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batsutousaiTitle: Haat'Mand'alor be Yaim'ol
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Jaster Mereel
Warnings: Time travel, canon-typical violence, fix-it (apparently), not everyone dies/some live, the Kaminoans are the worst, Jaster is the Mand'alor we deserve, character death, the clones deserve better, Jaster has 3 million grandkids, mental manipulation, Mandalorian culture, Mandalorian morality, an excessive amount of murder (of Kaminoans), Jedi culture respected, Jango needs a hug, Rex needs a hug, Fox needs a hug, EVERYONE GETS A HUG (except the Kaminoans), asexual Jango, nonbinary clones, trans clones, polyamory mention, disabled characters, happy ending
Summary: Jaster Mereel doesn't die on Korda VI, but is instead thrust forward thirty years to Kamino.
A/N: I have no idea where this idea came from, it just did. I sort of expected it to turn into a 'Jaster lays into Jango about his shitty life choices' fic. Which it is, to an extent, but, also, Dooku is an asshole, the Kaminoans are the worst, and Jango isn't entirely to blame for the way the clones were raised.
I did not start out intending this to be JastObi, but Jaster was insistent, and I am a weak author who cannot say no to my characters. (Especially when it's in regard to rarepairs that I enjoy.) Related, all smutty scenes will be fade-to-black; if you want to read Jaster and Obi-Wan getting it on, write it yourself.
I also went into this foolishly expecting it to be a one-shot, maybe as long as 30k. I don't know why, I should know myself better by this point. *eyeroll*
Opening scene is taken directly from Jango Fett: Open Seasons, then transfers to the tail of Jango and Obi-Wan's battle in Attack of the Clones, with some minor timing changes for plot reasons.
Canon-related, my understanding of the members of the Cuy'val Dar—the group of mostly-Mandalorians that Jango brought in to train the clones—comes from Wookieepedia and fanon, not Traviss' books. (I have no intention of reading something by someone who thinks the jedi deserved to be genocided and calls those who like them Nazis.) If they are not the characters you're familiar with, that's why. (Also, I've made a few of them non-human, because, for a community supposedly so welcoming of non-humans, there seem to be a depressing number of them that are humans. Which, related, I'm basing non-human helmet designs on the-art-block's sketches over on tumblr. Link is for my blog, since they don't seem to have a tag just for their helmet sketches.)
For Mando'a (and, I think, 2 Huttese words?), I've added hover-text, which doesn't really work on mobile, alas. (It does on Ao3, so you may be best reading over there.) Alternately, there's a glossary of terms in a separate post, for those who prefer that manner. If an entire section of dialogue is bolded, you can assume it's being spoken in Mando'a, but I'll do my best to let you know in the text when they're switching languages.
The title translates to 'The True Mand'alor's Return'. It can also be taken to mean 'Return of the True Mandalorians' Mand'alor', given the fanon Mando'a for the faction is 'Haat'ade' and Mando'a's habit of dropping parts of words while mashing them together. Both translations are correct, in this case. (We can argue word order until the cows come home, btw, but that seems like more energy than a made-up language is worth, to me. You do you, I guess?)
"Montross! Airlift! Now!" Jaster yelled after his second as Vizsla's war machine rained shots down on his position. Not for the first time, he regretted the knock he'd taken as an adiik that had left him with intermittent vertigo; a danger to both himself and others with a jetpack, and so banned from having one of his own.
"Sorry, Jaster," Montross returned on their internal comms, his voice too-sweet even through the static. "I'm through taking your orders. But I'll take good care of the troops."
"Montross!" Jaster roared after his retreating form in the sky, even as he shoved himself to his feet to run, twisting to shoot over his shoulder at Vizsla's machine.
Neither yelling nor his blaster did any good. And, while the war machine had apparently started out poorly calibrated—he'd been a sitting duck, and it had missed him—they fixed it before he got two steps, and a blast struck his left leg.
He crumpled, mud splattering around him as he hit his knees. The brown was already staining with red, the colour too-clear through his buy'ce's display.
He was going to die.
Jaster closed his eyes and sent his ad, his Jango—always so angry, so afraid; this was never the future he'd wanted for the adiik he'd stumbled over on Concord Dawn, haunted by the deaths of his buire and ori'vod—a mental apology; a prayer that he, at least, would survive this, would become the man Jaster knew was inside him.
And then—
Raindrops.
Loud and increasing in speed, in strength. Thundering against his buy'ce.
Jaster opened his eyes, confused.
He was kneeling on a grey platform slick with the heavy rain falling all around him, a domed grey structure rising before him, with what looked to be a door some ten metres ahead of him, closed.
He heard the sound of starship engines behind him, and activated the back sensor of his buy'ce, frowning in confusion at a sleek, unfamiliar ship lifting from the platform behind him. It seemed to rotate on an axis—the wings held steady while the rest tilted, a cockpit briefly coming visible even as it turned away—before it zipped up into the storm clouds.
"Kriff," a voice said with feeling.
Jaster returned the view of his HUD to in front of him, finding a pale-skinned human or near in what looked like the robe and tunics of a jetii, a short metal rod held in one hand. They had a beard and moustache, dark in the rain, and hair that looked to be chin-length plastered across one cheek.
Jaster knew the history between Mando'ade and the Jet'tsad as well as anyone, and he knew most Mando'ade would prefer to attack a jetii first and ask questions if they survived, but he believed that there should be a way for their peoples to be, if not allies, at least cordial enough to work together for a common goal and part on peaceful terms.
(He had done a fair bit of studying of different law systems and cultures in his youth and while working on his Supercommando Codex, and one of the things he'd learnt, was that Mando'ade and Jetiise—Jedi; the Mando'a word for them was not meant to be a kind one, though he couldn't say if the -ii suffix had been used as an insult, or because the Basic word ended in an 'i'—weren't so different as they seemed. Both warrior cultures, both willing to adopt others no matter their origins, both started training young, both believed in a sort of power that existed throughout the galaxy, both believed the spirits of their dead resided in that power, both would give their lives to protect ade and non-combatants, and both were known to be terrifying if a youngling in their charge was endangered or stolen away.)
"Su'cuy," Jaster offered.
The jetii—jedi; he'd promised himself he wouldn't use the Mando'a word any more, but it was a hard habit to break, and not one he had a great deal of practice at—tilted their head, and Jaster was just realising he should have given his greeting in Basic, when they replied, "Su'cuy. Tion gar gai?"
Their Mando'a had a strange accent—not quite Keldabe, not quite Kalevala, but somewhere between, like they'd learnt it from multiple sources—but the comfortable way they'd spoken suggested they were fluent. Which wasn't something Jaster would have expected, not if they were a jedi.
Jaster shook himself; that was something to consider at a later time. "Ni Mand'alor Jaster Mereel," he replied.
The possible jedi jerked, pale eyes going wide. "That's impossible," they said in Mando'a. "Mand'alor Mereel died thirty years ago."
A feeling like a blasterbolt to the gut ripped through Jaster, and he thought he heard someone whispering, "What?" over the roaring of the rain.
He could almost see, again, Vizsla's war machine bearing down on him, no chance of rescue, only a quick and honourless death at the hands of a hut'uun; Vizsla might insist he was owed the title of Mand'alor for his ownership of the dha'kad'au, but never once had he had the courage to face Jaster in a fair fight.
"Mereel!" someone shouted.
Something jostled his wounded leg, the pain shocking his mind out of the memory of his...death? He cursed, reaching down to the wound, and was a little startled to find the possible jedi kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders.
"You're wounded," they said, pale eyes narrowing at the hand Jaster had lowered towards his leg.
"Vizsla shot me with some war machine," Jaster spat. "Coward."
"Can you shift, straighten your leg? I need to bind it before you lose more blood," the possible jedi said, letting go of Jaster's shoulders and catching the bottom of their soaked robe. They made a face, then shook their head and used a vibroblade Jaster hadn't seen them draw to start a tear in the dark fabric, then gave it a hard tug, the sound of ripping fabric audible even over the drumming of the rain.
Jaster grimaced, but managed to sit back on his rump, stretching his wounded leg out to the side, with only a little difficulty.
"As far as I know," the possible jedi said as they started wrapping the wet fabric torn from their robe around his leg with deft motions that suggested this was far from the first time they'd needed to practise some battlefield medicine, "Tor Vizsla is dead. Sixteen or so years ago, their ship exploded near Corellia. Only one escape pod ejected, and it was found empty in the grasslands. Kyr'tsad started falling apart after a little over a month, and the New Mandalorians were able to oust them from the capital three months later."
Jaster...didn't really know how to feel about that, or about the fact that it was sounding like he'd somehow missed thirty years. "My child? Jango?" he asked, the words sounding more like a plea through the vocoder.
The possible jedi's gaze flicked behind him, towards where the unfamiliar-looking ship had been. "Alive," they said, something in their tone that Jaster couldn't quite read. "Do you think you can stand? I can carry you if I have to, but I think it will be easier on both of us if you can take some of your weight on your good leg."
"More dignified, at least," Jaster muttered, and heard what might have been a quiet chuckle from his companion. "I'll need help getting up." he admitted.
The possible jedi quickly got to their feet and held down a hand, gripping Jaster's forearm solidly when he reached back, and easily pulling him up, as though Jaster weren't wearing full beskar'gam.
"Where are we?" Jaster had to ask as his companion fitted themself against Jaster's side, clearly intending to keep in step with him and help him keep his weight off his wounded leg. "This is not Korda VI. I don't think."
The possible jedi coughed as they started moving them forward, towards the door to the domed building. "No. No, this is on the other side of the galaxy, actually; we're on Kamino, in wild space."
"I have no idea where that is," Jaster admitted a little dizzily. He'd only very rarely left Manda'lase, usually to complete a job or to help settle a problem in a Mando'ad settlement, most of which weren't far off the Hydian Way.
"A very long way from home," the possible jedi said quietly as they stepped through the door to a brightly-lit white hallway. They stopped there for a moment, and, from what Jaster could see of their face, looked troubled.
"What's wrong?" Jaster asked.
The possible jedi glanced at him, their pale eyes seeming to have gone dark. "There's some...things I need–"
"There's only one person I know who speaks Mando'a with that confused accent," a familiar voice declared.
The possible jedi twitched against Jaster, and they both turned to look towards where a being in red and black beskar'gam—Togrutan, by the shape of their buy'ce—was just coming into view around the curve of the hallway. "Alor'ad Tervho?" the possible jedi breathed.
The Mando'ad's head tilted in that manner that meant they were smiling. "Su cuy'gar, verd'ika," they said, and Jaster started a little as he placed the voice: Vhonte Tervho, one of his ramikade; her ad had been one of Jango's closest friends and playmates, before he'd taken his verd'goten and insisted he was too adult to still be playing with the younger ad. "And I'm not a captain any more."
The possible jedi let out an irritated huff. "Stop calling me 'verd'ika'," they ordered.
Vhonte let out a quiet laugh, then her visor turned just slightly, focussing on Jaster. "And who is this, then? I know all of the Mando'ade on Kamino."
"Mand'alor Mereel," the possible jedi replied in a perfectly even voice.
"Jaster Mereel is dead," Vhonte snarled, something threatening in her tone.
"Vhonte," Jaster interrupted, a little concerned about what she might do to the possible jedi—the Vhonte he'd known had been a bit of a hot-head, quick to draw her blasters at the hint of an offence; as friendly as they seemed, he wasn't certain she wouldn't take the chance to shoot someone in jedi garb, "it really is me. I was on Korda VI, facing off against that dar'manda coward, Vizsla, and then I was in the rain outside."
Vhonte held very still for a moment, then asked, "What's my parent's name?"
Jaster blinked, then huffed. "Their actual name, or the one you told me when we met?" he asked; Vhonte, for some reason, always told everyone a different name for her buir, which Jaster had realised relatively early on—he'd caught her giving three different names to three different ori'ramikade—but it had taken him almost five years to learn their real name and figure out why.
"Both," Vhonte ordered, voice sounding tight even through her buy'ce's modulator.
Jaster glanced at the possible jedi, turning his head enough to make it obvious to her that he was. When she didn't say anything against them being there, he shrugged his free shoulder and said, "You originally told me they were named Saashaa Wren. But they were actually Saule Nam."
"The pirate?!" the possible jedi exclaimed, before letting out a quiet laugh and muttering, "That explains so much," in Basic, their accent polished Core.
Vhonte reached up and pulled off the faceplate of her buy'ce, revealing a broken-hearted expression. "Jaster?" she whispered.
Jaster hesitated for a moment, then reached up and released the seals of his own buy'ce, tilting it up and back to rest on the crown of his head. "Su cuy'gar, Vhonte," he offered with a crooked smile.
She'd aged, he could see, wrinkles formed at the corners of her eyes and mouth, where there hadn't been any when he'd seen her only a few days before. Her lekku were longer, too, and he expected her montrals were filling out more of the space for them at the top of her buy'ce. (It wasn't uncommon, he'd learnt from their goran, when he'd asked about how large they were making her buy'ce, for extra space to be left, since montrals kept growing until Togrutans died—not unlike horns or hair or lekku—and it could be both expensive and difficult to keep resizing every year or two, but they were delicate enough to need the extra protection, so gorane usually created their buy'ce too large, to give them some few more years; how much time depended on the goran's design and how quickly their montrals grew.)
She blinked a few times rapidly, eyes shining wetly and a smile tugging at her mouth, and then she thumped her fist against her ka'rta beskar in a salute. "Su cuy'gar, Mand'alor."
There was a moment of silence between them, and then the possible jedi cleared their throat and said, "Tervho, not that I'm not delighted to see you–" Vhonte flashed a toothy smile at the sarcasm in their voice "–but what in the Force are you doing here?"
Jaster couldn't stop his eyebrows from rising at the casual use of the very jedi term.
Vhonte's expression blanked. "Actually, I think I should be asking you that, Ben," she said, tone almost careful.
Ben, Jaster thought, and realised with some embarrassment that he'd never actually asked their name.
"Not that I'm not glad you've turned up our Mand'alor–"
"Your Mand'alor," Ben immediately corrected.
Vhonte scoffed. "You are wasted on the jetiise," she replied, waving a careless hand. "Which, actually, that reminds me: How is that useless waste of space you refused to call parent?"
"Dead," Ben said, voice gone flat and cold.
Vhonte flinched, expression twisting with an apology that Jaster knew her well enough to recognise as honest; clearly, she did actually like Ben, despite them being a jedi. "N'eparavu takisit," she apologised quietly. "How long?"
Ben took a deep breath and let it out, losing some of the tension that Jaster could feel in their frame, pressed together as they were. "Ten years," they said just as quietly.
"Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la," Vhonte murmured, bowing her head.
Jaster bowed his own head, automatic, and felt more than saw Ben doing it as well.
He wondered, a bit helplessly, what jedi said to each other as recognition of one who had marched on ahead. Surely, they had some sort of phrase, some manner of comfort, a reminder that their loved ones weren't gone forever, that they would be with them again when their own time came.
"I can add them to my remembrances," Vhonte offered, and Jaster raised an eyebrow in surprise; from how she'd just been speaking of them, he didn't think she cared for Ben's buir.
Ben snorted and shook their head. "You despised Qui-Gon," they said with humour. "If you could have got away with it, you'd have shot them our first week on Manda'yaim."
Vhonte eyed Ben suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed and turned her nose up haughtily. "I was intending to let Kyr'tsad do the honours, but they kept missing."
"That's what happens when you care more about numbers than ability," Ben replied drily. And then they narrowed their eyes, and Jaster could actually feel the shift in the air, the sharp-edged intentness that arrowed in on Vhonte. "Speaking of, Tervho, I don't suppose you know anything about this army."
Jaster frowned in confusion, while Vhonte stiffened, her expression going tight. "The army your precious Jet'tsad ordered?" she shot back. "Why ask me? Shouldn't you–"
"We didn't order them!" Ben snapped, flinging out an arm.
Jaster unbalanced slightly and automatically shifted his weight onto his bad leg, hissing at the pain.
"Kriff," Ben breathed. "No, never mind about the army right now," they said, tone firm. "Mand'alor Mereel needs a medic. Away from the clones, preferably."
"Clones?" Jaster repeated, half surprised by the word in Basic, half confused by why Ben thought he needed to be kept away from them.
Vhonte frowned. "They don't know?" she asked Ben.
"No," Ben said, voice flat. "Not my fight, not my sword."
Vhonte huffed. "Please stop purposefully missaying that."
"It is, technically, correct," Jaster couldn't stop himself from pointing out. "The idiom actually predates the usage of blast–"
"This is your fault," Vhonte loudly informed Ben, who chuckled quietly. "Jaster, please. No one missed your weird interests."
"It sounds quite fascinating to me, Mand'alor," Ben told Jaster, smiling over at him, their pale eyes gleaming with amusement, the bright lighting of the hallway highlighting shades of red in their wet hair.
Something in Jaster's chest gave a lurch, just like it had when he'd spent time with Huhana, the woman who should have been his riduur, before he'd been kicked out of the Journeyman Protectors and her family had forced her to cut all contact with him. He let himself give a mental curse, even as he heard himself saying, "I believe you can call me Jaster, at this point," in a surprisingly smooth voice.
"Then I expect you should call me Obi-Wan."
Jaster blinked, confused.
"Obi-Wan was undercover while they were on Manda'yaim," Vhonte explained, clearly having recognised his confusion.
Ah. Yes, if Ben—if Obi-Wan—had been using a cover name, Vhonte would have got in the habit of using that, not their actual name. And Obi-Wan hadn't corrected her, so Jaster suspected they didn't mind the name, but they'd requested Jaster use their actual name, so... "Well met, Obi-Wan," he offered, and smiled one of his warmest smiles.
Obi-Wan's pale skin tinted pink behind their beard as they murmured back, "Well met, Jaster."
Vhonte let out a choked sound and shoved her faceplate back into place as she turned her back on them. "Jango's going to go ballistic," she said, and Jaster couldn't tell, through her buy'ce's modulator, whether she was delighted or upset by that.
"Where is my child?" Jaster asked.
"I'll take you to Mij," Vhonte announced, and motioned them to follow as she started walking back the way she'd come from. "They're our medic. Hopefully their students are eating, right now."
"Vhonte," Jaster called. The warning tone he'd tried to use was a little ruined by Obi-Wan slowly starting them walking again, Jaster forgetting to shift his weight to Obi-Wan on his bad side for just long enough for the painful reminder to shoot through his nerves.
"Jango was on a job, last I knew," Vhonte said casually.
"I followed them here from that job," Obi-Wan said, voice flat. "They've left again, with their young child."
An adiik? Jaster was a ba'buir?
Vhonte twisted to look back over her shoulder. "How the kriff are you still alive?" she demanded. "Did he not realise you're a jetii?"
"You, of everyone, should know how good I am at surviving people who want me dead," Obi-Wan replied blithely.
Jaster felt like ice was spreading through his veins; it was sounding suspiciously like his child had attempted to kill Obi-Wan just for being a jedi. Which was not how he'd raised him! Jango had definitely picked up that unfortunate interest in fighting a jedi, just to prove he was better than them—most Mando'ad ade went through that phase at some point—but killing one? That was a Kyr'tsad headspace!
"There are events you aren't aware of, Mand'alor," Obi-Wan murmured, his voice low and grim. "Fett has reasons for wanting jedi dead."
"If Jango's joined Kyr'tsad, I will shoot them," Jaster said flatly.
Vhonte choked.
"I would rather you were sitting down for this conversation," Obi-Wan said.
Well, that was promising.
"I swear, on the Ka'ra, Jango is not and has never joined Kyr'tsad," Vhonte promised.
That was something.
By the time Vhonte led them through one of the doors that showed intermittently along the bland white halls, Jaster was sweating and panting in pain. Obi-Wan had taken his buy'ce at some point, murmuring something about not trapping heat, and was holding it against their free side in a comfortable hold.
Jaster took two steps into the room, almost ran into Vhonte, who had frozen in front of them, and tiredly leant to the side far enough to see around her taller form.
Just ahead of her, there were three Jangos, all staring at her with that familiar 'I've been caught' expression.
"Jango?" Jaster asked, confused.
"Kriff," Vhonte muttered with feeling, before barking out, "What are you three doing in here?" in Basic.
Two of them closed ranks, getting between Vhonte and the third one—Jaster realised they had bandaging around one hand, not completely done up—and started giving fumbling excuses at the same time, voices overlapping and sounding so much like his ad.
But they couldn't be Jango, he realised a little dizzily. Jango would be in his mid-forties, by now—older than Jaster, impossibly—and these three looked to be in their late teens.
Clones, Obi-Wan had said.
"Move, Tervho," Obi-Wan ordered, their voice gone commanding in a way that Jaster somehow hadn't expected from a jedi.
Vhonte stepped obediently to one side, leaving the way clear for Obi-Wan to help Jaster to one of the empty medical beds.
"Find the medic," Obi-Wan ordered Vhonte, before turning to the three Jangos—clones of Jango—and softening their voice to say, "Hello. I'm Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. Who might you three be?"
"You're a jedi?" one of the ones in front breathed, eyes gone wide with surprise.
Behind them, the one with the bandaging, was wearing the same expression Jango had worn when Jaster told him he had managed to find an easy job that was just for the two of them, to serve as Jango's verd'goten.
"You don't look like a jedi," the last one said, expression narrow and suspicious.
Something in Jaster's gut twisted, and he wasn't certain if he was feeling nostalgic, or sick.
"Unfortunately," Obi-Wan said, tone perfectly calm and with just a hint of friendliness, "your planet's weather and I don't seem to get along."
"No one gets along with Kamino's weather," the surprised one said.
"No one except the long necks," the suspicious one muttered, before narrowing their eyes on Obi-Wan. "Prove you're a jedi," they ordered in a tone Jaster well-recognised.
"Get out of here before one of the Alphas realises you're missing," a new voice ordered.
Jaster glanced over to find a Mando'ad in all gold beskar'gam following Vhonte through a different door than the one they'd originally entered through.
The three Jangos immediately raced out of the room.
The gold Mando'ad stepped swiftly over to Jaster. "Right, let's see what you've done to yourself. Jedi, help them further up the bed."
Obi-Wan did so, helping Jaster shift so he could get his leg flat on the bed. The dark fabric of the strip Obi-Wan had used to bind the wound was wet, though Jaster couldn't begin to guess if it was just from the rain, or if there was blood seeping through, as well.
The gold Mando'ad—the 'Mij' Vhonte had mentioned, Jaster assumed—made him remove all of his left leg's beskar'gam, which Obi-Wan took and set carefully on the bed next to Jaster's, with his buy'ce, pulled off his boot, and then cut off his kute above the knee, before carefully unwrapping the torn strip of robe. They whistled when they reached the wound. "You certainly pissed someone off, friend," they said as they gently pulled off the leg of his kute.
"No, he was just a coward," Jaster muttered bitterly.
"Pretty sure you existing pissed him off, Jaster," Vhonte offered.
The gold Mando'ad ignored the byplay, instead sending Obi-Wan and Vhonte both to fetch supplies for cleaning out the wound and bacta bandages. "I'd drop you in a tank, if I could get away with it, without the Kaminiise being difficult," the baar'ur told Jaster as they pulled two different hypos from a pouch on their belt. They listed a couple of regular allergens and, when Jaster shook his head, nodded and dropped one of them back into the pouch, then stuck him with the other.
The pain eased away, leaving Jaster feeling a little floaty and pleasant, and he was only vaguely aware of Obi-Wan helping him to lay back on the bed.
Comm ID: Vhonte, clan Tervho, house Mereel
My verd'ika tripped over a ghost. You'll want to get back here, before they hunt you down and flay the flesh from your spine.
Attached: One still holo of two beings from the waist up, both human or near, walking together through Kamino's halls. One has a neat beard and moustache and is dressed in the tunics and cloak generally recognised as jedi garb; the other looks in desperate need of a shave, has a nose that's clearly been broken at least once, and is wearing beskar'gam, their helmet perched on the top of their head. The one in beskar'gam is clearly leaning on the one in tunics, as though they need the support to walk, and they're turned towards each other, smiling.
When Jaster woke, he found that Obi-Wan was sat on the medical bed next to him, wrapped in a blanket and looking far more disgruntled than Jaster thought jedi were allowed. Someone had pulled a privacy curtain around their beds, and the quiet hum of activity could just be heard through it.
"Tervho messaged Fett," Obi-Wan said in Basic, apparently noticing Jaster had woken. "She has duties, so she had to leave, but she'll let us know if he replies."
Jaster nodded and struggled to push himself upright. Someone had removed his beskar'gam, which made it easier to move, but whatever had been in that hypo still left him feeling a little unsteady.
Obi-Wan didn't move to help him, and when Jaster glanced over at them again, half thinking to ask why, he noticed the IV line that attached to a near-empty bag of green-tinged liquid that vanished under the blanket. Obi-Wan glanced back at the bag and huffed. "Bacta infusion," they explained. "Baar'ur Gilamar made me change out of my wet things and had a bit of a fit when they saw I was a little bruised. Probably would have sedated me, if they could have."
Jaster coughed out a laugh; that sounded like most baar'ure he'd known over the years. "My beskar'gam?" he asked, as he glanced down at his wounded leg. It was wrapped in white bandaging practically from his knee to his ankle. There was a faint green tinge to it—bacta, he assumed—but no red or brown to suggest at continued bleeding. It didn't hurt—well, there was a vague sort of ache, but that could have been from the old wound in his knee reacting to the planet's climate—which suggested it was either well on its way to being healed, or there was still a pain killer of some sort in his system.
"On the chair next to you," Obi-Wan said, jerking their chin behind Jaster.
He glanced over and, yes, there was his beskar'gam, stacked neatly in the chair.
"Baar'ur Gilamar insisted it all come off, so you could rest properly. And to allow your kute to dry."
Jaster nodded in understanding. "My medic would have done the same thing," he admitted drily, and Obi-Wan let out a quiet chuckle. Jaster carefully shifted himself back, so he could lean on the wall at the head of the medical bed, then turned back to Obi-Wan. "I believe you wanted me to be sitting down before you explained my son's hatred of jedi; I'm sitting."
Obi-Wan sighed. "I did," they agreed quietly. "Please understand that I was otherwise occupied during these events, and heard about them all fourth or fifth hand, months after the fact."
Jaster grimaced, but inclined his head in understanding.
"The Haat'ade—the name given to the faction that followed you," Obi-Wan explained, clearly having seen Jaster's confusion at the unfamiliar Mando'a, "under the command of Fett, were on a job on the planet of Galidraan. Tervho said they were there to put down a rebellion against the governor, something about information on Kyr'tsad as payment?
"It turned out the governor was working with Kyr'tsad all along; Galidraan is a Republic world, so he called to the Senate for help, telling them there were Mandalorians murdering his people. The Senate told the Order to send as many knights and masters as could be spared to take them out."
Jaster closed his eyes; he could guess how this would end, and his heart ached for his ad, for all of their people.
Obi-Wan shifted, the easy-clean cover of their bed crinkling to give away the movement. "The Order sent thirty jedi. Only fifteen made it home, and Fett was the only member of the Haat'ade to survive. He was given to the governor to punish by his laws. By the time the Order realised we'd been tricked, Fett had been sold into slavery, and the governor's copy of the bill of sale mysteriously vanished," Obi-Wan finished quietly.
It took every ounce of Jaster's self-control to keep from curling in on himself and sobbing for the hand Jango had been dealt. Hadn't Jango suffered enough? He'd lost his birth buire and his ori'vod, had lost Jaster, and then he'd lost their people and his freedom?
"The governor? Kyr'tsad?" Jaster made himself ask.
"As far as I know, the governor was made to pay a fine," Obi-Wan said, disgust in their voice. "Kyr'tsad had gone to ground again; rather than sending the Order after them, the Senate put limits on how many jedi were allowed to go on any one mission, and on jedi leaving the Temple for matters other than Senate-sanctioned missions."
Jaster looked over, not certain if he was more surprised at the obvious bitterness in the jedi's voice, or that the Republic Senate would have punished the Jet'tsad for something so beyond their control. "Why punish the Jet'tsad? You said the governor reached out to the Senate, not the jedi."
Obi-Wan replied with a smile that was so obviously false, something in Jaster wanted to recoil. "It is the duty of the Jedi Order to obtain any necessary information about missions, not the Senate's," they said in a sickly-sweet tone. "We, after all, have magic."
"The Senate blamed the Jet'tsad for your Force not warning you that the governor had lied to them," Jaster said, his voice flat and edged in steel; he'd never cared for the Republic's law force, had seen too many signs of their corruption in the poverty of their member worlds further from the core, while those closer in prospered.
One of the things he'd always appreciated about the jedi, was that they would help anyone, no matter how close to the core they lived, even if they weren't from a member world of the Republic. One of the first stories he'd read about the jedi, had been of how they'd mobilised almost six hundred beings to answer a distress call from a planet in the outer rim whose sun had gone unstable for reasons the story hadn't been clear on. They had worked tirelessly for over a month, evacuating the planet and finding places to resettle the former occupants, calling in all manner of favours to get resistant planetary governments to accept refugees.
Any people, Jaster had thought when he'd read that story, who would act so selflessly for the sake of strangers, are a people I should like to call my friends.
Obi-Wan sighed. "If a Jedi Master really did order this clone army," they said quietly, "I can understand why they would have kept it to themself; the Council would have been duty-bound to inform the Senate, and the Senate would never approve of the Order having access to an army. We have a hard enough time, as it is, keeping our non Force-sensitive staff paid enough to live in even the lowest levels of Coruscant." They let out a laugh that sounded almost too close to a sob. "How are we going to feed and pay them?" they whispered.
"What about housing them?" Jaster couldn't quite stop from asking.
Obi-Wan shrugged. "Oh, we'll have to do some serious cleaning and probably some repairs of the lower levels of the Temple, but we have plenty of space; the Coruscant Temple was built to house around a million jedi families and support staff, and we're currently housing under ten thousand beings, many of whom share space with members of their lineage. The Corellian Temple should have space to house at least a thousand, and the Service Corps have their own buildings and ships where they'd be able to house a fair number. If the clones are willing to share rooms, we can easily accommodate all of them."
Jaster hadn't realised exactly how large the ziggurat on Coruscanta must be, nor had he realised exactly how few jedi there were. "Manda'yaim will take some," he offered.
Obi-Wan's expression twisted with something Jaster couldn't quite read, and then they offered a grim smile and said, "The New Mandalorians would sooner pick up arms themselves, I think, than allow soldiers to find residence on the planet."
Jaster blinked, thrown, and then heard himself say, from a bit of a distance, "You're going to need to explain that, vod."
Obi-Wan blinked, looking somehow startled for a moment, before sighing and shifting so they, too, could lean back against the wall at the head of the bed, flashing pale skin from behind the blanket as they shifted.
Jaster would not think about the possibility that they were naked under it, and he silently blessed his brown skin's ability to hide a flush.
Obi-Wan set about explaining the state of Manda'yaim after the massacre on Galidraan, how the remains of Jaster's people—the Haat'ade—had flailed without any surviving leadership, fracturing back down to their base clans. Some had joined Kyr'tsad, looking to the only remaining being who claimed the title of Mand'alor, while others had turned to the Evaar Manod'ade—the New Mandalorians, they called themselves, now—who believed Manda'yaim had a future where they were not a people constantly looking to fight. Jaster hadn't been impressed with their ideal Manda'yaim before Korda VI, and he wasn't any more impressed now.
Obi-Wan clarified the mission they had been on with their buir—jedi teacher—protecting the leadership of the Evaar'ade. Obi-Wan had had the charge of the two Kryze ade, acting as a personal guard when they left the palace in Sundari. When an attack had come that wiped out the Evaar'ad leadership—Kyr'tsad had clearly figured out the best way to wipe out their opposition—Obi-Wan had escaped with the two ade. The younger had been left with someone the family had trusted, while Obi-Wan remained with the elder, and they'd travelled together around Manda'yaim, finding support enough to march on the palace and oust Kyr'tsad.
"Adonai," Obi-Wan said quietly, expression grim, "had been willing to allow Mandalorians to keep reminders of their heritage—beskar'gam, weapons, even the cultural practises that wouldn't have been needed in a pacifistic society—but Satine said that those things only bred further violence. About three months after we'd returned to Temple, she put out a decree that all families would turn over their beskar'gam and weapons to be melted down for use in new construction. Those who refused, were to leave Mandalorian space immediately."
Jaster felt sick.
Obi-Wan was staring down at the IV line where it vanished under their blankets. "I comm'd her, as soon as I'd heard. Tried to talk her around. She hung up on me."
"You can't reason with dar'mandase," Jaster spat.
Obi-Wan's mouth curled with a bitter smile. "I know. I...do understand where she's coming from, to an extent—I've seen a people so obsessed with war, they turned on their own children when they tried to stop the fighting—" Jaster flinched, horrified at the very thought "–but erasing an entire culture? Refusing to allow a people the option to train in self-defence? To even speak their own language openly?" They shook their head. "It's not the jedi way to hold on to anger, but I'm not certain I'm a good enough jedi to forgive her for what she's done."
"I will slit her throat, when I meet her," Jaster swore, furious.
The curtains around their beds jerked open and Vhonte stepped inside, an active comm hologram hovering over her kom'rk. "Jango thinks you're dead, Jaster," she said cheerfully in Mando'a as she tapped a few buttons on her kom'rk.
The hologram flipped around, revealing Jango, face marked with scars and the wrinkles of a hard life. "You are literally in a cloning–" Jango snarled.
"Jan'ika," Jaster said drily, and watched his ad's eyes narrow on him, "I'm fairly certain I said I only expected two grandchildren from you, not an entire army of them."
Jango's face went slack with shock.
Obi-Wan let out a quiet snort, while Vhonte bit her lip, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards in a smile.
Jaster hummed and tilted his head at his ad. "I was on Korda VI, about to be shot by that cowardly dar'manda, Vizsla, and then I was here on Kamino." He swallowed and couldn't stop himself from looking away as he added, "Ni ceta, ner kih'nau."
"Jas'buir?" Jango asked, his voice small and hurting, the same as all the times he'd come to Jaster after a nightmare, except so much deeper than Jaster had ever heard it.
Kriff, his ad really had grown up when he hadn't been looking.
"The last thing I wanted, was to orphan you again," Jaster admitted.
"I managed," Jango muttered, voice that same mulish one Jaster had heard for so much of their life together, even if it was deeper.
"You survived," Jaster corrected gently. "Which I'm proud of you for, but I think there are some conversations we should have, and I would rather they not be over a comm. Please come back to Kamino."
Jango glowered at him—another familiar expression; his ad had often defaulted to a glower to hide tears or a smile—and demanded. "Is that jetii still there?"
Jaster glanced over at Obi-Wan, who was rather studiously staring down at their blanket and picking at a loose thread. "Yes," he told his ad.
Jango's glower turned into a sneer. "You shouldn't trust them, Buir. I know you like the old fairy stories about jetiise, but they–"
"Obi-Wan told me about Galidraan," Jaster offered quietly.
Jango's mouth snapped shut.
"I also led us into one of Kyr'tsad's traps, need I remind you," he added. "A good leader doesn't blame–"
"Shut up!" Jango shouted. "You weren't there!"
"Neither was Obi-Wan," Jaster returned flatly, refusing to let what could well turn into a firefight—a second one, if he was reading the hints Obi-Wan had dropped correctly—lay.
"The jetii was probably sitting warm and comfortable in their home," Jango returned with a sneer.
"The jedi," Obi-Wan snapped, a sharp edge to their voice that had Jaster turning to look at them in surprise, "was enslaved in Bandomeer's deep sea mines at the time, and would thank you not to assume you're the only one the galaxy likes to shit on, Jango Fett."
What. The. Kriff.
Obi-Wan squeezed their eyes shut and freed one hand to press against the bridge of their nose into the following silence. "N'epar," they said after a moment. "That was uncalled for."
Jaster glanced back at Jango, and found his ad looking down, scowling in that way that meant he knew he was in the wrong; Jaster suspected that outburst had been very called for.
Vhonte cleared her throat. "My verd'ika is fluent in Mando'a, by the way," she said.
"Clearly," Jango snarled.
"Jango," Jaster interrupted; that particular tone often proceeded a fight.
Jango shot him a glare, then startled slightly and looked away, an apology in the turn of his mouth, even if he would never voice it. "Fine, I'll head back. But if the jetii tries to arrest me..." He let the threat hang unspoken.
"If you promise not to make another attempt on Senator Amidala's life, I'd be happy to agree to a truce," Obi-Wan offered in a bland tone that had Vhonte shooting them a worried look.
"My contract ended when Wesell kriffed up," Jango replied flatly.
"Then I have more important matters to concern myself with."
By the narrow look Jango glanced in Obi-Wan's direction—Jaster doubted the holo imaging system had a wide enough view to include the jedi, but Jango could probably guess where they were in relation to Jaster, at least—he probably recognised, same as Jaster, that that was very much a peace offering, and not one Jango would be likely to get from many others. Especially after he'd already picked a fight with them. "Four hours," he said, and the holo flickered out.
"Ben, are you okay?" Vhonte asked, dropping her arm back to her side.
"I'm–"
"I will shoot you if you say 'fine'," Vhonte interrupted.
Obi-Wan grimaced and ducked their head towards their blanket. "I should very much like my tunics and a quiet place to meditate," they admitted.
She sighed. "I should be able to get you your clothing, but Mij probably won't let you leave yet."
Obi-Wan glanced at the bag for the bacta infusion, which looked fairly close to done, but still had some liquid obviously inside. "Yes, medics tend to be like that," they replied drily.
Vhonte left them to find Obi-Wan's clothing, and Jaster grimaced at the weight of the silence that fell in her wake. He felt like he needed to say something, to ease the heaviness, but he doubted the questions at the top of his head—asking about Bandomeer, or the senator Jango had apparently attempted to kill—would be appreciated.
A possible question jumped forward, and Jaster asked, "Are you naked under there?" before he could realise that was also a terrible question.
Obi-Wan barked out a startled laugh, and when Jaster glanced over, flushed with embarrassment, he found the jedi smiling at him, humour in their pale eyes. "Baar'ur Gilamar let me keep my underwear," they said, apparently lacking any real shame.
"Medics," Jaster muttered.
Obi-Wan laughed again, a low, warm sound that did unfortunate things to Jaster's lower anatomy.
Just what he needed, attraction to a jedi.
(Vhonte was right, Jango was going to lose his mind if he figured it out.)
Vhonte returned with Obi-Wan's clothing and the gold Mando'ad, who she finally, properly, introduced as Baar'ur Mij Gilamar. The baar'ur halted the bacta infusion so the IV line wouldn't get in Obi-Wan's way while they dressed behind a privacy curtain, and checked on Jaster's leg while they waited on the jedi to finish.
"It's healing well," the baar'ur said, speaking Basic instead of Mando'a, and Jaster couldn't tell if it was personal preference—they wouldn't be the first Mando'ad Jaster had met who preferred not to speak their language, although they understood it just fine; most Mando'ade who couldn't speak Mando'a because the way they spoke wasn't suited to it, installed a program in their buy'ce for their modulator to translate for them—or if they didn't realise Obi-Wan was fluent and didn't want to leave them out. "Tervho said Jango should be back in four hours?"
"It's what he said," Jaster agreed.
"Then I'll be back in three hours with a supportive wrap. Until then, remain in bed."
"Of course, Baar'ur."
Gilamar grunted and turned towards the privacy curtain. "Alright, Kenobi, you've had your primping time."
The curtain was drawn back, revealing Obi-Wan, back in their tunics and looking rather more comfortable than they had wrapped in the blanket. "I'm sure I'll manage just fine–" they started with a warm, self-assured smile that made their eyes light up in an unfortunately attractive way.
"I've already been warned about your stubborn refusal to listen to medics in regard to your own wellbeing," Gilamar interrupted, and Obi-Wan grimaced. "Sit down and shut up, or I will sedate you. And, this time, I have a sedative that's safe for your biology on me," they added when Obi-Wan opened their mouth. "Sit."
Obi-Wan sighed and sat. "You are one of the most distressingly capable medics I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," the jedi muttered.
The baar'ur snorted. "I've spent the last ten years dealing with stubborn little shits who all share the same face," they pointed out.
"I am in awe–"
"Keep complimenting me, and I'll add another bag."
Obi-Wan's mouth snapped shut and they looked perturbed.
Gilamar resumed the IV for Obi-Wan, reminded them, "Thirty minutes. If you remove the IV yourself in hopes of escaping a final check-up, I will hunt you down and sedate you," and then left.
Vhonte had vanished again—Jaster couldn't say whether she was avoiding the questions he might ask her, or if she really was that much in demand—leaving Jaster and Obi-Wan to amuse themselves.
Or just Jaster, he realised, glancing over to find Obi-Wan settled comfortably on the bed, their eyes closed and breathing steady.
Jaster sighed and glanced down at his leg, then carefully shifted himself to lie down again; he hadn't been sleeping particularly well during the sleep cycles before they reached Korda VI, and he knew well enough that sleep helped with the healing process.
He shouldn't have really felt safe enough to do more than doze, not while surrounded by more unfamiliar faces than not, but almost the moment his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.
| Chapters | ||
|---|---|---|
| Two | Three | |
| Four | Five | Six |
| Seven | Eight | Nine |
| Ten | Glossary | |
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