Chapter Text
Jango only takes the job because it’s a jetii. His commitment to the Resol'nare is questionable at best: he has no cause to speak his language, no family to protect, no clan to support, and the title of Mand’alor is now but a fractious ruin of the past. He wears the beskar’gam, but that is it. The extent of his devotion to vows once held sacrosanct.
But still. He takes this job only because its a jetii. His honor counts for little these days, and this would be a truly dishonorable act to take against any other target. But jetii have no souls and they have no honor of their own, so perhaps in some perverted way, this is an adherence to the Resol'nare.
“I don’t want him dead. You understand, Fett?” Tyranus’s last words ring in his ear as he spies his target across the bustling crowds of the Senate District’s busiest transport hubs. He’s waited days for his quarry to leave the protection of the Temple, his plan of attack carefully constructed to match both Tyranus’s instructions and everything he knows about Obi-Wan Kenobi.
The man has quite the record. Sealed, of course, to all outside his beloved Order, but easily accessed by one who once walked among them. Tyranus has left little to chance, and Jango is well-armed with knowledge.
It’s that research that stops him from pausing in surprise when he finally gets a good view of the man he has been sent to entrap. He’s expecting a great warrior, someone who carries himself with the confidence that comes from a once in a millennium kill. Instead, he sees a rather ordinary-looking man who clutches the edges of his enormous robe with one hand and rests the other on the shoulder of the vibrating boy at his side.
Jango has no designs on the child. He’s made that perfectly clear to Tyranus. He’ll make full use of the vulnerabilities the boy presents in Kenobi, but he’ll harm no innocent boy.
Oddly, that’s where the components of his belief struggle to reconcile themselves. A jetii is a jetii - monsters one and all. That young Anakin Skywalker is only ten years old should make no difference when ridding the galaxy of their filth. But it does. A weakness he will need to address sooner, rather than later. The child is ten now, but he will grow as Kenobi grew.
And if someone had killed Kenobi as a child, he would never have grown to help the traitor take his buir’s throne.
Jango feels his lip curl in anger and has to remind himself that he’s not wearing beskar’gam. He’s wearing very little, really. Boots and heavy pants, the fabric indulgently expensive. The shirt and jacket he wears both display the delicately embroidered crests of a House Kryze retainer. It’s illegal for anyone not under the traitor’s employ to wear them. Everything Jango is doing right now is illegal, and so he pushes the disgust he feels at his clothing to the back of his mind.
A good disguise - and a good lie - carries as much truth as possible, and Kenobi has a very significant flaw in his armor.
“Will there be speeders in the museum, Master?” The boy at Kenobi’s side bounces excitedly on the balls of his feet.
“I imagine so,” Kenobi chuckles. “I’ve not been for a very long time. I remember they had a wonderful exhibit on Shyriiwook poetry - some of the Thykarann texts were quite extraordinary.”
Skywalker pulls the exact face Jango wants to make. “Wookies have poetry?”
“Of course. I doubt there is a spoken language in existence that does not.”
“Gardulla’s palace had a lot of drinking songs,” Skywalker wrinkles his nose further.
It’s a subtle movement, but Kenobi pulls the boy closer to his side. “I’m merely arguing its existence, not its quality,” Kenobi says dryly. “And please don’t go teaching them to any of your agemates.”
“Of course not, Master,” Skywalker says, his sabacc face breaking to reveal a cheeky grin below the surface.
“Hmm. Come along now, Anakin. I’ve promised Master Ali-Alan I’d have you back in time for evening meditations and there is much to see.” Kenobi picks up the pace, forcing Jango to do the same in order to keep them in hearing distance. He sees Kenobi clock his presence and forces every urge he has to put a blaster bolt between his eyes down down down until only the very serenity of battle settles over his nerves. It’s hard to fly under a jetii’s radar, but Jango has had practice.
Skywalker has no problem keeping pace, often moving ahead of his Master in his excitement. “Can’t I meditate with you?”
“Soon,” Obi-Wan promises. “But not yet.”
The child’s expression falls. “I’m working really hard, I swear! I won’t be a bother!”
Kenobi looks surprised. “I know you are, Padawan: I’m very proud of you.”
Skywalker lights up in delight, his small face aglow with pride and adoration. The boy hangs on Kenobi’s every word, and likewise, Kenobi looks equally as soft when speaking to his student.
The Skywalker goes and continues. “So why can’t I meditate with you? Other Padawans meditate with their Masters!”
“I know, Anakin. Do not trouble yourself, and do not rush so quickly towards your goal. There will come a time when the very last thing you want to do is meditate with your Master.” Skywalker is walking backward and narrowly avoids walking into a passing Twi’lek. “Now do try and remember that you are a Jedi, not a rampaging gundark. Face forward please, and try not to run anyone over before we get there.”
“Yes, Master,” Skywalker’s eyeroll is impressively dramatic.
With a location confirmed, Jango stops at a nearby refreshment stand and orders a caf. With it in hand, he wanders to the low wall that runs along the wide walkway leading to the museum. He’s fine with Kenobi clocking his presence, but the jetii will be more at ease with a coincidental second run in than he will with Jango following him all the way inside.
Besides. It's good caf. For Coruscant.
He gives it ten minutes, then heads back on his hunt.
Tyranus doesn’t want Kenobi dead, but he does want him alienated from his precious order. Isolated. He wants Kenobi by his side for some reason, seeing something within him that deserves to be saved from the corrupting influence of the jetii. The direct approach will not work - he has no relationship with Kenobi himself, just a tentative connection via a man whose memory only tightens Kenobi’s leash to the Order.
And so it falls to Jango. Not to do what first comes to mind when ordered to disable an enemy, but rather the opposite. There will be no forcing Kenobi onto this new path. No, he needs to choose it for himself.
Or at least believe that he has.
Jango has never actively set out with the intent to seduce someone for a job before. He’s fucked people for information, for credits, for fun, but not this. And not with a jetii. At least Kenobi is easy on the eyes. A little too prim and proper, a little too rigid, but pull that stick out of his ass and he’ll at least make for an entertaining night or two.
He pays for his entry ticket, knowing Kenobi and the boy will have been waved past the line. Jetii don’t pay for things the way the rest of the damn galaxy does.
Once inside, it’s easy enough to find them. Skywalker’s enthusiasm is loud, despite Kenobi’s instructions, and he flitters around between exhibits in excitement.
“Have you flown one of these before?”
“Yes, Anakin.”
“What about this one?”
“No, Anakin.”
“What about this one?”
“No one sane flys a Desert 86-00,” Jango says, stepping into the conversation with an easy smile.
Kenobi turns to him, polite and alert. He recognizes Jango from the street outside, but this time he is close enough to identify the house crest on his jacket.
That recognition is rewarded, somewhat surprisingly, by an incline of Kenobi’s head and a word-perfect Concordian greeting. “Well met, Mando. My apologies for disturbing your observations - my apprentice is young and this is his first time in a museum.”
He knows Kenobi has every reason to speak Mando’a, but Jango is still caught off guard.
Skywalker, pulled away from his excitement by the conversation, edges closer to Kenobi, and looks at Jango with that same curiosity. Oh, to be young.
“What language was that?” Skywalker asks.
“Mando’a,” Jango answers him, “impressively spoken, Jetii.” It’s an effort not to spit the world like the insult it is. “You don’t find many in the Core who speak it.”
Kenobi accepts the compliment with a wry little smile. “I traveled extensively in my youth,” he answers.
“It’s served you well, Master-”
Kenobi shakes his head. “I am only a Knight. Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service.”
“And I’m Anakin Skywalker.” Kenobi puts his hand on Skywalker's shoulder and makes a valiant effort not to smile at him.
Jango bows respectfully to them both. “Well met, Knight Kenobi, Young Skywalker. I am Jango.” His name is common enough not to draw comparisons to a dead man.
“You serve Clan Kryze?” Kenobi asks, his eyes on the embroidered crest.
“In a way,” Jango nods. “I am a political aide.” He offers the lie with a smile and prolonged eye contact.
Kenobi isn’t stupid. Jango carries himself as a warrior and knows the jetii recognizes as much. When he says political aide, what he implies is bodyguard. It’s a carefully constructed lie with just enough truth to be believable. Jango does offer his services as such on occasion. And by aligning himself with the traitor, he enjoys the warmth that associations brings with it, and excuses his physical presence.
“Not a position I envy, friend,” Kenobi says kindly.
Mandalore is and will remain a neutral system, but their politicians often have cause to visit the Republic, especially in the wake of a monumental political upheaval the likes of which has just occurred.
“You’re a Mandalorian!” Skywalker suddenly exclaims. “I heard about you guys! Some of the traders in Mos Eisley hired a bunch of you to deal with poachers - you’re awesome.”
“You probably have a more favorable opinion than most of your kind, young Jedi,” Jango says carefully.
“You’d be surprised,” Kenobi’s voice is soft, almost sad. Jango is close enough to see the smudge of his dark lashes and the shocking blue of his eyes. He has the same coloring and features as the Usurpers and it doesn’t help his cause.
Pretty enough though, in a soft, civilized sort of way. The enormous robes do him no favors, swallowing him in a shapeless mass from the neck down.
“So,” he clears his head and regains his focus, “first time in a museum, huh?”
“I’ve only been here a few weeks,” Skywalker says, shrugging. “This is the first time we’ve had a day off. Master Obi-Wan said we can go to a diner after!”
Jango laughs. “You should go to Dex’s. He does the best nerfburgers.”
Kenobi rolls his eyes so fast he has to hurt something. “Dex doesn’t typically cater to political aides,” Kenobi says pointedly. It’s almost sharp and absolutely curious.
Gotcha, Jango thinks. Curiosity killed the jetii. Or in this case, lured him into Jango’s bed.
“Didn’t think he liked Jedi much, either,” Jango raises an eyebrow.
Skywalker, between them, looks back and forth at Jango and his Master before his face settles into something mischievous.
“Can we go to Dex’s, Master?”
“We were going to Dex’s,” Kenobi sighs.
“Can Jango come too?”
At this rate, Jango is going to have to split his chit with the kid.
“I’m sure he has better things to do,” Kenobi shoots Jango a look that manages to be both apologetic and cautionary.
Jango ignores it. “Not really. Did you know that it’s thought the origin of Mando’a actually comes from Coruscant?” He asks Skywalker the question, not Kenobi. “The Dha Werda Verda - great Taung warriors who fought the human battalions of Zhell on this ground, thousands of years ago.”
“Cool!”
“There’s an exhibit of ancient Taung texts up ahead - it’s what brought me here. We should visit before leaving.”
“Yes!” Skywalker blasts off like a land speeder, one hand fastened in the sleeve of Kenobi’s robe. “Come on, Master!”
“Slow down, Anakin!” Kenobi scolds. “Remember your classes. Jedi do not dash about like rampaging beasts.” He looks physically pained by the boy’s rambunctiousness.
“Unless they’re being shot at,” Jango smirks, pleased with himself when the corner of Kenobi’s lip twitches.
“Sorry, Master,” Skywalker says, subdued for all of a second before he spots something else of interest and breaks away to investigate.
Kenobi sighs heavily.
“Kid’s rocket fuel between his toes,” Jango aims for sympathetic. It’s not his strong suit, but he thinks he lands somewhere near target.
“This is all very new to the both of us,’ he admits softly. Then, seeming to remember where they are and that Jango is a complete stranger, he shakes his head. “Please do not think me rude, but I don’t feel particularly comfortable taking you away from your plans.” He phrases it in a way that implies he feels bad about distracting Jango, but Jango understands the truth of what goes unspoken. He’s uncomfortable with Jango, not the imposition.
Good. He’ll be a lot more uncomfortable by the time they are done.
“You think you can teach the kid better Mando’a than I can?” Jango raises a pointed eyebrow.
“I - what?”
“Exactly.” Jango gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder and forces himself to ignore the subtle flinch that follows. “Hey kid,” he calls after Skywalker, leaving Kenobi still and stunned in his wake. “You wanna learn some Mando’a?”
Skywalker bounces back over and beams at him. “Yes!”
Jango pauses and contemplates the fastest way past Kenobi’s polite facade. “Okay, repeated after me: Ne-”
“Ne.”
“-shab-”
“Shab.”
“-rud-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Kenobi scowls at him.
Jango grins right back, holds Kenobi’s gaze, and says, “-ni.”
“Ni. Ne shab’rud’ni. What does that mean?”
“It means burgers are on our new friend here,” Kenobi crosses his arms over his chest. Beneath that stern surface, something bright flickers.
Jango shrugs. Fine by him. Leaning closer as to not be overheard by the kid, Jango lowers his voice and whispers softly in Kenobi’s ear. Mando’a isn’t a particularly romantic language, but it’s highly visual. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very pretty when you’re angry?”
He can pinpoint the exact second Kenobi’s brain trips over itself.
It’s rather sad, really. Jango usually has to try harder than this - although less clothing requires less effort.
“Okay,” He turns back to Skywalker. “Try this one: iba’shabuir.”