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He had heard plenty about them since arriving on the planet, but this was the first time Maul had actually seen the famous rainstorms.
The planet chosen by the rebels was known—and avoided—for its inhospitable, volatile climate: storms, droughts, freezing cold, and earthquakes. He had witnessed them all during his time on Rhysio. It made for a good base—precisely because maintaining a base there was hell—and served as an excellent hideout for that very reason.
"It’s raining," Mon Mothma stated, looking up from the surface serving as a table to gaze through the glass—reinforced so many times he couldn't count—at the violent storm. "Is that not familiar to you, Lord Maul?"
The wind-driven rain lashed at the local flora, even though the plants were hardy enough to withstand it. Heavy, rapid drops hammered against the roof, sounding like a firefight, while flashes of green lightning occasionally illuminated the landscape, revealing the destruction the rain wrought.
"Why do you ask?"
"Dathomir experienced heavy rains too, didn't it?" If Maul recalled correctly—yes. Dathomir did suffer occasional downpours—heavy, certainly, but nothing like this. They would flood the swamps and wash through the forests; they were far more necessary than destructive.
Maul had never seen many rains like those.
"Not like this." He preferred this explanation; it was close enough to the truth without getting tangled in the complexities of how much of his knowledge of Dathomir came from study or hearsay versus what he had actually experienced firsthand—which was, in reality, far less. "The hot days were more familiar."
The woman nodded at his explanation. Maul had been following Mothma everywhere she went practically since her official defection to the Rebels; he was considered not only a powerful line of defense should the need arise, but also valuable for his knowledge regarding Palpatine and his strategic insight.
Maul’s partner had ended up in the same role—serving as a defender and a quick-acting operative. He possessed the years of experience needed to secure contacts and make connections rapidly, as well as the ability to solve any problem that cropped up. But in a downpour like this, Maul wondered how long it would take for…
The door opened, providing him with an answer. An Alliance commander approached Mothma to speak with her, but Maul focused on the Mandalorian following him.
At first, Jango simply stood near the commander after giving Maul a nod. But the Zabrak was no fool; he waited as the Mandalorian slowly shifted his position and drew closer to him. In any other situation, Maul might have likened the movement to a desperate feline stalking its prey, but here, he knew it was more like a blind man dragging himself toward water in the middle of the desert.
Jango stopped beside him, their arms brushing—the closest he would allow himself to get with others around. One of the things Maul had always admired was that the man was a professional above all else; if Maul ever lost his cool, he could always rely on the Mandalorian to remain calm and steer them both back on track. Even now, he was holding himself in check.
A snippet of information passing between the Republic leader and her command caught Maul’s attention.
"Fett is undercover again?" Mothma gave him a look, as if she hadn't expected that reaction from him.
"He didn't tell you?"
"They knew what I was going to say." He could feel the Mandalorian tense up beside him. Yes, because Boba might avoid telling Maul certain things to keep from hearing it all at once, but he would never do anything without consulting Jango first—even though his father would like the situations Boba found himself in while working for Palpatine’s personal attack dog even less than Maul did.
The conversation returns to normal, and Maul lets his attention—and his presence in the Force—extend toward the man beside him. He can sense him relaxing, and in a rare moment of courage, Jango takes his hand.
It was really bad, wasn't it?
Their relationship was actually an open secret—obvious to anyone present after the Battle of Yavin who witnessed Maul’s reaction upon discovering that Kenobi had been alive all along and that they had kept it from him. That hadn't been one of his finest moments.
Jango had to calm him down and even physically restrain him; yet anyone who saw them murmuring to each other in a mix of Dathomiri and Mando'a—with the Zabrak using the man as the sole anchor for his sanity—could tell they were closer than they initially appeared.
Boba calling them both buir made things obvious, too.
They kept holding hands, their arms swinging gently. It was always like that whenever they were on a rainy planet. Maul imagined it had something to do with Kamino—that planet of perpetual rain—creating memories that resurfaced during storms.
After what felt like hours, Mothma dismissed him. At another time, Maul might have taken offense—thinking she didn't want him to hear something—but he sensed her reasoning had less to do with mistrust and more to do with the knowing, almost pitying look she cast at their joined hands. Maul walked out, and despite having entered the room for ostensibly different reasons, Jango followed him.
They walk in silence; the few people they pass allow the Mandalorian to relax a bit more. That basically means winding himself around Maul like a snake. Maul remembers thinking, right after he returned, that his legs would drive the Mandalorian away—the cold touch of metal instead of the body he used to have. But Jango was just as attached—even clingy—as before. He touched the Zabrak wherever he could, hugging him and wrapping his whole body around him whenever he got the chance.
He didn't speak, but those touches sometimes felt as if the Mandalorian were holding his mind in his hands, his own body wanting to melt into Jango’s arms. The Mandalorian knew it, too, just by looking at him.
They reach their private quarters—a perk of working with the leader of the rebellion. The Zabrak can't resist glancing at the man.
"You're acting like a child."
"Is that a complaint?" He rests his head on Maul’s shoulder, taking a deep breath as if he could absorb the Zabrak right then and there.
"No."
They pull apart, simply because Jango hasn't yet figured out a way to remove his armor while staying pressed against Maul. The Zabrak lets him do it, sitting on the bed to watch. Without the armor, Jango’s scars are laid bare. It isn't easy to wound a Mandalorian, so each one has a story behind it: a particularly tough job, something from when he was starting out, a fight with another Mandalorian, or—the most visible of all—his brush with death.
The scar left by the late Jedi Master marks Jango’s neck. A near-clean cut halfway through—a head nearly severed. Maul was still on Lotho Minor, but he could still recall the look on Boba’s face when he recounted the event—how frightened he had been, how close his father had come to death, and how he had dragged Jango’s near-lifeless body to safety. He would never forget the tears of despair that had escaped the clone at the mere memory of the story.
He is snapped out of his thoughts by the Mandalorian—now back in Maul’s arms—pulling them both down onto the bed, startling the Zabrak.
"You..." Jango laughs, hiding his smile against Maul’s chest. "Aren't we a bit old for this?" Jango snorts in response.
"I’m old. You’re much younger..." By Zabrak standards, yes, he was. But it wasn't as if the life he’d lived hadn't aged him far beyond his years. The Zabrak turns his attention to the Mandalorian’s hair; there are a few strands of gray at the temples, but the curls are still as soft and fluffy as he remembers. They’re nice to play with. "Every time I want to cut it, you do this..."
"Cut it for what?"
"Maybe because of the armor?" The Zabrak grimaces slightly at the thought, winding the curls around his fingers and letting them go. "It’s a pain putting on a buy'ce with all this hair..."
"Then just cut a little bit."
"So you can keep playing with it?"
"Yes." The Mandalorian laughs but doesn't complain, preferring to curl up closer to Maul rather than continue the argument as he lies between Maul’s legs. "Don't you get cold?"
"It’s hard to feel cold when you’ve spent your whole life wrapped in metal." He supposes that makes sense; he knows Boba’s more modern armor has a heating setting. He doubts Jango’s older armor has anything like that. "And the rest of you is very hot—"
"I’ll take that as an observation, not a flirt."
"Was it that bad?" The Zabrak tugs on a curl in response, and the other man laughs again. "You’re mean..." Jango sighs, lifting his eyes to look at the Zabrak. "Is that nature or nurture?"
"Me being hot or mean?"
"Yeah, both actually. Is that from being a Nightbrother or a Sith?" Maul opens his mouth but doesn't know how to answer. He knew that having two hearts and a dual circulatory system gave him a high body temperature, but he had also been described in the Force as a wildfire—a presence that burned if you got too close. And neither of the two options were known for being lovely and friendly people.
"I think both." Another memory comes to mind, something that might be related. "Do you remember Kamino every time it rains?"
"Yeah, but I think it's worse with Boba." The man sighs; Maul isn't even surprised—Jango's son always comes to mind when his mind wanders. "We spent years there, and now there's nothing left. Everything destroyed by the Empire."
"I think about Mustafar," Maul blurts out, not quite sure where he's going with it. Jango listens patiently. "Every time I'm on a planet with a violent climate—even when we were on Hoth." The tundra planet couldn't have been more different from the lava planet, yet despite the completely opposite climates, it was still the first thing that came to Maul's mind. "It's unbearably hot, and the best view you get on a walk is rivers of lava—if you don't burn your feet walking around. And yet... I think I still miss it." The Mandalorian nods, understanding.
"It seems like losing planets to the Empire has become all too common."
"I don't know if I exactly lost it; it's still there. Even the fortress is still there."
"But you can't go back." No, he couldn't. Not if he didn't want to be killed by Vader—or worse, run into his master. "Neither of us can." Maul thinks of the princess, leading troops somewhere. For her, it's even worse; They could choose to die near Kamino’s rivers of lava or drown in its endless oceans, but she truly had nothing to go back to.
Silence stretches between them—heavy, yet comfortable. They still have each other; Boba is safe, and at least they aren't at the Empire's mercy right now. This feels like something worthless to think about.
"I’m practically dead already..."
"In the eyes of the universe? Yes, for many years now."
"And you’ve been officially pardoned." The Republic that had charged Maul with crimes had fallen, in truth, and the Rebels didn't have the time or the luxury to dwell on past offenses when they were all criminals in the Empire's eyes.
"Yes."
"So let's go there." Maul looks confused. "Mustafar. If all this works out and we survive the fall of the Empire, we’ll have a good few years of retirement ahead of us. Let's spend them at the fortress on Mustafar." Maul opens his mouth, closes it, then lets his head drop back onto the pillow.
"There’s no guarantee we’ll survive."
"But if we do."
"We live out the rest of our lives on Mustafar?" The Mandalorian nods. "Don't you have a better place in mind to spend the end of your life?"
"None that hasn't been bombed by the Empire recently." Maul grimaces as images of Mandalore's fate flash through his mind. "And spending the rest of my life on a lava planet doesn't sound so bad—if it's in a fortress with you."
"Don't get sappy..." Maul murmurs, but he doesn't stop the Mandalorian from turning them so they’re face-to-face. "If we survive..." Jango smiles—something Maul appreciates more than he’d ever admit.
He remembers when he returned—when the news claimed Jango Fett had died on Geonosis, struck down by a Jedi's blade. He remembers feeling that anger driving him like a fire to add another name to his list of vengeance; he remembers nearly collapsing with relief upon reuniting with the Mandalorian, breathing for the first time in years.
They were good at surviving—that was irrefutable.
"If we survive."