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“Ninety-nine,” Omega spoke up, “what’s my father like?”
He paused, the question coming up out of seemingly nowhere. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugged, but didn’t meet his eyes. She and the boys were down in Kamino for the weekend, and he’d bought Omega a little arts and crafts project at the store on a whim. She’d ripped it open with joy and excitement, and the rest of the boys had scattered—giving him some precious alone time to bond with her, helping her with the little finger-knitting project. Knowing how much all the boys loved being with Omega, it meant a lot that they were giving him this afternoon to spend with her.
The spool of acrylic wool that came with the kit had come out of the box all knotted, and Omega was at work untangling it while Ninety-nine readied the rest of the supplies. They’d been working in companionable silence, the birds chirping in the spring sunshine outside. He’d felt no inkling that a subject as thorny as Jango was on her mind until she spoke up.
“I was just wondering,” Omega spoke up after a beat of silence. “Uh. Echo was talking about Father’s Day, since it’s coming up.” He chalked the awkwardness of her second statement up to the fact that Echo was probably talking about getting him a gift or something—Omega was sweetly unable to lie, though her fibbing was getting better.
Ninety-nine nodded to himself, thinking over his answer.
“I actually don’t know your father all that well,” he said. At the very least, his nephew’s mind and justifications were a dark mystery. “When I was a little boy, his father—your grandfather, then—was my older brother. I was sent away from home when I was six years old, so I didn’t meet your father at all until much, much later.”
“You were sent away?” Omega inquired, peering up at him in evident concern. “Why?”
He gave her a soft smile for her worry. “It’s alright, ad’ika —it was a different time, then. When it became clear that I was having trouble with my legs, and my back, I was sent away to a care home that specialized in treating disabled children.”
“Oh,” Omega said. She looked back down to the pile of knotted yarn in her lap.
Something was bothering her, still. Ninety-nine carefully brushed his knuckles against her shoulder. “Alright?” he murmured.
“I’m okay,” she said, “it’s just—I dunno. It’s like… I wasn’t in a hospital. Or a home. But…” She fidgeted, uncomfortable.
“But you were kept away from your brothers, too,” Ninety-nine finished for her, tone soft. She glanced at him, a relieved, slightly guilty look. “You weren’t in a hospital, but you weren’t in a good place, either,” he told her. “I think it’s a very similar thing.”
The look she shot him before ducking her head and returning to work with a little grin was equal parts relieved and grateful—and she reminded Ninety-nine so much of her older brothers at times like this. Wrecker and Tech, especially, would wear that same tight-around-the-eyes look whenever a little bit of comfort, a well-placed word of affirmation, would allow them to let go of the anxiety that haunted them.
At times, especially when the boys were new to his care, it would make him feel equal parts sorrow and shame—sorrow, that such a little bit of affection could mean so much—that they were that starved of kindness—and shame at how selfishly pleasing it was, to be able to give them what they had spent too long missing.
Now, though, that shame was gone. Just affection in its place—children could teach you much, he liked to say, and one thing Omega’s brothers had quickly taught him was that there was nothing wrong, with liking that he could care for him. They seemed fond of it, after all—where was the harm?
Omega cleared her throat, meticulously winding up the yarn. “I just—I wanted to ask you. Since… since I don’t think Hunter or Wrecker or Crosshair like our father that much.”
That was putting it mildly. Ninety-nine made an awkward noise.
“No,” he said carefully, “no, I don’t think they’re too fond of him.” For exceedingly valid reasons.
“And I know,” Omega pressed on, “I know that he doesn’t know about me. Probably.”
Ninety-nine frowned. “Who told you that?”
Omega didn’t answer right away, focused on the yarn, picking at the knots, which meant it was her mother who had told her. Ninety-nine reached out and carefully covered her little hand with his own, stilling her movements.
“Jango probably doesn’t,” he said, honestly, as gently as he could. He squeezed her hand in his. “And that’s his loss. You’re a wonderful person, Omega—it’s okay if you’re curious about your father.” By the way her shoulders slumped, he was correct in assuming that she felt guilty about her very natural curiosity. She cared so much for her brothers—since she was keen enough to sense how little they cared for Jango, it must weigh heavily on her.
“It’s just… such a difficult thing,” he continued. Honesty was good, especially for hard subjects like this, though the urge to protect her was still there. “People, when they’re older, they make mistakes, but—they also change a lot.” He swallowed. He hoped beyond hope that Jango had changed since the last time they spoke. Years ago. “I wish I could tell you more,” he said. “If y-you like,” he added, “I c-could try to get some information together for you.”
“That’s okay,” Omega said, swiftly. She squeezed his aged old hand in hers, looking up at him with big brown Fett eyes. “I was just… I dunno. Everyone else knows about him, but I guess I don’t.” She frowned. “At school, we were doing father’s day crafts and I guess I just felt weird. Making a card for someone I don’t know.”
Ninety-nine gently slipped his hand away from her grip, tapping her chin. She smiled softly, and his chest twinged with unguarded feeling.
“That’s okay,” he told her. “I understand.”
They shared a brief smile, and Omega looked back to her hands, movements easier as tension left her body. For a moment, they worked in silence once more.
And then.
“I wish you were my dad,” Omega muttered.
Ninety-nine sat there for a moment, unable to find it in him to voice a reply.
Omega didn’t notice his hesitation, finishing up unknotting the yarn and started to wind it up around her hand.
He cleared his throat. “What about Hunter?” he asked, trying for as delicate a tone as he could manage past the emotions battling in his chest.
She glanced up, brow furrowed. “What about Hunter?” she repeated, but not unkindly. Pure curiosity.
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t be much of a dad, seeing how far away you live,” he said. “But Hunter takes care of you, right?”
“Yeah,” she readily agreed. But not all of her confusion dissipated. “But he’s my brother.”
Another shrug. “Technically,” Ninety-nine pointed out, “I’m you and your brothers’ great-uncle.”
“Echo calls you Dad.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but remember, I raised Echo since he was a baby. Da-da is easier to say than Ninety-nine .”
That made Omega grin crookedly.
“And besides,” Ninety-nine continued, “it’s different, being a dad , and being a dad.”
Omega’s crooked grin shuffled into an adorable little frowning pout as she tried to untangle that . “I don’t get it,” she admitted.
“Well,” Ninety-nine shifted. “ Being a dad is a lot of work. You have to get up in the morning, make breakfast, get your kid ready for school—you worry a lot, and you have to be kind but also tough. Be supportive of growth, but keep some boundaries in place. It’s difficult.” Difficult, but so fulfilling just the same. In the care home, as he’d gotten older, Ninety-nine had volunteered to work with the little kids, being sent in from every corner of the Republic—scared and hurting and just in need of some love and attention. There’d never been a doubt in his heart that all he wanted to do with his life was have a family, kids of his own—he considered himself immensely lucky that the universe allowed him to take care of all his boys.
“So,” he said, “Jango is your dad but he hasn’t been your dad. Hunter, though…”
Omega was a little red in the face, blotchy like her brothers.
“Yeah,” she admitted. She looked down at her hands. “It would be weird to call him Dad, though,” she added.
Now that made Ninety-nine laugh. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to see the look on Hunter’s face if Omega ever called him that. “That’s alright,” he rumbled, ruffling her hair. “Your brothers all call me by my name.”
Omega nodded, but she seemed to be thinking deeply, eyes flickering. “I wish I hadn’t made Jango that stupid card in school,” she said.
“Card?” he asked, recalling her earlier mention of something in school.
“Yeah, in Geography class, we did this thing about fatherhood in other countries. And father’s day celebrations. And we got to make these paper things, and I guess I didn’t really think about it, so it has Jango’s name on it.” Her frown deepened. “I didn’t make Hunter anything.”
Ninety-nine looked at the craft supplies surrounding them on the coffee table up in his spare room. Then he tilted back, looking at the maze of bookshelves and boxes, considering.
Omega watched him, and he thought she must be able to figure out the idea he was turning over in his brain.
“Do you want to make him something?” he asked, and before he even finished the question, she was nodding, brightening up, the shadowy subject of Jango shoved aside and forgotten. “Well,” he laughed, standing, “let’s get some supplies!”
Hunter was sitting out on the back porch with Crosshair come nightfall. It was always a little bit colder out in Kamino come full dark, but the sting of a summer night was fresh in the senses, it’s own kind of comforting. How many nights Crosshair and Hunter had sat out on this same porch, looking at dark trees, he had long lost count. The trees were in the full flush of summer bloom, thick with leaves, but even then the bright wash of stars were clear beyond them, peeking through gaps in the branches.
The porch door creaked open, and Omega poked her head out. “Hunter?” she asked.
“Yeah, kid?” he asked. She’d been bubbly, squirrely even, during dinner and when they’d all gathered around the living room to play a board game with Ninety-nine. Such simple, idyllic pleasures. If you’d asked Hunter at her age whether he ever thought it possible for this to be his life, he would have called bullshit.
“I, uh, have something for you,” Omega said, a blush rising up. She slipped out onto the porch, so obviously holding something behind her back that Hunter had to grin.
Crosshair, on the other side of the door, did more than grin. “What’d you have there?” he asked.
Omega tried to whirl so neither Hunter nor Crosshair could see her hidden prize. “Nothing!” she exclaimed.
“Looks like something,” Crosshair teased. “Lemme see.”
“It’s for Hunter,” she protested, and her flush deepened.
“Alright,” Hunter stepped in, eyeing Crosshair semi-seriously before he could keep going, “lay off.”
Crosshair held both hands up, palms out. “Consider it laid.” He pushed up to standing. “I’ll let you have the room ,” he cooed, gesturing out towards the wilderness that was Ninety-nine’s backyard.
“ Thank you for the room ,” Omega cooed back, matching his gesture with one arm, and briefly, Crosshair imitated it back, a little loop of the two of them making more and more exaggerated arm movements. Hunter figured it was one of their little inside jokes and watched with amusement.
Eventually Omega won the contest of room -ing or whatever it was, Crosshair beating a retreat. That left just Hunter and Omega.
“C’mere,” he said, patting the porch bench next to him. “What’s up?”
She perched on the seat next to him, fidgeting. “I made you something,” she said, and pulled out her hidden item, and—Hunter froze a little. Whatever it was, it was wrapped, like a present, in the funny pages of the Sunday newspaper—full color. That was Ninety-nine’s signature giftwrap. Cheaper than the shiny rolls you could get at the store.
Gingerly, he took the very light package from her. “Thank you,” he said, confusion evident. “What…?”
“It’s… for father’s day,” Omega said, voice suddenly shy and quiet. “I know it’s early, but—but I wanted you to have it.”
Hunter’s throat was tight. He turned the gift over in his hands, trying to think of something to say. Six months ago, he had no idea that he even had a sister—finding her, getting custody from their mother—it had all passed, so quickly, like a nightmare before dawn. It was difficult to remember what the hell he was living his life for, before Omega. She’d arrived and rewritten anything.
Still. Getting custody of his baby sister hadn’t come with a parenthood handbook. What he was supposed to say, he had no idea.
Omega elbowed him, lightly. “Open it,” she urged. Then: “Carefully!”
Carefully, he opened it, peeling back a double layer of newsprint to reveal—a small, square scrapbook of stiff craft paper. Bound with a knotted binding of yarn. On the cover, in careful swoops of exaggerated script: FOR HUNTER .
Omega scooted a little closer on the bench. “Open it,” she said, again.
Swallowing thickly, Hunter turned to the first page. Glitter glue and cut-outs of stars framed both pages, the left hand side more text and the right hand an illustration. It was childish, but while Omega was almost twelve, she still had a lot of childhood to make up for.
Being a dad means getting up in the morning to make breakfast , the left hand side said, and the right hand side was a sketchy recipe for the breakfast he usually made for Omega after she came back from her weekly visitation with their mother—simple, potatoes and sausage and peppers. Echo jokingly called it ‘Hunter-Proof Hash,’ but Omega had labeled it ‘Sunday Super Breakfast.’ Included was a snapshot of him holding a spatula in Ninety-nine’s kitchen.
That the old man had contributed had Hunter’s eyes prickling. In his mind, Ninety-nine was the pinnacle of fatherhood—patient and loving and caring, and he made it all look so easy.
“Next page,” Omega prompted.
First things first, Hunter draped one arm across Omega’s shoulders, hugging her to his side. Then, he turned the page.
Being a dad means taking care of me when I’m sick , the next pair of pages said, and the illustration on the opposite side was of Omega, blonde hair a blurry scrub of yellow yarn, tucked up into bed with what Hunter assumed was himself standing over it. The first time Omega had caught a cold from school—she’d still been in Cut’s little homeschool network—she’d been feverish and afraid, illness in their mother’s house always a precursor for some really choice remedies. Hunter had put cold, damp washrags on her forehead, made her tea, sat up with her when her head was too stuffy to put down on a pillow. He’d thought that he’d made a right mess of things, but here…
“You read really slowly,” Omega said, turning her blushing face a little into his chest.
That made him laugh, and he turned the next few pages at a faster clip, the feelings all washing over and through him, scouring out any doubts and leaving surety in their wake. Sure, the doubt would never truly go away—he’d already had that heart-baring discussion with Ninety-nine in the immediate weeks following the end of their custody case—but this was the lightest he’d felt in a while.
Being a dad means making me laugh. Being a dad means teaching me things. Being a dad means making me feel safe. You’re really good at being a dad. Thank you for being my big brother. Happy Father’s Day.
The final page was a picture, a polaroid, taken by Ninety-nine the first time they’d taken Omega to visit him in Kamino. So much skinnier than she was, now, healthy and growing. She was sitting at Hunter’s side, like she was now, on the couch, looking up at his face while Hunter was saying something. Eyes rapt and warm. A little smile on her face. Hunter’s chest swelled.
He carefully set the scrapbook aside. “C’mere.”
With minimal urging, she clambered into his lap, legs hanging off to one side, her head resting against his chest, safe within the circle of his arms.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to squeeze all the depth of his feeling into the pressure of his arms around her, hugging her close.
“‘m supposed to be thanking you ,” she mumbled against his collarbone, but he could feel the curl of her grin. “That’s what the card’s for.”
“No thanks necessary,” he replied, grinning into her hair. “You make it easy.”
She giggled at that. Sure, it might not always be true in the pure sense, but she forgave him every missed step. And that was a degree of comfort and safety he hoped he could pay back to her tenfold as the years dragged on. Feeling sappy and stupid and kind of giddy, all of this warmth and happiness unexpected, he nuzzled into the softness of her hair for a second, then planted a kiss just above her temple. She harrumphed a little and pulled her head back—laughing, he followed the implicit instruction to do it properly, kissing her temple directly.
“There,” he said. She beamed at him.
“Love you,” she said, eyes searching his face.
He felt his face soften, dragging a hand through the hair on the back of her head. “Love you, too,” he told her, as serious as a promise. She melted back down to cuddle into his arms, and he sat there, on his father’s back porch, watching the glow of the stars through the trees, for a long, long time.