Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were very few politicians that Obi-Wan Kenobi admired, and his criteria might not be the same as the rest of his lineage. In fact he was certain it wasn’t. Still, they had all been trained as Consular Jedi, despite the fact that Feemor was a Watchman, Xanatos had fallen, and Yan Dooku had resigned from the Order and retired to be a planetary leader, as one does.

All politicians wanted power. Most wanted it for their own ends, which may or may not conflict with the good of the people they were meant to serve, represent, lead, or protect. And a few, those beautiful few, wanted power solely to do good for their people and were content to let everyone else take care of themselves, more or less. They did not seek to conquer, nor meddle, and they might help if the circumstances and their own values merited it.

Obi-Wan kept a list, actually.

It started as a little research project he’d done in the archives as an Initiate, and every time he heard of another planet or system with another way of governing he would add more data, do a little more digging and end up inevitably discovering another way to not govern well. 

It had just been a little side project until Master Qui-Gon had finally accepted him as his padawan, and then every mission they went on added more to his database of corruption and villainy.

It was with pain and horror that sometimes Obi-Wan found out just how complicit the Jedi Order was in it all.

Galidraan was perhaps the most recent example of blind violence in the service of a Senate request that was stupid at best and criminally malicious at worst. And when Obi-Wan had discovered the fracas that was Galidraan (not that anyone wanted to talk about it much, but Quinlan and his former Master had been very illuminating when all other sources were mum on the subject)... it was then that Obi-Wan decided that he really did need to know everything he could about Mandalore, more than he had known when he spent his seventeenth year there, protecting the pacifist duchess who in turn entranced and infuriated him.

Another politician he did not actually admire.

Still, Obi-Wan followed politics with interest, despite the rampant villany, perhaps because he was always on the lookout for that one good politician. 

The live ones, preferably.

He’d found plenty of dead ones, and that was part of the ultimate tragedy of Galidraan, and before it Korda VI, he supposed. Not only was the Jedi Order tricked into killing innocents, they’d wiped out a moderate faction with a truly decent leader. 

Obi-Wan sighed to think of it whenever he was reminded of it. March on in peace, Jaster Mereel. May you find rest in the Manda you could not find in life. 

In fact, he’d only just updated his database, as he discovered that Mereel’s adopted son had returned to a portion of Mandalore that the current Republic-recognized government didn’t occupy, and had begun uniting the clans again under his banner. He hadn’t yet made a move on Sundari, the city from which the duchess governed, but she apparently thought it was inevitable. She had requested the Senate send Jedi to talk to these new ‘insurgents’ and indeed, she had asked for Obi-Wan specifically.

The Senate turned her down, which Obi-Wan learned from the duchess herself when she just asked him directly if he would come, and the entire thing had led to more digging.

And significant meditation.

There was an odd sense that he would be going to Mandalore soon, but the Force seemed to absolutely abhor the idea of doing it at the behest of Sundari and their government, not that he could just up and leave.

This spawned even more meditation.

And just of late, just since Satine had contacted him, his meditations seemed somewhat deeper. It was with chagrin he admitted during a late night chat with his dear friend Bant, after Anakin was asleep, that it had been incredibly hard to corral Anakin in the last few years in particular and his own practices had been taking a corresponding hit.

Bant had glared at him. She was particularly good at glaring, given her biology as a Mon Calamari.

“Obes. Seriously. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Reconnect to your meditation and your saber practice. You owe it to yourself to keep yourself extra sane. Your padawan is enough to drive anyone up the wall.”

Well.

That was probably true.

Not that Anakin was any worse than Obi-Wan himself had been, and he had certainly been a trial to Master Qui-Gon.

That night he had spent an hour trying to go as deep in his meditations as he used to, years ago really, before Master Qui-Gon died. The experience of trying to sink himself into the Unifying Force was… horrible. It was meant to be relaxing and restful and all things good, and instead it was brutal and awful and it felt like everything was resisting him in every way.

The next morning after Anakin was out of their quarters and attending a class, he tried again and it was easier. Not as simple as it used to be, not like just taking a deep breath and breathing out tension, but it was not nearly so bad the second time, all alone.

Obi-Wan thought the problem was solved, until he required his padawan meditate with him, seated and still, after dinner.

This was something that the young Master had largely stopped doing; their bond was stronger than his ever had been with Qui-Gon, and Anakin far preferred to meditate while repairing something mechanical, so Obi-Wan left him to it.

So this was new.

And newly horrible.

It wasn’t just that Anakin was struggling. He was, of course. The boy was genuinely doing his best, and making an effort. But meditating like this, it went deeper than their bond could naturally be in every other circumstance.

And Anakin’s emotions were everywhere. And they were dark.

It was a good thing Obi-Wan had already spent more time than usual in meditation because he could very easily drop his shock and horror into the Force and clear them away before they were brought to Anakin’s attention.

Being shocked and horrified wouldn’t help in this situation, anyway.

Anakin was letting fear, resentment, and hatred rule him, when he wasn’t obsessing about the twenty-year old Senator from Naboo who he was apparently desperately in love with.

Obi-Wan patiently worked with his padawan to help release the negative emotion into the Force, the same exercise he’d thought Anakin was doing as he tinkered with broken things.

They worked for an hour that night, and an hour the next, and an hour the night after that. And into the next week, and the next, and the next. And no matter how much darkness Obi-Wan knew Anakin was releasing, there seemed to be an unending supply.

At his wit’s end, Obi-Wan finally just observed, providing gentle support while Anakin did it himself during their shared post-dinner meditation hour.

And that’s when he saw them more clearly than ever.

Anakin Skywalker didn’t have the same quantity of bonds in the Force that Obi-Wan had, though admittedly Obi-Wan did bond with others very easily. But Obi-Wan was also raised in the creche, in the Temple on Coruscant. He still had a strong Force bond of love and friendship with each one of his creche mates and masters. He had fewer bonds with his Initiate clan, due to the bullying there, but he’d bonded so easily with nearly everyone he found himself enduring anything with on a mission.

He’d even bonded with Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore, for all that she was mostly not a friend and he disagreed with her more often than he agreed.

For comparison's sake, Obi-Wan took a moment to count all of his active bonds. He had two hundred and thirty-five.

Anakin had exactly four bonds.

He had the current bond that Obi-Wan was using to help him meditate.

He had a very strong bond with his mother, Shmi, who was slightly Force Sensitive, and seemed to be often activating the bond on her side, mostly sending love, but often concern and fear.

He had a surprisingly strong bond with Senator Amadala and Obi-Wan didn’t even need to probe it at all to see that the twenty year old Senator had been encouraging and reciprocating Anakin’s infatuation.

That would be the end of enough, had there been only three bonds. But there weren’t just three.

The fourth bond was dark, and Obi-Wan dared not probe it at all. He couldn’t see who it was with, but it was powerful, it was ugly, and it was actively pumping into Anakin more and more dark emotion to replace what Anakin was diligently getting rid of.

It was hard not to panic.

It might not actually be a Sith. It mightn’t. This is what he told himself as Obi-Wan himself dumped portion after portion of panic into the Force until he was calm again.

Sith, after all, were a doctrinal ritual cult aimed at giving powerful Force Sensitive people even more power through the dark side of the Force.

It might just be a darksider. It mightn’t be an actual Sith who has latched onto my padawan.

When Anakin was finally gone to bed that night, Obi-Wan searched out Quinlan, who once he began to explain things, begged for Master Tholme to be included in on the conversation.

It was horribly embarrassing to have to admit to the two Shadow-trained Jedi his own shortcomings in not closely monitoring Anakin’s meditations for so long, but Obi-Wan was very used to failing grossly, and there was nothing for it but to pick oneself up, dust oneself off, and be determined to do better next time.

And this was next time.

He would not fail Anakin again.

The discussion with the two Shadow Jedi went into the night but by the time Obi-Wan slept, they had plans A, B, and C. And as part of each of these plans they would tread very, very carefully to not alert whichever sith or darksider bonded to the padawan that they knew of the bond’s existence.

Anakin would start wearing a Force suppression ring to help naturally weaken the dark bond, foregoing both sparring and leaving the Temple at all. He could take it off only to meditate and strengthen the bond with his mother and Obi-Wan.

Kenobi had no intention of mentioning the bond with the Senator from Naboo. That it might also weaken was just a bonus.

Obi-Wan would submit the status change for himself from Consular Jedi to Wandering Jedi. This way he would no longer be sent on missions by the Senate and could requisition a small ship, supplies, and be granted a greater stipend to do the work of wandering through the Outer Rim helping those in need as the Force dictated.

This would accomplish three important things.

It would give him the funds and ability to get Anakin away from the individual he and the Shadows suspected had created the dark bond.

It would give him the freedom to not be pushed again and again into the company of Padme Amadala.

It would give him the opportunity to allow Anakin to visit his mother, and free her from slavery, something that was a constant worry for the boy.

And this would be enough to save his own padawan. As Anakin’s safety and wellbeing were entirely his responsibility, this was Obi-Wan’s first priority. It wouldn’t likely be easy and Anakin was sure to hate being grounded to the Temple until Obi-Wan’s status was changed and they could prepare to leave, but it would work.

It couldn’t end there, though.

Anakin was special, of course, and obscenely powerful, yes. But there were others in the Temple who were young, vulnerable, and powerful and who might be groomed in Anakin’s place. And if Obi-Wan removed Anakin from the field, the one who had created the bond might just start over with another child.

After an evening meditation in which the Shadows had joined them, ostensibly to verify the dark bond, but also to very gently make themselves aware of the exact force signature of the bond maker, Obi-Wan convinced Anakin to put the ring on.

“Master, it’s so quiet,” the padawan said in wonder, and not at all seeming to be upset about the fact.

Obi-Wan had plenty of experience with Force suppression items, even if the slave collar on Bandomeer was his first time, at twelve. It hadn’t been his last, and he hadn’t felt remotely relieved about the experience.

Then again, he’d never bonded with a sith, either. Perhaps the reprieve was quite pleasant.

And slowly, gently, Obi-Wan explained why it was so nice that it was quiet. Quin and Tholme sat quietly, verifying and sometimes clarifying what Kenobi told his padawan.

Anakin sat in silence for a long while, tears leaking from his eyes.

“It was… I mean… It seemed… But sith only lie, right?”

Obi-Wan sighed. Anakin was absolutely not cut out to be a Consular Jedi. He was too credulous by half. This stint as a Wandering Jedi would likely do him nothing but good.

“Padawan, the most effective lies are one hundred percent truthful, but simply out of context, half the story, or irrelevant. They mislead you. You remember we were discussing Mandalore? The Republic-recognized government seems in the documents to be ideal. It’s peaceful, successful, and moderately prosperous. And up rises a so-called warlord who is occupying part of the planet and claims to be the rightful ruler. But that’s not the whole story, and if you only listen to one side, you end up hearing lies and propaganda.”

“Right,” Anakin said slowly. “Because the ‘warlord’ is actually espousing the moderate views from during the civil war. One extremist faction and the moderates were subdued, leaving the other extremist faction the only one left standing. And extremists never listen. Is he really a warlord?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Not hearing his side of the story, we have no way of knowing for certain, but what we do know paints a picture and we would do well to look at where the paint is, but also where the gaps, holes, and whitespace remain. The Republic doesn’t recognize them, the Duchess of Mandalore is extremely biased against him, and we don’t get the view from the moderates who have every reason to hate the Republic and the Jedi Order for reasons we can discuss later. However, think for a moment on this example. How do you think it relates to a sith, or a darksider who might be grooming you? Someone who wants your trust, someone who wants you to grow to resent and hate me, and others here, and the Order itself?”

Anakin was silent for a long time, but despite the force suppression ring that cut their connection, Obi-Wan could tell he was considering the question.

Finally, Anakin whispered, “Chancellor Palpatine told me that you’d never let me be with Padme. That you wouldn’t care if Mom died, or was mistreated.”

And there it was.

Tholme and Quin could deal with the fallout of Sheev Palpatine being slightly worse than the baseline corrupt politician. That was not his problem.

“Anakin, our first stop will be Tatooine, and our priority will be to buy out your mother’s contract and help her set up a new life. If she wishes, that could be on Tatooine, but I have some friends on Alderaan who could help her resettle.”

The teen’s eyes lit up. “We could take her to Naboo! Padme would help! I know she would!”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. “Sheev Palpatine is from Naboo, Anakin. I would not relocate your mother to his seat of power.”

The boy looked crestfallen. “Oh. Right. That does make sense.”

“Let me be clear about what you’ve said before, though. Palpatine was lying, and it sounds like he was basing his lies on the attachment teachings.” Obi-Wan took a deep breath and once again lectured his padawan on what attachments actually were, and what they were not. 

“If, once you are of age, you and Senator Amadala wish to pursue an intimate relationship, you can do that. A member of the Council is married. Also, you are allowed to leave the Order, Anakin.”

“But Master, I want to become a Jedi Knight!” the young man wailed, having missed the salient point.

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “And, if you and she are content to wait until you become a Knight, you can still do that. You can become a Wandering Jedi working the Outer Rim, which Naboo is functionally a part of anyway. You could keep your relationship quiet, continue to do good in the galaxy, and report into the Temple annually. Or you could just resign from the Order as a Knight in order to be with her full time. Or you could petition the Council for permission to marry the Senator and wait patiently while they argue the fine points into the ground. You have options, Anakin.”

“So you’ll let me be with Padme?”

Obi-Wan did not sigh. “Anakin, you are fifteen. The Senator is twenty. When you’re thirty and she’s thirty-five, this won’t be much of an age gap. Right now, it’s a profound age-gap. She is not a minor and you are.”

Forestalling the objections he could see on his face, Obi-Wan continued.

“Yes, I understand, at fifteen she had already been Queen of her planet. At fifteen I had already been a general in a war. That only makes the situation worse Anakin. Such responsibility, which you have not borne, functionally increases the age gap. At fifteen, both the Senator and myself were acting like thirty or forty year olds. 

“Once you become a Knight it is entirely up to you whom you sleep with and what intimate relationships you have. And once you come of age at eighteen, if it doesn’t compromise our missions or our status you can have that limited freedom to do the same. But right now? At fifteen? With the Senator functionally age forty-five? No.

“No, Anakin.”

“But Master!” he wailed, clearly heartbroken.

“You can ask her to wait for you. And if she loves you, three years will be easy for her. But not a minute sooner, Anakin.”

And then Anakin exited to his bedroom, stage left, and Obi-Wan could hear his pained sobbing through the door.

“You know, I think that went really well,” Quinlan said philosophically.

Obi-Wan rubbed his hand over his face.

“It really could have been so much worse,” Tholme pointed out.

Kenobi just grunted.

Seeking-excitement-energy.

Quinlan could feel Master Tholme, and he felt like he did at the beginning of a mission. As a Knight, he didn’t still have his padawan bond with the Jedi, but they had agreed on a lesser bond that still helped them to coordinate when they worked together, which was not infrequently.

“No, no, my fine Knight, we are not finished for the evening,” Master Tholme said to his former padawan as they walked through the quiet, dark halls, nodding to nocturnal Jedi going about their business of a night. “A meeting in my quarters in half an hour. Invite Master Koon, then go to the refectory and fetch some of those biscuits Master Windu likes, plus a carafe of caf and a few sanberry gel packs with straws. I’ll invite the others we need. We have much to do this evening, and into the morning. We may be able to catch a few hours before the Council meeting, but we will certainly sleep well tomorrow evening.

“Probably,” he amended.

Quinlan scoffed and grinned. “Is this a ‘we’ll sleep when we’re in hyperspace’ situation, Master Tholme?”

“Mmm, possibly.”

The Knight went off to do his bidding and Tholme peeled off down a different corridor to see if the Head Archivist was yet asleep, or if he wasn’t mistaken about her habits, still reading of an evening.

She invited him in with a single raised eyebrow, wrapped in a comfortable evening robe. Once the door was closed behind him, he spoke.

“There is a situation you and others should be apprised of. It cannot wait. Will you consent to a meeting as immediately as possible in my quarters?”

Both eyebrows went up. “I will. Is there anything I need to bring?”

Tholme shook his head.

“I presume this is something that is coming before the Council in the morning?”

“Oh, yes. For better or for worse, the Council will have full knowledge and make their decision.”

“Well, that sounds ominous,” Jocasta Nu pointed out, dryly.

“It should. I must go gather another,” Tholme said, excusing himself.

“I’ll be along shortly,” she said, closing the door behind him.

And now, another door, another Master Jedi, and one that seemed to be constantly underutilized.

Perhaps Tholme could put an end to that, tonight.

Mace Windu opened the door, fully dressed with his lightsaber hanging from a fully loaded utility belt. “The answer is yes. Where are we going?”

Tholme smiled. One last door to knock on.

Mace had his eyes closed, listening intently, and yet also focusing on the dizzying array of connections he could see in the Force. So many lines of tension, binding the situation almost irrevocably onto its present course of darkness.

And yet there was something missing, something he had noticed before in his meditations that was no longer there. It wasn’t that the entire galaxy was lighter than it had been, it was more that fully half the matrix of connections had broken away and had not yet been replaced.

If they weren’t careful, it would be.

He had seen all of this before, even though he hadn’t understood so much of it. But he could see clearly enough then that no matter how good people tried to do good things, the matrix of tension and connection was never destabilized.

And now… now he understood who held some of those lines of tension, and perhaps who had orchestrated them all to begin with.

They had laid out plans A, B, and C to Mace and the other assembled Masters. 

No one needed to describe the specter of the small green tyrant in the room, as it was a lesson they all learned well in the creche: one does not argue with Master Yoda. 

Plan A involved winning an argument with Master Yoda.

Plan B involved partially winning an argument with Master Yoda.

Plan C involved the inevitability of losing an argument with Master Yoda.

Mace could see clearly enough that there was no shatterpoint associated with the Council meeting. It would not matter what they decided, now. 

The shatterpoint was here, now, coming up almost immediately. He could feel it burgeoning. He could barely breathe. It was the largest shatterpoint he’d ever been involved in.

The conversation went on, regardless, as it should, as it needed to, despite the complete overwhelment he felt, the emotions and feelings he dutifully shunted into the Force again and again and again.

Regardless of which plan won the day tomorrow, the Archives would need to be prepared to move. The entire Archives. Just precisely where was yet to be agreed upon.

And all the children, all the children would need to be removed from the Temple on Coruscant. Along with most of the creche masters, clan masters, teachers, and the battle master, plus several medics and chefs. This was both easier and more difficult than moving the Archives. Children were inherently mobile, and the creche Master had ultimate authority over the all the children, creche and initiates, if said Master deemed there was a credible threat.

And a potential sith targeting Temple younglings on Coruscant, bonding with them and working to turn them was undeniably a credible threat. That the potential sith had functionally unlimited power as the Chancellor of the Republic, with the Order under Senate control, turned the situation into a clear and present danger certainly to the children, but also the adults.

The Wookiee Master of the Creche understood that very well, indeed.

The problem with the children’s evacuation was that one hundred twenty-three of them were officially wards of the Jedi High Council. Seventeen of them had parents who still retained their guardianship. 

And if they lost an argument with Master Yoda, which was likely to the point of inevitable, the Order would chase them down to drag the children back.

Unless…

It was coming. The shatterpoint was coming. Almost. He would not stay silent. There would be no one who would argue against him, this time. He was here because they wanted his insight. They wanted him to strike this shatterpoint in the perfect way that he could, when he was allowed to do so.

Unless between now and then they could be found guardians. For preference, very dangerous guardians who would easily love and adopt them, allow their continued training, and were not themselves members of the Republic.

Quinlan’s life as a chaos gremlin was about as perfect as it could be. His work as a Shadow Jedi fed his need to know everything and quietly manipulate reality to create a better outcome.

Not that he had entirely outgrown his childhood love of pranks, but it had given him a fantastic foundation for his work as a spy. Still, sometimes people and their responses fell through his gaps. This happened most frequently with Masters who were only a little older than him, and Masters he had quietly categorized as ‘do not kriff with’.

Madam Nu, the austere, forbidding, and frankly terrifying Head of Jedi Archives fell into the latter category.

“I… hesitate to say this. I was intending to bring it to the Council in several days when the schedule was lighter, but perhaps now is the time and here is the place,” Madam Nu said haltingly, unlike her in every way.

“Master Koon, you know how grieved I was when Yan Dooku left the Order six years ago. I understood his reasons and he had long counseled that the Order was too much in the pocket of the Senate and we certainly see that is true. He, Sifo-Dyas, and I were creche mates, in the same Initiate clan. And when we heard that Yan had died, I was so confused. I-”

The older woman cut herself off and Quinlan did his best to keep a straight face. It just wasn’t part of the Kiffar’s world view to include a vision of Madam Nu weeping over her childhood friends.

“Excuse me,” she said, taking a moment and gathering herself. On a deep exhale she seemed calmer again, and felt it. “I was shocked, because I hadn’t felt him die. We had a strong bond, the three of us. So I reached out and I couldn’t feel my connection to Sy, either. So he is either also dead, at the bottom of a beskar mine, or… or he fell to the dark side, as Yan did,” she ended, quietly dropping her thermal detonator.

No one spoke. No one needed to. The shock was totally palpable. And Master Tholme wasn’t shielding his connection, either, so Quin knew that his shock was mixed with resignation, which meant he maybe had suspected it.

“His estate sent his lightsaber back to the archive. I can’t believe he meant for them to do it. Perhaps it was a very old request, left over from his younger years. His saber… his crystal… he bled it. I could hear it screaming the moment I opened the box, which had a beskar mesh.

“I don’t know how far he fell, and what he may have gotten up to in the last years,” she said, her voice quiet and measured, her gaze on the ground and her eyes wet. “I am absolutely certain that however far it was, he masked himself from me, and possibly Sy, muffling our connections so much that I didn’t even notice when he died. I’ve already purified the crystal. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t bear to hear it screaming,” she said, choking on the words.

It was a long while before anyone spoke, but the Wookiee who was possibly old enough to have been Madam Nu’s creche master got up from where he was sitting, crossed the space and kneeled down before the archivist, silently enveloped her in one of his best hugs.

Master Windu broke the silence, once the creche master had returned to his chair.

“This makes things even clearer. Something happened when Yan Dooku died. I don’t know if the reports were true on how it happened, but it was a very large shatterpoint that made this galaxy… not lighter. There is still great darkness, and as far as I can tell, still roughly the same amount. But fully half of a matrix that was keeping the galaxy in darkness and on a course to even greater darkness just disappeared.

He was quiet for a moment. And then he spoke again. “And now we tackle the other half. We need the Mandalorians. The ones led by the warlord, not the pacifist group. It needs to be Master Kenobi who goes and treats for us. That’s the only place the Order guarded children will be perfectly safe from the threat of the sith. It’s the only place Skywalker will be safe until his mind is his own again. It’s the only place the Archive will be safe.

“It is the only way the galaxy has a chance to get lighter again.”

Quinlan had to hand it to him. Master Windu knew when to drop his own bombs.

Master Tholme spoke. “Jango Fett was the most dangerous being in the galaxy before he became Mand’alor. That has not lessened since the clans have united under his House. He has no love for the Jedi, and nor would any of us blame him for his stance. Sending Kenobi in with a troubled padawan is going to be a death sentence. Possibly for both of them. They’ll shoot them down as soon as they enter Mandalorian space. I don’t argue against the Mandalorians, you understand, but is there a way we can do this that doesn’t condemn Master Kenobi?”

“Mmm,” Madam Nu said. “They won’t shoot first, not if Kenobi comes bearing ancient beskar to repatriate. Particularly Tarre Vizsla’s armor.”

Master Windu was nodding.

The creche master pointed out that it was too dangerous to send the children with the vanguard.

Master Windu spoke. “It doesn’t need to happen all at once, but on whatever terms we can get from Fett, it’s a deal we should take. And if Kenobi and Skywalker aren’t gone by tomorrow night, they’ll have missed their window. Palpatine might take another child in his place if he can, but now that I know what it is, I can feel his bond to the padawan from here. Or his attempt at one. I’m certain he is quite aware that the bond is missing and he’s probably already taking measures.”

They agreed to that, and other preparations. The packing of the armor. Some that would go with the children, in a week, some that would go with Kenobi and Skywalker when they left in the afternoon.

They agreed upon how and what to do when tomorrow’s council meeting inevitably fell to plan C. Masters Windu and Koon would send their resignations from the council and their redefinition to Wandering status just before the jump to hyperspace. The creche master would go directly to Alderaan with some support staff and the few children who still had guardians somewhere out in the galaxy. The rest of the children would go in three crafts, with support staff, and Windu, Koon, and Drallig would lead each group. Nu would follow in two weeks with her staff, first to Alderaan, then hopefully without much delay, to Mandalore.

Tholme and Vos would stay, communicate with each Master who had a padawan and see if the Order could be brought slowly and gently to its senses.

No one in the room rated the chances very high, but it was worth the effort, and each Master with a padawan had a right to know, regardless of the Council decision.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi travelled light. He owned one set of clothes, seven knives, a canteen, a satchel and his lightsaber. He also had a datapad, a comm unit, several clips of data, and one security rod, but those hardly felt like possessions. And they fit in the satchel, besides. In a pinch, everything but the canteen and the datapad fit into discrete and sometimes awkwardly placed pockets and scabbards on his person.

And really, he could stuff even the datapad and the canteen in his sash, though that was awkward for fighting and the satchel was a better idea.

When his friends gave gifts, they always gave consumable ones, or a holo that could be stored on his data clip, and so despite enjoying his life and giving and getting gifts over the years, none of it had materially increased the number of goods he called his own.

To these possessions, Obi-Wan had recently requisitioned four more knives with sheaths for Anakin to begin training with, two sets of force suppressing cuffs in case either one of them happened upon a sith lord, a small sharpening stone for each of them, and an extra force suppressing ring because he just had a feeling Anakin would ‘lose’ his in a fit of pique at some point. He didn’t ask for, but received, two sewing kits that were roughly half the size of his canteen which were apparently mandatory for Wandering Jedi.

Well, perhaps Anakin knew how to sew. Obi-Wan would download a module on sewing and clothes repair before they left.

Anakin was not planning on travelling light. He was planning on bringing every single mechanical object and project he had worked on since he was nine.

After a brief argument, it was agreed he could take one to continue working on while they travelled. The padawan only agreed after Obi-Wan solemnly swore that he would make sure wherever they landed that Anakin could be allowed to tinker.

And after this, Anakin also imagined Obi-Wan would be against him bringing his tools.

“Anakin, bring the tools. Keep the three most useful on your person, and we’ll get a bag for the rest of them.”

And then Obi-Wan had to go over, again, how to pack his standard satchel and that the point was to leave it mostly empty with room, because that’s where the ration bars would go, along with anything else they needed to pick up spontaneously. The ongoing project would go in the tool bag, or a separate container.

Kenobi noticed that Anakin didn’t say anything about his growing collection of miscellaneous bolts and screws, fittings, fasteners, joins, staples, washers, gears, belts, and assorted doohickies.

Better to let the padawan feel he’d pulled off a small victory. These were trying times, indeed, and perhaps the fate of the galaxy would hinge on a #2 hex bolt.

Anakin learned languages very quickly, and he’d spent much of the last day and all of the hyperspace jumps with the Mando'a module. Even while he was working on whatever project he had decided on, it was reading out to him and quizzing him on his progress.

Still, polyglot that the boy was, he tended to say too much or not enough at any given time. Obi-Wan had coached him on exactly how to phrase what he needed to say both to the Chancellor, with whom he would be missing this and every future meeting, and the Senator. His comm codes had already been changed and Obi-Wan had specifically blocked the Senator’s comm code from Anakin’s new one. The messages would be sent from the standard secure comm of the Order, three days after they had departed, and an hour before the meeting with the Chancellor.

And that was the moment that Anakin admitted just how often he and the Senator were normally in contact.

“From now on, Anakin, you may comm your mother every day and if she is able, we’ll arrange a weekly holocall as often as we can. When you turn eighteen, I will unlock your comm and then you may send the Senator another message.”

“But who am I gonna talk to?” he whined with a vengeance.

“You can practice making friends and contacts wherever we go, padawan.”

“I don’t want any friends from Tatooine,” he said, bitterness in his voice. Then he softened. “But it would be nice to see Wald again, if I could.”

“And get his comm number?” Obi-Wan prompted.

“If he’s allowed one. I wouldn’t count on it,” Anakin said softly.

“Is he unfree?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.

“Was when I left.”

And then the Jedi Master insisted that they meditate together to release the pain and the hopelessness into the Force, something Anakin could do with or without the ring on.

It helped. And with Sheev Palpatine no longer pumping in as much negative emotion and darkness as he could, it helped more and more. As emotional and immature as Anakin sometimes was, he’d been visibly calmer, lighter, and happier since the bond with the sith was physically cut off.

It was a profound relief for Obi-Wan and he considered more than once how much of Anakin’s difficult behavior might have been at least partially created or maintained by the dark bond.

And then Obi-Wan offloaded all of his rage into the Force, again.

By the time they reached Tatooine, Obi-Wan had seventeen unread messages, three of which were holos, twelve of which he was dreading opening. Well, he would find a moment at some point before they got to Mandalorian space.

The moment he found was three hours later. It was after they had easily found Wald, who was still unfree, and less easily found Shmi Skywalker, newly free and newly married to Cliegg Lars.

They spent three hours and a midday meal with the family, though Obi-Wan excused himself to the desert beyond to check his messages, record some messages to be sent on the ship and meditate until the meal was served. Anakin deserved every moment he could drink up of his mother’s attention and love.

There was a holo from Satine Kryze, imploring him prettily that he, Obi-Wan Kenobi, was her only hope. He deleted it easily after rolling his eyes. He wouldn’t respond to that one.

There was a holo from Sheev Palpatine, oily and unctuous, so sad to hear… blah, blah, blah. So looking forward to hearing from Anakin soon. Something in it made his stomach curl and knot. It felt unsafe, suddenly, for Anakin to take the ring off at all. Perhaps the sith could feel where in the galaxy he was. And until it was certain they could stay on Mandalore, or until it was certain they were about to leave a place, perhaps it simply wouldn’t be safe.

Obi-Wan released his horror and sense of personal failure into the Force, yet again. The mind healer they had consulted together said that in four weeks of wearing the ring, they could practice Anakin purposefully cutting and rejecting the dark bond, and then continuing to reject any further attempts to recreate the dark bond, which perhaps a sith could do at a distance.

He took several deep breaths. Soon. It would be soon.

There was a holo from Senator Amadala. “Master Kenobi. I’m saddened to learn that you felt my connection with your padawan was in any way untoward. I apologize sincerely for any harm that I may have caused, and thank you for all that you and Padawan Skywalker have done for me in the past. I look forward to meeting you both in better days.”

At least it was brief, Obi-Wan thought, cynically.

And then messages from the conspiracy to save the children, and his friends.

Bant, it seemed, had opted to join the medics who would travel with Master Windu, though opted was a misleading term, he was sure. She likely strong-armed Quinlan into making sure she got the invite.

Quinlan, his dear friend and self-proclaimed chaos gremlin, sent three messages over secure comms with lurid details concerning the fracas that had occurred when Master Yoda entered the creche to find it entirely empty of children. Only two other creche masters were deemed not loyal enough to the children’s best interests and were also left behind. While it wasn’t actually one of his pranks, he seemed to enjoy it just as much.

Master Koon had sent him a message, as his main contact with the envoy that would head to Mandalore, though they travelled more slowly so that Obi-Wan would have time to arrive well before them.

And the rest of the messages were from members of the Jedi Council.

Yoda, his personal great grandmaster and current lineage holder, was disappointed in him. Well, the disaster lineage strikes again. Obi-Wan refrained from replying, concerned that he might ask pointed questions. Perhaps something like, ‘When Xanatos fell, did you send him nasty notes, too? Or is that reserved for those of us who rearrange our lives to ensure the safety of our charges?’ No, silence was certainly the better option.

Yaddle was quite pleased, and wished she could have been included. Obi-Wan made sure to send her a message thanking her and assuring her that he was not at all responsible for doing anything but getting his padawan away to safety, and perhaps telling one or two people who could do something about the larger situation.

Four masters encouraged him to not feel any shame or guilt about not noticing the dark bond in his padawan sooner. As each message made him feel progressively worse, he chose not to reply to any of them, or to think about it anymore. After each message he had to meditate yet again to release his shame and horror.

Three masters applauded his quick thinking and selfless change in designation to keep his padawan safe from a particularly dangerous predator. To those, he sent kind replies of thanks.

No message from the Mand’alor, or any of his court, but then, Obi-Wan hadn’t really expected anything from his polite request not to be shot on sight.

Well, he’d find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

A Jedi had absolutely no business being this convincing, or this handsome.

Skirata had already commed him to confirm that this was the jet’ika all grown up who had killed so many Death Watch years ago.

Alpha-17 had commed him that the entirety of the alpha and command squads were in agreement: if he rejected this jetii and the children he represented, he would be dar’manda and demagolka, no coming back this time. Rough draft time would be over. New and improved version 2.0 would work just fine. Spar would take over the ori’ramikad. Also, they wanted to cuddle jet’ikaad.

Miles reported the tally of dibs. Four different verd’e had called dibs on the scrawny Rodian who traveled with them, and five more on the wary jet’ika. Twelve different verd’e, including some eyay’ade had called dibs on the older jetii , though whether the oldest eyay’ade who presented as thirteen (technically adults as escaping from Kamino counted for the communal verd’goten of the entire alpha and command squads) wanted Kenobi as their personal jetii, or as their riduur, or as their buir was unclear to Miles, and possibly unclear to the eyay’ade in question.

Well, they’d need to get in line.

He flashed the handsign for ‘stand down,’ barely twitching his hand from his lazy sprawl across the mythosaur bone throne. Generally it was quite comfortable, this throne; a wide seat, broad arms, possibly good for cozying up to a jet’alor… well, nevermind that right now. But this sprawl took effort to maintain. It wasn’t easy to look this effortlessly indolent. The comms stopped, though.

In the quiet blue of his HUD, Jango’s mind flashed through ideas, thoughts, plans.

Before he responded - entirely in Mando'a , of course - Jango took off his helmet, knowing the jetiise would be able to understand him better this way. And he wanted no misunderstandings.

“The Rodian child may stay. He will have his choice between four parents. He will be given a week to get to know them before he makes his final decision.”

Jango watched with interest as the jet’ad translated for the Rodian. And then the jet’ad hugged the Rodian, so clearly there was friendship there. He glanced at Skirata who beckoned the child to come with him and dealt with him accordingly.

“Mand’alor, that is an immediate relief,” the blue eyed, red-headed jetii said. Jango wondered if he was Stewjoni.

“Your current Jedi child,” Jango said, looking directly at the jet’ad’ika. “Does he require parents?”

“No, Mand’alor. His mother and I share guardianship of him. This is Anakin Skywalker, my apprentice.”

Jango glanced back at the child who couldn’t decide whether to bow and scrape like a slave, then finally remembered his manners and touched his fist to his heart instead.

“I will grant your children sanctuary. I am certain they will all be adopted. But for the good of the children and the families they enter, I require a period of one year in which they are left alone. The rest of your people may return at that time. We will furnish space for a school and keep for the adults.

“At no point, Jedi Master, will I allow you or anyone else to establish a new temple on Mandalore.

“Provided that all beskar held in the Archives, or ever run across by any Jedi, is properly returned to Mandalore or the hands of a Mandalorian, and provided that access be allowed freely to all who seek it, I will allow the Jedi Archives to reestablish itself under the House of Mereel. The archives building may be planned before their arrival, but they will arrive no sooner than the one year’s time.”

Oh, bittersweet. Jas’buir, you better be kriffing watching this. I’m trying to make up for all my mistakes, here.

Jango clamped down on the bitter agony of sweet memories. His adopted father, the historian, had desperately tried to gain access to the Jedi Archives, only and ever to be turned down.

The Jedi saluted him. “On behalf of the creche master, and the head of the archives, we are in your debt for granting us sanctuary. You will not object if I and my apprentice remain to ensure that the children are all adopted before we depart?”

Jango raised a single eyebrow and stared at him. Could he read his mind? Or did their magic not go so far? Was this a true question, or one just leading to the end of Jango’s desires?

“I do not object. And you will not depart until the adults return in a year’s time. You will serve as advisor to me in politics, and to the families for the star-touched children. You will not be allowed to challenge or answer challenges without my permission, nor will you or your apprentice be allowed to accept gifts without my permission.”

There. That should put a lid on people trying to marry him.

The Jedi raised a single eyebrow. Perhaps he knew what that prohibition meant. “I accept these terms.”

“We will speak more after latemeal.”

“With pleasure, Mand’alor,” the Jedi said, fist clenched over his heart.

Jango shoved his buy’ce back on and immediately commed Miles. “Put the jetiise in the apartment with me and Boba.”

“Not wasting any time, ‘alor?” The laughter was evident in his second’s voice.

“Shut up.”

Obi-Wan had forgotten how loud Mandalorians were. They wrapped themselves in durasteel and beskar, covered their faces, spoke muted through their internal comm system, and then screamed their emotions around the beskar and straight through the durasteel.

The beskar muted their force signatures, though he was certain he could get the hang of recognizing them from around it again. The beskar didn’t have a chance to fully mute their emotions, not when they were feeling everything so loudly.

Surprise, shock, pleasure, and a strange sense of personal possession were the predominant emotions from the young warriors who had clearly only just passed their verd’goten. Only a small handful of the warriors at the court of the Mand’alor - for they were all warriors in the court of the Mand’alor - radiated anger or distrust for longer than it took for Obi-Wan to open his mouth and begin speaking. Then it was pleasure, joy, a little bit of lust, and a fair bit of hope from the rest of the court.

And then there was the Mand’alor himself.

Master Tholme had warned him to be careful. Jango Fett killed six Jedi with his bare hands at Galidraan. He was a highly accomplished bounty hunter with the highest rating the Bondsman’s Guild gave. It was likely he had killed some or all of the rest of the Jedi who had survived Galidraan, Yan Dooku and his dangerous pastry aside. (He might have been responsible for the pastry incident, but Master Tholme said it really wasn’t his style.) He’d gone quiet for a bit, been off the radar for several years, nearly seven, before arriving back on Mandalore, but it didn’t make him any less deadly.

Jango Fett was highly dangerous and had a grudge. Kenobi had entered the situation knowing that his life might be forfeit, either immediately taken from him, or perhaps another stint of slavery.

He had not imagined he would be kept on retainer as advisor, as part of the sanctuary deal.

He had not imagined there might be some sort of revenge sex, or grudge fucking in his future. 

But the moment Jango Fett had taken off his helmet there was absolutely no way to explain away his emotions, no way to tell himself that he must be mistaken.

There was grief, yes, and bittersweetness, sometimes in overwhelming measure. And there was the sharp tang of lust. It ebbed and flowed, it was aimed directly at Obi-Wan, and it was very hard to keep a straight face.

What Master Tholme had neglected to mention entirely, something that came crashing down in just that moment, really, was that Jango Fett was also handsome.

It wasn’t that he was so dangerous, so deadly, that he had killed so many Jedi that turned Kenobi on - how could it? But Jango Fett had tentatively been on his ‘good politicians’ list. Obi-Wan had only just put him there last month. He seemed competent, motivated, cared for his people, and lived by the core values of his culture, as clarified by his father, Jaster Mereel, Mand’alor the Reformer. 

And he was also quite handsome, and he clearly wanted to fuck.

It rather made Obi-Wan’s mouth water, right there in the throne room.

Such an indolent sprawl over the throne of skull - it was a mythosaur, Kenobi was almost certain of it- clearly meant to convey that he was a cold, heartless warlord more interested in power than people. But Kenobi already knew different. The research said otherwise, his actions said otherwise. It was all just a mask to keep the stupid at bay and that kind of thinking really turned him on.

And once the sanctuary was granted, particularly once his year-long residence was assured, it was quick work and they were out of the throne room mere moments later.

Oh, but in those moments, Obi-Wan had a rich fantasy life play out in fast forward like the holoporn he and Quin had found at age eleven.

Well, that was mostly Quinlan. Still.

He imagined crawling up the steps, taking armor off with his teeth (possibly aided with the Force) and sucking off the most competent ruler in the sector, if not the entire Outer Rim, while he lazed on his throne.

He imagined Jango Fett would be completely silent during this endeavor, but that didn’t bother him at all.

It was a brief but quite notable fantasy, and he’d kept a straight face through the entire thing, not blushing even once.

And now one of Fett’s warriors had shown them to quarters that seemed rather lived-in.

“These are not guest quarters?” Obi-Wan probed.

“No, Jedi Master,” was the response he was granted.

Silently they were shown two doors that led to two bedrooms with a shared refresher between them. They were standing in a shared sitting room with the single largest pit couch he had ever seen.

There were toys strewn across one side of the sunken couch.

Next to them was a small kitchen area. On the counter was a can of armor polish, a teapot (proof the Mand’alor was civilized) and a vertical ant farm.

Obi-Wan was sure the vertical ant farm was not a feature of most guest rooms in the Mand’alor’s palace compound in Keldabe.

“Latemeal is in one hour. Two levels up, next to the throne room.”

“I am glad to know, that’s-” Obi-Wan cut himself off as a little boy with a riot of black curls and a set of durasteel greaves on his boots presented himself from one of the closed doorways. He couldn’t be more than seven. The Jedi squatted down easily to be on a level. “Why, hello there. And who are you?”

“I see you’re still alive. I’m Boba. You’re a Jedi, aren’t you?” the child asked boldly, in Mando'a , and starting right out with the formal and wonderfully cynical way to say hello in the language. The warrior who had escorted them had turned toward the child but said nothing yet. Anakin, however, had almost immediately mimicked Obi-Wan’s low crouch.

There was hope for him yet.

“Yes. My name is Obi-Wan, and this is my apprentice, Anakin. You look very like the Mand’alor. Are you his child?”

The child nodded. “Jedi are supposed to be wonderful and trustworthy, but Parent says sometimes they’re not and they do one-brain-cell things and just go around killing people. Which kind are you?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “I try never to have only one brain cell and always to be trustworthy. I only kill people if they try to kill me first. Otherwise, I knock them out, or arrest them and take them to a judge.”

“Where’s your armor?” Boba asked, his little brow furrowed.

“I don’t have any, little child of the Mand’alor,” Obi-Wan replied with a smile.

“I thought you said you had more than one brain cell. Your brain cell is lonely!” Ah, the certainty of the young. 

And such wonderful insults they had, in Mando’a. Swearing in Huttese just rolled off the tongue, and he certainly heard enough of it from Anakin, but in Mando’a most of the curses had to do with lack of competency.

Still. It made Obi-Wan smile, and Anakin couldn’t quite stifle his snort of laughter.

“Well, I’m not sure I need armor. I have mastered the plasma sword and I can knock blaster bolts right back at you with my it.”

The youngling was wide eyed. “You can?”

Obi-Wan nodded and the child looked about ready to launch into the next salvo of questions and observations when the accompanying warrior interrupted.

“Boba. Your parent wants you in the private training arena.”

The child sighed. “Thanks, Miles.”

The child said the fatalistic goodbye common in Mando’a to each of them in turn and when the door shut behind the Mandalorians, his padawan looked at him with confused eyes.

“What the hell is going on, Master?”

Obi-Wan sighed and grinned wryly, clapping a hand on Anakin’s back. “The situation is developing around us even as we speak. We must be nimble. Let’s meditate before dinner tonight.”

They started with blaster target practice and Boba’s aim was coming along. When they moved on to staff forms and finally gentle sparing, Jango asked his questions.

“You met the Jedi?”

“Yes, Parent” said Boba, briefly. His concentration showed. Normally he was quite chatty.

“What do you think of the red head?”

“He needs armor,” Boba said with a scowl.

Jango laughed. It was so much easier these days to allow himself to do it. These days he actually had something to laugh about. “Yes, he does. I’ll work on that. Anything else?”

“He has pretty eyes.” Boba wasn’t scowling anymore, just trying to concentrate.

Of course his son noticed. How could he not? How could anyone not notice? “Yes, he really does.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

Jango grinned. “Maybe. If he agrees. He’s got the right stuff.”

“He’d be a good parent,” Boba said, his face still in a grimace of concentration as he blocked his father’s strikes. “Does that mean Anakin is older brother to us all?” he asked, clearly referencing the clones who had all been adopted by various families, but still, because life was complicated, were also considered his children and Boba’s siblings. They all either bore his or Jaster’s last name, and were all House Mereel. All twenty thousand of them.

“Maybe,” Jango hedged. “Eventually.” He swept his son’s feet out from under him and then instead of helping him back up with a hand, picked up his dropped staff and scooped his son up and tossed him over his shoulder. “I win,” he pronounced to peals of happy giggles from somewhere over his left shoulder and behind him.

Jango smiled broadly, one hand on his son’s back to steady him over his pauldron. He put the staves back in the weapons rack and let his son slip down his side far enough to carry him more comfortably at his hip. He grabbed his helmet on the way out and magclipped it to his belt.

“Jedi children will be coming soon. They’ll be adopted by only the most loyal clans.”

“Can we adopt one?”

Jango raised both eyebrows in shock. It had never occurred to him. “You don’t think twenty thousand siblings are enough?”

Boba snorted. “But you only have me. I want another close sibling. Or two.”

“You just negotiated a Jedi older sibling for the entire group. Now you want another two?” Jango asked, walking through the halls to the refectory.

“Yes,” Boba boldly stated.

Jango sighed and thought about it. Not an infant nor a toddler. He had no capacity to do that again, not by himself and there was no knowing what Kenobi would want of him or his family. Someone Boba’s age or older would work, though.

And with another pang, he thought of Jas’buir, adopting him when he was nothing but a feral, rabid strill of a child. 

Well, the children of Mandalore did like a challenge.

And children were the future.

“You want a drink?” he asked the Jedi Master after the children were put to bed. He spoke Basic this time, and really he needed to remember to speak Basic more often with Boba.

“Yes, thank you,” was the polite reply in a posh, high Coruscanti accent that both startled and somehow turned him on even more.

Was he imagining that the Jedi’s response sounded like a flirty purr?

Fuck, his brain cell must be lonely, because he really just wanted to tap that right now.

He wondered if the man liked cock and was remotely amenable. He wanted more than an honor-bound fuck, but if that’s all it could be, he’d take it.

Business first.

He handed the small glass of tihaar over and motioned to the karyai that was suspiciously clear of toys. He didn’t think Boba had spontaneously remembered to clean up after himself, either . 

“Tell me exactly why sanctuary was required. I don’t believe one dar’jetii wandering around Coruscant was enough to do what you said has been done.”

The Jedi took a drink and sighed softly, all signs of flirtation falling from his features. “There are bonds, you know. Mental, emotional bonds that those who are force sensitive can make with others. And if both people are force sensitive, they can easily communicate through that bond. Send love, affection, reassurance. They can know if something is wrong, even across the galaxy. Through a bond one can be deeply affected by others, usually unintentionally, but of course those with evil intention could exploit such a bond. Twist the heart and mind of another. Exploit their weakness, their anger, their hatred, fill them with more and yet more, introduce thoughts into their heads they would never have countenanced on their own, even possibly locate them across the galaxy, track them down, and depending on how strong they are, kill them with a thought from afar.”

The Jedi looked pained, and no wonder.

“Sith can also conceal themselves in the Force. It’s not something they all do, according to historical records, but this one does. I’ve stood right next to him, I’ve touched his skin and not known. I let him become friends with my padawan, who he immediately began to corrupt. He put one of these bonds in place, and then made sure he hid it well. I only found it recently. We’re doing everything we can, but the bond is still there and it’s not safe to even try to break it yet. And I fear that though I can only create and recreate bonds by touch or near proximity, this monster will be able to do it across half the galaxy.

“It was entirely my fault, of course. I accept that. Anakin is under my protection and in my care and I didn’t see the signs. But I won’t let that man hurt him again. Or any other vulnerable child. I gather a portion of the adults haven’t quite listened to reason, or fully believed the implications of what they heard, but the children will be safe, so it’s not really my problem.”

“Who is this demagolka?” Jango asked, keeping a lid on his ire, if not his disgust. He was being entirely hypocritical, and he didn’t care. He’d been a demagolka, but he wasn’t one now.

“The High Chancellor of the Republic, Sheev Palpatine of Naboo.”

Jango snorted. Fucking politicians. Fucking Republic.

They were quiet for a long moment and both drank their liquor.

“We talk about it, Anakin and I, in terms of illness and healing. I think that’s helped. He wears a force suppressing ring and he’s taking it well so far. I think that’s a measure of how unaccountably wearing it must have been for him, to bear the hatred and malice of another. It temporarily cuts the connection, but of course it cuts all connection, including ours and the one he has with his mother. And he’s incredibly powerful. Unbelievably so, and so all the training helping him to harness his abilities with the Force have been on hold. He hasn’t been chafing at those constraints yet, but I’m sure he will soon. And we don’t even know if we’ll be able to successfully cut the connection. Regardless, it won’t ever be safe for him to sleep without the ring unless Palpatine is dead. And if he is truly a sith rather than a darksider, that will be a much harder fight.”

Jango’s curiosity was piqued. “Why?”

The Jedi smiled grimly. “Any force sensitive can fall to the dark side, be ruled by their pain and hatred, make terrible decisions that affect the lives of others. And the more powerful one is, well, that only ever seems to be amplified when one chooses the path of darkness over the path of light. But the sith are an organized, ritualistic order, and their rituals multiply their native abilities.”

Jango’s brows furrowed. “But the Jedi have similar rituals to become more powerful, don’t they?”

Kenobi shook his head. “Power is not our aim. Control and balance are our aims. Of course we do train, extensively so. Everyone is different, and everyone has different abilities in the Force, a different way they experience it. And despite native abilities, everyone can train in various skills.”

“What are some of the skills you have trained in, and ones you haven’t?”

“I always wished I knew how to walk through walls, but only a few Jedi still know how and they don’t come back to Coruscant. But I can wrap shadows around myself and not be seen. My Master didn’t know how, but my best friend did, and he taught me. I’m quite good at it, though it’s harder to do it for a companion.”

“Banthakark.”

And then the Jedi just kriffing disappeared. The light settled oddly where he was, like there was a shadow where there shouldn’t have been, but there certainly was no other indication of where the Jedi was. Because he kriffing well wasn’t in the karyai anymore.

Jango breathed a stream of invective in Mando'a. 

And then he was there again, laughing, his head thrown back and his throat long and lean and scarred and Jango’s shock turned abruptly to lust.

Kenobi’s laughter settled comfortably into a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he stared long at him.

Those pretty blue eyes, the corners crinkled in laughter pulled him in. He held that gaze, breathing deeply. And Jango was right back to wanting to fuck the Jedi. A lot. And hard. 

“You know what I want?” Jango grunted.

“You’re making absolutely no effort to hide it, darling,” the jet’alor said, suddenly smiling a different sort of smile and being very flirtatious. “You’re broadcasting your desire to stuff me full and make me scream, repeatedly, and have done so since the throne room. It was very difficult to keep a straight face, you know.”

Jango huffed and half a smile curled one side of his lips. “Do you want me to stuff you full and make you scream?”

Kenobi shifted, lounging further and deeper into the cushions and took a sip of his tihaar. “You know, I think I rather do.” Those pretty blue eyes were partially obscured as his lids dropped low.

Why was that sexy? Jango had no idea, but it was.

“I am curious though, where you see this going. A night, a year, convenience, something else?” Kenobi asked elegantly, like he belonged at rich, posh parties. Like he was at one, now.

Jango narrowed his eyes and growled just a little. “I want to wrap you in beskar,” he said, trying not to imagine it and failing spectacularly.

“Kinky. Or should I take that as a proposal?”

Jango grunted again. “Both.”

Kenobi had a smirky little grin that Jango wanted to bite. “I do appreciate the straightforward nature of Mandalorians.”

“That’s not the only thing you’re going to appreciate about me,” the man warned before throwing back the rest of his tihaar and reaching for the Jedi.

His Jedi.

Kenobi was covered in scars and it was sexy as hell.

Jango drank them in, kissing each one. Some were easy to decipher, others less so. Several marked him as a slave, and one set marked him as the killer of three different slave masters.

Jango had some of those scars, too. 

Kenobi had licked and bit at Jango’s own wrist mark, so Jango knew he knew. There would be time to talk about it later, much later, possibly in a few years when the first blush of lust wore off and he didn’t have the urge to shove his cock in that beautiful, smirky mouth quite so frequently.

Not that Jango didn’t also want to drop to the floor and suck him off. He did. Preferably just after a raw, barely controlled fight. Hand-to-hand for preference.

But now, this first time, despite the fact that he wanted to just slather their cocks in oil and rut until they both came in a glorious tangle of skin and biting, sucking kisses, Jango had something to prove.

And something to learn.

It was like scouting, really. An essential skill that took patience and observation. He needed to map his Jedi lover and he wouldn’t be content until he had memorized every feature.

His Jedi was vocal.

He wasn’t actually screaming, though possibly not inspired enough, likely also out of respect to the children in the apartment. Oh, but he was moaning, making priceless breathy little sounds, whispering encouragement when his own mouth was free.

Finally, finally when Jango was completely satisfied that he had made the grand tour of all Kenobi’s scars and each erogenous zone, after his thumbs had dug deep into the man’s impressive shoulder and arm muscles, after the Jedi had melted into his bed at the back massage, finally Jango flipped him back over and sucked on his balls, tonguing and tugging them until his Jedi was a whimpering mess, his cock heavy and hard and weeping.

And then with a little oil on his fingers, he started face first onto the Jedi’s cock, at the same time beginning to open him up and stretch him out. But slowly, and gently.

His cock felt good on his tongue, thick and hot and filling. He wondered how it would feel to ride him. He hadn’t done that in a very long time, but if his Jedi wanted it, he would.

Two fingers in and Jango tried not to think about how it was going to feel to sink slowly into this man, feel him squeeze so tightly it almost hurt. He tried to just focus on the satisfaction of giving his lover great pleasure, extended pleasure.

That focus earned him fingers scratching at his scalp and gently holding his head, the pleasure-addled babble of his lover changing directions.

Clearly, his Jedi could feel that Jango was enjoying the Jedi’s own enjoyment and Kenobi didn’t quite know how to deal with that. He seemed to be under the impression that it was abnormal, and Jango was some kind of selfless saint… Which… yeah, no. Absolutely not true.

Had none of his lovers taken satisfaction at his pleasure?

Selfish fucks.

Jango doubled down, sinking as deeply as he could into his desire to bring Kenobi eye-crossing, mind-numbing, life-changing pleasure, and his own profound pleasure at making progress towards his goal.

He scissored his fingers, then curled them, searching for his prostate, presuming he was human enough to have one or something like it.

Kenobi did cry out, but softly, clearly trying to control himself.

Jango grinned, feelings of satisfaction just filling every nook and cranny of his soul.

Then Kenobi was floating, though only slightly, and not enough to lift Jango himself, or make things awkward.

Jango took this as an invitation to add a third finger.

Kenobi only got louder and floated more, and Jango in turn grinned wider.

It gave Jango an idea.

He’d planned this to go one way, but a floating lover was a new and interesting opportunity he wasn’t going to miss out on. Who knew? Maybe he only did this when he was extremely turned on.

Jango shifted around with his mouth still sucking Kenobi’s cock and his fingers still stretching him out. Finally he was within reach of the bottle of oil and managed to coat his palm, and then his own cock.

Shifting so he was standing beside the bed, he quickly worked to notch his cock and push the head in, while grabbing the Jedi’s weeping sword with his very oily hand, pumping hard, but slowly now.

“Legs around my waist, beautiful. That’s it.”

He guided him up a little, one hand barely supporting the small of his back, then shifting to his hip as his lover floated over the bed, writhing and slowly being speared by Jango’s own beskad. 

Kenobi crooned in pleasure, wanting more, begging for more.

Still, Jango sunk into him slowly, so slowly, using every downward pump with his hand to more firmly seat the Jedi on his cock.

It was slow. It was delicious. It was the most beautiful unfolding Jango had ever witnessed, and probably the best sex he’d ever had. Watching Kenobi, splayed out in front of him, thick cock weeping copiously in his hand, his own cock so slowly disappearing inside his tight furnace, and all the while the Jedi was just unhinged with pleasure.

Yes, of course, Jango loved having his cock in the man. In just moments he’d finally be banging him and probably lose his very last brain cell. But right now it wasn’t so completely overwhelming that Jango couldn’t appreciate the fact that he’d brought his lover so much pleasure he floated. 

Was floating. Even now.

With a feral grin, Jango focused on it, knowing what it would do to his posh, Coruscanti Jedi.

It was so fucking satisfying, like a new, deep erogenous zone, one only his Jedi could sense, in Jango’s own head. 

He’s so beautiful, he’s a fighter, a survivor, an enemy of Kyr’tsad, and now he’s in my bed. He’s writhing in pleasure on my cock, floating above our bed.

Jango shivered in the pleasure of it - not really his own, but in knowing how he was affecting his Jedi who was doubling down on writhing on him, panting and crying out softly at how good he was, how much he wanted. 

Mine. Mine to give this much pleasure to. Mine to care for. Mine.

And then Jango was fully seated and he said goodbye to his mind as he started thrusting into his still floating lover, one hand with a bruising hold on Kenobi’s hip, one hand with a slippery vicegrip around the base of his cock.

And things happened. Word based things. His Jedi, Kenobi, suddenly became ‘ most beautiful Ob’ika.’ Jango didn’t know how. His brain was entirely high on whatever the hell pleasure zone they were creating between them.

More words fell out of his mouth.

He’d never been like this during sex before, for the record. Sex was always good and sometimes great, but it never managed to actually turn his brain to breakfast porridge. 

Then with a strangled sob Kenobi came, still writhing, still floating… until he wasn’t.

Quicker than thinking for someone who looked like they’d just had the orgasm of a lifetime, his legs tightened and he curled up, gasping and grabbing Jango’s shoulders as the Mand’alor wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist and underneath his ass, holding him up with a grunt.

It also ensured that his darling, his most beautiful Ob’ika slammed down on his cock with force.

Jango’s eyes rolled back in his head as he gasped, holding sweet, beautiful Ob’ika hard to him, sweat and cum sealing hot skin together as his balls pulled up tight and Jango ground into him, jerking out his release and swearing to Ob’ika’s perfection.

He crashed to his knees on the bed, then rolled to land on his back and rested.

His heart was thundering. He was gasping for breath. He was still holding onto the Jedi as if his life depended upon it.

Then again, maybe it did.

Three days. It had been three nights and three mornings of absolutely glorious sex. Meanwhile, no one was actively trying to kill him. Obi-Wan had never been quite so relaxed in his adult life. Morning orgasms. Evening rounds of longer, lingering sex. One very notable nooner where the Mand’alor had asked to speak to him briefly and privately, pulled him into an unoccupied room and then ravished him against the locked door.

And today was the first day that the envoy might arrive. Possibly. Perhaps tomorrow.

Jango had just gently blown his mind and his cock, then crawled back up and rested on the same pillow, slowly wanking himself against him, half draped over him under the blanket.

Obi-Wan was going to participate. In just a moment. Just as soon as he could move his arms again.

He kissed him first, then cupped his balls, rolling them.

“If I gave you one of my greaves,” Jango rasped, “would you wear it?”

Obi-Wan thought about it for a moment.

Infinite sadness. 

It was always what he thought he was destined for, and despite enjoying some of his work, and loving his friends, life always seemed to be punctuated by his failures. And sometimes, even when he wasn’t a failure, he still wasn’t a very good person. 

Obi-Wan enjoyed the violent aspects of his work a little too much - winning arguments, proving people wrong, calmly using his trademark combination of endless wit and tireless Soresu to wear an opponent down into the ground. Through it all there was such satisfaction to be had in just being better than his opponent. And proving it.

And sometimes, very occasionally, he was so glad to have killed someone, despite all the teachings, all the things he did truly believe in.

It was very wrong of him, and he knew it.

At least Jango would be the last person in the world to judge him for it. There was that.

Obi-Wan sighed and let himself really consider Jango as a life partner. A husband.

He was attracted to the man. That was obvious, and clearly mutual, though Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure exactly what Jango saw in him, he clearly saw something. 

Of course, Obi-Wan was certain about what was so damn attractive about Jango. He was just so blisteringly competent. He had his projected image, a piece of armor simply not made of beskar, and it was utterly useful in the Outer Rim. Jango had layers of complexity in his motives, but they were all built on the Resol’nare as interpreted by his quite honorable father. He was also physically handsome for his species - near Human - and that didn’t hurt at all. But Obi-Wan wouldn’t have given him a second glance if he hadn’t been such a damn fine ruler. Sure, he would have had obligatory sex with him for a year, and being handsome with a thick cock and good stamina would have made that a pleasant experience rather than a trial, but it wouldn’t have made him want to share Jango’s bed.

And Obi-Wan very much wanted to be in Jango’s bed.

They were extremely compatible in that bed. And against the wall. And in the refresher. And on the floor.

And there was the matter of the Order. That one cut both ways. First, Jango had nobly come to the aid of his people, which made Obi-Wan think even better of him. No historian could have ever predicted that the Mandalorians would come to the rescue of the Jedi Order. It’s what would have made a year of obligatory sex worth it, if he had just been some despotic tyrant. Which of course, he wasn’t, he just alluded to being one.

But then there was the other side of the Order: marriage was very technically an attachment. One could argue around it and perhaps win a minor victory in that it was not as significant an attachment as it could be, but one would also lose the larger war: it was absolutely, positively, without a single doubt an attachment.

So there was that.

But on the personal level of just Jango and Obi-Wan… the first three days of sex had been fantastic, yes. They both clearly were attracted to one another, yes. They both clearly respected one another, yes.

But could they last without dissolving into bitterness and shallow interaction? Obi-Wan didn’t have many married friends, but he had seen it plenty of times, everywhere he went.

Then again, he also had happily married friends.

“Don’t say yes just because of the children. The sanctuary is permanent. The Mando'ade wouldn’t have it any other way. Say yes because you want to,” Jango whispered against his cheekbone.

“I’m thinking,” Obi-Wan whispered in reply, combing the fingers of his free hand through Jango’s dark curls.

He knew about the ‘echo children’, the clones. He knew Jango had lost his mind in grief after losing his people, his culture, his father, his freedom, and that somehow, some way he just woke up one day and worked with others to escape, to rebuild.

In fact, Obi-Wan had a data clip of useful information to give to Master Koon, with Jango’s blessing, because the clones were meant to be an army for Jedi to lead. He’d also composed a holomessage for Masters Koon, Windu, and Drellig that should meet them the moment they drop out of hyperspace. It explained the exact nature of the negotiated sanctuary so there were no surprises. He had set his comm to sound an alert when he had a return message from any of the three, but it hadn’t sounded yet, so he continued to think on Jango’s marriage proposal instead.

He knew that Jango struggled still, trying to be a good person, trying now in ways he had given up on to honor the memory of his father and the promise of his children, which sometimes meant all twenty thousand of them, and sometimes just Boba, depending on context and mood.

As Obi-Wan considered these things, Jango’s hand stilled and drew the Jedi’s hand away, holding him instead. He tipped his head so his forehead came closer and Obi-Wan moved to meet him halfway.

Comfort-warm-affection. 

Possession-pride-satisfaction.

Awe-tender-love.

Caretaking-affection-precious.

Love-love-love.

He might have to leave the Order. He might not. Things were insane right now and there was no way to tell. And it was unlikely that he would be asked to leave at this exact political juncture, because while the Order was proving itself to be quite foolish right now, they weren’t complete morons.

Regardless, he would live by the principles of the Order for the rest of his life, he imagined. Balance in the midst of disorder. Loving kindness. A respect for life, even when one ends it.

Perhaps Obi-Wan was not made for infinite sadness forever. Perhaps like one of Master Windu’s shatterpoints, he had somehow found the perfect moment and the perfect way to change it all, entirely, and with ease.

And with that same ease, and after careful consideration, Obi-Wan Kenobi breathed out his response against Jango Fett’s lips.

“Yes, darling, yes.”

“Master, why are you wearing some of the Mand’alor’s armor?” Anakin asked, walking toward them in the hallway, carrying Boba on his hip. He had interrupted the boy’s chatter to ask and they now had Boba’s attention as well.

A huge grin split the young boy’s face. “Yes!” he cried out in Mando'a. 

“Because I am engaged to be married to Jango,” Obi-Wan explained with great patience considering he hadn’t meditated this morning, neither had he a single cup of tea.

Anakin’s face fell. “That is so unfair!” he accused at volume.

“No, this is a good thing!” Boba whispered frantically in Mando'a. 

Obi-Wan’s left eyebrow rose. “Anakin, I am thirty-one years old. You are fifteen. Wait three years and then you may marry whomever you wish.”

“You can marry at eighteen? Dad told me I had to wait until I was twenty-five and had killed three people. Are near Humans even allowed to marry at eighteen? Isn’t that too young? Unless you’re aging doublefast?” Boba ranted, a head of steam already built up.

Jango silently put a hand to Obi-Wan’s back and began maneuvering them around their children standing in the hallway, bickering with each other.

Jango paused to lean in and push his forehead against the back of Boba’s. “Good morning, Bo’ika.”

“Good morning, Parents!” Boba threw cheerfully over his shoulder in Mando'a before continuing to berate his older Jedi brother into the ground.

They could still be heard down the hall and around the corner.

“That went well,” Jango remarked, almost cheerful. Cheerful for Jango.

His hand was still on Obi-Wan’s back.

“You know, it rather did.”

There was no message yet, and no need to hear any complaints or requests in the throne room, and so Jango finally had the time to ask Obi-Wan to spar with him.

It was agreed they would train with lightsabers first, then work off the inevitable aggression with hand-to-hand combat, no weapons.

Obi-Wan showed him how to change the darksaber to training mode so they wouldn’t cut off any limbs, but it was not a mode he could easily toggle into on his own.

First, Obi-Wan made the ancient plasma sword float.

Then, after looking at it for a long while, he blinked, and the entire sword hilt disassembled before his eyes, every part floating like a soft explosion had hit it.

“Ah, yes, there we are.” The Jedi twitched his fingers moving a part, then frowned at the entire assembly. “This is terribly dirty. They’re neither waterproof nor dust proof. You do need to clean them periodically. Well. We’ll work on that tonight. I’ll show you how to take it apart by hand.”

And then the saber hilt zoomed back together again with a series of clicks.

The Jedi pulled his own and concentrated a moment. Jango heard a minute click.

Then they fought.

“Show me what you’ve got, Mand’alor.”

Jango knew his showing would be pathetic. He’d trained slightly with the beskad before Jas’buir died, knowing one day he might wield the darksaber if it could ever be retrieved. But he’d killed Tor Vizsla after Jaster was already dead and by then he hadn’t cared in the slightest about being able to wield the weapon he took off the dead body.

Jango was fast and brutal, but he had little training and no battlefield experience with the weapon.

Honestly, the Jedi looked like he was training a six year old. He barely moved. The movements he did make were economic, skilled, and perfect.

And he kept up a stream of helpful and somewhat amusing commentary.

When they stopped, the Jedi started training him in a form good for offence against people without lightsabers.

They gained an audience.

First it was one command vod. Fox. And then it was two hundred, the full command and alpha squads.

Ob’ika kept up, running his mouth the entire time.

“Excellent, just like we practiced, Jango. Up, cross, down, forward, spin, right, down, sweep, yes, hello there! You, with the orange stripe, you’re quite strong in the Force aren’t you? Won’t you take off your helmet, ad’ika? Cross, left, spin, sweep, very well, darling. What’s your name, verd’ika? Well done, darling, let’s begin again, twice as fast.”

“Fox Fett, jet’alor.” 

“Very nice to meet you, Fox! I suppose you already know who I am. Good, darling, well done. And twist, bend, turn, and down! Do you want to be trained as a Jedi, Fox Fett?”

Jango did not stumble, but his swing wasn’t quite what it was supposed to be.

Suddenly one hundred and ninety-nine vambraces clanged repeatedly against one hundred and ninety-nine cuirass and drowned out the affirmative reply the young man gave.

“Excellent. Go and ensure the permission of your buire, and if you have it, join us in our quarters an hour before dinner to meditate, yes?”

“Prime?” Fox called out, and it was like he could hear all his ad’ike not breathing.

“Granted,” Jango grunted, to the collective relief of the older eyay’ade. 

The form finished, Jango walked to the weapons table and put the darksaber down, and removed his blaster as well.

The moment they were back in the center of the area, Jango hit his darling Ob’ika with a running tackle that did not work quite as planned. The Jedi laughed as he shifted and used his momentum against him, but Jango had gotten hold of his tunic and he wasn’t letting go.

They both twisted as they went down, but in such a way that while the Jedi did hit the ground first, and under Jango’s heavy and heavily armored body, they kept rolling until the Jedi was on top again. Then he straddled Jango’s hips, leaned heavily on his forearm across his windpipe… and used the karking ka’ra osik to pin his arms and legs in place.

Jango snarled. “Ob’ika,” he growled in warning.

“Fair’s fair. You have armor. I get to use the Force.”

“Didn’t know you could do that,” Jango choked out. He was fine, though. He couldn’t speak well, but he could breathe. It was fine.

“Oh, darling, I’ve got lots of tricks up my sleeves.”

So he could feel. It was clearly a knife sheathe against his airway.

“So kriffing sexy,” Jango whispered. Not that the vod’e wouldn’t necessarily hear anyway, but still. It was obvious to his mind that this was foreplay.

“Are we going best two out of three? Or until you’re so hard you can’t actually think straight anymore?”

So kriffing sexy. 

“Second,” he rasped.

Then the weight of his beloved was gone, his wrists and calves weren’t unbearably heavy anymore and the silly di’kut was offering him an arm to get up.

Jango took it, then swept him off his feet the fun way. 

Ah, but Ob’ika didn’t let go of his arm and used the momentum to twist and throw Jango over his head.

But Jango didn’t let go either. 

Which led to them rolling and wrestling on the plastoid covered duracrete. Finally Jango had him in a headlock, straddling him, rubbing his aching if armored cock into the Jedi’s plush and beautiful ass, covered only by an unreasonable number of cloth layers. He had the Jedi bent back to a point that it would have caused great pain to one of his verd’e, but he knew by this point just how flexible his jet’alor was.

“You win,” the Jedi conceded softly.

“Do I actually, or are you giving up early?”

“I could win,” his darling Ob’ika admitted, “but not without using deadly force.”

“How exactly?” Jango asked, settling more comfortably on top of his ass and grinding a little. Just a little.

“Force choke is easiest since I can’t reach you with my knives. Your throat isn’t covered in beskar and I can still concentrate. Choke you until you stop, or until you die, but even just a little could cause permanent damage, so I wouldn’t. If you snapped my neck as soon as possible, I’d lose, presuming I let it get this far and hadn’t just thrown you across the room. If you paused to gloat in any way, I’d win.”

Oh, fuck.

Yes.

Jango’s Jedi was the best of all Jedi. A Jedi with hidden knives who could kill him in his sleep.

“This hasn’t diminished my sex appeal, has it?” the Jedi asked, still bending backwards, still in a chokehold, and still with Jango grinding into his ass.

Jango shuddered and just reveled in it for a moment longer.

“Have I mentioned I didn’t have the normal trials for knighthood?” he asked in a rough whisper. “My master was convinced I wasn’t ready. Then I defeated a sith apprentice in single combat. Trial by combat,” Ob’ika clarified casually as Jango’s lust flared out of control.

Jango eased his grip slightly, and pulled his helmet off, setting it aside. Then he shifted his hold and instead just curled one hand around the front of his lover’s neck and pulled him up even more, his other hand supporting his torso and twisting around to capture his mouth in a savage kiss, unwilling and unable to resist a single moment longer.

Trial by combat.

Jango breathed into the kiss, trying to calm down so he didn’t just orgasm right the kriff here.

But, but… trial by combat.

Jango twisted his tongue with his beautiful warrior’s and just let himself be overwhelmed for a moment. He just let Ob’ika blow his mind with how overwhelmingly mandokarla he was.

And that’s when Jango realized two basic truths.

First, this was going to happen every kriffing time they sparred.

Second, Alpha-17 was probably capturing this with his buy’ce cam.

Chapter Text

A fierce little Togruta was holding a bundled infant, glaring up at him.

Jango’s heart melted.

“We’re a package deal, mister,” she growled.

All the children were meant to be sorted roughly by age, except for the fierce little mandokarla Togruta who refused to give up her infant charge.

Jango knelt down in front of her, vaguely aware of others mingling and kneeling down before children. This little one seemed about the same age as he was when he was adopted by Jaster. She was about as pissed off, too.

Jango’s heart melted a little more.

“If you’re mean, I’ll bite,” she warned him, fire in her eyes.

Honestly, feral baby tookas didn’t get cuter than this. Jango was sold. He also had memories of biting Jaster. It was both relatable and forgivable, as actions went.

He smiled a little, enchanted. “What’s your name, little warrior?”

“Ahsoka Tano,” she said, as if she could wound with the words.

“Well met, Ahsoka Tano. My name is Jango Fett, House Mereel.”

Her brow wrinkled. “How come your house is different from your name?”

Jango smiled a tiny bit more. “Because I was adopted, too.”

Her eyes went wide and suddenly a little glassy. She blinked rapidly.

“Who is your little sibling?”

She looked fierce again, hiding the child’s face against her shoulder. “He won’t grow up for ages. Not for, like, a hundred years. He won’t master language for another forty. He has to have someone Force Sensitive with him to talk with him and protect him. You don’t want us, mister.”

Yes, he had said no infants.

Yes, this would be infancy for far longer than anyone could reasonably expect.

Yes, this little Togruta’s pure, shining mandokarla was his utter undoing.

What was it about good jetiise? Were they all completely irresistible?

That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Good jetiise show up in his life and all of his good sense and sound judgment just charts a course straight for wild space.

Jango looked straight at the most adorable and fierce jet’ika the galaxy had yet come up with. “I won’t adopt you and your sibling if you don’t want me to, little warrior. But someone must protect you. That’s why you’re here, and not back in the Temple at Coruscant. You must allow someone to adopt you. It would be my great honor to be your parent, and protect you. I have a son a little younger than you, and you could be his big sister. My partner has a son a little older than you, and you could be his little sister. And he is Force Sensitive,” Jango said, dropping that tantalizing little tidbit to soften up the warrior before him. “I would teach you the Mandalorian way of fighting, to add to your Jedi way, so you would never be at a loss, even without the Force, no matter your opponent. And I would love you and protect you like a fierce krayt dragon protects its pearl.”

Her eyes went wide again. “I was in Initiate Clan Krayt.”

Jango grinned a little. “Will you let me adopt you and your brother?”

She nodded.

“I know your name as my child, Ahsoka Tano,” he said in Basic , and then repeated it in Mando'a. And then he gestured slightly. “What is your brother’s name?”

“Grogu. Just Grogu. But I guess he could take your last name. That would be okay.”

Jango smiled again, just a little. Sight unseen, he adopted Ahsoka’s brother. Then he gestured for her to hand him over. She did so with an odd look on her face.

And then Jango saw the child.

His jaw went slack.

There was nothing, not anything cuter in the entire galaxy, than this little being. He would argue his verd’e into the ground. He now officially had the most entrancing ad’ika.

“His primary defensive weapon is his adorability,” Ahsoka said with the cynicism of his oldest verd’e.

Jango had no words to argue as he fell head over heels in love with his two newest children, and each for entirely different reasons.

They all floated when they meditated. Just a few inches off the ground. It was disconcerting the first time he’d found Anakin and Ob’ika like that, soft expressions on their faces. It was mostly disconcerting because Jango had really thought that incidental floating only happened during really great sex, but after a moment he adjusted his worldview and moved on.

His chosen partner just floated sometimes. This was his life, now.

Boba, naturally, took the opportunity to prank his ori’jeti’vod by putting random items underneath his shebs, though Jango forbid him from doing it to the jet’alor, and recommended he give Ahsoka a little time to get used to him, first. He also reminded Boba that his sister’s bite was venomous.

Grogu did not have the stamina to meditate for as long as his Ob’ika, Anakin, Fox, nor Ahsoka. And so fifteen minutes into the hour long process, Jango put aside the data pad he’d been reading in the karyai while everyone floated around him, put the birikad around himself and then scooped up his oldest-youngest ad’ika (he was both twenty, and functionally one) who cooed adorably and snuggled into the mirshmure’cya. 

Datapad in hand, gloves tucked into the front of his belt, helmet magclipped to the side of his belt, he had one hand caressing the back of Grogu’s head as he walked down the hall. He had other work to do, and he wanted to get Kenobi’s opinion on a potential trade deal later in the morning, but he also needed to read the background biographies of each of the children that had been adopted, and each of the children who would come in a year.

He was considering having Kenobi draft a formal document codifying the terms of sanctuary. He didn’t want his people’s new ade whisked back to Coruscant in a year, or three, or whenever the sith hunting party was fully assembled and ready to sort out the situation in the Core.

His first stop of the morning was to the Armorer. He needed to discuss upcoming verd’goten plans for the ade when they had settled in, perhaps in six months or so for the ones who were ready, and inquire about the possibility of a verd’goten be runi for Anakin. He’d never met a child who needed one more. It couldn’t happen until he was safe to be on his own, without the ring on, of course, and he hadn’t discussed it with Kenobi yet, but he wanted the Armorer’s opinion, first.

But naturally, the first thing that had to happen was for the Armorer to greet Grogu. This happened no matter where Jango went with him. It was an inevitability the proud buir in him embraced fully, and happily none of the other children begrudged him. They, too, were entranced with the big eyed, big eared, impossibly cute infant.

Also, the Clan heads argued with him less in meetings, and tried not to raise their voices, a ka’ra offered miracle, in Jango’s opinion.

Naturally, Jango was happy to tote Grogu around for the majority of the day, save when he had to train, or meet parties in the throne room. Throne room meetings were not a time for children or the unarmored. It was also not a time for him to look like anything but a deadly, cold-hearted warlord.

It was a very useful image, and as Kenobi liked to remind him, it was true, from a certain point of view.

And so there was a very awkward moment between one meeting and the next when one of his verd’e hurried up to him and informed him (as he didn’t have his helmet on) that there was a jet’alor they hadn’t yet met, waiting in the throne room to speak with him, and they had beskar to return.

The verd offered to take the child, but it was a jet’alor bearing beskar, so perhaps different rules applied.

The jetiise already knew Jango was soft-hearted and rather squishy. This would come as no surprise.

The baby sling had to go, though.

He murmured to Grogu as he put his buy’ce on, then let the child touch it and get used to him wearing it, which he didn’t often do around him. Another long mirshmure’cya and they were ready to meet the Jedi du jour.

She looked younger than Ob’ika, wore some odd white version of the standard kit of the jetiise, and her Mando'a was perfect, if you accounted for her dialect, which sounded ancient. She also had very nice manners.

“I see you are still alive, Mand’alor the Savior,” she said with one fist over her heart. Jango clamped down on his shock, knowing now the jetii would read him like a flimsi if he didn’t.

“Introduce yourself,” Jango demanded, fully sprawled with Grogu snuggled on his right thigh, just above the armor there.

He was not thinking of the title this jet’alor had just given him, which would make the rounds and was now inevitable. So much for his warlord image.

“I am Jedi Master Fay, of House Vizsla. Please forgive my lack of personal armor. It has been a thousand years since I needed to wear it.”

Jango’s comm exploded. He endeavored to ignore his panicked advisors.

“Are you aware that the House of Vizsla is unMandalorian and demagolka?” he drawled.

“I am unfamiliar with the word demagolka, Mand’alor.”

“Abusers and murderers of children.”

“Ah. That is tragic, indeed. No, Mand’alor, I was not aware of this. Perhaps I may redeem the house of my beloved Jedi parent when I am finished with my present quest.”

Jango’s comm exploded, again. She clearly wasn’t younger than Ob’ika. 

“And what is your present quest, Vizsla?”

“The Force has called me here. I am meant to heal someone, I think. That is all I know.”

Jango thought many things in this moment, as did his advisors, all over his comm. He wondered about all the new ade. And then he thought of Anakin. Kenobi said they talked about what the sith had done in terms of illness and healing, and Kenobi was entirely uncertain if the bond could ever be broken.

Or healed.

Jango chose not to use internal comms. “Fetch Kenobi and Skywalker,” he said laconically, letting whoever grabbed the task first, do so. He addressed the jet’alor once more. “Where did you get the beskar?”

He had noticed the three crates of armor floating behind her when he walked in.

“Nal Hutta. The Force told me to liberate them. It’s possible their absence has been noted by now, but I doubt they’ll know who took them, or where they went to.”

“It is good they are returned,” Jango said, the most polite way he could address the issue without admitting a debt. Which he did not have. This was part of the sanctuary agreement for the archives, after all.

“It is, indeed,” Vizsla agreed serenely. She was a far cry from Tor, that demagolka shabuir, but perhaps not a far cry from Tarre.

“Take the crates to the Armorer,” Jango said, again without using the internal comms. Still staring at the once- padawan of Tarre Vizsla, he tried to clamp down on all emotion. It probably didn’t work. “Your work must be done in private, and may take some time. You will be our guest here, until the Force calls you on.”

Was he getting soft? He was getting soft.

Yup, his advisors were in agreement, he was getting soft. Still, Miles would direct her to guest quarters when she figured out it was, in fact, Anakin who desperately needed some deep magical healing.

Jango rose, slowly and fluidly coming out of the calculated sprawl, shifting Grogu as he went.

“It is good to be home, Mand’alor. I owe you a debt.”

He stared at her through his buy’ce. “When you redeem your house, you will have a white field.”

Through closed comms he ordered the verd holding his sling with him, and two more to stay with Miles and the jet’alor until she had found the one she needed to heal, at which point she would not need any further guards. The rest Jango dismissed as he strode off to his next meeting, checking in with the different play groups, and to talk with the parents to see how home-based meditation time was going.

He reslung his cooing, adorable youngest as he went.

“How soon will you be ready to say the marriage vows?” Jango asked one evening as they cleaned up in the refresher after a very satisfying round of ‘hide the light saber’.

“I have some questions before I can answer that,” Ob’ika said.

“Go on,” Jango said, gesturing with the sonic before he continued cleaning his teeth.

“How comfortable would you be when I need to leave on a mission, after the year is done, of course, because the Force tells me I need to go do something?”

Jango thought about it. “So long as it’s the Force, and not the Republic’s Senate, and so long as you take some warriors as backup, or support, or at the least someone to call backup and support, that seems reasonable. I may still take missions as the head of the New Ones’ Mercenary Group. And if Death Watch rears its ugly head again before Vizsla redeems her lineage, or as a part of that, I’ll certainly be going to war.”

“Where are you on the foolish ones in Sundari?”

Jango snorted. “I only hope someday our crops are so bountiful we can gouge them on grain prices.”

“Satine Kryze is still comming me, by the way. I thought you should know-”

Jango’s eyes slid slowly over to his beloved’s, an incredulous look on his face. Ob’ika had entirely failed to mention this, up until this point.

“-a while back the Senate turned down her request for Jedi, namely me, to come and negotiate you right off the planet’s surface, and when they turned her down, she asked me directly. I turned her down, too, but I never mentioned I was coming here, obviously. And I haven’t answered any of her comms. Because if she knows, then everyone will officially know, and I wanted that to be in your hands, not mine.

“Also, I’m considering how best to sneak Agricorps onto Mandalore. They’re meant to not go anywhere and do anything unless the Council says so, but I consider the Council temporarily impaired, and I think they could help heal the surface of the planet. Agricorps, not the Council.”

Jango dropped the sonic, like all the little bombs his most beautiful one had just dropped on him.

“Love, are you alright? I suppose I haven’t really answered your question yet. Anytime, Jango. I’m ready now.”

Jango breathed out the wedding vows, naked, in the refresher, with the small sonic still on and rolling slightly against his foot.

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

Ob’ika bent to grab the sonic and quietly turned it off, leaving it on the counter. Then he took up Jango’s hands, kissed each knuckle and spoke the wedding vows.

The kiss they shared was soft and soothing and they stood for a long while foreheads together, breathing each other’s air.

“Are you happy with this, my most beautiful one?” Jango asked in Mando'a. 

His jet’alor, his riduur smiled. “I am. I will know you forever, Jango Fett.”

Anakin wasn’t sure what the point of this was.

He was healed now. Master Fay had fixed his brain and he only had to wear the ring at night when he slept, and only until it was confirmed that the sith chancellor was dead. While he felt really horrible and stupid for believing a stranger over Master Obi-Wan, when Master Obi-Wan had never ever let him down, never lied to him, never failed to explain everything in excruciating detail, and even trusted him more than Anakin really deserved, well…

He was just really stupid sometimes.

Anakin already knew this.

And Wald and Boba and Fox and Ahsoka had all made it really clear that as nice as Padme was, it wasn’t right for her to be flirting with her much younger bodyguard who was a trainee, an apprentice.

Wald pointed out it was a very shag-lorda thing to do, especially without permission from his actual Master. If she’d wanted to court Anakin, she should have asked Obi-Wan’s permission, first.

That made a painful amount of sense. Not that Anakin had realized what flirting was at that point, but he did now. Fox was very helpful in that regard. Not that Boba, Fox, or Ahsoka had reached puberty yet, but Fox had undergone his verd’goten early, and so he got the welcome-to-adulthood training manual from the Mando'ade. There was a whole section devoted to flirting, courting, and sex, as well as navigating between different species, different gender presentations, different number of lovers or spouses, different types of armor, and what to do when you were attracted to someone who wasn’t Mandalorian.

The manual was very clear that exotic courting rituals must be fully researched and observed, so as to not give offence.

And to Fox’s mind, what the Senator did was a clear and obvious violation, and Obi-Wan was right to be offended.

Jango would have cut her head off, his eyay’ad friend had pointed out more than once.

Ahsoka was of the mind that she couldn’t possibly be honorable, and that plenty of politicians weren’t, even if they were decent at their jobs. They had a separation between public and private that the Jedi and Mandalorians didn’t have, and didn’t need. They were allowed to be honorable in their public jobs, and dishonorable in their private lives, just like the chancellor.

So really, Anakin got it.

He’d messed up. He was stupid with Padme, but he didn’t want to see her in a bad light, she was just a being after all, and so maybe she just made a mistake. That was okay. He’d forgiven her and was trying to get on with life and healing.

And it was great to be able to train with the Force again, to not wear the ring, and just… just be happy again.

He’d forgotten, somehow, that he used to be happy most of the time, even as Watto’s slave.

And that was a hard realization, too.

The chancellor, he had kind of enslaved Anakin’s mind, just like the Hutts had enslaved his body. He’d escaped one form of slavery just to get caught in another, and it was a lot worse than a bomb chip that had been installed.

He’d cried when he realized it, feeling like such a fool, but Master Obi-Wan understood. He always did. He’d been a slave three times.

And Master Obi-Wan had killed his shag-lorda each time. Anakin had known that from the start. It was written boldly, on his wrist.

At first Anakin wanted to kill the chancellor, too, or at least join the hunt Master Fay was organizing. But eventually he did understand, it was different when they enslaved your body. The body could fail, but no one could force you to use it against someone else, not when your mind was free. But the chancellor had enslaved his mind, and that was different. The sith could reconnect with him in such close proximity. He could reinstall his version of a bomb chip, twist his thoughts again, make him angry and stupid again.

Well, stupider.

And now he was stuck here for three days.

He had ration bars to last him through the time, and canteens of water. There was a simple refresher in the corner, and the cot had been removed. He was given a wide cushion to sit on and avoid the duracrete floor, and three extra blankets in case he got cold.

Anakin really hated being cold.

He still had his ring, just in case, but he wasn’t meant to sleep.

This was his verd’goten. 

Everybody else got to scout or hunt or battle someone, or go on a really wizard quest that Anakin couldn’t help but believe he would be really, really good at. Fox got to help liberate all twenty thousand of his brothers from clone slavery. 

Anakin had to meditate for three days.

He’d really hoped, when Master Obi-Wan had brought the subject up, that he’d be tasked with leading a slave revolt on Tatooine. Fox got to liberate slaves on Kamino, why couldn’t Anakin help Tatooine?

Nope.

No slave revolt on Tatooine.

Anakin sighed and tried to focus on the questions Master Obi-Wan had put to him, because the Armorer’s instructions were just no help at all.

The Armorer had said, “Go within yourself. See what you see. Report back when you’re done.”

What did that even mean? No, no, Master Obi-Wan’s instructions were better.

“Ask the Force to reveal to you what you think you believe and why you think you believe it. Do this over and over. Anything that comes to mind is a good subject for this inquiry.”

Why am I so stupid?

It was a good a place as any to start, and so Anakin did.

Obi-Wan handed Anakin the earplugs. They had already gone over the rules. Lightsabers on training mode, and he was borrowing Obi-Wan’s for the training session, the first real training session Obi-Wan had been able to arrange for his particularly strong padawan since Master Fay had come, and shortly after, Anakin had his verd’goten. He had also been without the ring during the day for another week with no ill effect.

Today they would see if he could use Vaapad without danger.

Obi-Wan knew he was nervous. It was Master Windu’s personal style and one had to skirt the edge of darkness to use it effectively.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this, Master,” Anakin said, his eyes haunted.

Obi-Wan reached to him, holding him by his neck and pulling him into the forehead touch their Mandalorians so favored.

“Breathe with me. Release your fear. I promise you, Anakin; if you slip from the edge of darkness, I will bring you back. Again and again, I will bring you back. I will always love you, I will always help you.”

Anakin’s breath was shuddering and they stayed that way for a long moment until Obi-Wan could feel his calm.

“No matter what happens Anakin, I’m about to lose my status as the most admired Jedi on this planet, you do realize that, right?”

Anakin snorted. “You already lost it to Grogu.”

Obi-Wan laughed with him, his heart light. “Well, I’m about to go down in the standings once more. Kick their asses, Anakin. All twenty-five of them.”

His padawan smirked and put the earplugs in then nodded and turned around. Obi-Wan covered his eyes with the blindfold.

Anakin turned back around and bowed to him and the Jedi Master returned the gesture.

His bond with Anakin flared with amusement.

Obi-Wan bounded out of the arena as twenty-five ori’ramikad took a few slow steps forward from all around the edges of the ring.

Then the energy shielding went up.

Obi-Wan had front row seats with his husband and their children. Boba sat on one side of Jango and Ahsoka sat on Kenobi’s other side, with Fox next to her. Their special guest, Jon Antilles, had been claimed by Boba as his chair. It only amused Jango to see his own little chaos gremlin gravitate to another one in Jedi form. Together they might be unstoppable, but that wasn’t a thought Obi-Wan wanted to dwell on.

Obi-Wan hesitated to ever introduce Boba Fett to Quinlan Vos. It was inevitable, but perhaps it could be avoided for another decade or so.

Everyone’s favorite Jedi, Grogu, had pride of place on his father’s lap.

The rest of the arena seats were also filled. All the alpha and command clones were there, all the Jedi initiates, and so many others. Anyone who could be spared from their duties had hurried there, once word got out.

The blasters were set to stun. The Mandalorians thought it was a courtesy because the padawan was only fifteen. Obi-Wan and Anakin agreed it was a courtesy because Anakin’s control might slip and he might ricochet a shot and miss the armor.

There were no whistling birds, bombs, nor rockets for similar reasons. The goal wasn’t to kill any Mandalorians. Everything else was fair game.

At first, he only lit his own lightsaber. He stood in the middle of the arena, head bowed slightly, the blue of his plasma blade glowing, drawing a visual line that bisected his head and chest. No one did anything. No warrior seemed to even breathe, much less draw their blaster.

“Boring!” Anakin finally called out.

Someone behind him shot him in the back. Except of course they didn’t. Anakin didn’t even turn around. He whirled his lightsaber in a too-fast-to-catch motion and the ricochet caught the warrior dead in the throat. He dropped, stunned and unconscious. 

And then there were twenty-four.

“Oops. Sorry.” Chagrin. An image of a stun bolt hitting the beskar heart.

“Is he showing off?” Jango asked quietly in the hush of the arena.

“No, he missed. He meant that to go dead center in the breastplate, but he hasn’t been training lately. I do hope they pick up the pace. Vaapad is best for melee fighting. I had hoped they would make it hard on him.”

Jango sighed and put his helmet back on, obviously to communicate to the warriors in the ring.

And finally there was movement!

Obi-Wan grinned in tandem with Anakin’s own smile and sense of relief. He leaned back, crossed his legs and put an arm around Ahsoka’s back, the other hand on Jango’s thigh armor.

Ahsoka unconsciously leaned into him and he could feel from their bond, excitement and anticipation. She also had a bond with her brother in the ring, and Obi-Wan could feel the echoes of Anakin from her bond, too. And Fox’s. And Grogu’s. Of course Anakin had also bonded with Boba, and far earlier, but Boba couldn’t sense Anakin’s emotions, so there was no corresponding echo, there.

It was still quite tame in the ring, but everyone in the arena stands was impressed, possibly save Master Antilles who was just watching and waiting. It was quite understandable. They were only shooting, and mostly at Anakin’s head and chest. They weren’t moving around, and it didn’t require Anakin to move either.

“Have they finished warming up yet, do you think?” Obi-Wan asked his husband quietly. “Do tell them to put in a bit of effort. Anakin’s not even trying.”

Ahsoka giggled next to him.

Grogu gurgled adorably.

Boba was undoubtedly getting ideas, but Obi-Wan decided not to worry about that right now.

Another two warriors went down, stunned, with slightly off ricochets.

And then there were twenty-two.

Finally, things began to get creative in the ring. A jetpack was finally in use, and then four more. Someone used their grappling hook and line, someone else used a flamethrower.

The shock and horror from the crowd at the flamethrower usage was quickly turned to just shock when Anakin put out a hand and turned the flames back on the warrior who sent them, who abruptly dodged out of the way. He jumped over the first line and did a backflip over the second in the middle of continuing to send the blaster stun bolts back on their senders, or to others.

One such struck a jetpack and had the warrior spiraling out of control. Anakin was diligent, however, and caught the warrior who abruptly cut power to the pack. Anakin set him down more or less gently while also doing a no-handed cartwheel and finally decided to pull out Obi-Wan’s own lightsaber to augment his own.

They really were going to need to build Anakin a second one.

Ah. Excellent. Both of their lightsabers were blue, of course, quite a common color, but it did mean that there was now little hope to know which one was where, Anakin was moving so fast.

The ones who tried to come closer, Anakin deliberately hit with stun bolts, always in the neck, as he couldn’t actually do much damage with the sabers otherwise.

And then there were nineteen.

Three warriors threw fire at him all at once triangulating him in the center, and then it became a simple ring around him as he continued to block and redirect stun bolts, hitting those three in particular.

And then there were sixteen.

Next, and clearly fed up with the jetpacks hovering at a distance above him, Anakin sprang.

He landed on one, his own saber already in a reverse grip. He slashed gently at the warrior’s throat, leaving a burn. “Tag,” he said calmly, then jumped to the next, then the next, then the next, tagging all of them out before returning to the ground.

And then there were twelve.

The warriors regrouped and were clearly ready for hand-to-hand, blasters away. They pulled out vibroblades of various lengths, most of them, and someone had a pair of beskar tonfa. Someone else was fighting with a flute? It must be made of beskar.

Because of course Mandalorians had weaponized their musical instruments. Naturally. How Obi-Wan could consider anything else was now ludicrous to his mind. Quite silly, really.

Now Anakin held both swords in a reverse grip, again. Oh, the controversial reverse grip. Drellig, the battle master loathed the reverse grip, though it could be very good for close fighting, especially when one didn’t have a variety of weapons stashed, or one hadn’t lost one’s lightsaber yet.

Obi-Wan had lost his lightsaber more than once, and for a different unpredictable reason each time, hence the knives on his person.

Everytime Anakin landed a blow outside of the armor that would decapitate or lose a limb, he quietly said, “Tag.”

Still, Anakin was a swirl, blades still moving too fast to see, only knowing when something hit when a warrior’s grunt or yell was paired with a quiet, “Tag.”

The “bodies” slumped down right where they were, creating an obstacle course for the remaining ones, though Anakin jumped lithely hither and yon, flipping and spinning, a whirlwind.

And all the while, Anakin was still inside, calm, and a little happy. He was happy with his showing, no matter how it ended. He hadn’t come too close to the darkness yet, and Obi-Wan had been monitoring him closely, only spending part of his awareness on Anakin’s form, which was good. Master Windu would be proud, he thought.

And then it was down to one, and with a single last flourish, Anakin tagged them out, too, finishing with a dramatic touch that made Obi-Wan both grin and roll his eyes.

Anakin was in a wide stance, close to the ground, one leg out straight and the other bent up beneath him, both arms splayed, one high, one low, sabers in a proper grip again.

There was a hush in the arena just before it erupted with sound.

Anakin rose and turned to Obi-Wan, bringing both sabers up in a salute, and then sweeping down and to the sides before turning them off and stowing them in his sash.

Obi-Wan’s grin slid into a much wider smile to greet his padawan when the blindfold came off, and the earplugs out. He made sure to send his emotions clearly down their link. Pride, appreciation, love.

The protective energy field came down and Anakin hopped lightly up to the top of the wall and then inside the stands.

Fox, Ahsoka, and Boba mobbed him, and Obi-Wan stood up and bowed to him.

“Very well done, Anakin.”

“Thank you, Master,” he replied, bowing and offering Obi-Wan’s lightsaber back to him.

Then Kenobi took the back of his padawan’s neck in his hands, pulling their foreheads together. “You have passed the Trial of Skill, Anakin. That’s two down. Congratulations.”

Anakin’s joy was pervasive and he caught Obi-Wan in a laughing hug that the older man relished.

It had been so long since Anakin was happy. And now he was, again. Thanks to the Force, and Master Fay, and Jango Fett, he was again.

“Jet’ika, let’s walk,” Jango said, mostly in Basic .

There was something he wanted to say, but it was complicated. He’d only put all the pieces together recently and he wasn’t sure if Obi-Wan had figured it out or not. But it was more important to tell the jet’ika. 

“I know it’s hard to be so powerful, but still young, with restrictions on you.”

The jet’ika released a little huff of air in response. Jango didn’t look over to see the look on his face, but continued walking slowly through the twisting hallways. He had a destination in mind, but there was no rush. He reached up and meditatively stroked Grogu’s head from where his son was snoozing in his sling across Jango’s chestplate.

“You did well, to pass the Trial of the Spirit. I faced something similar, and failed.”

“You- what?” Anakin responded sharply.

“You know about Galidraan?” Jango asked quietly.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Yes, sir. Master explained.”

“After a while - I was sold into slavery and it took a while to free myself, track down my armor, join the Bondman’s Guild - I killed all the rest of the Jedi who were there. Took bounties for them. All legal and above board. All but one. And I didn’t recognize that one when he approached me, made me a deal I couldn’t refuse.

“Except I should have recognized him, jet’ika. I knew his face. I was waiting for his bounty to come up, and it never did. Because he was the one putting the bounties out. You know, he had me kill his own padawan? Komari Vosa. Had to bring both her lightsabers to him as proof of work. Shabuir demagolka.” 

“He was my great grandmaster,” the jet’ika said softly.

Osik.

The jet’ika laughed humorlessly. “I guess I see why Master sometimes calls ours the ‘disaster lineage’. And I was right on that path, too.”

“That’s why we’re having this conversation,” Jango reminded him. “So this shabuir who I don’t recognize but should have, he makes me this deal to get my revenge on all jetiise, and he lays it out for me, be the template for a clone army, stay on to train them.

“I can tell you right now, I didn’t think it through before I said yes. Before that conversation I had only wanted revenge on one more, just one last jetii. But I realize now, he did to me what was done to you. I didn’t even know it was possible, and I’m not sure how I could have actually ever resisted.

“There were parts I didn’t like, once things got going. I knew nothing about the cloners on Kamino before this, but I learned that they only seem soft. They kill children with no remorse. They killed my children with no remorse for simple deviations from their desired genetic goal. I objected at first, and then after a few more meetings with that last unknown jetii, I didn’t even object.

“He had turned me into a dar’manda demagolka, and I didn’t even strain at the bonds. I wanted it that way. I wanted this grander picture of revenge. I had completely forgotten about the last jetii I’d been looking for, like he never existed, despite the fact that I dined with him once a year.

“And I’d still be there, right now, training the alpha and command squads if he hadn’t choked on a kriffing pastry and died.”

“Master says it’s like another form of slavery, a mental slavery.”

Ah, yes. They’d all been slaves. Ob’ika mentioned. 

Jango wordlessly removed his left vambrace and shoved his kute sleeve higher, showing the skin and the telling scar on the back of his wrist.

He’d killed his slave master.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had three such slashes on his left wrist.

“I’m only sorry I didn’t kill the shabuir myself. But I realize now, I never could have. The chains were too tight, and I didn’t even realize who the enemy was.”

And then Anakin Skywalker responded softly in the slave language. “Take what freedom you can get, when you can get it.”

They walked in silence, out of the compound and toward the Forge.

“You have a choice, jet’ika, a choice someone like me just doesn’t have. You can see them coming. You can see what they do in your mind. No matter what happens, keep your freedom. Don’t let them get even a toehold.”

The jet’ika nodded silently. 

They picked up his custom vambraces, unpainted as yet, but filled with such weapons and gadgets that the ad was likely to always wear them. They boasted no fewer than two knives and eighteen custom tools, including three interfaces.

His greaves were the same, and already fastened on over his boots.

The ad was a walking tool kit, honestly.

They finalized the design for his gorget, leaving off the fishmail tunic for another three years or so to allow him to finish growing and filling out.

Walking back together, in silence, the ad was the first to speak.

“Mand’alor, I know it’s not my place, but since Master Fay is still here…”

Jango just waited. It took a while. Anakin was no Consular Jedi.

“Whatever Dooku did, it leaves traces. Residue. That’s the way it was for me. It’s probably all still there, like chains that are less restrictive, but still painful. Master Fay would help you. Clean it out.”

Jango sighed.

“I really don’t want to owe her a debt.”

“I’ll take it,” his jet’ika immediately said. “I’ll take the debt. I don’t mind.”

Osik. Jango growled and stopped his progress, reaching over to cuff the back of his neck and pull his forehead into his own.

Osik, osik, karking, kriffing osik.

And this was how you successfully manipulated a mando’ad.

All his children were so mandokarla it hurt. But he wouldn’t give a single one up, not anymore.

Jango made a mental note to find Vizsla, if she didn’t find him first. Which she probably would.

But what would she demand as repayment of his debt?

Jango was fuming.

“Is your brain cell lonely?” he thundered, then regretted it, as it made Grogu sad. He huffed angrily and rubbed his infant’s head.

“Fett, this will work,” his beloved patiently said in a meeting with Miles, Skirata, and his top slicer, Mix.

“I hate this plan, and it’s not going to work,” Jango argued back.

“It might, ‘alor,” the slicer said. “The rest of the galaxy don’t really get Mandalorians, and they don’t really get Jedi, either. We do the holostill set up, and maybe even get a short, I mean very short holovid. And um, it would actually be really great if we could do a twodee picture in full color. With, um, maybe, new armor colors.”

“FUCK OFF!” Jango bellowed, and didn’t regret it, even if it did make Grogu cry. “Not you, sweet, perfect infant child. You don’t have to fuck off. Just that fucking moron who has implied my armor needs to be repainted,” he spoke gently, calming his child back down again and bouncing him a little.

His beloved riduur spoke next. “You are Mand’alor the Savior, Fett. You can simultaneously send a message to those who understand that, and a very different and opposite message to those who don’t. It is a complex, masterful stroke that will accomplish no fewer than eight objectives all at once.”

Comprehension dawned.

Jango held Obi-Wan Kenobi’s unflinching gaze. “This was your idea,” he accused.

“Yes.”

Jango ground his teeth and tried to let the fiery rage go. He would never admit it, but he used the instructions he had heard Ob’ika give to so many others when they were meditating.

It worked, which Jango would also never admit to anyone, particularly his riduur. 

“Which colors?” he ground out.

Red on his kar’ta, and on a field of black, chevrons on his cuirass and stripes elsewhere, sandwiched orange between blue. The combination of lust for life, surrounded by reliability on a field of justice, all to spell ‘savior’, with his love for Jaster at the center of it all.

And now that he saw it in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t unsee it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He needed to repaint his armor.

“I don’t like the plan for you, Kenobi. You could be in your armor, without a helmet. Its non-traditional. You don’t look Mandalorian at all. Or you could be absent entirely,” Jango argued.

“That won’t work, Fett,” his beloved said plainly. “The entire point, for those who can’t read the specific cultural symbols of the Mandalorians or the Jedi, is to lure them into an entirely false sense of security, to assure them that something they assume will be true, is true. The picture will say, ‘Look how strong and despotic this warlord is! He’s taken a Jedi concubine and utterly defanged him. How powerful he must be!’ It will absolutely work on the Hutts, the Pykes, Crimson Dawn, and the Black Sun. The Republic already thinks you’re a warlord, and my presence will confuse them deeply because they have a myopic view of the Order. The Mandalorians will know you as Mand’alor the Savior and that you’re doing something interesting and new that could benefit them if only they deigned to show up. The Jedi will take one look at that and see an under-cover Outer Rim Jedi doing what we do. We all saw it happen when Master Antilles walked in your throne room, looking like a bounty hunter.”

“That’s because he is a bounty hunter!” Jango said tersely, but without raising his voice. Grogu patted him on his armor. He could hear the little clicks of his claws. Absently, he fondled his son’s left ear.

“That’s my point! He’s an Outer Rim Jedi whose cover as a bounty hunter is now known to your court and all the rest of House Mereel. And moving on, anyone who has ever dealt with the Jedi in any significant way will be confused and intrigued because simply putting my light saber next to your right hand and away from me, they will know or suspect that such a paltry effort won’t keep anyone safe from me if I have a mind to use it.”

“Then what’s the point? Everyone’s had some interaction with a Jedi!”

“But it will confuse or intrigue everyone to some extent, and it’s the crime syndicates we want to confuse the most, and it’s the crime syndicates who will be confused the most. They just won’t know they’re confused, which is why this ploy is so very perfect. This is how they like to play, a sprawled despot on a throne, surrounded by tribute and soft concubines. It’s how they live their lives, day in and day out. This speaks their language. And the more high ranking the concubine, the better.”

Jango took one long look at his strong, scarred, indecently powerful warrior of a husband. The husband who kicked so much ass on the training ground he’d actually given up sparing with anyone not a Jedi with his lightsaber, because the advantage was too great. He was now training with the beskad in order to handicap himself.

He was bursting with mandokarla, and oh, he was glorious in his armor. He had standard vambraces and greaves, without most upgrades, though of course more room for more knives. Then he had a mid-thigh length tunic of fish-mail with a gorget that overlaid it in the same fish-mail with a hinged plate collar, loose enough for movement, but a guard against force chokes and easy beheadings.

Jango had insisted on the collar.

There had been a three week argument on the topic.

Jango had won.

And all of his armor, all of it save the grieve from Jango was one unrelenting shade of shereshoy orange, highlighted only by the new crest of House Mereel, a tongue of red flame.

It was Obi-Wan entirely: a lust for life, not just for himself, but for everyone.

And even without his armor, when his Ob’ika occasionally wore only the standard kit of the jetiise, usually early morning or late evenings, he still looked like a formidable warrior, and he always would.

“There is no way you could ever look soft, Kenobi. It won’t work,” he said quietly.

His riduur smiled a smile Jango had warned him not to smile in public anymore. All the blood rushed south and suddenly it was hard to think.

“I promise you, Jango Fett, it will work.”