities. 

Thinking of his Padawan’s reaction brought a smile to his face, however slightly strained it was. When they’d gone to Ryloth a few years back, when Anakin was about fifteen, Obi-Wan had been the unwilling recipient of hours of rants about the inhospitable conditions of desert planets. The restricted access to water, the isolated and insular nature of the people living there, the massive stretches of open desert between settlements, and, most central to his woes, the inconceivable amounts of sand. More than the sentient mind could comprehend, weathered away over billions of years of planetary existence. There was no end to Anakin’s issues with sand.

As much as Obi-Wan had outwardly exuded long-suffering patience to Anakin’s tirades, he’d had to work to contain his laughter. There was something about Anakin’s absurd grudge against a material that was just so amusing. Anakin could rage against people and injustices and emerge victorious against them all, but how could he stand up against the true evil of sand?

Obi-Wan raised up his arm, shielding his eyes from the midday glare. Anakin’s comm location had pinpointed him in roughly this area, and indeed Obi-Wan could see a ship that looked ostentatious enough to be Senator Amidala’s, but there was no sign of either of the pair. But, given the message Obi-Wan had received, that was to be expected. It had started out normally, Anakin saying that he and Senator Amidala were following an anonymous tip they’d received to the red planet. A following update from planetside alarmed him much more: Anakin reported that they’d discovered a massive factory within the tunnels of Geonosis, manufacturing what could have been millions of droids. The message had cut off abruptly, though, as Anakin shouted a panicked, “Padmé!” and shut off the transmission. Obi-Wan had every confidence that his Padawan was alright – he could feel him, pulsing faintly through their bond – but he figured that Anakin and Senator Amidala might have been in need of a rescue. 

Both of them were stubborn, headstrong personalities, and it seemed that they only encouraged each other in these habits. 

It had been quick work to retransmit the message, along with his own findings, to the Jedi Council. From there, his task was simply to find his Padawan and charge.

Luckily, they’d landed close to a settlement instead of in the endless dunes. Obi-Wan could see signs of a city nestled among the cliffs. It was quite clever of the Geonosians to build their home into the natural formations of their homeworld, but it made Obi-Wan’s job more difficult. 

He sighed. Better to find Anakin sooner rather than later. With a fond pat to R4’s dome, he set off for the nearest opening in the cliffside. Force willing, this would be a simple in-and-out mission.

But when had any of his missions with Anakin been simple?

His premonition proved correct very quickly. Sneaking through the twisting tunnels of the Geonosian capital was a difficult task for anyone; he was grateful he had the Force on his side. But there was only so long he could go undiscovered. For all that he’d mastered cloaking his Force presence so that he would seem no more remarkable than the average Null sentient, he could never reach the point of nonexistence, not like a Shadow could. 

He really wished it was a Shadow here instead of himself, he thought mulishly as he turned slowly in place in the stasis field. But, really, how was he to anticipate a Force sensitive here? 

Among the gathered leadership of the budding Separatist movement – and really, what cause did the Trade Federation or Techno Union have to separate from the Republic that favored them so much? – had been a familiar face. 

Master - Knight - Count Dooku had been there, heading the clandestine meeting. 

Based on the footsteps approaching, he was about to see that face again.

Count Dooku appeared as the door to Obi-Wan’s cell slid open.

Years of suppressed contempt spilled over in a flash. “Traitor.”

“Oh no, my friend. This is a mistake, a terrible mistake; they’ve gone too far. This is madness.”

“I thought you were the leader here, Dooku,” Obi-Wan spat. 

“This had nothing to do with me, I assure you. I will petition immediately to have you set free.”

Considering that the Geonosians wouldn’t know he was here without the Count’s keep Force senses, Obi-Wan doubted that. Still, he humored Dooku. He’d always had trouble staying his tongue, after all. “Well, I hope it doesn’t take too long. I have work to do.”

“May I ask why a Jedi Knight is all the way out here, on Geonosis?”

“I’ve been tracking a signal from my wayward Padawan. Have you seen him?”

“You are the only Jedi here that I am aware of. The Geonosians can be skittish about invading Jedi.”

“Well, who can blame them? I’m sure we both remember the last time a Jedi strike force entered a system.” Still spinning, Obi-Wan didn’t get to see whatever reaction his jab may have inspired from Dooku. It didn’t take long for the former Master to respond.

“It is a great pity that our paths only crossed in such unfortunate circumstances, Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon always spoke very highly of you.” For a moment, there was silence, as the Count seemed to gather himself. “I wish he were still alive. I could use his help right now.” 

The thought of his old Master ached, a long-healed injury hit in just the right way. The nerve of Dooku, to bring this up, after all he’d done. “Qui-Gon Jinn would never join you.”

“Don’t be so sure, my young Grandpadawan. You forget that he was once my apprentice, just as you were once his. He knew all about the corruption in the Senate but he would never have gone along with it if he had learned the truth, just as I have.”

“The truth?”

“The truth.”

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, Obi-Wan craning his head to keep Dooku in his sights as he continued turning. 

After a long moment of hesitation, Dooku spoke again. It seemed odd for such an imposing, decisive man. “What if I told you that the Republic is now under the control of the Dark Lord of the Sith?” 

“No, that’s not possible. The Jedi would be aware of it.” There was neither doubt nor hesitation in Obi-Wan’s response.

“The Dark Side of the Force has clouded their vision, my friend. Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith Lord called Darth Sidious.”

“I don’t believe you.” Obi-Wan quirked one sarcastic eyebrow. It had not been the Sith who had clouded the Council’s decision the last time Dooku had been on it, after all. 

“The Viceroy of the Trade Federation was once in league with this Darth Sidious. But he was betrayed, ten years ago, by the Dark Lord. He came to me for help. He told me everything.” Dooku stepped in closer to the containment field, his eyes alight with something terrible. “You must join me, Obi-Wan. And, together, we will destroy the Sith!”

His mind made up, Obi-Wan nodded. “I will never join you, Dooku .” He could not forgive his old Grandmaster for what he’d done; not when he’d shown such a lack of remorse. He’d turned away Dooku once. Now, in this moment, when it felt as if his choice was just as helplessly pivotal, he did it again.

Dooku sighed deeply. He stepped away, his brow creasing with new intensity. “It may be difficult to secure your release.” He stepped out of the door, and, with a quiet woosh, he was gone. 

“Well, osik.”

Being hauled out in front of a crowd of bloodthirsty Geonosians was quite an interesting experience. The din of thousands of chitin teeth clattering together sent shivers down Obi-Wan’s spine as he was driven out to the center of the arena, his hands cuffed in front of him. 

Evidently, the Count had not succeeded in his attempt to free him. Obi-Wan doubted that he’d even tried. 

Shoved off the speeder, Obi-Wan sighed. His captors were certainly enjoying the chance to rough him up a bit. A warning chitter from the Geonosian still on the transport stayed their hands from any further damage. No doubt they wanted their prisoners at their best for the spectacle ahead.

As one of his guards flew the long chain attached to his binders to the top of his post, Obi-Wan groaned. On their way out, in another speeder, were Anakin and Senator Amidala, similarly chained. 

While the Geonosians attached them to the matching sandstone pillars, Obi-Wan turned to level a disapproving stare at Anakin. “You seem to have done well here. How long was it before you were captured?”

“I don’t see you unchained, coming in all lightsaber-a-blazing.”

“That’s called diplomacy, Anakin.”

“And that’s why I prefer aggressive negotiations.”

They fell silent as the noise of the crowd increased in intensity. Obi-Wan’s attention was drawn to the distant balcony, more ostentatiously carved than the rest. Echoing from it was an insectoid voice, clicking and braying some message Obi-Wan couldn’t translate. Curse his limited language modules. Why wasn’t Geonosian part of the standard education track?

The speaker finished their message, and the crowd roared, thousands of wings beating as the audience bounced in the stands. Slowly, almost torturously so, the great barred gates began to rise, as three massive creatures crept out from the shadows. 

Fantastic. A reek, an acklay, and a nexu. Just what Obi-Wan needed. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Anakin commented. 

As the beasts drew closer, Obi-Wan felt tension building in his gut. He’d faced many a creature under Qui-Gon’s tutelage – a byproduct of a Master so grounded in the Living Force – but three of the galaxy’s deadliest simultaneously felt a bit overkill. 

There was a click to his side as Padmé picked her restraints.

“Just relax, concentrate.”

“What about Padmé?”

Obi-Wan nodded in her direction. “She seems to be on top of things.”

The acklay approached with a screech. With one deadly claw raised to strike, Obi-Wan braced himself. 

It pounced.

He dodged.

Angered, it lashed out again. This time, Obi-Wan took the chance to slide his chain underneath its claw. They snapped in a single blow.

Force, he really didn’t want to get hit by one of those.

Twisting and rolling, Obi-Wan did his best to evade the acklay, even as he heard the cries of the other beasts. He got the pillar between himself and the insectoid creature, only for it to run straight into it and topped the whole thing. 

Obi-Wan made the smart choice. He ran. 

With some distance between himself and those deadly weapons, he had a short chance to breathe. There was a guard coming his way, spear poised to corral the prisoner back to his doom. Obi-Wan had other plans. He twisted to the side of the charging Geonosian and stole the spear right from their hands.

Now, more than ever, he was grateful for his time training with weapons that weren’t just lightsabers. The handcuffs were a new addition, but nothing he couldn’t work with. He twirled the spear around and prepared to stare down the behemoth. 

Obi-Wan winced as the acklay absently stepped on the Geonosian he’d thrown from its mount. One of those six claw-legs speared straight through it, staining the beast’s green shell with Geonosian blood. 

Hefting the spear, he stabbed at the air, a short back-and-forth as the acklay reared back and screamed again. That seemed to backfire, though, as it only crowded closer. 

We’re probably the best entertainment they’ve seen in ages, he noted distantly and perhaps a bit hysterically. 

Off to the side, he sensed one of the animalistic presences flicker out. Excellent. One less threat to deal with. 

A quick windup was all it took to launch the spear into the acklay’s front shoulder. Regrettably, though, it wasn’t enough to stop it.

He really wished Master Jinn had taught him less about raising these creatures, and more about besting them.

And then the acklay pulled the spear from its own body and snapped it between its jaws. 

Now that’s just unfair. 

His Padawan charging up astride the reek, Senator Amidala behind him, Obi-Wan made a snap decision. He sprinted away from the acklay and jumped on behind the pair. There was value in a strategic retreat, after all.

They only had a moment’s respite before seven familiar-looking droids rolled out from the gates.

The Geonosians had droidekas?

If the droids the Geonosians were manufacturing were of the same make as the ones on Naboo a decade ago, then that meant-

Obi-Wan didn’t like the conclusions he was drawing. 

There was nowhere for them to go. Encircled by the droidekas as they were, there was nowhere for the agitated reek to go. 

And then, from all around them, in every corner of the stands, came a welcome sound. 

Cshrkk! Cshrkk! Cshrkk!

A chorus of lightsabers snapped on. Obi-Wan could have melted with relief, if that wouldn’t have meant he’d have fallen from his precarious position on the reek’s sloped backside. Familiar green and blue lights filled the stands, replacing the rapidly-fleeing Geonosians. 

And suddenly there were battledroids, so many of them, flooding the arena. Mace Windu leapt from the high-up balcony, deflecting blasterfire as he went. Following him came scores of Jedi, lightsabers held aloft and charging against the opposing force of droids. 

As Anakin steered the reek around to join the charge, Obi-Wan could only think, with hopeless dread, It’s war, isn’t it.

Few Jedi realized exactly how lucky they were after Galidraan. An attack of that magnitude could easily have been taken as grounds for war. Any government would have been able to cite such an assault as a heinous offense. The only points working in their favor were the decentralization of Mandalorian power and Duke Kryze’s disarmament policies. If more of the Haat Mando’ade’s fighting force had survived, and if they’d known where their leader was, it could have escalated to a level not seen since the Mandalorian Wars.

Now, with an even larger Jedi strike force, a group of political dissidents, and two armies primed and ready for battle?

War was the inevitable outcome.

There would be time to meditate on his apparent place at the center of a could-be-galactic conflict after the battle. After he got himself and his Padawan and his people out alive. 

A pair of Knights tossed Obi-Wan and Anakin’s lightsabers their way. With precision that came from too many times restrained, Anakin cut through Obi-Wan’s cuffs, the Knight easily doing the same in turn. 

One of the arena’s pillars toppled, sending out shockwaves that made the reek rear up and roar. Its harried riders were forced off, and suddenly Obi-Wan was in the heat of battle.

The Force began to chill, making Obi-Wan shiver despite the hot Geonosian air. B1 battledroids could not die, not without a proper lifeforce, but too many Jedi were falling. Loss upon loss. 

Force, was he glad that he’d spent the years after Qui-Gon’s death pouring himself into Soresu. Any Jedi would be able to deflect blasterfire, but on this scale? With so many surrounding bodies? 

It suddenly occurred to him just how uniquely suited for war Soresu was. Just another way he’d been prepared for this, he supposed. 

He watched a Knight, young and fresh-faced, fall with a hole in their chest. There was no preparing for that, though, no matter how often he’d seen it.

Herded by the droids as they were, Obi-Wan ended up back-to-back with Mace, deflecting blaster bolts with serenity he didn’t feel. There were a few precious seconds where he felt his shoulders ease a bit. Mace was there; finally, someone he could lean on.

And then Anakin’s reek, enraged, stampeded through and chased after Mace. Tossed to the side, Obi-Wan could only grunt and curse silently as the wind was knocked out of him. 

He really hoped Anakin was doing all right in all of this chaos. 

Who was he kidding, Anakin thrived on it.

There was a short, singular moment for him to push himself to his feet, and then it was back into battle.

Blaster bolt after blaster bolt, droid after droid, Obi-Wan lost himself to the familiar motions of combat and the background thrum of violence. There was only himself and his saber, movement after movement, twisting and weaving and deflecting with every single move he’d dedicated himself to learning. 

Two of the droids he was facing backed up, exchanging glances. How could droids be so expressive? Obi-Wan wondered, the thought out of place amidst the battle. 

He turned around. Snarling at him was the acklay, back for a second round. This time, though, Obi-Wan had the advantage. He steeled himself for a moment as the creature screeched, then dove in, lightsaber swinging. One leg separated, then two, and, unable to balance itself, the acklay toppled to the ground. Obi-Wan sliced at its head, then, with a flourish, stabbed straight down through its skull. The insectoid beast fell limp, defeated. 

With an exhausted sigh, Obi-Wan pushed his hair back from his face and descended back into battle. 

The droids were never ceasing. As the number of Jedi dwindled to a depressingly small number, more battledroids kept coming, streaming from the Geonosian gates in waves. For each one he cut down, there were three to take his place. 

Slowly but steadily, they corralled what Jedi remained into the center of the arena. It was looking more and more like a firing squad than a battle. There were only sixteen Jedi left, plus Senator Amidala.

Suddenly, the droids halted their attack. As his fellow Jedi lowered their weapons warily, Obi-Wan knelt beside the body of another Knight. Where there had once been bright Light and steadfast duty, now there was nothing but a body left to cool slowly on the sands. 

Another needless massacre. Another one he sat at the center of. How many deaths until the galaxy’s tallies were even?

No , Obi-Wan thought, cold resolve settling in his gut, I will not sit idly by this time.

He rose slowly, his saber still thrumming faithfully at his side. 

A stern voice echoed around the arena, bouncing to bombard his ears from all sides. “Master Windu! You have fought gallantly. Worthy of recognition in the Archives of the Jedi Order.” Three Geonosians escorted Masters Koon and Mundi, as well as Aayla Secura, to join their jumbled huddle. “Now,” Dooku continued, with put-upon gravitas, “it is finished. Surrender, and your lives will be spared.”

Mace didn’t waste time in responding. “We will not be hostages to be bartered, Dooku.”

“Then, I’m sorry, old friend,” Dooku said. As if Obi-Wan would believe him. This was not the first massacre with him at the helm. 

The intimidating B2 droids raised their arms again, primed and ready to fire. Obi-Wan braced himself. If he was to fall at Dooku’s hands again, he would go down last, rather than first. 

His rapidly-whirring mind drifted to the clones; those countless vod’e, consigned to a life they’d never been given a choice in. He hoped that somebody would take his place when he was dead and stand up for their rights and their lives. 

Millions of faces all echoing Jango’s. 

But, no, they weren’t Jango. None of them were. They were all their own clean slates. 

“Look!” Padmé shouted.

Thick whirring filled the air. 

Obi-Wan looked up, his heart in his throat. 

Descending from the sky came a cloud of ships, nearly blocking out the sun. Dropships, each of them radiating the familiar hums of clones. The dropships began firing madly, a torrent of bolts that mowed down the droids. Obi-Wan and the rest of the tiny group that remained sprung into action, spurred on by the resurgence of hope. 

No matter how much he hated it, the clones’ training was clearly effective. They were efficient as they cleared out a path for several of the dropships to hover over the ground, a path to freedom for the survivors. 

Clones in identical white armor spilled from the ships, stepping into battle without hesitation. They covered their retreat as the Jedi made for the ships. 

Obi-Wan was deflecting renewed blasterfire when he saw the first clone fall. 

There is no coming back from this. “Ni partayli, gar darasuum,” he murmured for that nameless clone. He could feel the sudden pang of grief from the clone beside him, the last one to have boarded the ship. Without thinking, he laid a steadying hand on their shoulder. 

They jumped, startled, but didn’t say anything. 

The dropships returned to the air, rising up from the arena. As they crested the great cliffs that caged the Geonosian capital, Obi-Wan spotted massive ships cruising around; a veritable armada.

It really would be war, then. 

When Qui-Gon Jinn had died, Obi-Wan didn’t know what to do with himself. A man as good as his father, for all his faults, was gone, leaving Obi-Wan adrift. There would be no more chances for him to feel that all-encompassing warmth, to be wrapped up in great robes like a child and told that everything would be okay. A person like Qui-Gon Jinn shouldn’t have been able to look so small, Obi-Wan had thought, watching his pyre burn. He was certainly not a small man, but that had been accompanied by a quietly there presence. Like a mountain on the horizon; never blatant, but certainly unmistakable, and the picture missing something key for its absence. 

Obi-Wan had never expected the mountain of a man to fall, despite the simplicity of the fact that every person must.

Additionally came the sensation of being thrust into a new position – that of a Jedi Knight – and expectations – those of a Sith-Killer, unheard of for centuries in the disappearance of their ancient enemy – and the sudden presence of a small little boy by his side, mourning with an intensity that was nearly blinding, and Obi-Wan didn’t know what to do or how to handle himself. Nobody ever prepared for such a tumultuous moment. Fellow Jedi had offered him guidance, but, well. He had known for years now that he was a terrible Jedi. 

Obi-Wan had pushed past the grief and begun pouring himself into everything else.

Now, he felt an uncomfortable sense of deja-vu, staring at all the red of Geonosis, far too much red, more than just the sand now. 

Where Qui-Gon had been a mountain falling, this was like a forest being felled. No less of a loss overall, but still different. It was less who had died that struck Obi-Wan, and instead how many and why. 

And with the added revelations of Jango and his clones, the flash-bang opening of war, and the new nature of his own Grandmaster, Obi-Wan felt similarly adrift.

So, once again, like taking out a well-worn coat that had sat in his closet for years, Obi-Wan let grief fall to the wayside and stepped forward to act.

Hours later, with blaster bolts still hurtling across the surface of Geonosis, Obi-Wan laid in the medbay of a battlecruiser they were saying was his and stared at the prone form of his Padawan beside him.

Comparatively, his injuries were few. A vicious strike to the leg, a superficial burn on his shoulder, and the odd scorch mark from blasterfire. All of it was survivable. Obi-Wan would be fine, especially with his leg wrapped tight and practically bathed in bacta. 

Anakin, though. 

Obi-Wan didn’t know what would have been worse: watching Anakin die as he had watched Qui-Gon, unable to do anything yet again; or being felled himself, leaving Anakin to experience the same grief he’d felt at Qui-Gon’s loss. Neither of those horrific musings had become reality, but Obi-Wan failed to banish the thoughts from his mind. Release your emotions, give them to the Force, but that was so much more difficult with Anakin, only nineteen, sitting blankly in his bed without one of his hands. 

It weighed on Anakin, he could see it so clearly. His Padawan was awake, though numbed with painkillers, but that keen spark in his eye had dimmed. He didn’t look at where his hand had used to be; he just stared at the ceiling. And, in turn, Obi-Wan stared at him. 

Anakin seemed like he was being pressed further into the bed than he should be, a force beyond the artificial gravity of the battlecruiser pulling him down. His remaining hand held tight to his dusty, bloody tunic. The medics had wanted to remove the shirt to better examine his injuries, but Anakin had tensed up. They’d settled for cutting off the sleeve covering his left arm. 

Obi-Wan was used to a Padawan always in motion, the wildness of his Force presence giving his body far more energy than should be possible. Anakin always seemed to delight in movement, in expressing to the galaxy that he was free to do whatever he wanted. Unbound was a good word for it, Obi-Wan supposed. He understood it, even if it had always exhausted him.

Anakin didn’t look drained. He looked like he was restraining himself. 

It was a worrying realization. 

“Padawan?” 

No response.

“Anakin?”

At his continued silence, Obi-Wan sat up with a groan. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to stand. A rush of vertigo hit him, hands flying back to the bed for support. It took a few seconds for the sensation to clear, and then he was off, shuffling over to Anakin’s bed and sitting down beside him. Anakin didn’t move. 

“Anakin, Padawan mine, are you al-” Obi-Wan stopped himself; Anakin obviously was not alright. He was missing his hand, for Force’s sake. The Knight sighed. “What’s on your mind, Anakin?”

“It’s nothing,” Anakin mumbled, just barely audible above the ship’s hum.

“Banthakark. I’ve never seen you so subdued.”

“Leave me alone, Master.”

“I haven’t heard that tone of voice since you were sixteen standard.” Obi-Wan settled down further, running a hand through Anakin’s hair. “Now I know something’s wrong.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Anakin suddenly exploded, lifting his head but not much else. “That I’m upset? That I should have done better? That I’m pissed because I lost Dooku?”

“All I want from you is the truth, Anakin, whatever it is. I just want to know if I can help you.”

Anakin huffed. “It’s too late for that.” He let his head drop and turned it away from Obi-Wan. “‘Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter,’ right, Master? That’s what Master Yoda always says. I should just move on.”

“Just because Master Yoda said it, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to take time to process. You lost your hand, Anakin, that’s a lot for someone to deal with. It’s okay if you’re struggling.”

“You think that’s what this is about?” Anakin scowled. “I don’t give a kark about the hand. I’ll just make a cooler one.”

Obi-Wan started to feel the familiar sensation of exasperation bloom in his gut. With the ease of long practice, he squashed it. It would not help him here. He’d learned that years ago. “Then what is it?”

Suddenly closing off again, Anakin’s shoulders bunched up to his ears. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Another familiar phrase. “Try me, Anakin. I’ve been a Padawan, too, you know.” He tried his best to keep his voice mild, but an undercurrent of frustration escaped, to his consternation. 

Anakin snapped back to face him, moving to sit up in a flash. The motion was interrupted, though, as he tried to put weight on a hand that was no longer there. His torso twisted unnaturally, and Obi-Wan winced sympathetically as Anakin hissed in pain. Where there had once been blazing anger, though, Anakin slowed. He stared down at the stump of his arm as if noticing it for the first time. His shoulders slumped, and once again there was something more than gravity pulling on his Padawan. 

“Before you sent us to Geonosis, I took Padmé to Tatooine,” he murmured.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asked. He couldn’t see the relevance of the non-sequitur. Still, Anakin was not one to beat around the bush for long.

“I’d been having…visions, Master, clear as day. And I had to go, I had to stop it, because I couldn’t let her-”

“Take a breath, Padawan. You don’t need to force it out.”

Anakin swallowed roughly, doing as he was told. “It was my mother. I kept seeing her in pain, suffering, and I had to do something. That’s what we do as Jedi,” he said earnestly, “we help people! I couldn’t ignore it.” He fell quiet, his hand picking at a tattered seam on his tunic. “I found her in a Tusken camp. They were - they’d been torturing her, and I got to her, but I was too late, Master, I got there in time for her to die in my arms.”

“Oh, Padawan,” Obi-Wan exhaled, drawing Anakin into a hug. Anakin leaned into it, hiding his face in Obi-Wan’s shoulder like he was still smaller than his Master.

“I just - I felt so angry, Master, but the anger is gone and I’m just - I’m lost now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do from here. I failed her, Master!”

“You failed nobody, Anakin. Your mother knew that, she would have been glad that you were there in her final moments at all.”

Anakin shook his head. “That doesn’t help,” he whispered.

“I know.” Obi-Wan squeezed Anakin just a bit tighter. “I know.”

“I couldn’t do anything to help her. She was there one moment and gone the next.”

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

Lifting his head up for a moment, Anakin stared up at Obi-Wan with a heartbreakingly helpless look on his face. “What do I do, Master?” he pleaded.

There was never any guide for how to deal with grief. Obi-Wan hadn’t known what to do, not when he’d lost Qui-Gon and gained a child. All he could offer was what he’d wanted most in his own sorrow. “I don’t have an answer for you. I’m sorry.” Something in his chest tightened. “But I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Anakin buried his face in Obi-Wan’s robes again. The two of them just sat there, quiet. Not quite mourning, but close. The galaxy would need them again soon, but, for now, Anakin needed Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan stood in the doorway of the engine room. There was no urgency today, no pressing need to dart about the galaxy on one mission or another. He was content to stand there and bathe in the, for once, quietly focused Force presence of his Padawan. 

Deep in unconscious meditation, Anakin sat with his back against the wall, surrounded by all manner of mechanical parts. A hydrospanner in hand, he squinted down at the cylindrical mass in front of him. Every tiny movement was carefully chosen, Anakin fully immersed in the task before him. 

He’d always processed best with a physical task to perform, Obi-Wan had learned that lesson well over the long years of their partnership. 

Silence and stillness, to Anakin, was a stressor. Though it had been years since he’d entered Obi-Wan’s care, longer Free than he’d been enslaved, that kind of thing left its mark. When Anakin had needed to freeze and not make a single noise, it had meant danger. Hiding for who knew how long. Not knowing if his mother would be able to come back for him. It had never meant peacefulness or reflection; it had meant the beating of his heart pounding in his ears, adrenalin keeping him alert but his mind wandering to all sorts of horrific possibilities. 

A simple task, though? The chance to do something with his hands, something that he enjoyed? That calmed Anakin like nothing else. When the stakes were low, and it didn’t require too much brainpower, Anakin communed with the Force in a way that Obi-Wan had never seen anywhere else. 

The closest he could equate it to was a guide; a second set of hands, an incorporeal instruction manual, a partner to point out the little places Anakin missed. For all that the Jedi Order let themselves be guided by the Force, it was never so literal. If Obi-Wan closed his eyes and reached out through the Force, he could feel how the Force cradled the project, turning it this way and that at Anakin’s gentle prodding. 

In time with that, he watched as it soothed the stormy grey areas of Anakin’s Force presence, how the Force cradled them with intention far clearer than anything else it had ever done. With Anakin in front of him, he could never doubt that there was a Will of the Force. It was far too sentient as it cared for Anakin to think otherwise.

The Force’s favored child, indeed.

Slowly, the mechanical construction began to take shape, growing joints and digits under Anakin’s keen eye. Soldering iron in hand, Anakin attached more parts, then connected a few wires. The prosthetic, because how could it be anything else, of course Anakin would take a lost limb as a chance to make something better, twitched. Anakin’s brow furrowed. He fiddled with some of the wires. This time, the index finger closed. 

The whole room lit up under the force of Anakin’s joy at his success. The Force only amplified it, and, with their combined positivity, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but let a smile split his face.

Anakin would be okay. Obi-Wan had a good feeling about it.

Obi-Wan had never been prouder than this moment. He may have thought that it was far too soon for this, that he still had so much more to teach Anakin, but Force damn it he couldn’t help the sharp stirrings of pride as he took in Anakin, standing tall in the center of the Council chambers and barely containing his grin for the sake of Jedi solemnity. 

Honestly, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have objected if he was smiling. It was the moment that every Padawan looked forward to: their Knighting. 

War may have been crashing down on them in a tidal wave, Anakin may have been so very young for this, but he was radiating so much excitement that Obi-Wan found himself tapping at his wrist beneath the cover of his robes. 

He hadn’t been able to see Anakin since yesterday, since his Padawan had ascended the Tranquility Spire to meditate. 

Obi-Wan may have slipped an unobtrusive puzzle cube into Anakin’s hand as he sent him off. He wouldn’t confirm or deny it. However, if asked, he would say that it was his duty as Anakin’s Master to help him succeed. 

Whatever path Anakin had found for himself in his reflection, it was not for Obi-Wan to question. He worried, though, that it would place Anakin at the center of the war effort. With the noises the Chancellor was making, he feared that it was coming, no matter his own personal objections to it. 

Now, illuminated by the lightsabers of the Councillors, Obi-Wan drank in the last moments where he would be able to call Anakin his Padawan.

“Jedi, we all are,” Master Yoda began, standing atop his chair in the center of the Council Chamber. “Through us, speak, the Force does. Through our actions, itself and what is real, the Force proclaims. Today, here, we are, to acknowledge what proclaimed, the Force has.”

Anakin straightened almost imperceptibly further, anticipating the lines he knew would come next.

“Step forward, Padawan,” Yoda called, and Anakin bowed his head. The Grandmaster brought his green saber down over each of Anakin’s shoulders. “Anakin Skywalker, by the right of the Council, by the Will of the Force, dub thee, I do, Jedi, Knight of the Republic.”

In a single swift motion, he flicked his wrist and severed the long Padawan braid from Anakin’s head. 

A decade of training, all summed up in that lock of hair and the beads strung on it. It would be odd to see Anakin without it now, and Obi-Wan suspected it would be for a long while. It was a turning point for his Padawan, but also for himself. 

Anakin knelt down to retrieve it, and then turned and took up his own lightsaber. For the first time, he lit it, a Knight. Obi-Wan’s smile stretched so wide it hurt. He could feel Anakin’s own elation through their bond. He sent back his own mental congratulations.

“Step forward, Knight,” Yoda began again, and Obi-Wan switched places with his former Padawan. Oh, it was odd to think that, but it couldn’t be his focus now. He bowed deeply before his Great-Grandmaster. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, by the right of the Council, by the Will of the Force, dub thee, I do, Jedi, Master of the Force.”

There was no braid to sever, but Obi-Wan keenly felt its absence all the same. For a moment, he indulged himself and let a pang of grief run through him, from his head down to his booted soles and out into the Force once more. Qui-Gon should have been here to see this. He’d always been so caught up in Xanatos’ failure; Obi-Wan wished he’d had the chance to prove to his former Master that the fault was not with him. We should have been your greatest triumphs, Master. 

He rose once more and ignited his own lightsaber. The deep blue color washed over him, and he closed his eyes. 

Now was not the time to think about all that color entailed. He ruthlessly shoved it aside and disengaged the blade. 

“Congratulations, both of you.” Master Ti smiled gently at them. 

“Indeed.” There was a flare of acknowledgment from Master Windu that quickly disappeared as the Korun Master took control of the conversation. “But commendations are not the only things that bring us here today.”

The joy suffusing the Force fled without even a bittersweet goodbye. Obi-Wan took his place beside Anakin. Straightening his back, he waited for the Council to begin. 

Master Tiin adjusted himself in his seat. “Master Kenobi, Knight Skywalker, I’m sure the current state of galactic affairs has not been lost on you.”

“You mean the fact that we’re on the brink of war? Funnily enough, I’d noticed that.”

Obi-Wan elbowed Anakin, hard.

“Indeed.” Master Windu was clearly unamused, raising one pointed eyebrow. “The two of you also happened to be the ones who were central at its beginning. You were there as everything transitioned from a tense standoff to a full-scale war. There are Masters on this Council who weren’t even there on Geonosis, and yet the two of you were there as it all unfolded.”

Wow, Mace, tell me how you really feel.

Still, Obi-Wan couldn’t fully avoid the prickling feeling of guilt. It made no sense to blame a full war, years in the making, on his own actions, but being the one to call the rest of the Jedi to a sovereign planet and set off the spark that lost them almost two hundred Jedi and even more clones as they spoke, well, that was hard to avoid the weight of. 

Master Gallia took the floor. “You two have unique insight into this. Would you be able to provide this body with a summary of the start of this conflict, to the best of your ability?”

It was phrased as a question, but when the Council asked you to do something, you did it. He glanced at Anakin, gesturing for him to begin. It would be good for him to practice giving reports.

“Well, it all began with the assassination attempt on Senator Amidala of Naboo…”

Obi-Wan, though he would be hard-pressed to admit it, tuned it out. Keeping his eyes respectfully downcast, he instead let himself bask in the familiar Force presence of the Councillors. After all that death, he was still shaken, even almost two tendays later. 

Spending his time on a Venator-class Star Destroyer, as he’d been informed it was classified, to heal was not exactly the most mentally relaxing of places. The only consistent presence of a fellow Jedi was Anakin; a few of the Healers had cycled through to aid in their recovery, but their faces were not familiar ones. 

Here, though, in the heart of the Temple, he was surrounded by the many glimmering presences of other Jedi. Their lights buoyed him up, reminding him of what he often missed. He and Anakin were often out of the Temple on missions, especially leading up to this latest one. Doubtlessly, the war would only heighten that. 

Oh, yes, he’d heard the stirrings, the murmurs of the Senate. The Jedi, as generals? He cursed whoever had come up with that idea. A warrior did not a leader make. The majority of the active-duty Knights and Masters were used to small-scale conflicts: political disputes, skirmishes with pirates, the odd ambush by a bounty hunter trying their luck. War, though, was a whole different ordeal, one he feared would irrevocably change every Jedi who came into contact with it. 

Even now, removed from the chaotic battlefield of Geonosis, he could still feel the echoes of loss resounding through the Force. It mourned, and it would continue mourning, as the war only intensified. 

Too many Jedi had been lost already. To say nothing of the clones, resigned to the front lines with only plastoid armor and mass-produced DC blasters to protect them. If he could coat all of them head-to-toe in beskar, he would. He doubted, though, that there was enough beskar in the whole galaxy to accomplish such a task. 

“...and then you all arrived, and I’m sure you know the rest from there,” Anakin finished.

“Thank you, Knight Skywalker.” Master Koon turned his gaze, hidden as it was behind his goggles, to Obi-Wan. “Tell us about the clones, Master Kenobi.”

How to describe the clones to the Council? How could he put into words the enormity of his fears, the atrocity they were allowing to happen? That he had even permitted on Kamino? 

He took a deep breath, holding back a reflexive shiver. “The clones, Masters, they are…hmm. There are millions of them - more than three, but less than ten, if I were to estimate. Each of them is an identical genetic replica to their progenitor, though I have been informed that mutations and anomalies do occur. You will likely encounter very few of them, though. They’ve been trained since childhood for war, with large focuses on tactics, mathematics, and, of course, battle prowess. Within their ranks are several subclassifications. 

“The standard clone is a CT: a clone trooper, the model that makes up the vast majority of the army. Most are soldiers, though a few have specialized as medics or engineers. Older, and in a much smaller quantity, is the CC class: for Clone Commander. These are the clones who have been engineered for officer roles. There are also ARC troopers, or the Advanced Recon Commanders, who showed promise in their battle training and so were selected for additional specialized training. Special ops, if you will.” His hands clenched his wrists tightly beneath his sleeves. He hated how clinical his voice had gone, but, well. What other choice did he have? “There are also Alpha-class clones, who are the original models. They were deemed overly aggressive and unstable, thus, later models were designed to be more docile. For the past fifteen years or so-”

“I apologize, Knight Kenobi, fifteen? ” Master Koon leaned forward, his talons digging into the armrests of his seat. “The soldiers we worked with on Geonosis were all fully-grown humans.”

The Council Chamber was perched on the edge of some precipice; a cliff that Obi-Wan did not want to see the bottom of. He feared, oh he feared, what lay in wait. But, in equal turn, he could not prevent what would come. With the Force urging him on, goosebumps prickling along his arms, he continued.

“Their aging was sped up for the sake of efficiency.” Obi-Wan kept his face carefully blank, turning his head slightly to look at Master Koon. “Most of the clones you would have encountered during the battle were between ten and twelve standard.”

“Ten and twelve – how could we – what?” For once, the venerated Master Plo Koon was lost for words. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how to feel about it. “They were dying !”

“A shame, this is,” Master Yoda said, his head drooping. 

Master Mundi took control of the floor. “Our hands are tied, though. Already, the Senate is working to officially conscript the clones – and the Jedi – into military service.”

“Can we not abstain? Object? We are not droids, Masters, we have our own voices!”

“We may not be droids, but our opponents are. There will be no defectors from the Separatist Army. We cannot put the Republic at risk by standing at the side!” Master Windu’s voice was stern, ringing with an air of finality. Still, Obi-Wan could not help but let his mouth run away from him. 

“Our duty is to the Force, Master Windu.”

“It is to the Republic,” Master Gallia interjected. 

“The two are not the same.”

“In the eyes of the Senate, they are.”

“So you would prefer to condone an army of children who have never known anything else?” Obi-Wan sniped.

They were falling, right on the edge of that cliff, just one step too far, and the ground was crumbling beneath them. The worst part was that they had no idea just how shaky their footing was. 

“Master Kenobi, calm yourself. That is not what we’re doing here.” Master Ti tried to placate him. It didn’t work. 

“Masters, I cannot, in good conscience, simply abide by the Senate’s ruling on this. You know my record, you why I must object.”

“If this is because of whose face they share-” Master Koth began.

“This has nothing to do with Jango Fett and everything to do with Melidaan. I will not lead children into battle. Not again.”

“Enough.” Master Yoda knocked his gimer stick on his chair, drawing the room’s attention. “Regretful, this situation is. However, obligated, we are, our duty to perform.” Obi-Wan clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. “To war, will the Jedi go.”

And with that, the deed was done. Over the edge they went, plummeting to whatever lay in the mists below. 

“Obi-Wan, what is Melidaan?”

He knew it had been coming. He’d raised Anakin for a decade, of course he knew just how inquisitive he could get. Anakin wanted to know as much as he could; not quite for curiosity’s sake, more for security. It was odd, at first, but who was he to deny his Padawan answers? 

Still, he hated rehashing this. A Jedi shouldn’t hate, but saying he severely disliked retelling this story was too kind for the breadth of it all. Loathed, maybe. Detested. Resented? No, not quite. Despised, definitely. What about-

“Master?”

Oh, right. He’d forgotten to answer. Obi-Wan sighed. “This is a conversation, I think, that requires tea. In the cups I like least.”

“That bad?” Anakin asked, leaning forward as they walked back to their quarters. He’d need to get Anakin his own set soon, though he doubted it would take priority, with the war and all.

He was really losing his touch at changing the subject of his own thoughts. That wasn’t a good sign. 

His only response was a sigh, one that sunk his shoulders and almost took his back with them. Defeated, he simply continued on, dreading the conversation ahead of them. There would be no coming back after this. Anakin sent a pang of sharp worry to him.

Their shared quarters arrived quickly, a journey that Obi-an almost wished had taken longer. As much as he wanted to get this over with, the nervous energy thrumming through his veins, his fingers almost vibrating with their need to do something, anything, stayed his tongue. The moment the door slid open, he darted towards the kitchen. 

The familiar motions of preparing the tea were a balm to his frayed nerves. On autopilot, he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Call him a traditionalist, he appreciated the simplicity of it all.

Especially now.

Where he normally would have reached for the Force to retrieve the teacups, he now grabbed them by hand. Anakin watched on with an expression that barely contained his worry. 

“Master Obi-Wan?”

“Let me finish the tea first, Anakin. I’ll answer any questions you have after that.” Really, he was hardly clinging onto the routine as it was. 

The familiar sachets of tea welcomed him with a comforting embrace. There was something about properly brewed tea that he could never find anywhere but at home. Hot pinpricks of spice tickled his nose as he inhaled deeply, the scent wonderfully nostalgic. Long past were his days of making massive brews for a room full of people; Obi-Wan and Anakin’s hectic mission schedule kept them from the Temple most of the time. And they lost ships too often for him to indulge in bringing his favorite blends with him. 

He’d missed the way the mixture of behot and cinnamon had filled a room, making the atmosphere itself warmer. It was like sitting around a campfire, sharing that same intimacy, but without the eye-watering smoke. 

For a moment, he just stood by the stove, holding his hands by the kettle and letting the heat seep into his fingers. It had gotten difficult to bend his fingers; he hadn’t realized until the feeling slowly began returning. 

A tendril of the Force reached out for the kettle, which soon began whistling shrilly. Anakin had grown impatient. 

“Alright, Anakin, alright,” he said, the barest corner of his mouth curling into a smile. The kettle lifted up from the stove, the cups that he’d selected whizzing along behind it as they flew to the table. There was a light nudge against his shoulder, urging him to get a move on. Warm fondness curled in his chest. 

His last reprieve was pouring the tea and letting it steep. For once, this was a process Anakin couldn’t speed up – or, at least, hadn’t figured out how to yet. Obi-Wan held his cup close with both hands and leaned back in his seat. Steam wafted up across his face. He sighed gently. 

Anakin was practically vibrating, his need to know what was going on prodding at Obi-Wan through their bond.

Obi-Wan took a single sip. Warmth permeated his body in time with the soft sting of spices on his tongue. “Few Jedi know anything of war,” he began. “The galaxy has not experienced a large-scale war for thousands of years. They don’t know what it is like; most people don’t.

“War is a terrible, ugly thing, my dear. There is no getting around it. Every day, leaders have to make choices knowing that people will die. It is inevitable. The most they can do is try to lessen it as much as they can. But war is coming, and we are to be sent to the front lines.” He laid one hand on Anakin’s knee, staring at him. He didn’t know what his expression looked like, but Anakin was almost shrinking back from it, as much as a person like Anakin Skywalker ever shrunk away from something. “You are going to experience death on a scale you have never felt before. There is no escaping that. And it is going to hurt, Anakin, like nothing you’ve ever known, and you will have to carry the weight of guilt along with it.”

“Master…”

“The Jedi will not come out of this the same. Some may not even survive. And I can’t-” he inhaled, steeling himself, “I can’t have one of them be you.” Infusing his voice with every ounce of earnestness he felt, Obi-Wan pressed on. “You are talented and strong in the Force, and my pride and joy. But you are not prepared for war. Nobody ever is. And I need you to understand just how much is at stake. Not the Republic, not our victory. The lives of the clones.

“They have no legal rights in the Republic. They have never left their planet before. They were not even allowed to have names when I arrived.” The words weren’t enough; curse Basic for its inability to express how monumental this was. He let the Force guide his tongue, shaping the words and suffusing them with his intent. “These are the men whose lives are being put under your care. Do right by them, Padawan-mine.” They echoed strangely in his ears, a sound just shy of ringing. 

“Alright, Master, I will. But,” Anakin tilted his head, pushing for more, “that doesn’t answer my question. What is Melidaan?”

Obi-Wan took a steadying sip of tea. “I said few Jedi know anything of war.” He stared at Anakin over the rim. “I am not one of them.”

“I’d guessed that.”

“Melidaan is a planet on the Outer Rim; a small world, not particularly important by Republic standards. There’s been far too much internal strife for them to offer anything, after all.”

“No dancing around the question, Obi-Wan.”

“I’m getting there, Anakin, patience.” Obi-Wan raised a chastising eyebrow, though Anakin simply grinned and sipped his own tea. “There had been a civil war going on, you see, for generations. The planet was split into two factions: the Melida and the Daan. They’d been disagreeing with each other for so long that nobody knows why the war began in the first place. In fact, it was so bad that they couldn’t even agree on a name for the planet. So, the Republic just called it Melida-slash-Daan.”

“That seems stupid.”

“Anakin.”

“Sorry, that seems puerile and imbecilic . Better?”

“Yes, well.” Obi-Wan hid his reflexive smile behind his teacup. “I arrived on-planet with Master Qui-Gon early in my apprenticeship. We were there to rescue another Jedi who’d been sent there to negotiate between the factions. She’d been betrayed and tortured, and we were the closest ones. When we arrived, though, we found out there was a third group in this war: the Young.”

Anakin shot upright. “At the Council meeting, you said…and then…Master, don’t tell me what I think you’re going to say.”

“The children from both factions, exhausted by the constant war and loss, decided to band together to bring peace to their planet.” A heavy sigh escaped him. “The adults didn’t take too kindly to that.”

Suddenly, the room was filled with a maelstrom of Anakin’s Force presence, whipping around like the most violent of Tatooine’s sandstorms. “Those are their children , what? How could they?”

“They were so caught up in war that they forgot everything else. The standard funerary practice on Melida/Daan was to record a message before you went out in a blaze of glory, which was then displayed in a public building. Most of the time, they asked for their families to avenge them.”

Obi-Wan squinted hard, though there was nothing in the room to guard his eyes against. Still, the furious feeling Anakin exuded instinctually had him fighting to keep his eyes open. 

He reached out with a wave of peace-calm-comfort , trying his best to soothe Anakin. The storm died down a bit, but it still weighed heavily on the atmosphere, just barely contained by Anakin’s efforts.

“We found the lost Jedi, one Master Tahl, critically injured. Infection had set in, and she’d been blinded. She needed medical attention, or she wasn’t going to make it.”

This was the part that was going to hurt the most. Reluctantly, Obi-Wan set down his tea.

“Master Qui-Gon and Master Tahl were very close; almost too close, some have said. And she was our mission. But, well.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I felt for the Young. I had just begun my Padawanship, and there were Young out fighting who were half my age. I couldn’t find it in myself to stand by.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “So I tried to steal our ship to help them run an air raid.”

“I always knew you were just as reckless as me!” Anakin crowed, some of the weight lifting.

“And Qui-Gon gave me a choice. I could come with him and Tahl, or I could stay with the Young. If I stayed, though, I would no longer be a Jedi.” The air grew heavy once more. “What else could I do but stay?”

The room grew incandescent as Anakin stood and began pacing, a predator along the walls of his cage. His hands clenched and unclenched, his fingers almost claw-like. Obi-Wan tried to send another wave of calm, but it was batted aside.

“Anakin!” he barked. His former Padawan’s head whipped to stare at him, eyes blazing. “You’re going to broadcast to the whole Temple at this rate!”

“Obi-Wan, how could he? It’s disgusting! It’s everything you’ve taught me not to do!” Anakin shouted.

Matching his volume, Obi-Wan pushed himself to his feet. “It was years ago, Anakin! You cannot do anything to change it now!”

“You led an army of children! How else am I supposed to feel?”

“Tell me, Anakin, how getting upset is helping an event that occurred over two decades ago!”

“You want me to just pretend that everything’s alright?” Anakin stomped over to him, practically looming as he filled the room in body and spirit. “Like I’m fine with it?”

“I want you to learn from it! So that you know exactly how awful the war we’re facing is!”

Anakin abruptly stilled. He dropped nervelessly to his knees, hands coming up to clutch at his face. “Oh, Force,” he whispered. 

Without hesitation, Obi-Wan followed him down. Ever-so-gently, he pulled Anakin’s hands down, his thumbs rubbing circles on Anakin’s wrists. “Do you see now?”

“They’re only twelve, Master.” His eyes, filled with horror, met Obi-Wan’s. “Oh, Force, they’re only twelve. ”

Anakin’s teacup shattered.

Obi-Wan drew him close, clutching Anakin to his chest. “I know, Padawan.”

The tea grew cold as Anakin, as if programmed on a faulty line of code, kept helplessly repeating, “They’re only twelve, they’re only twelve, they’re only twelve…”