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Jango scans through the holos, barely sparing them a glance before moving on to the next. “Is this really the best path forward?” he asks.
Jaster raises his hands. “The Jedi have reached out for an alliance,” he says. “They are concerned about the threat of the Sith. And we could use the help of their Agricorps to restore the balance of the planet. It’s a good alliance, Jan’ika, but one that requires a marriage to be recognized by their di’kutla Senate.”
Jango scowls. “Thats another thing,” he says. “Should we trust a people so beholden to the Republic Senate?”
Jaster clears his throat. “If we read between the lines, it looks like they’re looking to be a little less beholden.” That’s interesting. Jango turns to face his buir. Jaster smiles. “Look, it doesn’t have to be you. I could do it, or—”
“No,” Jango sighs. “You’re still the Mand’alor. And I—” he stops. He’s honestly never given too much thought to having a spouse, one way or the other. He tries to imagine it for a moment before shrugging. And Jaster is right. The Jedi would make for a good alliance, and if this is what is required for it to happen, he’ll do his duty. Jaster does enough. “You know I’m happy to help the system.” He grins. “Besides, you are too old for all the candidates.”
Jaster tosses a ration bar at him. “Disrespect,” he says. “I need you to marry someone so I can actually retire before I march on, and ka’ra knows you will be useless on your own.” Jango rolls his eyes, tossing the ration bar back. “Will you actually look at the candidates? The Jedi Council assured me that they are all willing.”
Jango sighs. “How willing can they be?” he mutters under his breath. He turns off the projector, the image of a smiling Togruta blinking away. He clears his throat. “You know me well enough, Buir. I’ll trust your judgement to know what’s best for the system.”
Jaster’s eyebrows raise. “You’ll allow me to select your riduur for you? You’ll say riduurok sight unseen based only on a profile?”
Jango strides to the door. “Well, this riduur is not going to have much choice in me, are they?” he asks. “Just let me know when you’ve decided.”
Jaster gives him a crooked smile, flipping the projector back on.
“You’re kidding me,” Jango says, looking at the profile in front of him. There’s no image, just a brief description of his background, a few reports he’s written.
“You said you trusted my judgement,” Jaster says, settling in across from him. He’d arrived back from the Temple that morning, with a completed agreement and a wide smile. “There’s nothing wrong with Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s the best choice of all of them. You’ll see when you meet him.”
“Look at these reports,” Jango says. “A study of the impact of galactic cartography? The linguistic development of Galactic Basic?”
“He has a wide variety of interests,” Jaster defends.
“An examination of meditation techniques across the galaxy—Buir, did you find the most boring Jedi in that Temple for me to say riduurok with?” Jango should have known better, honestly.
“You should have heard him talking about how different eras of architecture can show the influence of—”
“Maybe you should be the one saying riduurok,” Jango grumbles. “How does that even come up in a marriage negotiation?”
Jaster laughs. “You had your chance, Jan’ika. What happened to trusting my judgement? You’ll like him, I’m sure. He’s a fine Jedi with a good head on his shoulders and—” he stops, grinning. “Well, I’ll spare you the boring details.”
Jango keeps moving through the file, but it’s rather sparse. “That’s it? That’s all you have?”
“Well,” Jaster says, “You hardly seemed interested before. Far be it from me to bore you with my nerdy new Jedi friend.”
“Do you have a holo?” Jango asks. “He sounds like he’s never seen the outside of an library.”
“Oh, no,” Jaster says. “You’ll see him when you meet him. He’s already on his way.”
Jango’s Jedi riduur is indeed on his way, on a transport from Coruscant. Myles is part of the Mandalorian contingent escorting him back, but he’s under strict rules from Jaster not to share any unnecessary information with Jango.
“Come on, Myles,” Jango says. Myles won’t even connect over video.
“Oh, no,” Myles says. “He’s still the Mand’alor. Besides, I think it’ll be a fine surprise.”
Jango tries very hard to get him to relent over the next few days, but it doesn’t work. “It’s only fair,” Jango says. “I’m the one marrying the only Jedi who has probably never lit his kad’au.”
“He showed me some of his katas,” Myles says. “He had it lit for that.”
“Like a training?” Jango asks. “Fighting styles?”
“It looked kind of like a dance,” Myles says. “It really was something. It’s the prettiest blue.”
“Oh, is he to be your riduur, then,” Jango snaps, annoyed, and Myles hangs up on him.
“I’m terribly sorry,” says a smooth voice, lightly accented one that is definitely not Myles’. “I stole Myles’ comm, but there is something wrong with the video.”
“Who’s this?” Jango asks, on his guard.
The voice laughs. “I’m Obi-Wan,” he says. “I thought perhaps it might be good to speak with you, before we, you know—get married. I get the sense you’re not exactly looking forward to it. I was under the impression that you had agreed, but from what I’ve overheard—”
Jango winces. He’s been rather uncharitable in those conversations. “Were you listening to what we were saying?”
“Not all the time,” Obi-Wan says quickly. “And not on purpose. Just, your friend is very loud, and not at all discreet.”
Well, he’s not wrong. “N’eparavu takisit,” he mutters, barely loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear.
Obi-Wan clears his throat. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” he says, and now Jango does feel a little bad. “I'm a fast learner. I'm sure I will be useful to you, as time goes by.”
“I am not worried about that, and I did agree to this,” Jango says. “I had, and have, my reservations. But I will take it seriously. It doesn’t matter to me who you are or what you like.”
Obi-Wan is quiet on the other end, long enough that Jango thinks he may have gotten disconnected. “I understand,” he says.
Jango’s not sure he does. “Look,” he says, but Obi-Wan cuts in.
“I think Myles is coming,” he says. “I’d better go. I hope—” he stops. “I look forward to officially meeting you.” He’s lost some of the cheer he started the conversation with, and Jango feels bad about it for reasons he’s not sure he understands.
“Obi-Wan,” Jango starts, but the comm disconnects.
Myles switches off audio and sticks to texts for the remainder of the trip, and Jango doesn’t hear from Obi-Wan again.
Just Myles.
He brought his own tea, but you should probably ask Jaster to stock up.
He’s picking up on Mando’a quicker than I expected.
Did you know he could make things just float around the room?
Jango rubs at his eyes. They’re supposed to land within the day, and he’s scrubbed and shined his armor, the compound is ready, and he can’t seem to stop pacing, anxious. There won’t be any kind of official ceremony or vows today, they want to give everything time to settle, and so Obi-Wan will get his own quarters. And there will be another jetii, arriving on his own ship to witness the procedures, though no one has told Jango anything about him, either.
In the sector, Alor. See you soon.
I mean it about the tea.
Jango is standing with Jaster as Myles and Obi-Wan disembark the ship, flanked by a few members of Jango’s security team. They brush past him, knocking against his shoulders, but he smiles at them, dipping his head.
He’s about the same height as Jango, clad in Jedi robes, red hair set over blue eyes that crinkle in the corners when Myles says something as they approach, but he stills his face as they get closer, bowing low at the waist.
“Mand’alor Mereel, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Obi-Wan says. He turns to face Jango, tilting his head.
“Obi-Wan, I told you to call me Jaster,” Jaster says, and claps Jango on the shoulder. “I’ve told you about Jango.”
“You have,” Obi-Wan says, and there’s a quirk to his lips. “Hello there, Alor Fett.”
Jaster nudges him with a foot when he doesn’t say anything, and Obi-Wan’s smile vanishes. Jango blinks, pulling himself out of the blue in Obi-Wan’s eyes. “Ah, sorry. Su’cuy, Obi-Wan. Welcome to Mandalore.” Jango’s not sure what’s happening to his voice, it’s gone scratchy, and he’s glad of the helmet to cover it up. “I can show you to your room?” He’d left tea in there just that morning, but he wasn’t sure what kind the Jedi liked and may have overdone it.
Obi-Wan glances over at Myles, and then bows his head. “Certainly, Alor Fett.”
“If you call him that, his ego will swell,” Myles says. “Jango, I told him you’d take him on a tour of the compound, maybe Keldabe proper, if he’s not too tired.”
Obi-Wan ducks his head again. “Only if you have time, Alor,” he says.
“Jango,” Jango corrects. He looks at Myles.
“I could take him, if you don’t have time,” Myles says, flashing teeth.
Jango scowls under the helmet. “I have time,” he says, but that makes Myles smile wider.
Obi-Wan is polite and respectful on their walk through the compound, wide-eyed as he takes in the library, running his hands along the shelving. He’s the same in the streets of Keldabe. He asks surface level questions, is curious about the architecture and the history of a shop, and he’s handsome and charming and yet—
Jango can’t help but feel something is missing. He truly hadn’t thought about what he’d be looking for in his riduur. He’d expected he would find someone who could engage politically, of course, and Obi-Wan is clearly more than capable of that, capable enough to leave diplomacy to, which is perfect for Jango, Jaster’s not wrong about that. But he’d also imagined a warrior, someone to fight at his side, if it came down to it, and Obi-Wan is so academic, so composed. Myles says he’d used his lightsaber, but only for practice.
Obi-Wan keeps flicking glances over at him, like he wants to say something, and finally does, when they are watching the fountain in the square. He keeps his eyes on the water. “I hope I haven’t been boring you,” Obi-Wan says.
“I’m not bored,” Jango says, automatic, though he’d lost a few moments when Obi-Wan had talked about a fountain in his Temple, what it was modeled after, distracted by the smile in his voice and the way the water reflected in his eyes.
“My friends always told me I was a bit stuffy,” Obi-Wan admits. “I don’t mean to drone on and on. I know I’m not what you were hoping for.”
“I never said that,” Jango says.
“I can tell,” Obi-Wan says. “I can always tell. If you’d rather someone else—”
“I wouldn’t,” Jango cuts him off. “I honor my agreements.”
Obi-Wan exhales, long and deep. “Very well,” he says. “I shall take you at your word.”
He looks sad, now. “Why did you agree to this?” Jango asks.
Obi-Wan quirks a smile. “I have always loved new places,” he says. “And I was hoping for a change of pace, something a little different, a little slower.”
“Mandalore isn’t exactly slow,” Jango says, a little surprised he would think so. He hopes no one has been telling him untruths.
“I suppose not,” Obi-Wan agrees. “But it is different, for me. And your buir is quite charming, and had any number of good things to say about you, though I suppose he would, as your parent.” Obi-Wan smiles. “I am willing and happy to be your spouse, Jango, if only because you supplied me with the largest selection of tea I have ever encountered. I hope that we can become friends, if nothing else.”
Friends. They will be spending their lives together, Jango supposes. Friendship would be nice.
It’s a busy few days, preparing for the ceremony and all that goes with it. Myles is in charge of security, and keeps adding patrols, saying he’s hearing chatter about dissidents, but Jango isn’t too worried. Mandalorians generally don’t fuss over affairs like this, but it’s not often the heir to the title gets married, and it’s political besides. He submits to fittings and rehearsals and supposes Obi-Wan is doing the same, though he mostly only sees him at night. He complains about the fuss, and Obi-Wan smiles. “Not a fan of spectacle, then?” Obi-Wan asks.
Jango scowls. “No,” he says. “I would prefer something private. Unfortunately, Jaster is quite fond of a spectacle.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “I share your opinion,” he says, and sighs dramatically. “But it’s for the good of the people, I suppose,” and his eyes crinkle at the corners when Jango laughs.
He takes Obi-Wan to the market, smiling to himself he asks questions of the vendors, how they source their materials, how they learned to make their wares. It continues to be very charming, and Obi-Wan is charming the people of Keldabe, one stall at a time.
“Do you do it on purpose?” Jango finally asks, after the fourth vendor has tried to give him something for free.
“Do what?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Get them to like you so much,” Jango says. “Ask them your questions, flatter them.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says. “Well, I am genuinely curious. And I am a stranger to them, aren’t I? I don’t want them to think I don’t respect their work. I appreciate you taking the time to bring me around. If it’s ever too much, or I’m taking too long—”
“It’s fine,” Jango says.
“Myles said he would—”
“You don’t need to come with Myles,” Jango says, abruptly annoyed, and Obi-Wan quiets. Jango grimaces. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” Jango grits out. “I just—”
But he can’t finish the sentence, and Obi-Wan is quiet for the rest of the evening.
“I was rude,” Jango says. “You are right to connect with our citizens, and I like watching you do it.”
Obi-Wan glances over at him. He’s in the courtyard, laying on the ground, watching the stars, and smiles a little before he sits up. “This is the first time I’ve seen your face outside a holo,” he says.
Jango thinks back to their previous meetings, and winces. It’s true he’s had his armor on for all their interactions. “I’m sorry about that, too,” he says.
“It’s quite all right,” Obi-Wan says, and ducks his head, flushing. “It’s a nice face, Jango. I’m glad you’re not covering it up.”
Jango shifts his weight, uncomfortable. “Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks.
“I would love that,” Obi-Wan says.
“We have greenhouses,” Jango suggests. “Perhaps you could study the plants, use them for your next report.” He holds his hand out, and Obi-Wan takes it, pulls himself up, and doesn’t let go, so Jango doesn’t either. His hands are callused, and Jango can’t quite figure it out, they’re not from a blaster. Maybe he carries a lot of archive materials.
“You’ve read my reports?” Obi-Wan asks.
Jango grimaces. “Ah, I have read the titles,” he says.
Obi-Wan laughs, and it’s a light, delighted sound that warms him.
Obi-Wan does have a lot of questions about the plants, about how they’re cultivated and their uses. He’s so smart, his ven’riduur, and Jango does his best to answer, although—
“Jaster might be a better person for you to talk to about this,” Jango admits. “He knows much more of the history of Mandalore, and the work being done to restore the flora.”
“Oh, of course,” Obi-Wan says, and lets go of Jango’s hand.
He doesn’t mean to spy on Obi-Wan practicing his forms, but he’s walking the perimeter and sees him on the training grounds. Myles was right, it is like a dance, and he leans against the outer wall, watching. Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed, and his lightsaber—Myles was right about that too, it is a very pretty blue, shining in the dawn light.
“That form is called Soresu,” Jango hears next to him, and jumps to the side.
It’s another Jedi, this one tall, dark-skinned, eyes serious and with a smile full of teeth. “Su’cuy,” he says. “You must be the Jedi here for the ceremony. I didn’t realize you’d landed, we would have greeted you.”
“Mace Windu,” the Jedi nods, casting his gaze back at Obi-Wan. “I’ll never get tired of him doing this one.”
“Oh?” Jango asks, mostly to be polite. It is nice to watch, Obi-Wan’s slow movements, precise and careful.
“Soresu is our defensive form,” Mace says. “Obi-Wan is a Master of it. He’s doing it at a fraction of the normal speed, and still doesn’t make mistakes. He’s quite remarkable.”
“Oh,” Jango says again. A defensive form. That sounds about right.
“Are you going to chat about it, or join me, old man?” Obi-Wan calls, eyes still closed.
“Give me a break, I just got here,” Mace says.
“Sneaking in at dawn,” Obi-Wan says. “Have you seen the Mand’alor yet, Master Windu?”
His tone has gone sly and teasing, nothing at all like Jango has heard before, and he shifts his weight.
“You’re asking for it,” Mace warns, climbing the fence.
Obi-Wan stops, then, kad’au pointed in their direction, holding his other arm parallel, two fingers extended. “I haven’t got all day,” he says.
Mace does a complicated flip into the arena, his own lightsaber lit, and Jango is curious, but he backs off, leaving them to it.
Apparently Myles and several other commandos had come upon the two Jedi, and can’t stop talking about it, calling it a spar, describing jumps and twirls and whatever else they saw.
“A spar?” Jango asks, doubtful. “It seemed a little slow for a spar, when I left.”
“You left?” Jaster asks. He sighs, despairing. “No one told me it was happening. I would have liked to see it.”
“Mesmerizing,” Myles says. “I thought it was great when it was just Obi-Wan, but the two of them—the way Obi-Wan moves—”
“Enough,” Jango says, cranky at Myles’ effusive praise. Myles shuts up but looks delighted and victorious anyway, grinning in Jango’s direction. Jango wishes he was closer so he could kick him. “I hope you’re still doing your job, not just watching jetii dancing,” he says.
“Of course, Alor,” Myles says, snide. “Your ceremony will be safe, I guarantee it. We are still hearing about pockets of agitators, but nothing will breach the compound. Just be careful as you’re out and about, and you and your ven’riduur will be fine.”
It’s two days out from the ceremony, and there is a morning feast laid out. The two Jedi come in a few minutes late, eyes bright, jostling each other. They pull it together as they enter the room, Mace with a stoic facade and Obi-Wan with his normal cheerful demeanor, hands tucked into his robes. He says something to Mace and leads them over to the table where Jango and Jaster are seated.
“Apologies for our lateness,” Obi-Wan says.
“Master Windu,” Jaster says, stiff. “I didn’t know they were sending you for the ceremony.” Jango narrows his eyes at him.
“It was decided that I would be the best choice, given my position,” Mace says.
Master of the Order, Obi-Wan mouths at Jango.
“Of course, your position,” Jaster says. His hands are still frozen on the table, eyes glued to Mace. “If I knew you were arriving this morning, we would have arranged a welcoming party.” His stiffness seems to have nothing to do with the surprise arrival of an unannounced jetii. Jango looks at Obi-Wan, but he is hiding his face in a mug of shig.
“I made good time, Mand’alor,” Mace says. “I wouldn’t have wanted to bother anyone, and it gave me some time to catch up with Obi-Wan.”
Mace’s eyes flick over at Jango before returning to Jaster. It’s a brief look, but a little unsettling.
“It’s Jaster, you know that,” Jaster says, and—is he blushing? Jango looks at Obi-Wan again, who is grinning at him now, delight sparking in his eyes.
“Then as ever I must insist you call me Mace,” Mace says.
“Of course,” Jaster says. “Mace. It’s good to see you again. I hope your travel was smooth.”
“What is happening?” Jango hisses to Obi-Wan, low and under his breath.
“Master Windu and the Mand’alor spent rather a lot of time together during the negotiations at the Temple,” Obi-Wan says, just as quiet. “They got along quite—ow—well.” He leans over, rubbing his leg under the table, but doesn’t lose his smile when Mace turns back to Jaster.
Jango eats quickly, listening to his buir stammer and stumble through a conversation with the Master of the Jedi Order, and stands, glancing at Obi-Wan, offering a hand. “A walk?” he asks.
Obi-Wan has eaten just as quickly, and rises. “This is rather difficult to watch,” he agrees, and takes Jango’s hand.
“Mace wasn’t a candidate for the marriage alliance,” Obi-Wan tells Jango, once they’re free of the others, and Jango nearly walks into a wall at the thought of being married to Mace Windu. Obi-Wan grins, like he knows what Jango is thinking. “Though he is a formidable warrior, and can be quite diplomatic when he’s in the right mood. His position wouldn’t allow for it, the time the Jedi would need to spend on Mandalore. Still, the pair of them, it’s quite something, isn’t it?”
Jango thinks about the look on Jaster’s face when Mace had entered the room, the way he’d never even mentioned the man to Jango—which, for Jaster, means Mace had meant quite a lot to him. “It is,” he agrees, smiling.
“We should endeavor to make sure that they can spend as much time as possible together then,” Obi-Wan says, tone grave but eyes full of mirth.
Jango laughs, and Obi-Wan squeezes his hand. Jango hadn’t realized he was still holding it. It’s nice, he thinks. “We should,” he agrees. “Is it all right that you will be spending so much time on Mandalore?” he asks.
“It is,” Obi-Wan says, smiling. “I told you, I am ready for something different. I can be a Jedi anywhere, if I am needed, and I understand the responsibilities that come with being your riduur.” Something curls through Jango at the Mando’a, the way Obi-Wan’s accent rolls around the word. “I am very charmed by your planet, Jango. And I think I will quite enjoy getting to know your library.”
Of course he will. Jango relaxes. He’d hate for Obi-Wan to miss out on something or be disappointed to stay on Mandalore so much. “Mace told me the name of the form you were practicing,” he says.
“Soresu,” Obi-Wan confirms.
“Do you have many of them?” Jango asks. “Forms for lightsabers?”
“I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details,” Obi-Wan hedges.
Jango squeezes his hand. “I would like to hear about it,” he says, so Obi-Wan tells him, and Jango does find this interesting, but still finds himself getting a little lost in the way Obi-Wan’s voice dances over the words, the way his tone warms and changes. Jango clears his throat, when there’s a lull. “Do you have much occasion to use these other forms?” he asks, trying to be polite. “Outside of training?”
Obi-Wan tilts his head, and drops his hand, which Jango hadn’t wanted. “Ah,” Obi-Wan says. “Do I use the other forms? More than I’d like, I suppose,” he says. “I prefer Soresu, both when training and not. I find it grounding, for training, and effective, in other ways. It suits my style of combat. But it is good to have many skills in one’s repertoire.”
Jango smiles at the notion that his nerdy academic has a preferred style of combat. He picks Obi-Wan’s hand back up. “I don’t mean to insult you,” he says. “I am only curious.”
Obi-Wan looks at their joined hands, and smiles. “Then I appreciate the question,” he says.
It’s the eve of the ceremony, and there is yet another feast. With Jango and Obi-Wan as the honorees, it is much more difficult to escape from the festivities and the awkward flirting between Mace and Jaster, but they manage, toward the end of the night, to escape through a side door and out into Keldabe. Jango’s not wearing his armor, still in his ceremonial clothes, though he has his weapons, of course, and his vambraces. He thinks Myles clocked them, anyway, and is following at a polite enough distance.
He’s introduced Obi-Wan to shig, and they’re on a stone bench in a secluded courtyard, one of Jango’s favorite hidden spots in Keldable. Obi-Wan keeps looking at the sky, smiling, and it takes Jango a moment to recognize the flutter in his heart, why his hands keep reaching over, wanting to touch. He does, finally, extending a hand to Obi-Wan’s face, gently guiding it so they’re facing each other, something settling in his brain, his heart, as he thinks, oh, there it is.
“Hello there,” Obi-Wan says, brow furrowed but eyes light, flicking down to where Jango is touching him. “Everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Jango says. “I was just thinking about how glad I am that we are saying riduurok tomorrow. I’m glad it’s you.”
Obi-Wan tries to turn his face away, but Jango keeps his hold gentle and firm. “That’s kind of you to say,” Obi-Wan says.
“I mean it,” Jango says. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings before. Jaster was right to choose you.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes flick away again. “I’m not anyone’s first choice,” he says.
“You are mine, cyar’ika,” Jango says, firm. He doesn’t care if the Jedi before him isn’t a warrior, he realizes. He’s smart and sharp and kind, and has a heart big enough to hold everyone around him. “You are the best choice for me and for Mandalore. It may have taken me a moment to figure it out.”
“Myles warned me you were a little slow,” Obi-Wan agrees, amused.
“Myles is going to find himself demoted, very soon,” Jango says. “I don’t want to talk about Myles.”
Obi-Wan is smiling, finally.
“I don’t want to talk at all,” Jango admits.
“Oh?” Obi-Wan says, raising his eyebrows, a challenge. “Caught up then, have you?”
So of course, Jango leans in to kiss him, keeping his hand along Obi-Wan’s jaw, breathing him in as their lips slide together, losing time in the feel of Obi-Wan’s skin underneath him, the feeling of Obi-Wan’s fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
Jango pulls his head back. “Does this mean you’ll move into my quarters after tomorrow?” he asks, grinning.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Obi-Wan says, eyes sparkling. “It would take far too long for me to move all of that tea—”
Jango laughs, pulling him back in, kissing him long and slow, and Jango nudges closer, feeling Obi-Wan’s lips against his, tasting faintly of shig, and he thinks he could continue this way for a very long time, but pulls back when Obi-Wan’s hand leaves his neck, when he turns to face the street near them.
“What’s wrong?” Jango asks.
“I thought—” Obi-Wan stops, shaking his head. “I have a bad feeling,” he says.
Jango goes cold. “Did you not want—”
“No!” Obi-Wan says, and presses a quick kiss to Jango’s mouth. “No, not about that. There’s something else, something elusive. I can’t quite get a read on it, it’s almost like—”
Oh, the mysterious Force, Jango supposes. He glances around, but can’t spot Myles. He starts to get his own bad feeling, and tugs Obi-Wan up. “Let’s take a look around,” he suggests.
“You believe me?” Obi-Wan asks.
Jango’s brow furrows. “Of course,” he says, and is surprised when Obi-Wan kisses him again before his eyes dart around the street, scanning. “Anything?”
“No,” Obi-Wan frowns. “Except—”
Jango feels himself suddenly shoved to the ground as Obi-Wan’s lightsaber ignites, so fast that he hadn’t even seen Obi-Wan reach for it. “Obi-Wan?” He hears the whine of several blasters priming, booted footsteps surrounding them on all sides. Jango scrambles for his own blasters, jumping to his feet. Myles will never let him hear the end of it, that he’s left without his armor. “Obi-Wan, you should get yourself—”
“No,” Obi-Wan says, voice gone soft, tone set and serious.
Figures emerge, armor accented in blue. Kyr’tsad colors. There had been Myles’ chatter, but Jango didn’t think there were enough of them left to try something like this. “Mandalore doesn’t need a jetii,” one of them says.
“Perhaps not,” Obi-Wan says. “But she’s getting one all the same. Are you here to register your objections? They are noted, though you’re a bit early for the ceremony. Traditionally—”
Jango nearly groans. Of all the times for an academic speech—
A blaster fires, but the bolt is deflected harmlessly into the ground in a spray of dust. Again, he didn’t even see Obi-Wan move.
“Also noted,” Obi-Wan says.
More blasterfire, and it’s almost like there’s a forcefield around them, Obi-Wan is moving so fast, and it’s all Jango can do not to stand there and gape as he flips and deflects and knocks these di’kutla commandos to the side in mere moments. The commandos lay unconscious or dead on the ground while Jango watches, weapon raised, basically useless.
“Defensive form?” Jango asks, weak. He wants to tug Obi-Wan forward, pull him away from this, kiss him senseless. His beautiful, smart, warrior Jedi—and here Jango thought he was an academic—
“It’s my preferred one,” Obi-Wan agrees. “I found this rather exhilarating, I wonder—” he stops suddenly, freezing, and Jango feels the cold press of a blaster to the back of his neck. “It’s the beskar, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan asks. “It hides you.”
“It does,” says another commando, a new one. “Along with some modifications.”
“Fascinating,” Obi-Wan says. “You’ll have to tell me about it—”
“Shut up, jetii,” the voice says, and the blaster digs deeper into Jango, another one at his back. He doesn’t think he’d be able to reach his blasters in time, but his vambraces have—
“What is it you want,” Obi-Wan says, soft. Jango’s beginning to understand that tone. It’s dangerous, a warning.
“Mandalore doesn’t need a jetii,” the commando echoes. “But if one is being used for a marriage alliance, it will be to Death Watch, and the Republic will—”
“This is quite tedious,” Obi-Wan says. “You expect me to go with you? Marry you? I don’t even know your name, it’s all very forward, I need some time to consider—”
“Pre Vizsla,” the commando snarls, and Jango’s heart sinks. They’d never found Pre, after Tor died. Apparently he’d been busy. “If you don’t, I will kill him and everyone on this street,” Vizsla says, and holds up a detonator.
Obi-Wan goes very, very still. “That would kill more than the people on this street,” he says. “I advise you—”
“I am not looking for your advice,” Vizsla snaps, pushing into Jango. He grunts, involuntarily, at the pressure. “You’re in the way. If I marry you or kill you, it’s all the same to me.” Jango feels his blood turn to ice, and he twitches.
“You make a compelling argument,” Obi-Wan says. “Let him go.”
“Obi-Wan,” Jango says, hoarse. He’s just gotten him, they’ve just figured this out and Obi-Wan may be better with a kad’au than Jango thought, but Vizsla is unpredictable—
“Just like that?” Vizsla asks.
“I am a Jedi,” Obi-Wan says. “You knew that, when you made your threat. Let him go, and I will go with you.”
Jango feels the blaster leave his back. “Obi-Wan,” he says.
“It’s all right, Jango,” Obi-Wan says.
“Leave the kad’au,” Vizsla says. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Very well,” Obi-Wan says, in a tone that suggests he thinks otherwise, and presses his kad’au into Jango’s hands. “Look after that for me, will you, dear?”
Despite the situation, his fear and concern, Jango feels warm all over at the ease with which Obi-Wan has just given him his weapon, wonders if he knows what that means—
“Yes, my darling,” Obi-Wan whispers. “I know what it means.” He presses a kiss to the shell of Jango’s ear. “It's all right, Jango,” he says again, and backs up. “Well, Vizsla, you have me. Are we waiting for your friends to wake up, or—” he chokes back his words when Vizsla slips a cuff around his wrist, other hand going to his head as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Not so funny without your magic, jetii?” Vizsla asks, snide. “If you follow us, Fett, I will kill him—” he holds up the detonator again—“and whoever else is in the way.”
Jango curls his fingers around Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, watching him slip around a corner, a blaster at his back. Jango feels like he’s the idiot, for not seeing what he had in Obi-Wan all along, and now—
He punches into the comm at his vambrace, and gets no response from Myles, but it’s only seconds before Jaster is landing in front of him, Mace held firm at his side. He’d smile at the sight, if he didn’t feel so awful and useless.
“Vizsla took him,” Jango says. “They came after us, and I wasn’t ready, and—”
“It’s all right, Jan’ika,” Jaster soothes. “We’ll find him.”
“They took away the Force,” Jango says, and he can’t relinquish the grip on the lightsaber. “And he had to leave this behind.”
Mace’s eyes have zeroed in on it, and he quirks an eyebrow. “I knew about the Force,” he says, hand going to his own forehead. “And your friend Myles sent out a distress signal. Myles is all right, just unconscious, they got him with some kind of hypo.”
Jaster is glancing around at the still unconscious commandos. There are more of them than Jango realized, easily a dozen of them. “You two took out this group, and you didn’t even have your armor?”
“I didn’t do a thing,” Jango says, tears springing to his eyes. “He just—like it was nothing—”
“I knew you would like him,” Jaster says, grinning over at Mace, who huffs a laugh.
Jango doesn’t understand the two of them, how they’re being so calm—“Aren’t you worried?”
“Of course,” Mace says. “I always worry about Obi-Wan. This does seem to be the way things go for him.” He prods at a commando with his foot, half muttering. “Never does anything halfway. Thought this would be a quiet posting, a nice political alliance surrounded by warriors that might keep him out of trouble so he can read his books in peace. But no, he has to find himself something—”
“What?” Jango grits out. “What are you talking about? He writes papers and acts like he’d be happy living in the library, and he—”
“Killed the first Sith in a millenium,” Mace cuts him off. “Was getting too much attention on Coruscant, and wanted to do something different. He is tired of missions that he doesn’t believe in, that always seem to go wrong in the worst ways. Missions that force him to make difficult choices between something bad or something terrible. He deserves better.”
“He said he wanted a change of pace,” Jango breathes out.
“Believe it or not, this is rather pedestrian for him,” Mace says. “Did you see where he went? We could follow him, but I don’t expect this to take very long, if only one of them has him.”
“Are all of your missions like that?” Jaster asks, and he sounds wounded.
Mace sighs. “They are getting to be,” he says. “We are hoping that with an alliance—”
“We will help you,” Jaster says. “Of course we will help you. You all deserve better than that.”
“That would be nice,” Jango hears, and it’s Obi-Wan, weary and bloodied but alive, and holding—
“Is that Vizsla’s head,” Jango asks, strangled, and Obi-Wan drops it on the ground, and it clangs in the street.
“Apologies, it’s a bit macabre, isn’t it. Old habits, I couldn’t drag the whole body without the Force, and thought—” he stops talking, because Jango is in his space, running his hands over his arms and chest, checking for injuries, and he seems okay—“I’m all right, Jango. A little banged up. And I’d like—could one of you—” he holds up the hand that’s still cuffed by the suppressor.
Jango stares at Obi-Wan’s kad’au, unsure if he should use it to—but Mace steps in with his own, delicately slicing through it, and Obi-Wan slumps into Jango in relief, taking a deep breath.
“The head of the enemy, really, Obi-Wan?” Mace asks, and Obi-Wan lets out a tired chuckle.
“It’s a beautiful gift,” Jaster says. Jango shifts a little where he’s standing, because Jaster’s not wrong.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” Obi-Wan says. “But he wasn’t going to stop—”
“Peace, Obi-Wan,” Mace says, and Jango feels him slump further.
Jango tugs Obi-Wan closer to him, shoring him up. “Change of pace?” he asks. He passes the kad’au back where it belongs, into Obi-Wan’s hands, and presses their foreheads together. They’ll talk more about what it means, later, how it had felt in his hands, but his heart pounds with it. “You never told me you killed a darjetii.”
“I thought it would be quieter here,” Obi-Wan says, and some of the shadows have left his eyes, a smile returning to his face. “And you never asked.”
“I have never felt more useless in a fight. I thought you were a nerdy academic,” Jango says.
“I am a nerdy academic,” Obi-Wan says, prim as one can be when bleeding profusely from a cut above the eyebrow. “I have other skills.”
“You do,” Jango says, wiping his face with a cloth. “You really are perfect for me—”
“I told you to trust me,” Jaster says.
“How convenient that you are also perfect for me,” Obi-Wan says, grinning.
“Say riduurok with me, cyar’ika?” Jango asks.
“Wait a minute,” Jaster starts.
“I’d be delighted,” Obi-Wan says.
“Jan’ika—”
“Mhi solus tome,” Jango starts, and Obi-Wan repeats him as he says the rest—“Mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”
And then Obi-Wan kisses him, smiling into it, hands tangled in Jango’s hair, and it’s perfect, he has the perfect riduur—
“We had a whole ceremony planned, Jango,” Jaster complains, loud and annoyed. “Tomorrow. Hours from now. All our friends and aliit and the dignitaries—”
“We could repeat it,” Jango says. “I don’t mind saying it again.” He kisses Obi-Wan along the jaw.
“Or,” Obi-Wan says, and his eyes flick over at Mace, who’s looking amused. “Or, hear me out.” He looks at Jaster, and then Mace again. Mace’s eyes widen, and then his brow furrows.
Jango grins, realization dawning. “It would be a shame to waste a spectacle.”
“I have it on good authority that the Mand’alor loves a spectacle,” Obi-Wan agrees.
Jaster sighs, long and loud. Obi-Wan pulls away from Jango for a brief moment, whispering in Mace’s ear. Mace closes his eyes, smiles, and presses Obi-Wan to him in a hug before releasing him, turning to Jaster as Obi-Wan returns to Jango’s side, gripping his hand again.
“My riduur is very smart, Buir. You should listen to him,” Jango says, kissing Obi-Wan on the top of the head.
“Jan’ika,” Jaster says, eyes on Mace.
“Jaster,” Jango counters. Jaster has worked so hard for Mandalore, has given the people so much of himself. This will take work, he knows, with Mace’s responsibilities so far away but—he glances at Obi-Wan, who’s grinning up at him like he knows what Jango is thinking—but maybe, Jaster can retire sooner than he expected.
Jaster clears his throat. “Master Windu. Mace. Would you do me the honor of—”
“Yes,” Mace says, before Jaster can even finish, crossing over and touching his forehead to Jaster’s, and it makes Jango wrinkle his nose a little, but Jaster is so happy, Jango can see it in his face, in the way his fingers are curling into Mace’s tunics.
“My goodness, they make a lovely pair, don’t they?” Obi-Wan asks, and laughs when Mace flicks a hand in their direction, a breeze pushing the pair of them back a few steps, Obi-Wan keeping Jango from tumbling to the ground.