Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you Jedi?”

It wasn’t a dumb question, not in Din Djarin’s eyes as he stared down a figure in black robes, blaster at the ready. The stranger had attacked before speaking, then simply stood there staring at him, just as that Jedi Ahsoka had on Corvus. These (possible) Jedi seemed to have a strong “shoot/stab first, ask questions later” attitude.

Which, as a Mandalorian, Din could appreciate.

His the Kid was still sitting on a magic stone at the top of the hill, presumably reaching out to other Jedi in the galaxy via some magic blue forcefield light. This felt like a suspiciously quick response, but adapting to the circumstances had kept Din (mostly) alive so far. The man before him wore long robes like a Tusken, a distinguished yet humble look, but Din was not feeling the unnerving, otherworldly calm that Ahsoka had emanated. Not with a gods-damned gaderffii stick strapped to his back. Tuskens didn’t exactly hand those out; even he hadn’t earned one yet. So Din remained wary, using his crummy little rock as cover. Not for the first time, Din had wished that the Armorer had elaborated just a little more on these enemy sorcerers. He should have asked Bo-Katan, since she seemed to know; then again, she double-crossed him into extending their mission on Trask, and sent him to Ahsoka without the heads-up that she might attack without warning.

Just because all of his friends had at some point tried to kill him, didn’t mean that it was his preferred method of introduction.

And so, he hoped that the black-robed man was a Jedi. He hoped for answers, one way or another. He just didn’t expect to be so lucky.

For starters, this was an odd place to search for a Jedi. Tython was a remote, undeveloped Core world, its rolling hills covered in scrubby brush and massive boulders. The pavilion where Grogu currently sat looked like a ruin. There was no sign of even wildlife attempting to scratch out an existence here. But what did Din know of Jedi magic? Maybe the kid really had summoned the black-robed man.

But he said he’d been tracking Din and Grogu for some time—

“Or are you here for the Child?”

The man pulled down his hood, and approached slowly. Scars criss-crossed his tawny face and bald head, and he wore a hard expression. Din’s hopes shriveled up within his chest.

“I’m here for the armor.”

Dank ferrik.

Din didn't have time for this. He needed to find a Jedi. Not for the first time, Din felt the fatigue of this never-ending bantha chase. Tython was his last best lead on finding a Jedi, after the last one declined to take the kid. Slowly, this hunt had become one he wanted to fail, hoping that maybe he wouldn’t find the Child’s kind, that maybe he could keep the kid. Ahsoka had implied that Grogu was attached to him— maybe he’d want to stay? What then, though? His people were scattered, as impossible to find as these Jedi. They would have to continue hunting for a covert.

Although… if this was a fellow Mandalorian, missing their armor, maybe they could help.

“I’m just a simple man, making my way through the galaxy,” the man in Tusken robes answered that question. “Like my father before me.”

Well. That was a non-answer if Din had ever heard one.

“Did you take the Creed?”

“I offer my allegiance to no one.”

Not a Mandalorian, then.

Not if he was willing to target a child to gain Din’s compliance, which the robed man had no qualms declaring. Din’s chest roiled with panic and rage as Fennec Shand— a karking dead woman, what the hell— announced herself from the boulder above, and he forced himself to inch his finger off the trigger. Grogu was vulnerable; there was no guarantee that the blue force-field would stop a bolt. He hated the waver in his voice as he demanded that Fennec lower her rifle. Manda, he was so tired. Tired of the danger constantly lurking after that kid, demagolka scum hunting a child who had committed no crime other than to be alive and special. Even if all the robed man wanted was the armor he claimed was his, he hated that it came at the cost of Grogu’s safety.

And to hand over beskar…

But they could have simply killed him and Grogu and taken it. Targeting a child was dishonorable, but a smart precaution against a hunter of Din’s caliber. And he said there was no need for bloodshed.

Dank ferrik. All he’d wanted was to find a karking Jedi.

A quick glance up the hill suggested that Grogu was still doing his… thing, to call out to other Jedi. The lack of information about this whole process frustrated Din. Bounty hunting felt incredibly straightforward compared to this. But without many other options, Din complied, removing his jetpack.

He was probably going to regret that.

The robed man— Boba Fett, another dead man— offered a deal that Din really wanted to take. Really, really wanted to take. It was a good deal. Armor for safety. Two less hunters after an astronomical bounty, and deadly ones at that.

But the armor…

“It goes against the Mandalorian Creed,” Din rebutted weakly.

Karking armor. Where the hell was he going to find an Armorer to return it to, anyway?

But the Creed was everything; his faith was everything. The armor was everything. What was left if he didn't have that?

Even the Jedi Ahsoka had known the beskar belonged to the Mandalorians. If there was a chance that the Armorer still lived, and that he could find her, he owned it to his people to try, didn’t he?

The hum of an approaching drop-ship put a temporary pin in his existential crisis. The Kid. They were there for the kid. Tabling their “chat,” Din took off, panic fueling his race as Fennec and Fett ran in the opposite direction. Dank ferrik, he was probably going to owe them now. There was no way Shand and Fett would be anything but a deadly combination against stormtroopers.

Din just focused on breathing, not on future debts. Breathing was something he could control, forcing air in and out of his lungs as he ran; quite possibly the only thing he could control right now. The hilltop was a horrible location for a defensive stand, wide-open and vulnerable. It would be impossible to hold against an assault. At least the force-field would help, if it was still there. Otherwise, if Grogu’s little magic call was over, he could just grab the kid and take—

Ah, dank. Jetpack was leaning against the boulder down below. That hadn’t taken long to regret.

One exhausting sprint up the stony hill had confirmed that yes, Grogu was still safely ensconced inside his blue forcefield and no, Din would not be interrupting that any time soon. Which meant the only thing left to do was to fight. Finally, something straightforward. Hoping against hope that he wouldn’t regret leaving the kid on his own, he began racing back down the hill.

Shab’la sen’tra, he was going to shoot Fett in the ass for this banthashit—

He found Fennec, raising hell but losing ground, and jumped in. The odds improved immediately, but he could see what she’d already managed so far. Haran. He owed her.

“You can go now. I owe you from last time.”

“We had a deal.”

A deal, huh? News to him. Last they’d left it, Fett had made an offer, and Din had been quietly spiraling over it.

Although— Din had to admit, as Fett landed in front of them, wearing the armor and utterly flattening the troopers, it looked as though Fett might have been telling the truth. His status as a Mandalorian notwithstanding, he fought like one. Cobb Vanth had never managed to wear the armor like a skin, like a weapon. Fett in the other hand, moved as though he knew every inch of the steel, knew what it could and couldn’t do. The savagery of his attack spoke of decades of practice.

Din wasn’t quite ready to forgive Fett and Shand for targeting Grogu, but the armor deal was looking tentatively better.

Right up until an orbital strike decimated the Razor Crest.

It was pointless, he knew it, but Din couldn’t help the half-step forward, as if there was something he could do, some way to undo the awful conflagration that consumed the Crest. But he knew, even as the fireball grew, it was gone. He stood there, frozen, hands curling into helpless fists, senseless to Fett’s quick departure to protect his own ship as the flames stretched outward in some grotesquely beautiful explosion against the searing blue of midday.

Gutted didn’t even touch the shape and feel of Din’s emotions. His entire life was in that ship. It was his ride, his home—the only real one he’d had for years. The covert had scraped together the funds to buy it, and he’d lovingly tended to the ship, grateful for the mobility it afforded to provide for his people. It would take credits he didn’t have to replace just the ship, not to mention the carbon chamber—

And all of the weapons, his collection, his religion—

But there was no time to feel sick and lost. He’d have to feel later (or never, preferably) because a new threat was currently blasting its way to the surface of the planet. He sprinted— like a di’kut, because of course he’d taken off his jetpack and not bothered to retrieve it— back up the hill, Shand hot on his heels, despairing with every step that he wouldn’t make it. It was so painfully clear now, that the troopers had been a diversion, to separate him from the Kid, keep the adults distracted so that this new menace could swoop and take him uncontested.

And then—

The things dropping from the sky— droids of some kind— shifted course, landing to the west of the pavilion.

Had Grogu woken up and tried to run for it?

Din’s heart tripped as blaster bolts began to echo in the scrubby valley. The Kid was so little—

“Kid!” he shouted. It was futile, he was still too far, but maybe—

A buzzing hum split the air, a sound he’d heard only once before in his life.

A lightsaber.

It worked, Din thought, almost hysterical as he shifted his direction, trying to follow the sound as it moved down in the valley, back towards them. The Jedi has come. He would not think about those implications right now, focused on ensuring that the Kid survived this latest fight.

He could now see a humanoid being with a blue lightsaber, already further down in the valley than he thought, using the rocks to even out the fight as they slashed at the droids one by one. Clever. Din reversed course, doubling back to reach the valley and help the Jedi fight. But as he and Shand stumbled into the Jedi, he realized that he was too late to help—

— because the Jedi had leapt at the remaining droid, decapitating it while midair, then hopped down to the ground to face the two adults standing in the clearing in front of him, blue lightsaber still lit and held somewhat defensively. Grogu remained tucked into the being’s elbow, blissfully out cold.

The human or near-human was… a lot younger than he realized. Possibly still a minor. They had a rather unfortunate-looking hairstyle, shorn coppery hair with a little nerf tail in the back; not that Din could judge anyone on hairstyles, but still. The youngling probably could have been a copikla little heartbreaker, with those bright stormy-blue eyes and charming smile, but not now— he looked scrawny, bordering on malnourished, and dehydrated; their fair skin boasted a truly horrendous sunburn. Their drab clothes looked similar to the Kid’s but a bit worn in places, carefully darned in others, and— were those blaster holes? In all, the Jedi looked in need of a lot of help. This couldn’t possibly be a teacher.

This was a kid. A skinny little redhead, maybe one hundred pounds, soaking-wet; nervous and a slightly feral edge to their defensiveness— not a slightly-creepily serene adult Jedi. A jet’ika.

Haran. Now he had two of them.

The jet’ika smiled brightly, as though they hadn’t just destroyed four massive droids, as though they weren’t still wielding a lightsaber, ready to strike if needed. Keen blue eyes surveyed him. “Hello there! Do you, ah, know this child? I hope you don’t mind me picking him up, but it seems I dropped into a rather hostile situation.”

Well. That answered a few questions. Still— he needed to be absolutely sure. He’d come too far to make a mistake now.

“Are you a Jedi?”

Chapter Text

The Force, Obi-Wan decided, has a cruel sense of humor.

The Jedi padawan continued to trudge into the barren desert, its crusty surface crunching to dust beneath his feet. The sands of Mandalore’s deadly landscape sang mournfully as drifts of wind swept them along, disappearing beyond the horizon. Obi-wan tipped his head down and pulled up his scarf to protect his face, continuing onward.

“Cyar’yc ade be ka’ra, ner shebs,” he groused to himself. These moments of solitude were the only times he had to practice his Mando’a out loud. How he was supposed to learn a new language in order to get them through hostile territory, without practicing it in front of Duchess Satine and his master— who had ordered him to learn it— was beyond him. And he needed to practice; the modules he’d crammed were so old, the first Mando’a-speaking Mandalorian he’d met had laughed at him, comparing his accent to that of a stage actor performing an ancient play. Satine’s accent was no better, too distinctly Kalevalan, and she refused to speak it anyway, visibly irritated when Obi-Wan whispered to himself, which left him trying to correct his own accent in these quiet moments, hoping for the best. Dini’la, Obi-Wan concluded, then chastised himself for the uncharitable thought.

Still, the whole situation was karked. The last time Jedi fought Mandalorians, the Senate sent fifteen knights and masters. To say it went horribly, would be a catastrophically inadequate description of the whole affair. So sending a single master-padawan pair did not feel like adequate staffing for an assignment on a war-torn planet that had only grown more unstable in the ensuing years, even if they were requested by the pacifist faction favored by the Republic. Now they were trapped, chased by the terrorist Kyr’tsad, and Obi-Wan— sixteen years old and already in his third war— walked alone, trudging into the barren desert in search of food and their next shelter.

Obi-Wan wanted to be a knight. He knew in his bones that he was meant for it. And yet— he gritted his teeth as the pain of ten miles began to manifest in his ankles. And yet his apprenticeship had been a series of terrifying near-death scrapes, at the side of a master whose disappointment and resentment at being saddled with Obi-Wan had yet to abate. And maybe that was Obi-Wan’s fault; Melida-Daan had severely damaged that relationship on both sides. For all that he couldn’t regret that choice, and blamed Qui-Gon for his own attachments— the Jedi master was the only one willing to train him, and he’d been gracious enough to accept him back.

All at once, despair overwhelmed Obi-Wan, and he stopped, staring around him for a sign of something, anything. The desert flats stretched far into the horizon, a small smudge breaking the thin line in the far distance, at least another ten miles away. The harsh sun had already begun to dip into the west, blasting him in the face with its unforgiving light as it slowly dimmed into a bloody-tinged sunset; there was no way he’d make it to whatever the smudge was by dark.

What was he doing here? Apprenticed to a master who at best tolerated him, on a mission to help protect a pacifist who wanted to take leadership of a planet of warriors. A pacifist with the most infuriating narrow-minded vision for her future, whose presence made him want to either stab her, or kiss her; both options would certainly have met even more censure from his master, and did not bode well for his future as a Jedi Knight. Alone in a hostile desert, searching for food and safety, when it was painfully obvious that neither were to be found any time soon. It was madness.

He wondered, dimly, how long it would take for his master or Satine to notice that he’d succumbed to the elements out here. His bond with Master Jinn was weak still, a frail thing, and frequently closed. He could try to reach out, and ask for guidance. But there was nothing to be found out here in the desert, and he didn’t know if he had it in him to face their frustration and disappointment if he reached out or returned now.

And then the shame hit, like a slap in the face. What was he doing, whining about his current mission? He was lucky to be on a mission! All of Master Jinn’s censures suddenly appeared very deserved; Obi-Wan was impatient, passionate, ungrateful. Master Jinn had been right to delay accepting him as a padawan once more after Melida-Daan. He’d clearly learned nothing, defeated so easily by a challenging mission.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a Jedi knight, after all. Maybe this was the Force telling him to give up on that dream. He couldn’t quite believe that, but it lingered, festered. He scrubbed at his face, feeling fine grit and crystallized sweat scratching at his sunburned cheeks, and the tears stung the raw skin.

No, he couldn’t give up now. Not after everything. To give up now would mean that all of that pain and suffering had been in vain, and he couldn’t believe that.

—infinite sadness—

And now he had completed the circle of thoughts for the third time today. Wonderful.

What did the Force want from him? He’d always listened to its call, its whispers, its nudges; even in the darkest moments on Bandomeer, on the lonely nights amidst his fellow initiates in the creche as nightmares plagued his sleep, on the days where he stood alone on Melida-Daan feeling children die all around him, even in the silence of Force suppression, he’d listened. So what was it saying now?

What do you want from me?

And then—

The Force warped about him suddenly. Obi-Wan glanced around, but there was nothing for miles. What was that?

The Force warped again, and a feeling, not quite a voice, reached out—

Someone, anyone—

You, I know. Kindred spirit. Come with me. You are needed, wanted.

He barely had a chance to process the shock of that feeling— being wanted— when there was a pull, and Obi-Wan lurched forward, somehow not landing on the gritty sand of Mandalore as he continued to tumble, head over heels, a vertigo-inducing drop and then—

—he was everywhere, all at once, unbound, a cosmos of light and dark and movement and stillness, going on and on endlessly, the Force pulsing around him, too much for his frail human consciousness—

—the Force suddenly curled tightly around him, pressing in on a suddenly corporeal body once more, then the lifting— no, leaching— of a great weight from him, and the Force went giddy, effervescent all around him, and he knew without knowing that his destiny had changed, but this couldn’t be real, he knew what he was destined for—

Oh, treasured one. You'll see.

Obi-Wan’s hands and knees slammed into a stone ground, jarring his arms. Gingerly, he sat back, noting as he did that a blue haze fizzled and disappeared. He quickly took stock of his surroundings. He seemed to be in a stone pavilion at the top of a hill, surrounded by scrubby landscape and massive boulders on the slopes below; sun-bleached blue sky stretched in every direction, broken only by the rolling hills that undulated into the horizon. The Force was strong here, welling at the large stone in the center of the pavilion— a Seeing Stone, Obi-Wan realized. He’d read about them, during one of his punishments set by Archivist Nu for some prank he and Reeft had pulled; it might have been the dyed cloak incident. And upon the stone—

Obi-Wan shot to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pains in his knees and ankles, and ran to the stone. A small creature, strong in the Force, lay slumped on it. It was of the same species as Masters Yoda and Yaddle, and wearing something similar to crèche clothes for the youngest initiates. How in the galaxy did they end up here?

And where was here?

The initiate seemed well, just tired; they must have used the stone, Obi-Wan surmised. Which could explain how Obi-Wan ended up here—

The Force blared in warning, and Obi-Wan looked up. Four dark shapes fell through the sky, seemingly locked on their position on the pavilion. After a few seconds, he could discern that they were humanoid-shaped droids, sensing no Force signature in them.

Obi-Wan hesitated, then made a decision, snatching up the initiate and bolting for cover in the scrubby brush surrounding the sides of the pavilion.

There was a chance, however slim, that the child belonged with the droids. And snatching the child could set off a diplomatic incident. But the odds of that being true, on a planet steeped in the Force… Obi-Wan kept running, reaching into the Force to aid his flight. Better to ask forgiveness, and all that.

A red bolt slammed in the ground next to him. Not friendly, then. The droids had landed, and were slowly giving chase. Pulling his saber from where he’d kept it hidden in his tunic while on Mandalore, he ignited it, the familiar wash of blue accompanying its reassuring hum as he began batting bolts back at the droids. Their armor was evidently thick, undeterred by the rebounding shots. Obi-Wan glanced about, considering his options. Too many opponents to fight at once while holding the initiate. If he put the child down, one of them might pick the child up while he was distracted. And they could run, but the droids wouldn’t be giving up any time soon.

As Obi-Wan caught his breath, safely sheltered by a massive boulder for a moment, the sound of fighting down in the valley, and an agonized voice, modified by a vocoder, called out “kid!”

So the initiate had a guardian. That was a good sign. Obi-Wan began working his way towards the sound.

The droids, he quickly realized, were useless in navigating rough terrain. All the worse for them, he thought grimly. Melida-Daan had taught him how to utilize the terrain to shift the balance of a fight in his favor. He squeezed past a pair of boulders, lying in wait as the droids circled around. He quickly decapitated two, leaping to another nearby boulder as the droids shot after him, lumbering through the brush. The terrain helped him take out another, as the sound of voices nearby grew louder. Now there was only one left.

He leapt at the remaining droid, slashing at the head as he flipped midair, evading the grasping arms of the automaton. He landed on the adjoining boulder and hopped down lightly to face the two adults standing in the clearing in front of him.

More Mandalorians?

One wore armor, while the second, a human-appearing female, wore black form-fitting tactical gear and an orange helmet. Both bristled with weapons. The silver one sounded like he was panting; perhaps he was the guardian that called for the initiate. Despite the beskar warping the emotions— and that had to be nearly pure beskar, because this was the worst warping Obi-Wan had encountered yet— the Mando brimmed with relief-guilt-shock. Definitely the guardian.

But what were Mandalorians doing here? With a Force-Sensitive child, no less?

He was pretty sure they weren’t on Mandalore— for one, there was vegetation, and a well of Force energy he’d never felt on the broken husk of that scarred planet. And secondly, he couldn’t feel the bond with his master— in fact, he couldn’t feel any bonds. They were just gone, not torn, as though they had never existed.

And that was a nervous-breakdown-inducing revelation he didn’t have time for.

So he shoved it aside, and settled on Basic for introductions, working up a smile. He could switch to Mando’a after if necessary. No need to give away that he knew the language; some got touchy about that.

He’d learned that the hard way.

“Hello there! Do you, ah, know this child? I hope you don’t mind me picking him up, but it seems I dropped into a rather hostile situation.”

The adults stared at him, and he felt his smile waver.

The silver one took a hesitant step forward. “Are you a Jedi?”

Obi-Wan glanced at the woman, who tilted her helmet in amusement. Not terribly helpful, but as Obi-Wan had learned recently, Mandalorians were blunt conversationalists. Even Satine fit that mold.

“Yes, I am. Generally the lightsaber gives it away,” he waggled the hilt. Silence met that remark. Unhelpful. “Ah, judging by the droids and your general, ah, state— we have unwelcome company overhead?”

That seemed to spark a fire. “It’s the Empire, they’ve been hunting the kid,” the silver Mando stared up into the sky, undoubtedly scanning with his buy’ce.

Obi-Wan frowned. “What Empire?”

Ignoring them both, the woman raised her comm. “Fett, we found the kid, and another little Jedi. You airborne yet?”

Obi-Wan felt the blood drain from his face. “Fett? As in Jango Fett?” Oh, this day might have gone from bad to infinitely worse if the Jedi Killer of Galidraan was here.

There was a long silence on the comm, then a crackly, clipped response. “His son, Boba.” Jango had an adult son? Obi-Wan’s head spun. No one had ever mentioned Jango having children; he was only nine years old than Obi-Wan, a young man when that tragedy changed everything. “I’m airborne. Your position is too hot to land though.”

“My jetpack is in the valley,” the silver one interrupted. “I can ferry them to you.”

“Meet me five klicks east of your position,” came the reply. “And stay undercover until pickup time.”

The silver Mando turned to the woman, but she cut him off. “They’re safe with me, on Boba’s armor,” she nodded at Obi-Wan and the initiate. Obi-Wan felt slightly miffed, but buried the feeling under Qui-Gon’s favorite expression of serenity.

Survive first, get answers later.

In silence, he followed the woman through the scrub brush, listening for additional droids. Sure enough, eight more dropped through the sky, fanning out to search, and he handed off the initiate to the woman.

“Stay out of sight,” she warned. “If they don’t pick you up in their visuals, you remain our ace in the hole.”

Keeping low, Obi-Wan crept towards the nearest one, staying out of its sight-lines. It was a strange droid, now that Obi-Wan got a good look at it. Nothing like the few battle droids he’d encountered on earlier missions. These were solid, cumbersome, and made from very durable materials. He had to maintain the element of surprise, if he wanted to take them off-line before they had a chance to sight him. The woman was right; he was the ace in the hole. The initiate had no saber, and Obi-Wan doubted that anything the Mandalorians had on their person would be sufficient to take these down. But lightsabers weren’t silent; he’d have to move fast, and melt back into the terrain quickly before the remaining droids attempted to investigate.

There was something rather underhanded about stabbing a droid in the back, and Obi-Wan grimaced as he extinguished his lightsaber, disappearing behind a boulder as another droid lumbered towards the fallen droid.

He amused himself by imagining the look on the silver Mando’s face if he saw Obi-Wan hesitating to kill a droid. He felt confident that a Mandalorian wouldn’t hesitate.

By the sixth droid, Obi-Wan began to feel the fatigue of his current mission once more. His mind drifted towards Master Qui-Gon and Satine for a moment, wondering how they currently fared, if they’d noticed he was missing yet, before shutting the thought down sharply, remembering the missing bonds. He stumbled through the brush after the eighth one, using the boulders and scrubby growth for cover with an eye on the sky for more droids. Suddenly, the silver Mandalorian appeared, silently emerging from the brush. Startled, Obi-Wan tripped and fell with a yelp, landing in an undignified heap on the ground; he hadn’t felt him approach. The silver Mando approached slowly.

“You alright, kid?”

“Yes, thank you,” Obi-Wan tried for manners, then sighed. Who was he fooling? “It’s been a really long day.” He blinked as a gauntleted hand was shoved into view; it took a moment to register the action as an offer of help. His eyes burned in realization, swallowing the lump in his throat as he accepted the hand and found himself partly slung over the Mando’s shoulders, half-carried through the brush to the rendezvous. The silver Mando was taller than him, and it could not have been comfortable to stoop like that, but the Mando never complained, carefully hauling Obi-Wan in silence across the expanse to a sheltered outcropping where the woman sat with the initiate, who still slept through all of the excitement. She handed the child over to Obi-Wan, then raised her comm.

“Fett, we’re here. Ready when you are.”

“Copy.”

The next few moments felt a blur, as a ship he didn’t recognize appeared and the silver Mando ferried them up to the ship one by one— well, two, given that the silver Mando took Obi-Wan and the initiate up first. He barely noticed the frenzied dash for orbit, or the quick lurch behind his navel as they slid into hyperspace, more focused on not passing out as he strapped himself in to the jump-seat the woman had shoved him into. A less-exhausted Obi-Wan would probably have worried about an elaborate kidnapping plan, or worse, but at this rate, even being taken straight back to Mandalore seemed reasonable. He had a mission to return to, and maybe then, all of this would make sense.

Absently stroking the head of the sleeping initiate in his lap, it took Obi-Wan a long moment to realize that the Mandalorians and the woman were returning to the passenger area where he and the child had strapped in. The one in green armor was speaking to the silver one in Mando’a quietly.

“— my father was Jango Fett. His father was Jaster Mereel, after Death Watch killed his first family,” his Mando’a was stilted, and Obi-Wan frowned. Jango Fett’s son wasn’t fluent in their native language?

“Jaster Mereel? What tribe was he in?”

“Tribe—? His own, House Mereel. He was Mand’alor, then my father was, until Galidraan. That was the end of the True Mandalorians, thanks to Tor Vizsla, Death Watch and the Jedi.”

“…I have a lot of questions.”

“Sure. I’ve got questions for the kid, too.”

Obi-Wan had no problem admitting that the entrance of the three warriors intimidated him a bit; they didn’t really fill the room, but as they stood, staring down at him, their presence felt larger than life, like a bad dream from the crèche. After all, he was only a padawan, holding a defenseless initiate. Before him stood the son of Jango Fett, a scarily competent silver Mando, and a woman he was beginning to suspect was an accomplished assassin.

Still. He hadn’t survived an apprenticeship with Qui-Gon Jinn for nothing. He hitched up his best diplomatic smile and nodded politely as they entered.

“Hello there, again. Thank you for the evacuation; those droids did not seem like the diplomatic sort.”

“Shab’la jetii osik,” the man in scratched green armor growled. The woman removed her helmet, revealing sharp eyes and a small smirk. Obi-Wan refused to let his smile fade this time, even as his heart sunk.

Oh dear.

“So. Jedi,” the silver one cut in. Obi-Wan nodded, bemused to have returned back to this particular line of questioning.

“That’s right.”

“Where’s the braid,” the green one rapped out curtly. Obi-Wan’s smile tightened slightly, and he pointed at the back of his head.

“Hidden. A little too much of a giveaway when we’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Not anymore,” the green one retorted. Obi-Wan frowned.

“I suppose that is true in the Outer Rim. The Order is spread thin these days,” he replied, further discomfited as the green one angled his helmet at him with an expression of incredulity. “Anyway, I’m not sure how I came to be here, I believe this little one used the Seeing Stone—”

“Are you going to take him?” The silver one cut across. The beskar made it hard to read the Mandalorian in the Force, but the tone of dread and heartbreak in his voice could not have been clearer. Obi-Wan gave the silver one a compassionate smile.

“Are you his guardian?” The man nodded. “If you wish for it and he wants to go, then I would be honored to escort him to the Temple on Coruscant. But it’s your choice, and his. The Jedi way is not for everyone, and we do not steal children or force them to stay.” Might as well get ahead of that… misconception.

“Coruscant?” The silver one echoed.

“Dank ferrik,” sighed the green one, and pulled off his helmet. A scarred tawny face with hard, calculating eyes appeared as they stared Obi-Wan down. This man looked way too old to be Jango’s son, and there was something in the way the Mando looked at him, as though he knew him-- something tightened in Obi-Wan’s stomach. “What’s your name?”

“Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he replied, cringing slightly at the tsunami of shock that emanated from the black-clad woman. The green one felt some black emotion of vindication and bitterness, potent and sharp. The silver one seemed as confused as Obi-Wan.

“And how old are you?”

“Sixteen.” Seventeen soon, but rounding down was usually preferred with Mandalorians; if he could get himself counted as a child, he might get more leniency—

“What year is it?”

Obi-Wan gaped, mind stuttering to a halt. What kind of question was that?

“Mando, your kid pulled a Jedi out of time,” the green one declared bluntly, not waiting for the answer. “Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi died an old man ten years ago.”

Obi-Wan felt his face drain as the three adults stared at him. That… that wasn’t possible. Even if it explained too many things. It just… it just couldn’t.

The silver Mando sighed heavily, while the woman laughed, looking over at the silver Mando. “You have the weirdest shit luck I’ve ever seen, Mando,” she cackled.

Suddenly a tiny clawed hand patted his arm, and Obi-Wan looked down into a sleepy smile, as the initiate blinked benignly at him. Obi-Wan suddenly felt assaulted by feelings of awe-elation-notalone-happyhappyhappy.

Master Kenobi! the child pushed at him.

Dehydration. This had to be a dehydration-induced hallucination, brought on by too much exposure in Mandalore’s desolate landscape. Although, as he looked back up at the Mandalorians and the woman with a sinking feeling, this was an awfully elaborate hallucination.

At least his imagination didn’t disappoint him, in his final moments.

Cyar’yc ade be ka’ra, ner shebs.

Beloved children of the Force, my ass.

Chapter Text

As a rule, Din did not set expectations. He had objectives, plans— but not expectations. He knew full well that they were a fool’s errand; anything could happen on a hunt or a mission, especially when Jedi magic was involved.

That said, today really set a new bar.

Right now, Din fought the urge to stretch out a cramp in his thigh, to focus on the dangerously pale teenager sitting in front of him. He pulled off his flask and held it out. “You’re not hallucinating. But you are dehydrated. Drink. Slowly.”

“Ah, did I say that out loud?” the teen grimaced, accepting the flask with a wary nod.

“Just that you’re hallucinating,” Din replied, glancing at Fett. The older man was still staring hard at the jet’ika, who quailed under the scrutiny. Deciding to defuse that tension, he asked, “where are we headed?”

That snapped the older man out of it. “We have no course set, yet. We’re currently headed towards Naboo, but that’s not our destination. Where do you need to go?”

Din sighed. Options weren’t great for starting over. But if he had to choose… “Nevarro, if you can, or closest to. I’ve got some favors I can call in there for help, get a ship and weapons.” Fett nodded sharply, and turned on his heel to change their coordinates. Fennec lingered, watching the scene.

“When’s the last time you ate, kid?” she asked softly. Din blinked. That was… the nicest he’d ever heard her speak. The teen flushed, biting his lip.

“I… don’t remember,” he mumbled. “Yesterday, maybe?”

Fennec hummed, then reached into a pocket, fishing out a small packet. “Bacta wipe,” she supplied, as she flicked it at him and the teen caught it. “For the sunburn on your face, and your arms. I’ll go get some food.”

The teen stared after her as she disappeared out the open hatch, then turned back to Din, opening the small packet. “You have good friends, Mandalorian.”

Friend was painting it a bit broad; Din still resented the fact that Fett and Shand had threatened Grogu to get the armor, even if they had sort-of apologized for it. But they were decent allies. Offering to fly them back to Nevarro, feeding the foundlings— the weight of these acts was not lost on Din.

Din settled for a nod of agreement, watching as Grogu stared up at the jet’ika, blinking and waggling his ears. Desperate as he was to hold the kid and reassure himself that yet another near-death crisis had been averted, he held back. The jet’ika had been summoned for a reason. “Is he, uh, talking to you, with the Force magic?”

“Not magic, but yes,” the teen smiled, but Din noted the growing tension in the kid’s shoulders. Whatever he was being told wasn’t good. Din frowned as the teen tensed further as Fett stepped back into the room.

“So… it seems you knew me?” the jet’ika prompted Fett, whose expression shifted to something unreadable.

“You could say that,” Fett replied tersely. “After the Republic fell, the Galactic Empire had a bounty out for you. One of the highest ever set. No one found you for twenty years, until you appeared suddenly and died in a fight with a Sith on a space station.”

“Sith? The Republic fell? But the Order—” the jet’ika gasped, looking down at Grogu again, who whined.

“Oh,” the jet’ika breathed, looking suddenly devastated. “They all— I see. Thank you for telling me, Grogu. I’m sorry you’ve been alone for so long.” Din watched with growing concern as the teen trembled, obviously fighting for composure.

“What did he say?” Din asked, dreading the answer.

“He said… that the Order was wiped out at the end of a galactic war. A clone war, I’m not sure what that means, but he said we were betrayed, annihilated by our own army, tens of thousands all at once with very few survivors, and he’s been alone for decades. That is why he called out to me— he, ah, wanted someone who would understand the feeling.” The teen’s voice went a little wobbly at the end, and he swallowed harshly, attempting a smile that ended up closer to a grimace. “He found me at a rather low point in my mission on Mandalore, so I suppose that makes sense.”

“Is that why we haven’t been able to find any Jedi? Because they’re all… gone?” Din’s stomach felt like he’d missed a step. How had the Armorer not known this? Ahsoka had alluded to a scarcity— but genocide… that was a big thing to leave out of the mission brief.

“Do I need to land?” Fett interrupted, staring hard at the teen, who blinked, then visibly straightened his shoulders, staring back with a calm yet deferential expression.

“I will be fine, thank you, sir,” the jet’ika nodded. “We are not in any danger from me; I’ve been trained.”

What the hell did that mean? Din glanced between the two in bewilderment, then to Fennec, who had walked in with a tray at that moment. She shrugged.

“Force sensitivity can be found in anyone with a high-enough midichlorian count,” the jet’ika continued. “The Jedi are a religious order of Force users— one of several in the galaxy— who adhered to certain rules and practices in order to use their abilities for the greater good. We accepted children who showed enough aptitude, regardless of species, and we once numbered in the hundreds of thousands, though in my time, our numbers had shrunk to the tens of thousands. So, from a certain point of view, if few to none alive know and practice the ways of the Jedi, then yes— they’re gone…” he trailed off, visibly steeling himself back into that unnerving calm.

“The Empire spent decades hunting down the survivors,” Fett interjected, frowning at Din. “They say that Skywalker’s the Last Jedi now. How… did you not know this?”

“Did you live under a rock?” Shand demanded as she set down the tray, stunned.

“Pretty close,” Din admitted. He stared at the teen, wondering just how in hell he managed to appear so calm. Din understood annihilation, understood the grief of losing family and tribe. “Can you teach him what you’ve learned? Help him? Keep your, uh, religion going?”

The teen’s smile went a little crooked. “I could try, but I’m afraid he’d be getting a sub-par education. I am a poor student, and far from an excellent model—” he broke off, staring at the kid with increasing horror. “A Master of the Soresu form? Me? I don’t think— no, you’re joking, they’d never put me on the High Council— a General? No, I would never, I swore I would never, not again—” he cut himself off again, his face settling into a placid mask, almost unnerving in its thoroughness. Din’s head spun. This teen had been a General already? What was he, some child soldier?

“To get back to your question, yes, I could teach him some, but it seems I was not summoned to teach, but to be a companion, and this seems to be a permanent arrangement,” the jet’ika answered with a deliberate calmness that Din frankly admired, because he sure as haran didn’t feel calm. “I was pulled here, by the Force. And I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a thing before.”

“So you can’t use your Force magic to get back?” This Force business sounded like the sorcery the Armorer had mentioned; that said, this kid did not look like an enemy. He looked and sounded like an underfed diplomat from the Core. The teen’s expression tightened, and Din wondered what precipitated that reaction.

“The Force is not magic, it is an energy that lives in all things, it binds the universe together. Those more sensitive to it can use that connection to do extraordinary things, but there is no magic involved. To answer your question though— all things are possible through the Force, but it’s certainly not a skill I’ve mastered. And it sounds like some version of me has already lived this timeline. So… unless someone in my timeline called me back, don’t believe that I can simply return. I’m not sure I’m even missed from that time, if some version of me continued on to die ten years ago. So I guess this is my future, now. I realize that this is not the solution you were seeking, however; you wanted a teacher, someone to deliver him to, not another mouth to feed, so if you’ll take us to Alderaan, we can claim asylum there. The Queen and Senate Aide Organa are friends of mine, or were—”

Oh, dank. “Alderaan is… gone,” Din said hesitantly, watching as the teen’s face fell in horror. “Destroyed by the Empire.”

“Oh,” the teen said faintly, taking a slow, shuddering breath. “I… I see. It’s been a very bad couple of decades, it seems.” Yeah, that was putting it mildly. “In that case, I realize it’s a major imposition, but I’d be happy to earn my keep, at least until we figure out where I can safely take the child, so that you can get back to Mandalore—”

Oh, Manda. The kid thought he wanted to get rid of them. “That’s not necessary,” Din cut in hastily. “You’re a kid, you both are. You might be nearly at your majority, but I’m not kicking you out. If your people have been wiped out, then you're foundlings, and I'm not abandoning you. If you help with Grogu, that’s enough. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

And there was a lot to figure out. His entire life had just gone up in a fireball, and now he had two jet’ikaade to care for, and no covert to help. But he hadn’t survived this long by getting overwhelmed. Step 1: get back to Nevarro. Karga would help him, and as far as favors went, he wasn’t a bad one to owe.

Haran, his ship. The grief lanced hot and sharp through his chest, before he shoved the feeling down to deal with later.

Din watched as Grogu patted the jet’ika, cooing mournfully. The teen smiled at the child, his eyes glimmering with tears. “No Grogu, we get to stay. Yes, me too."

“What is he saying?”

“He's been afraid that you didn’t want him, that you were looking to get rid of him. That’s why he called for me. He thought… that I would understand the feeling. That I might stay with him, if he had to go away.” Din turned to Grogu, aghast. That wasn’t true at all, he’d just— he’d wanted the best for the kid. To be with people who could better understand his needs and abilities. The Armorer had insisted on the reunion—

“Kid, no, never— I didn’t want you to leave. It’s just that the Armorer sent me to find your people. I thought you’d want to be with your own kind. I didn’t know they were a Creed like mine, and that they were all gone.” Grogu cooed, blinking benignly at him, then looked back at the teen, who gave a watery smile.

“It’s all right, Grogu. I’m not mad that you called me here. I’m just sad that it hasn’t been a happy future, and that I didn’t get to say goodbye to my friends. I’ll be all right. Maybe I can do some good here.” The teen continued to smile, but Din didn’t need any special powers to tell that the kid didn’t really believe his last sentence.

But Din didn’t know what to say to that. How to solve a theoretical— metaphysical?— problem. He knew how to fight, how to hunt— and he’d mostly figured out how to care for a baby. So he leaned on that skill now.

“Let’s talk about this later. You look like you need a meal, and the kid is always hungry. We can figure out what to do next after food. Eat. I’ll be right back.” He stood up, watching as Grogu dove at the tray and the teen followed more slowly, then left, closing the door behind him.

Shand and Fett stood there, staring at him before waving for him to follow them up to the cockpit. Fennec threw herself into the backseat and gave a low whistle. “Wow,” she murmured. “You’ve really got the weirdest shit luck, Mando.”

Fett gave a short sigh that sounded more like a huff. “When people talked about General Kenobi, nobody mentioned a cripplingly low self-esteem.”

“Maybe he grew out of it?” Din offered hopefully.

“Nah,” Fennec chimed in, shoving a slice of meiloorun in her mouth and talking around it. Din wondered where she had gotten it, and if The Kid (Grogu, Grogu) would manage to find her stash by the time they landed. “People like that just learn to hide it better as they age.”

Fett shook his head once, then turned on Din, scowling in determination. “There are some things you need to know about Obi-Wan Kenobi. And the Jedi.”

“Maybe it’s better that I don’t know,” Din hedged. He couldn’t imagine that anything Fett said now would improve the situation.

“If your kid had pulled anyone else, perhaps.”

Now Din really didn’t want to know. Life had become complicated enough with a single baby Jedi. “Fine. Tell me.”

Fett talked. And Din was right. He didn’t want to know.

“You’re saying that’s Vader’s master in there? That kid found the clone army on Kamino, kicked off the Clone Wars, and fought as a High General? How do you know this?”

Fett nodded. “He’s too young yet. But eventually. I took some bounties from Vader himself. It didn’t take long to put two and two together; not sure he realized that I figured it out. And I was there, on Kamino and then on Geonosis.”

“That kid’s apprentice betrayed his people and murdered them.” Din stared at the door, behind which sat a baby victim and one of the most consequential Jedi in recent history. “How the kark am I supposed to tell him this? I barely know him and he seems…” he trailed off, looking for the words. Manda. That… of all the horrible legacies Din had tried to imagine, betrayal by family had not even crossed his mind. And the boy would of course blame himself— Din’s stomach twisted. He’d have to learn the truth eventually, but Din couldn’t let himself wonder what the teen would do with this information.

“Fragile?” Fennec supplied. Din nodded. No one tried that hard to defer to authority and make themselves as useful as possible, not without hard experience. Most teens were defiant, bratty, bullheaded. Obi-Wan bent over backwards to make himself amenable. It bothered Din, more than he could say.

“That kid lived through the genocide of his people, and didn’t become a dar’jetii. He lived alone on Tatooine for 20 years, and didn’t lose his mind. He’s tougher than he looks.”

But it doesn’t have to be like that, Din realized suddenly. Fear was an inescapable part of being a bounty hunter, a Mandalorian. Fear kept you alive. But Din didn’t want the kid to fear him. Or fear the past, or the future, or himself. Telling that kid now that his future apprentice had become a monster would only destroy him further. He’d already lost so much, and there was nothing that such knowledge could change now, anyway. Din couldn’t, wouldn’t weigh him down with this. Not until he felt that Obi-Wan could handle it.

“I’m not telling him about Vader. Or Kamino. Not yet. He doesn’t need to know right now.”

“He’s going to find out eventually.”

“Maybe. But he’s just a kid. And he’s a shell already. He needs to adjust first.”

“Sure thing, dad,” Fett retorted, but there was no heat behind it. And the thought did not inspire the same kind of panic that the Armorer’s “foundling” comment had once inspired. The Creed didn’t give him a choice— but he found he didn’t want one, anyway. This Jedi was a self-sufficient teen. He needed guidance, not childcare. The covert had needed Din’s income too much to slow him down with an apprentice, but the idea now grew legs. Something about this jet’ika called to him; like Grogu, he sensed a kindred spirit, a child who had suffered and needed the strength and support that the covert had given him. Din didn’t know a thing about magic, but he knew people. Surely there was no harm in taking on another kid, especially one so skilled and close to adulthood anyway.

These kids deserved better. But maybe Din could be enough.

One step at a time.

“Where will you two go next?” Din said, tucking away his revelations for consideration later. Fett didn’t appear convinced by this topic shift, if the lifted brow was an indicator, but he allowed it regardless.

“Back to Tatooine. There is a being there who has a date with destiny.”

“I’ve spent much time on Tatooine. Anyone I might know?”

Fett tilted his head, such an achingly familiar action. “Bib Fortuna.”

Din blinked. “You’re taking over the syndicate.”

Fett nodded. “An old score to settle, and a plan to run things differently. No more dying for one man’s greed.”

Din could respect that. “If you’re ever in need of muscle, or a hunter, let me know.”

Fett snorted, but it didn’t sound scornful. “You and your brood?”

Din shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. Depends on the kids, I guess. But I’ve brought Grogu on most of my hunts in the past year or so.”

“That must have been a sight.”

It probably was. Din never thought much of what others saw, though.

Fett considered him for a long moment, as Fennec climbed down towards the hold. “Your ship. Could you salvage anything?”

And just like before, the grief hit hot and hard. Not trusting his voice, Din shook his head and swallowed harshly a few times. “Just the beskar spear.” He gestured at the staff on his back. And it was a good thing, a treasure the Empire didn’t deserve to destroy. But the other weapons he had lost— they had been just as priceless. Treasured heirlooms passed down from older beroyase, his first set of knives that he’d hoped to one day pass on to an apprentice, a blaster he won from Paz in a spar before everything had gone to osik… all of it, just gone.

Fett glanced about the ship meaningfully. Din followed his gaze; it was a decent ship, on the older end but well cared for. Din could tell it had been heavily modified, and lovingly repaired in places where the newer paint didn’t match quite right. “This was my father’s. There are better, newer ships out there, but I nearly got Fennec killed stealing this one back from Fortuna. It’s mine,” he said. Din nodded, taking Boba in with fresh eyes. Creed or no, he understood, better than either of them could ever put into words. Of course he’d been desperate to regain his armor, and while Din would always side-eye Fett’s method in that endeavor, he couldn’t hold it against him. With the loss of his own ship so fresh, Din couldn’t quite say what he wouldn’t do to get it back.

This is what it meant to be Mandalorian. That pride and honor, in the weapons, the armor-- it defined them. 

Fett reached out from his seat and gripped his shoulder. Din stilled for a moment, then relaxed under the weight of the grip, just nodding. It was the embrace of two lone warriors acknowledging an unprecedented dynamic. And it was Din needed in this moment— to know that he was not totally alone.

As swiftly as the moment arrived, it passed, and Fett pulled his hand back with a short nod and a definitive turn to the instrument panel to check their progress. Din bit down on a smile from the privacy of his bucket. Mandalorians. Pragmatic in all things, including displays of support.

Armed with new knowledge, and a meiloorun courtesy of Shand that she threw at him as she passed him on her way back from the hold, Din returned to the jeti’kaade. Which wasn’t terribly fair, the teen was certainly not a baby, but Din couldn't help feeling responsible for them both. Manda help him. Two jetii foundlings. And no ship or weapons.

One step at a time.

The teen looked up with a small smile, as the kid snored softly in his lap. “Mealtime was a little too exciting for him,” he joked, gesturing at the child. Din nodded, sitting down on a crate.

“What do you want to be called?” he asked, uncertain of how else to broach the topic. The jetii paused, considering.

“Ben,” he answered. “I used it a lot while undercover, it feels like it’s mine. Judging by Mr. Fett’s reaction, I think Obi-Wan might be too well-known, all things considered. Ironic,” he huffed.

“Ironic how?”

“It’s Stewjoni. ‘No one of no clan.’ A name given to outcasts, which as a Force Sensitive, I was.”

Din very carefully bit down on the reflexive anger that threatened to brew in his chest. “Ben it is.” He looked down at Grogu, and sighs. “He really thought I didn’t want him?”

“I— I think that he is very young, and reduces circumstances to black and white,” Ben replied slowly, following his gaze to the sleeping child. “He feels your affection and care, even through the beskar—”

“What do you mean, through?”

“Beskar has a unique property in the Force, somewhat muffling to those unused to it. Makes it more difficult to sense your intentions, strong emotions. But you… feel loudly,” Ben’s voice held a smile. “Or at least it feels so to me. Most Mandalorians do. But I’m a bit more empathic than most; my connection to the Force makes it easier to sense others’ emotions, unless they have experience shielding their mind. Mr. Fett, for example, has learned how to do this, despite not being Force Sensitive. Anyway, Grogu knows you care. But you still sought someone to take him, and to his child mind, that meant you didn’t want him. That’s not what you meant, of course.”

“No,” Din huffed. “The things I’ve done for him, because I care… well, now he knows. You’ve already done some good here, it seems.”

Ben gave a brief smile, before it fell again.

“Why are we going to Nevarro?”

“I’ve got friends there who will help me get a new ship and some work.” Probably. Hopefully.

“So we won’t be going to Mandalore?”

Din froze, the weight of realization hitting him. “Ben… Mandalore was glassed. About 6-7 years ago, by the Empire. Everyone died. The only people who survived were the Mandalorians already off-planet.”

Ben bowed his head, his lips moving but Din heard no words. He gave the kid a moment to process, remembering that he’d said his mission was on Mandalore. What had Jedi been doing on Mandalore fifty years ago?

A question for later. It wasn’t like it would change anything, at this point. Shit. Maybe he should have deflected and not dropped that revelation on him now.

Parenting was going to be hard.

“Ben,” he waited until the teen met his visor, eyes glassy. He grimaced, trying to soften his tone. “This is a different time than you’re used to, for better and worse. Twenty-five years of Imperial rule changed a lot throughout the galaxy, most of which didn’t just bounce back. Life in the New Republic, especially in the Outer Rim— anything goes. It’s more lawless than you're probably used to. The New Republic is small, weak. And the Empire is not dead, for all that they wish it to be. It’s dangerous. But… there’s opportunity, too. From this point forward, your life will be what you want to make it. You’ll need to decide what kind of person you want to be. Not today, and not tomorrow. But someday. Once we get to Nevarro and I have a chance to talk to Karga, we’ll get you into school, and you can think about your options. I’ll help you as much as I can. I’m here for you, okay? But it's your choice.”

Ben stared at him, stormy blue eyes wide and wet. Din remained still, despite the unnerving sensation that Ben could see past his visor, to his very face. “Why? You don't even know me. You don’t owe me anything, and I have no way to pay you back. Why would you do this for me?”

“Because nobody owed me anything when the Separatists destroyed my village. And the Mandalorians took me in, anyway. Gave me a home, an education, a purpose. Children are the future. This is the Way.”

“Mandalorians and Jedi are not cultures that have been terribly friendly with each other,” Ben replied, as though testing. Din shrugged.

“The Imps wiped both of us out. I think that’s grounds for a fresh start. You don’t have to become a Mandalorian, not unless you want to. That doesn’t change my responsibility to you, according to my Creed.”

Ben nodded, managing a fragile smile. Progress. “So what do I call you?”

Ah. He hesitated for a moment. This part was always hard. But if this was his foundling now— “In public, call me Mando. But in private, you may use my name. Din Djarin."

The jet’ika nodded respectfully. “I will honor your trust.” The manners on this kid— Din had been such a little shit as a teen in comparison. He resolved to get this kid to loosen up a bit.

“So you’re a traditionalist? Can you tell me which sect?”

“According to Bo-Katan, my covert was known as the Children of the Watch. We follow the way of the Mandalore, and do not show our faces, ever.”

The jet’ika paused, considering. “Children of the Watch. Death Watch?”

Din shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. We lived on Concordia for many years, and did not interact much with other people. She said we were a radical splinter.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I … don’t know,” he replied honestly, startled by the question.

Ben hummed, his expression thoughtful. “Your helmet— you can’t show your face. What about spouses and children?”

Din hesitated. The thought had crossed his mind more than once. “I’m not sure. I was never in a position to find out.”

“And injuries? No exception?”

Din shrugged. “A droid could see me, I suppose. But our secrecy is our survival.” Although Moff Gideon had known exactly who he was. And they were still being hunted. So that secrecy part wasn’t really working out, was it—

And with time, he’d thought over his head injury in Nevarro. What would have become of Grogu if he’d died? Would the Armorer have aided them? Would they have been able to beat the TIE without him? Was the Creed worth the life of a child? Is that really what the Way of the Mandalore intended? Or was Kryze right— had his covert taken it too far?

He hated this kind of uncertainty. He was a beroya, not a philosopher. But he had a sinking feeling that living with Ben was going to prompt more of these internal showdowns.

Dank ferrik.

“Please understand, I’m not trying to pry,” Ben added swiftly, clearly picking up on his turmoil (maybe Fett could teach him this brain-shielding technique—) “I just want to understand and respect your ways. In my time, there were three main groups— well, two really. The True Mandalorians had been wiped out, after Galidraan.” The boy shifted uncomfortably, and Din decided he didn’t need to poke that particular scab now. Fett might be able to shed some light on that later. “Though there were probably some left. They were the moderates, not interested in pacifism or revitalizing Mandalore’s history of conquest. They seemed to focus on the traditions of armor, education, and honorable methods of combat. The New Mandalorians eschewed all forms of violence and everything related to it, including armor and language.” Din couldn’t help a shudder at the thought. That wasn’t Mandalorian at all. “And Death Watch were… well, it’s hard to be objective, seeing as they spent the last few months trying to kill me and my charge, but they were the ones looking to bring back the Mandalorian Empire, and were not above terrorism and conscription to do it.”

“And your charge?”

The Jedi grimaced. “Satine Kryze, daughter and heir of Duke Adonai Kryze, leader of the New Mandalorian faction. They contacted the Republic, requesting a moderator and peacekeeper. Oh yes, the irony is not lost on me, either,” the teen smiled at Din’s silent recoil of disgust. “Pacifists calling for armed peacekeepers — from their ancient adversary, no less— to help them take control of a planet of warriors wracked by civil war. I’m not sure why anyone thought two Jedi could have been of any help on Mandalore of all places, but there we were. It’s a relief to know I survived, though. It hadn’t looked too promising lately.”

Din had so many more questions, but a second glance at the teen’s face put a pin in that for the day. He stood up, grabbing one of the blankets Fennec had brought in, and shook it out, draping it carefully over the two foundlings. “Let’s talk more later. You’ve had a long day. Try to get some rest, if you can.”

He paused by the doorway, watching as the teen cuddled up with the kid under the blanket, still tense. Something squeezed tightly in Din’s chest at the sight. For such powerful beings, they looked so fragile in this moment, so desperately in need of comfort and reassurance.

“Ben,” he said softly, but the kid still flinched, and Din’s chest squeezed even tighter. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

It’s going to get better. You won’t always feel this empty. You’re not alone.

The jet’ika managed a small smile, relaxing slightly as he closed his eyes. Din lingered for a moment, then stepped away.

He really had two of them; the reality hit him full-force as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit. He’d be damned if he let anyone else take them now.

Two traumatized orphan kids. And no ship.

Dank ferrik.

At least one spoke Basic.

Luke Skywalker opened his eyes, dropping to the ground abruptly.

He could no longer feel the powerful presence that had reached out, pressing at his shields, swiftly retreating by the time Luke registered the feeling and reach back out to meet the being, followed swiftly by a sudden shift in the Force, not unlike the rippling shudders of a krait dragon passing beneath the sand. Something consequential had just occurred. Never before had anyone interrupted his meditation by reaching out like that before; an unprecedented disturbance in the Force.

But now, the Force felt calm, tranquil as always on Ossus, with perhaps a fresh curl of amusement. Great. Now the Force was mocking him.

Getting no help from that quarter, Luke rose from his meditation mat and crossed the room to pick up his comm. It was a very short list of people who might have felt the disturbance as well, and while the odds were low, he had to try.

The comm rang for an inordinately long time before connecting. He’d managed to brew a whole cup of caf, nearly spilling it on himself at the first sip as the abrupt voice of his twin sister broke the calm.

“If you’re not captured or actively dying, you’d better have a really good reason for calling me after a whole year of silence.”

Shiiiit. Had it been a whole year already?

“Sorry, Leia. I didn’t realize it’d been a whole year,” he set the cup down on the table. “And I'm not actively dying or captured. I just felt the strangest disturbance in the Force, strong enough to knock me out of meditation. I was curious if you felt it—“

“You seriously called me during the dinner hour on Chandrila after a year of silence to ask me a Force question?”

“… yes?” Luke cringed at the deeply unimpressed look she shot him. Amazing how well that transmitted even across the parsecs— “look, I’ve been investigating abandoned temples, i didn’t realize it's been that long—”

"Han was right, I should have cut off your credit line if I wanted your attention,” she groused, and Luke winced. “No, I didn’t feel any weird Force nonsense. But I’m also a little busy with my own Force nonsense—”

“I’m serious, Leia—"

“Look Skyguy. I’ve got two temper tantrums on my hands, one of which involves bitching senators, the other levitating noodles. As long as the sense in the Force wasn’t evil, I really don’t have time to look into your disturbance. If you’re so interested, then stop digging through dusty temples and go find it. Or else wait for them to reach out again. Either way, you're on your own.”

“That's helpful,” Luke grumped.

“Not sure which part of ‘I’m swamped’ wasn’t clear,” Leia snapped. “Or do you forget what it was like when the Senate had you running errands?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Luke said quickly, wincing.

“Then good luck. I’ve got to run; there’s nuna and noodles splattered all over the kitchen and a youngling in need of a bath and a strong talking-to. Stop being a hermit and come visit once in a while, or I really will cut your trust fund off.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The look on her face could have melted kyber.

“Fine. See you soon,” Luke grimaced as the holo winked out. Force-assisted temper tantrums; maybe opening a school wasn’t the best idea.

Still. He wanted to find the young being powerful enough to reach out like that. Better to find them and keep them on the Light Side. And he couldn’t exactly hunt for abandoned temples and build a school with an empty tank in the X-wing and an empty bank account.

He grabbed a bag and started packing.

Moff Gideon stared at the remains of the dark trooper in front of him, jaw tightening with every breath.

The recovery team had brought up the remains of the sixteen deployed troopers. Gideon had felt his blood pressure rise with each pile of scrap dumped in the hold, his staff shifting nervously, awaiting orders. Every single droid, obliterated.

He picked up a head, examining the neck. Something had sheared through the reinforced metal; he ran a gloved finger along the edge, feeling the cut. Smooth; a superheated weapon, then. There were few weapons left in the galaxy that could manage such a precise cut.

One such weapon hung from a belt loop on his hip.

The assailant had been clever, taking them out from behind. None of the salvageable recorders had anything useful. The little Jedi hadn’t been capable of such feats before; that left Djarin— unlikely; he fought like a bruiser with traditional Mandalorian weapons and a painfully predictable honor code, his armor a battering ram as much as a shield— or his unexpected companions, who were an unwelcome complication. How had they known to come here of all places? Had they intentionally come in separate ships, expecting an ambush?

Too many unknowns. Too many loose ends to tighten up.

“Take these to the droid bay; see if any are salvageable,” he snapped out, inwardly preening as the troopers jumped into action, promptly hauling away the droid parts. This setback would not be allowed to influence morale or order on his ship. “Commander.” The young woman stepped forward smartly. “I want everything the archives has on the planet Tython. And the inventory of lightsabers still unaccounted for. And everything available on the Firespray that escaped.”

“Sir.” The woman saluted smartly and wheeled about, swiftly marching away. Gideon watched her go, running his thumb over the butt of the Darksaber’s hilt at his hip. He liked to imagine its angry hum, the bloodthirsty kyber screaming for a fight under his fingers just as the Vizslas had described in their family archives. It was the work of a lifetime to get Mandalore under his thumb just like the saber, and he was nearly there. Some no-name bounty hunter would not derail progress.

Again.

“So, Din Djarin,” he murmured to himself, “what are you and the little green goblin up to this time?”

Chapter Text

If Grogu was being honest, thirty years of captivity and darkness did not really dampen his ability to have expectations, or his sense of optimism. He was only fifty, after all; barely hatched, in the grand scheme of things. One cookie meant more cookies, the please face had a 97% success rate (with only the tiniest bit of Force suggestion behind it), and if it moved, it was probably edible with enough persistence.

So it took Grogu a little while to realize that his expectations for his new friend did not match reality; that the Obi-Wan Kenobi provided by the Force was not the Obi-Wan Kenobi he dimly remembered.

And to some extent, he had expected this. He had asked the Force to help him find a kindred spirit, someone who would understand and the Force had reached through time and space, flitting right past a broken man in the desert, to a boy, alone in a very different desert. It had promised that this youngling would understand Grogu’s secret pain.

He just hadn’t counted on that youngling’s own pain coming with him.

Dates, human ages had gotten all mixed up in his head while Grogu had floated timelessly in the Force, and it never dawned on him until the poor boy’s eyes glimmered with tears that it had been cruel to pull this little Obi-Wan Kenobi into a very bleak future compared to his past. Grogu had lived it too long, the shock had worn off.

But the Force had insisted it was for the best! Grogu felt very confused by his own feelings of relief, guilt, sympathy— why would the Force insist, then? It must get better, then. That could be the only explanation.

He’d have words for Master Tano, if they ever met again. Sending a youngling to use a master’s tool—what had she been thinking?

But Obi-Wan— Ben— had already done incredible good in his brief time here, and it was hard to feel very very sad about it. He had helped Grogu’s guardian understand that he didn’t want to leave his guardian. He wanted his little family. He felt incredibly pleased to have it now, pleased that the Force felt pleased, and now all that remained was to help Ben feel happy too.

He just didn't expect that to be so hard.

Ben was very good at pretending to be happy, and if Grogu hadn’t been observing him carefully, he would have missed the signs. But Ben was not a Master Jedi, capable of expertly managing his feelings. Ben gleamed like a bright star in the Force, brighter than he likely knew. And Grogu had noticed that the teen’s light would sometimes flicker, like a guttering candle. Not pulled to the Dark— how anyone could ever think that of Obi-Wan Kenobi—but overwhelmed by the magnitude of some thing that weighed him down. He was a padawan, barely older than a human youngling and feeling all of the emotions, managing them in ways that frankly felt wrong. Grogu had muffled his connection to the Force for a long time, but he hadn't forgotten his teachings. The way Ben shielded so heavily, gracelessly shoving his grief and fear into the Force and moving on instead of examining and releasing gently, as though he were used to not being given the time to sit with his emotions and work through them… that was not what Master Beq had taught in the crèche.

So, in the first week of their return to Nevarro, Grogu made Ben follow him into the little bedroom of their apartment that High Magistrate Karga procured for them, and settled onto a pillow.

Ben remained standing and sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

“I’m fine, Grogu. I need to help Din with the school enrollment forms and make latemeal—”

Grogu snorted, and patted the pillow. Now.

Ben shook his head, his Force signature souring. “I— not together. You don’t need to feel what I’m feeling.”

Already feel what you feel.

“Oh.” Ben’s face fell, and he finally dropped onto the pillow, settling into a meditation pose. “All right, then.”

Satisfied, Grogu closed his eyes, reaching out to the Force. This felt far more familiar, more comfortable than his meditation on Tython. The Seeing Stone had been a live wire, worse than the time he’d touched the blue and red wires together while helping Din fix the ship. The Seeing Stone would not release him, channeling his tiny form with the unbearable immensity of the Force.

He doubted Master Tano had known that when she suggested it.

Now, he simply floated in the Force, freed from the bounds of the mortal body, feeling limitless and yet utterly insignificant amidst a multitude of stars winking in the pale light of the Force. He could feel Ben’s presence and reached out, happy to commune together when—

What was that—

He felt Ben twitch away from him, felt the teen’s shields come up again. Determined, Grogu reached out again, and tapped on the shields.

Ben Kenobi would be happy again. They would not always feel this way, Grogu was sure of it. And he was going to fix it right now.

Ben pushed him away again, sending annoyed-warning-uncomfortable in the Force. His signature had grown increasingly gray, the sunny yellow dimming under the iron weight of that thing. Undaunted, Grogu hammered away at Ben's shields.

Stop, Grogu.

Let me in.

A flare of pique, and the shields disappeared, and Grogu surged onward—

The grief— it was a never-ending well, and Grogu felt like a stone, dropping deeper and deeper into the suffocating sadness with no end in sight as the light above faded, and yet it was not darkness he fell into, but a miasma of memories, saturated with heartbreak—

A firm grip pulled him back, lurching him back into the light, where he floated once more beside Ben’s presence.

And now you see, Ben chided gently. I am meant for infinite sadness and loneliness. This is my destiny. There is no escaping it, only to endure. This is not for you to fix.

No— that could not be true. Ben was here now, out of that old timeline. The crèche had taught balance. Where grief lived, so too did joy. Loss met gain, as it had two weeks ago. It could not always be grief and sadness; and the dark times had ended, hadn’t they? Maybe Obi-Wan Kenobi had faced a lifetime of infinite sadness, but it didn't mean that Ben had to as well. Didn't the future hold infinite possibility? How could they all be filled with infinite sadness, if there was balance? The Force had rejoiced at Ben’s entry to the here-and-now; how could that mean anything other than better times ahead?

He pushed these thoughts at Ben, who seemed to startle slightly. Grogu pushed one final thought at him: eternal remembrance, not mourning.

Ni partayli, gar darasuum, Ben murmured, and his signature lightened, tinged with the sage green hues of bittersweet fondness. I remember, so you are eternal.

Yes.

Grogu reached out, and with a burst of sunlight-warmth, felt a bond snap into place with the padawan, who sent fond feelings back along the connection. Content, he floated in the Force once more, basking in his brother’s presence and lending his support as Ben quietly untangled bits and pieces of the grief he carried, feeling them released gently into the Force. It felt so right, so familiar, he could almost smell the incense of the Temple meditation rooms, and his little heart surged with peace-joy.

It would take many meditations to work through Ben's grief. And his own. But that was fine.

They had all the time in the galaxy. And Ben wouldn’t face it alone, not if Grogu had any say in it.

Din watched Ben closely for the first two weeks after their return to Nevarro. He waited for the usual displays of grief and defiance— sneaking out, yelling, petty crime, even crying. But Ben continued to wear that pleasant smile, eager to be useful. He didn’t try to seek out information about the war that wiped out his people, or about the Empire and its demise. He just— folded himself right in, helping where he could, minimizing the strain he put on Din’s already-limited resources.

It was the first clue that Din had his work cut out for him with this kid.

Karga came through, swiftly finding them a little apartment and fronting some funds to get started. Cara secured a few bounties from the New Republic to run down. It rankled, to incur so much debt even to friends, but Din could see no way around it. And for his the children, he’d suffer worse if needed. He had already shut down Ben's offer to work, insisting that he finish his schooling first. Din could only grit his teeth as Ben offered a far more polite ‘thank you’ and hoped that he could pay the debt quickly.

Knowing Karga though, he’d save this one for an extra-rainy day.

The first two weeks passed in a blur of flimsiwork and shopping as the little trio settled into something resembling a routine. And all too soon, Din had to disrupt that routine with the reality of their financial circumstances.

“I need to start taking bounties,” Din announced at first meal. Both boys looked up from their bowls, and Din waited for some kind of blowback, but they merely looked at him. Right, Jedi. He sat down beside them at the little kitchen table, clutching the warmth of the caf mug that he’d drink later. Their apartment was nothing special, a three-bedroom flat with a small kitchen and living space. The drab ecru walls were bare, occasionally interrupted by small windows that let sun peek past the thick walls and illuminate the space, but the kitchen boasted a large reinforced window that allowed the morning sun to saturate the communal space with cheery brightness.

“Cara and Karga have lined up some work, I’ll be gone for about a week starting in two days. Tomorrow, you’ll start school. Cara will be taking care of you while I’m gone. You’ll be safe with her. But today— I want to take you out into the flats, Ben. And assess your skills.”

That word-vomit had made much more sense in his head, but neither boy even blinked, merely nodding and then turning to their bowls to finish quickly.

The morning sun had barely crested the ridge line as the trio debarked the borrowed speeder bike and stood amidst the smoky obsidian and basalt of the lava flats. Curls of steam rose here and there, but the low tide gave them plenty of time for practice without any concern for unwary bystanders or incoming waves of fresh lava. The helmets filters blocked the smell of sulfur, but Din could see the boys’ noses wrinkle as they rubbed at them to clear the scent. Resisting a bizarre urge to coo, Din took his knife, and scored a low formation of soft rock with a bullseye target, then shooed his little brood to stand about 25 feet away. He could feel the boys’ eyes watching him close as he began to unpack the small bundle of weapons he had brought for this venture. He picked up a blaster and turned to face them again, clocking Ben’s tension.

“We'll start with blasters.”

Ben eyed the blaster, a complicated expression marring his youthful face. He suddenly looked much older, and Din tried not to tense himself. “That’s not necessary; I don’t need to use a blaster.”

“It’s important that you learn this,” Din insisted, watching the teen’s hand flex. Something was missing here. “Using a saber in public draws a lot of attention. You need alternate means of defense, more commonplace.”

“I have the Force,” Ben pushed back, and in any other situation, Din would have felt pleased to see the typical teenage obstinacy rear up. “I can sense danger and preempt it. I can push things away. And I have training in close-quarters combat and hand-to-hand.”

“Great. So have another tool in your arsenal,” Din pressed.

“I can shoot,” Ben gritted out, his jaw clenched and eyes flashing. Din wondered just how far he should push this. It was important, but—

“Then show me.”

“Fine,” Ben snapped, and threw out a hand. The blaster leapt from Din’s gloved hand, slapping straight into Ben’s, and the teen wheeled and shot without hesitation, five times. As the smoke cleared, Din could see through his HUD a deep hole in the center of the target, perfectly round.

Before Din could say anything, Ben closed his eyes, spun once, lined up and shot again. This time, Din was ready, and watched as each shot gouged the target deeper and deeper in the exact same location.

The teen opened his eyes, flicked the safety back on, and tossed it at Din. “I don’t like blasters,” he said flatly, flexing his hand again.

Well, fuck.

Grogu cooed, and Ben’s face darkened. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he managed, and Din’s heart sank. This had to be about those slips Ben had accidentally dropped before. This kid really had been a child soldier.

Now Din wanted to shoot something. Possibly his own foot.

He looked down at his weapons, considering his options. “How about rifles? Knives?”

Ben looked at him, and Din tried not to move as the teen did that creepy stare that felt like a med-scanner. It unnerved him as much as ever, but the kid was looking for something, and he’d put up with a hell of a lot more than uncomfortable staring, to gain the kid’s trust. He needed the kid to understand what this meant to Din; for the kid to understand why he insisted.

Ben must have found whatever he was looking for, as his expression eased into something softer, more amenable.

“Those are okay.”

And as the teen picked up a knife and threw it directly into the gouged target, burying it halfway to the hilt in the soft basalt rock, Din began to feel a bit better about leaving the boys behind for this trip.

And made a note to contact Shand about rifles and knives.

The next day, Din dropped the boys off at the school, lingering for about a half hour to grill the staff on their security measures. One of them must have called Karga in a panic, because the man showed up with a flamboyant flourish of his regal robes, and shooed him away to 'get to work.’ With one last dubious glare at the school (if a single hair on his kids’ heads was out of place when he picked them up—) Din slowly began to make his way to the shipyard, suddenly loathe to leave. It felt wrong, to not have them wherever he went. It had been the only way to ensure their safety, especially Grogu’s, and while he had certainly failed from time to time, he felt far less helpless then than he did now, trusting their wellbeing to a stranger.

Little gods, when had he become such a dad?

In fairness to Ben, the kid really could take care of himself. Yesterday’s demonstration had convinced Din that the kid only needed refinement in technique, not actual instruction. He shot even better with a rifle than a blaster, and he nearly handed Din his own shebs in a hand-to-hand spar. With how quickly he picked up constructive criticism, he’d be incredible in no time, and Din had made a point of asking Cara to train with the boy while he hunted. Security-wise, they would be fine. But the thought of leaving still sat heavily in his chest. He took a detour through the market, stocking up on the essentials for this trip. It only delayed the inevitable, not that he would admit that to himself—

“Hello there.”

Din looked up from his examination of a blaster charge pack, then did a double-take, straightening immediately. Ben stood there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, but as Din straightened, Ben settled into a preternatural stillness, as though expecting to be chastised for his nervousness. Din bit back a sigh. So many toxic habits to un-learn, so little time. “Ben. Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“…maybe? It’s a good problem?” Ben winced. “I graduated.”

Din blinked. “You what.”

“I tested out of school. Seems I had a very good education, even if it’s forty years old,” Ben’s smile was a only little crooked. “So… I thought I’d see if you need help with anything.”

Din considered him for a long moment. “You want to be a bounty hunter?”

Ben shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. But I like to learn, and I can be useful.”

Fair. Not a solution beyond today, but that was tomorrow’s problem. And maybe Cara could help with that.

“All right. I’ve got a lead on a few ships. You can come check them out with me. Grogu is still in school?”

Ben nodded, falling in beside Din as he started for the shipyard. “They placed him in the preschool. He should be fine there.”

“Hm.” He did not love the idea of Grogu being at the school alone.

Ben seemed to pick up on this, as he added “I also check in with him via the bond regularly. If anything happens, I’ll know immediately. I might not have a jet pack, but I’m sure I could use the roofline to be there just as fast.”

Din paused for a moment. “The bond?”

“You know we can share thoughts and emotions in the Force. Two Force Sensitives can also create a bond through the Force, that makes it easier to maintain that connection. It helps us stay tethered to the here-and-now, functions like an anchor in meditation— they’re important for the wellbeing of a Jedi. It’s common in the crèche, and between close friends, masters and padawans. Grogu is still a small child for his species, so he makes bonds easily when he encounters Force Sensitives—“

Din stopped dead as a sickening realization hit him. Ben turned and stared, frowning. “What is it? I don’t sense anything—”

“Ben, your friends, from before— all those bonds—”

Clarity hit, and Ben smiled— and it was the most devastating thing Din had ever seen. “Yes. I didn’t realize they had all joined the Force, but I did know right away that something was wrong. Bonds… hurt, to lose suddenly. They’re like an exposed nerve. Mine were different, not so sharp, almost as though they’d never existed, but still. Not nice.”

“You never said.”

Ben shrugged, and a part of Din wanted to give the kid a good shake. “It’s a difficult thing to explain to a person who can’t experience it the same way. And there was no point in complaining about it. This is not the first time I have been cut off from the Order and unable to return. This is just… more permanent.”

Dank ferrik. Din sighed, and took a step closer, gripping the teen’s shoulder, feeling his compassion and sincerity as loudly as possible (if that was a real thing). “Grief is not a complaint. You’re allowed to grieve, Ben. Don’t feel like you have to hide it. I know I’m not the most… uh, approachable person, but I’m willing to listen if you want to talk.”

Ben didn’t answer, merely nodding. Din gave his shoulder a small squeeze, then steered him back towards their destination, dropping his hand and the subject. “So. Ships. You know much about them?”

“Basic mechanics, piloting, astronavigation. I’m no ace, but I can hold my own.”

Din nodded. “I need to buy a ship, but today I’m just renting. I don’t need anything fancy, just something that’s going to get the job done. So. What do you think factors into that?”

Ben frowned, eyes unseeing as he considered the question. “The number of bounties, the destination? Ah, dead or alive?”

Din nodded again, pleased. “Very good.” He smiled as Ben’s eyes brightened. This poor kid was so starved for approval. “I generally prefer alive. Bigger payout. I’m a ber— a bounty hunter, not an executioner. I’ve got 2 bounty pucks for this trip. Last known location was Mid-Rim; Taanab and Lothal.”

Ben hummed. “So a mid-sized ship with the ability to secure two bounties, and the capacity to get you from Nevarro to the Mid-Rim. What’s the budget?”

Clever, clever kid. “That’s where it gets better. Ten thousand for the week. I’ve also got a passenger who needs transport to Lothal. So it’s extra pay for heading the same direction.” He paused as they reached the shipyard. “All right. Let me do the talking. I need them to still think that I’m a scary bounty hunter.”

Ben stifled a snort. “Your secret’s safe with me.” The jet’ika appropriately schooled his expression as they approached the first ship.

Clunkers, every last one of them. Not that he expected much on Nevarro. True to his word, Ben remained silent, playing the dutiful apprentice, or whatever people assumed of the redhead. Only once did Ben pull him aside after perusing a ship.

“He’s lying,” the jet’ika whispered. “The capacitor isn’t brand-new.”

“How do you know?”

Ben tapped at his head. “Emotions associated with lying are easy to pick up.”

“Handy.”

Din paid for clunker number three, and locked it down as he walked Ben back to the apartment.

“Cara’s going to watch you and Grogu this week; Karga fronted me funds so you’ll have food. I don’t want you to go anywhere without her though, understand?”

Ben looked slightly miffed, and Din silently cheered for that display of normal teen defiance. “I’m sixteen. And I've been in three wa—” he cut himself off sharply.

“Three what?” Din had a bad feeling he knew what the kid was going to say, but Ben merely shook his head and Din didn't press.

“I’ve been on missions, I know how to take care of myself and others.”

“I believe that. But you’re new to this planet and this era. And you don’t have to do everything alone. You’re still a kid, and I take my responsibility for both of you seriously. Let Cara do her job. If everything goes smoothly, then we can revisit next time.”

Ben frowned, but didn’t argue.

Din was gone one week.

One. Week.

The longest week of the past two years.

The trip had gone smoothly; no repeat performances of being stranded on an ice planet with a frog mother-to-be. The Republic bounties were almost too easy to nab. It left far too much time to think about the kids he left behind.

And the many, many messages from Cara.

Dune: I want to hire Ben. Can I do that?

Dune: nvm. I want to adopt him. I’m stealing your child, Mando.

Dune: i am not kidding. I've broken up more crime rings in the past 3 days than I have in three months. where the hell did you find this kid. i’m not giving him back.

Dune: mando, what the fuck— when were you going to tell me he’s Obi-Wan Kenobi??

Dune: okay so don’t freak out, but Ben got a grazed in a firefight. he’s fine, it’s already healed, and we got the smuggler. i just wanted to let you know.

The crowds parted with skittering panic as Din marched down the street, dragging his bounties with him. He should drop them off first, but he needed to know that his the kids were fine. The Quarren stumbled, and Din tugged the lead impatiently, taking the steps up to their door two at a time. The door slid open as he raised his hand, and he barely had a chance to catch the flying toddler as Grogu launched himself at Din’s chest. Din smiled as the kid squealed in delight; an acrobatic child was worth the relief of seeing both kids begin to feel more comfortable being themselves. He glanced into the apartment, tracking some colorful drawings tacked to the walls. Ben approached more slowly, almost wary. It took a moment to register the reason for his wariness, curled up in his arms, staring at him with wide, red beady eyes.

“What is that.”

“This is Char. He’s a lava meerkat. Cara saved him from a gang of Aqualish in the sewers. He’s been begging for scraps from Cara, but then he bonded with Grogu, and Grogu named him, so now he won’t leave. But we’ve house-trained him, and he burned someone who tried to touch Grogu, so he’s like a security meerkat?” Ben rambled, eyes raking Din’s visor as though hoping to gauge how his pitch was being received. The meerkat chittered, its red beady eyes bouncing all over as it took in Din’s appearance. Ben ran a soothing hand over its back, and it visibly settled, though its wary eyes never left Din.

“We can’t have pets in this apartment.”

“I did consider that,” Ben allowed nervously, “but we spoke to the landlady and she allowed an exception.”

Banthashit. “Did you use your magic on her?”

“No!” Ben looked highly affronted at the accusation, and Din bit back an involuntary laugh. “Firstly, she’s Toydarian, they can’t be mind-tricked. And I would never— don’t look at me like that. It’s for emergencies. This is not one. I merely did her a favor, and she agreed to look the other way, so long as he doesn’t torch the apartment." The meerkat chittered again, and Ben scratched behind its ear. His sleeve rode up, and Din caught sight of the fresh pink of a new scar. The kid already had a worrying number of them, scattered like a constellation of hard memories across his body. Din felt his jaw jump at the thought.

Cara poked her head out of the kitchen, waving at Din with a paring knife that stood at comical odds with her bulky armor. “You’re back! And before you start, it’s not my fault the fire rat bonded with your kid. And kids need pets, right? Breeds responsibility, or whatever?”

The meerkat chittered, and the Quarren behind Din cooed at the sight. Din sighed.

What the fuck, Dune.

Clearly she was out of the running as designated babysitter.

That left Karga as his next option.

Karga did a lot of bitching when Din asked him to watch the kids a few weeks later, but he knew that the old man was secretly pleased, and perked up considerably when Din mentioned Ben’s diplomatic training. That trip went unnervingly well, with no messages beyond the odd comm from Ben giving a progress update.

The problem began when Din arrived home, and stopped by the High Magistrate’s office to retrieve his the children.

“You can’t take him.”

Din eyed the possessive hand Karga had laid on Ben’s shoulder. “Excuse me?” He knew his tone was too defensive, too aggressive, but—

“He’s indispensable. I need him.”

Now Din just felt baffled, glancing from Karga to Ben’ika, who cringed. Ah, dank ferrik— empath.

“Need him for what, exactly?”

“This boy is a prodigy!” Greef cried, slapping Ben’ika on the back. “Gets through the work faster than a droid, and he’s already resolved three trade disputes with neighboring systems! At this rate, we’ll be secure for decades to come! You wouldn’t take away my lead investigator into an import tax racket, would you? Think of the schools, the infrastructure, Mando! Solving this problem will restore our public funds account, and community morale. Where did you find him?”

Ben cringed again. Grogu cooed from his place beside a half-empty bowl of cookies, under the watchful eye of a twitchy silver protocol droid.

Din sighed.

“Karga, let my kid go. If he wants to come back and help some more, then you’ll pay him fairly for his time. I know you’ll get your money’s worth, he’s a smart kid. But it’s his call. Not yours.”

Karga sighed dramatically, releasing Ben, who stepped forward and to Din’s side uncertainly. This poor kid, Din wasn’t quite sure what made Ben so deferential and subservient towards elders in public, and he felt fairly sure he didn't want to know.

“Well the offer still stands, Ben, Mando’s foundling,” Karga proclaimed theatrically, winking at Ben. Din sighed, shaking his head as he scooped up Grogu and left.

They stopped on the way home at a little kabob stand on Grogu’s urging. Din tracked the teen’s quiet disposition, which had become a telltale sign of some internal self-flagellation. He suspected that Grogu had picked up on it as well, and had asked to stop at the kabob stand as a distraction.

Then again, it was Grogu. The bottomless pit. So it was really anyone’s guess.

Nonetheless, Din leaned over as they walked home, a few credits lighter and laden down with roasted meat and vegetables. “Karga is a good man,” he said quietly, tracking Ben’s slight turn away from where he scanned their path, towards Din. “But he will absolutely exploit you if he can. I’m glad you’re being helpful. But you can't let him take advantage of that.”

It was a stewjon’ad tendency, he noted mentally as the kid nodded, his shoulders perking up a bit. Which reminded him of a conversation they needed to have later.

“So you really resolved a bunch of trade disputes?”

Ben smiled shyly as he waved the apartment door open. Din resisted the urge to laugh at the little display of Force magic, remembering the spiel about ‘frivolous use of the Force’ when Grogu used it to steal a cookie off of Karga’s desk. “It wasn’t just me, but yes. My master was a consular knight, we were often deployed to resolve diplomatic issues. More often that not it devolved into aggressive negotiations, but I did learn a thing or two about peaceful resolution.”

Din snorted. His own experience in the Fighting Corps had left strong opinions about the efficacy of peaceful resolution, which bounty hunting had somewhat tempered. A nice ideal, but always be ready for a shootout. It was encouraging to see the Jedi weren't so dissimilar on that point.

“Unfortunately, I might have made myself a little too indispensable. He seems to think I can singlehandedly resolve all of his diplomatic issues, which I cannot.” The redhead dropped his bag on the table and stooped down to pick up the chittering lava meerkat, who nuzzled at his neck for a moment before leaping down out of his arms to greet Grogu, who cooed at him. “And using Force-assisted meditation to find the source of the import tax problem will not solve the problem. I’m afraid he might be severely overestimating my abilities there."

“Kaysh mirsh solus,” Din muttered, and Ben snorted, rounding the kitchen counter to grab a knife and a tuber to peel.

“On the contrary, it used to be quite normal to request Jedi for trade negotiations or investigate issues that defied the local authorities’ ability to resolve, so his instinct is correct…” his smile died as he sensed how Din stilled, not moving for a long moment before he turned to Ben, his posture tense.

“Gar tayli Mando’a?”

“Elek,” Ben replied cautiously, sensing that somehow that was the wrong answer. “I learned from some modules, and then while we were on-planet. Would—"

"No," Din cut across sternly, then sighed. “I understand why you learned. I’m not mad. But unless you intend to take the Creed, become a mando’ad, I will not speak it with you.”

Ben nodded, unable to meet his eyes, and a strange mixture of shame and disappointment swirled within Din. The boy wanted to learn. With how objectified Mandalorians had become— exotic, fetishized creatures sought for their beskar as much as their skills— and so rare, to find someone who wanted to learn and turn them down felt wrong. Ben had been nothing but respectful of his culture, had shared things he’d learned that surprised Din. And he’d noticed that Ben had unconsciously begun to adopt certain mannerisms and habits. Din could not divulge his culture to an aruetii, could not defy the Creed so blatantly, not without a declaration from Ben to become a Mandalorian.

But—

“You said you were Stewjoni?”

Ben looked up, startled by the topic shift. “Yes. I was born there, and given to the Temple as a baby. I have no memory of Stewjon, though.”

“No one shared with you their cultural customs or biology?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ben shook his head. “Severely allergic to hoi broth, but other than that, I’m as human as a near-human can be, so far as I know.”

Din stifled the urge to shake his head at the Core-World attitude of the old Order. So ignorant. “Long ago, the Stewjoni had a unique relationship with the Mandalorians,” Din began slowly, watching Ben closely. “They had been part of the Mandalorian Empire at one time. After the Dral’han, they fell under the yoke of the Republic. They lost their warrior spirit over time. But the sect that had migrated to Mandalore remained, up through the Mandalorian Civil War. I never met one, but I heard the stories. Fierce fighters, immensely compassionate, giving people. Full of mandokar’la, and yet different from mando’ade. A symbiotic relationship that lasted centuries. Cherished partners. The last stewjon’ad died in the Purge, or so I’ve been told.”

How anyone could actually know that, though— he twitched away the thought and refocused. It had been a long flight home; he did not need to spend this quality time second-guessing the stories of the Armorer.

“I cannot share with you my language and stories. But I could tell you about the Mandalorian Stewjoni, the stewjon’ade, their customs and traditions, if you want. That’s a part of your culture you could claim, if you want. Up to you.”

“Yeah,” Ben said slowly, thinking it over. “I’d like to know, at least. And then decide if I want to adopt it as my own.”

“Okay then,” Din smiled as the kid brightened. “I don’t know much, but I’ll ask a few contacts for more. I remember my bounty hunting mentor telling me about them; his rid— spouse had been stewjon’ad. She had long hair that she kept in a series of complicated braids. Something about the hair being metallic and painful to keep short. And blue face tattoos.”

Ben quirked a bemused smile as he glanced up from the tuber he was peeling. “But if she wore her helmet all the time, how did he know? And why would she bother?”

Din paused as he considered the question. “You know, I never asked. Guess I figured that since she was stewjon’ad, the rules were different than for the Creedbound. Good question.”

“Maybe she’s part of a different sect, like the Haat’ade,” Ben volunteered, peeling the tubers again with a thoughtful expression. “They’re mostly gone, but there were some survivors. I met a few who provide security for the Duke and his children. I’ve never seen facial markings among the Evaar’ade, though. Maybe the stewjon’ade are traditional, just not as traditional as the Creedbound.”

“Maybe.” Din frowned, shelving his own spiral over whether his mentor broke the Creed to watch Ben closely.

“My friend Luminara just got her facial tattoos,” Ben smiled fondly at the tuber he held in his hands, and Din’s gut tightened. “She’s Mirialan. They have to go through a cultural trial. Quinlan’s Kiffar, and he's had his clan markings for ages. They’ll be glad to hear I’m looking into it. Every system has its cultural traditions, and the Order’s always embraced them, so long as we don’t get too attached to them. There’s a difference between respect and attachment, of course. Bant thinks the whole facial marking thing is weird, but she’s Mon Calamari so I guess that’s to be expected.

“The next time I see—” Ben’ika froze. Din’s heart dropped into a free-fall as the realization hit the teen. His eyes glimmered with tears.

“Oh. Right. They’re gone,” he whispered, his breath shuddering.

No one ever prepares a parent for the feeling of helplessness, Din thought, as he watched the teen try and fail to gather himself. Ben wasn’t his, but he was, and Din couldn’t help but reach out and grip the kid by the shoulder, pressing into it his compassion, his understanding, hoping that at least some of it got through via that Force magic. They'd gotten better about these touches over the past month, offering and receiving them freely now. He stood open, ready and waiting as the jet’ika turned in and crushed himself against Din’s armored chest, unbothered by the beskar as he sobbed. The plates rattled on the table, and a fork fell to the ground.

“S-s-sorry, I just—”

“S’okay, Ben’ika,” Din replied as gently as he could manage. “No one expects you to stop grieving overnight. Or ever. It takes time.”

“We’re supposed to g-give our grief to the Force,” Ben hiccuped. “We’re not s-supposed to hold onto it.”

“You’re not holding onto it, though. You’re letting it out,” Din countered, running a gloved hand over the teen’s copper hair; it was starting to get long. Ben had attempted to explain the purpose of meditation to Din, after he'd walked into their bedroom and panicked to find them sleeping while seated upright and entirely unresponsive for hours. And while the idea of tangibly letting go of negative emotions sounded great in theory— “Love’s not some finite poison you suck out and that’s that. Grief, it's… it’s all the love you didn’t get to share yet. And you’re a deep well, with a lot to give. It’s only been two months, Ben’ika. And it was a big loss.”

“But—”

“You’re not dwelling on it, you’re trying to move forward. You’re working through it with your meditation. That’s good. These moments catch everyone by surprise. This is normal. And you’re gonna be okay. Promise.”

He had no right making such a promise. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

The doorbell rang. Din stiffened, watching as Ben’s eyes slid out of focus for a moment before returning, wiping his face. “It’s Cara and two others, I think they’re friendly,” the teen declared, but Din didn’t miss how his free hand drifted to the knife on the counter. Din turned and crossed the apartment, opening the door with one hand on his own blaster.

It fell away as he registered Cara standing there, with that damned smirk on her mouth. But that’s not where Din’s attention went first, because two elderly men stood in front of her.

Brothers?

Their matching tawny features, lined and spotted with age and experience, felt eerily familiar. One sported a truly magnificent white beard with a bald head, while the other’s silver mutton chops and handlebar mustache matched the bionic eye that filled the socket bisected with a wicked scar. But what really caught Din’s attention were the painted plastoid vambraces on the men’s forearms, and the jai’galaar emblem on the bearded one’s right vambrace.

It took Din a long moment to realize he’d been staring, by which point both men had begun to smirk as well, golden-brown eyes twinkling good-naturedly.

“The name’s Rex, this is Wolffe,” the bearded one jerked a thumb at the second old man. “Heard you had your hands full, with the kids.” Cara snorted.

“We’re here to help.”

What the fuck, Dune.

Boba stared in dismay at his comm messages.

“I’m a crime lord, not president of the youngling-sitters club,” he grumbled to himself.

Baby Brother: do jetiise normally nap while sitting up? the kids have been at it for hours. should i wake them up

Baby Brother: never mind. apparently it’s meditation

Baby Brother: are jetiise all trouble magnets? they exposed a crime ring while i was on my last bounty. is that normal behavior for jetiise

Baby Brother: the kid just blew up a pot of tiingilar. the ceiling is stained now. not sure we’re getting our deposit back. that’s a thing, right

Baby Brother: does the republic have child labor laws? Karga’s trying to steal Ben’ika for his administrative team

Baby Brother: have you heard of any armorers, or smiths who work in durasteel? i think Ben’ika is seriously considering swearing the Creed. also anything on the stewjon’ade would be helpful

Fennec, as usual, had already previewed them all and snorted from where she lounged in her seat, boots up on the instrument panel as she sharpened a knife. A flagon of spotchka balanced precariously in her lap.

“Soon-to-be crime lord. We gotta make our move first.” She eyed the pad. “Baby brother’s blowing up your comms lately.”

Boba squinted at her. He contemplated knocking her boots off the panel to spill her drink, but didn’t fancy catching a knife with his eye, and settled for a warning glare that didn’t feel as effective as it used to be. “If you change his contact name in my pad one more time, I will volunteer you for childcare duty on his next bounty.”

Unfazed, the assassin continued sharpening her blade. “Might be easier to kill two womp-rats with one bolt, and bring them here. You know, once we take the palace.”

“Here?” This was hardly the place for children. Boba congratulated himself for thinking of that first, and not the fact that they were both Jedi. Still, the secondary thought made him slightly itchy.

“Yeah. I mean, if you can live with the whole—” Fennec waggled her fingers in the air, “then it solves several problems. We get muscle we’re gonna need. He gets a job. Kids have somewhere relatively stable and secure to live. And Mando stops blowing up your comms.” Her feet hit the floor with a decisive thunk and she stood up, not a drop of spotchka spilled. “Something to think about.” And she sauntered off. Boba glared after her.

Damn her, he was thinking about it.

Bo-Katan Kryze stared at the message, her jade-green eyes narrowing with each re-read.

“What’s got your kute in a twist, alor?” snarked Woves as he and Reeves strode into her quarters. Bo-Katan tossed the pad across the desk as they sat down, glaring at Woves. The man was getting a little big for his beskar lately; she’d need to do something about that soon.

“It seems Mando found Tano, but she wouldn’t take the whelp. Now he’s got two jet’ikaade,” she retorted, watching their eyebrows rise higher and higher as they read on. “He wants to know if we have any records on the stewjon’ade.”

“Some, not much,” Woves shrugged. “That’ll make Kirda happy, he’s always looking for someone to yammer to about his archives. Now… stewjon’ade. That is interesting. They died out with the Purge— Fenn Rau was the last one with any claim, and he’d only been a quarter-blood. So why the look?”

“Something’s off about this. Something missing. Why stewjon’ade? Why now?” Bo-Katan drummed her fingers on the table, thinking, pointedly ignoring her own heritage. It was a weakness she'd never admitted to, and fully believed that while Satine had inherited the Kalevalan features, she’d been all stewjon’ad at heart. Bo-Katan had suffered the looks but remained mando’ad through and through. No one had ever dared to manipulate her before, and she wouldn’t start handing out reasons now. Not with Axe suddenly so itchy.

“He’s got two ade now. Maybe he's seen the light and realized that his covert is a cult.”

“No. There’s something more here. Gideon’s back on the radar, appearing and disappearing. Our raids are getting both easier and harder. And now Mando wants information, on the stewjon’ade no less. Something’s happening.”

Reeves looked baffled, while Woves stared hard, inscrutable. “So what are you going to do?”

Bo-Katan took a long moment to respond. She wanted to shake Mando down for information, get him under her control. She wanted to find Tano, get her take on the situation. She needed to find Gideon, and secure her position. She couldn’t do any of those things, though. Not yet.

“We give him what he wants. And we watch him.”

Woves frowned. “We don’t know where he is.”

Bo-Katan leaned forward, glaring. “Then find him."

Chapter Text

As a rule, Ben did not like surprises. They tended to preface bad news, or worse events. A childhood of bullying had thoroughly cemented this impression, and while his current circumstances had yielded more pleasant surprises than not, old habits died hard. Still, as he wiped his face once more and reached out to the Force for a sign as to who these mysterious visitors could be, the Force remained as cryptic as ever; slightly edged with anticipation, but curling in on itself with joy and contentment. Whoever stood at the threshold heralded something new, something right; of course, right for whom remained unknown. A tap at his leg, and Ben looked down to see Grogu, blinking up at him benignly.

“Do you know them?” He asked the child quietly, setting down the knife to pick him up. Grogu patted at his damp cheeks, cooing gently.

No. Yes. Clones. Nice ones. Not empty.

Ben had a bad feeling about that observation, but shelved it for later as he heard Din sigh. Ben peeked down the hall, unable to see much past Din’s broad frame.

“You’re not Jedi.”

One laughed, while the other snorted. “No. But we’ve got more experience with them than anyone else alive these days. I’m sure we’ll prove our worth.”

Their guardian sighed again. “Sure. What the hell. Come on in.” Ben pulled back into the kitchen, suddenly feeling nervous. Grogu whined. Right. I’m the role model. Ben took a centering breath, and put on his best diplomat’s smile as two old men and Cara followed Din into the kitchen. It slid away as he took in their faces.

The resemblance to Boba was uncanny.

“It’s Ben, right?” The bearded one nodded at him, and Ben jolted out of his stare.

“Yes. And this is Grogu,” he gestured to the child cooing in his arms. "My apologies. Your resemblance to Boba is remarkable.”

The two men glanced at each other. “You met him?”

“A couple months ago,” Ben paused as the men shared identical eyebrow raises. “You… didn’t know he was alive.”

“Haven’t seen him in decades,” the bearded one settled into a chair. “And he didn’t age like the rest of us. He— well, it’s complicated, but he's the one Jango treated like a son. And last we heard, he’d gone helmet-first into a sarlacc. Name’s Rex, by the way. This is Wolffe. We served with Cara here in the Rebellion.” And there was something in the look Rex gave him that gave Ben pause— a knowing look, not dissimilar to the ones he’d get from Master Che when he’d try to pull a fast one in the Healing Halls.

“Wait,” Din had been silent up to this point. “Boba’s a clone too? He mentioned something about having a recognizable face, but—”

Rex chuckled, and even Wolffe snorted. “Been a while since I heard a clone joke. He’s a clone, just without the accelerated aging.”

Ben was fairly certain that Din had blue-screened inside his helmet. Covering for his guardian, he turned to Rex. “If it’s not too impertinent, how old are you?”

“About forty-three standard; roughy eighty-six physically,” Rex answered, his unbothered expression cracking into a grin as he added, “Wolffe is even older, part of the Command class—“

“Ne’johaa,” growled Wolffe, and Ben blinked at the Mando’a. It caught Din’s attention, and he turned sharply as well. Wolffe ignored him, returning the question, “how old are you, little commander?”

“Sixteen,” Ben eyed Din slightly uneasily, “I’ll be seventeen soon.”

“You were on your mission to Mandalore, weren’t you?” Rex leaned in, eyes assessing. Ben stilled, pieces falling into place.

“You knew me.”

“I did, pretty well,” Rex nodded slowly. “I wasn’t under the direct command of General Kenobi, but the 501st worked often enough with the 212th that we crossed paths frequently. And we were on a pretty bad mission to Zygerria together.”

“The slavers’ planet?” Ben interrupted, aghast. He couldn’t imagine any reason to get near the planet.

“That’s right. Tried to rescue a Togruta colony that was captured by allies of the Separatists and enslaved. It went to hell and we got enslaved together in their processing plant on Kadavo.”

Sweet Force— apparently he had been doomed to be enslaved even as an adult. “I’m not— I don’t have General Kenobi’s memories—“

“You’re not him, kid,” Rex interrupt, his gravelly voice gentle. “I know. But in a place like that, where they strip you down, you see what a person is really made of. So in a way, I do know you. And I know Jedi— we do,” he gestured at Wolffe, who nodded, “better than anyone alive, possibly. And we know a thing or two about being out on your own after growing up with a support system. Which is why we’re here; to help. If you’ll let us.”

Ben turned to Wolffe, whose stern expression belied the storm of affection-relief-guilt roiling in the Force. “Did we—”

“Not often,” the scarred man interrupted, “but occasionally. I was in the team that rescued you two from Kadavo.”

“Will you let us help?” Rex pressed. Ben considered them for a moment. He did want them to stay, and the Force pulsed with promise at the thought. They held a snarl of emotions that made no sense to him, and it made him wary— but it was hard to even consider turning down an offer to help. They knew Jedi, he felt the truth in their words, even as he sensed that there was much more to it. They understood in a way that Din was still learning. And if they could teach him, help him figure out exactly what he was going to do with his life now— he couldn’t pass this up.

Grogu hesitated for a moment, then jumped out of Ben's arms, toddling over to Wolffe, who looked dumbstruck for an instant before scooping the child up. Okay-happy-right beamed over the bond.

Ben looked to Din, who nodded.

“Then I accept, and thank you for your offer,” Ben bowed slightly, stumbling and flushing as Wolffe snorted abruptly.

“Wolffe!” Rex chided.

“Sorry. I just forgot how formal Jedi are,” Wolffe shrugged. Rex sighed, shaking his head. Feeling slightly wrong-footed, Ben looked again to Din, who finally moved off of the wall where he’d been leaning, watching closely.

“You want some soup? We also have kabobs.”

Ben sighed internally as the brothers nodded, setting into their chairs and striking up a conversation with Cara, who claimed another chair.

Mandalorians.

And thus began a four-month stint that Ben could honestly call the quietest period of his life since the crèche.

It didn’t take Ben long to realize he couldn’t get much past the two brothers, as the clones addressed one another (he only made the mistake of calling Wolffe Mister Fett once; the look of disgust and muttered swearing in Mando'a, and Rex’s laughter, left a lasting impression that the dynamics there were very complicated). In a way, they reminded him of Master Sinube, who had moved slowly through the Temple and was frequently found napping in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and yet somehow always one step ahead of every naughty padawan and overconfident Knight. Similarly, Wolffe enjoyed a good afternoon nap with Char and Grogu, and Rex frequently claimed the comfy chair in the living room right after dinner, but anyone who assumed they could slip one past the old men was sorely disappointed in short order.

Ben’s insomnia was the brothers’ first victim.

He’d managed to get by the past few months on meditation and very little sleep. It was tiring to hide the dark shadows beneath his eyes with the Force, but the long meditation was preferable to the nightmares.

On the third night after Din left for a bounty, a week after the brothers arrived, he slipped out of the bedroom, silently making his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Exhausted and distracted, he completely missed Rex sitting at the table, smirking slightly.

“Need something?”

Ben nearly hit the ceiling, he jumped so badly. “Sweet Force!” He spun around to find Rex fully grinning now. “What are you doing up?”

The elderly man gestured at the second steaming mug on the table, identical to the one gripped in his other hand. “Waiting for you.”

Ben gaped. He’d been so careful— “How…”

Rex shrugged, gesturing again at the seat, which Ben finally took. “Told you. You’re not him, but I still know you, Ben. Toxic sleeping habits had to start somewhere.”

Ben huffed a laugh, still reeling from being caught out. “Fair. But also surprising. I’m normally very good at sleeping when— when things are hectic. You learn to sleep when you can. It’s when things are calm—“

“Yeah,” Rex sighed, sipping at his mug. “The quiet times. Even genetically engineered super-soldiers get that,” he quirked a lopsided smile. Uncertain of how to answer, Ben took a sip of the mug. His eyes widened.

“Where did you—”

“It’s hard to find these days, but not impossible,” Rex smiled, his eyes warm and fond. Ben dropped his gaze and took another sip, unsure that he’d done anything worthy of such affection. “This blend helps me sleep, when the usual tricks don’t work.” And Ben could feel as Rex’s smile dropped, and his intent grew serious. “And you need to sleep, Ben. No more all-night meditations.”

At that, Ben met his gaze again, refusing to quail under the knowing look. “The Force—”

“That argument might work on your cabur, but I know better. The Force can’t replace real sleep, and your body is still growing. If you don’t sleep, I’ll sedate you— and I know which ones work for you, little commander. You won’t get out of it by taking the ones that don’t work on your biology.”

Truly cornered, Ben couldn’t quite give in without a fight. “You know, it’s very unfair for you to have a cheat sheet of all my bad habits and weaknesses,” he snipped. “I never stood a chance of making a favorable impression, did I?”

At that, Rex laughed quietly, and reached over to muss Ben’s hair, who squawked and ducked away, blushing like a youngling. “The Jedi— the generals, and especially the padawan commanders— they were ours. Especially the kind ones, who treated us like people. We were made for the Jedi, and they were ours to serve, but we also cared for them. So we watched, and learned. Cody and the medics were very good at getting General Kenobi to rest. He was one of the worst; always so politely finding some angle to talk his way out of medbay or sleeping. He certainly lived up to nickname of The Negotiator.”

“What… happened?” Ben asked hesitantly. It was the question on his mind that had haunted his waking hours and limited sleep for months. Grogu had been isolated in the crèche, and didn’t have much to tell beyond the terrifying night that the Order fell, and even then, many of his memories remained blocked. Din’s upbringing had been similarly sheltered. Now, two veterans were staying in their apartment, and Ben couldn’t decide whether it was better to know, or a test of his ability to focus only on the here and now.

Rex’s signature pulsed with grief as he shook his head, scratching at an old scar on his temple. “We can discuss it tomorrow. We’d be up all night if we started now. Is that what’s keeping you up?”

Ben shrugged, accepting the deferral. “In part, yes. Not knowing, my mind has tried to fill in the blanks. And, there are other things that I wish I could forget, that meditation can’t seem to excise. Things I’ve seen, people I’ve lost.” He looked down into the tea, embarrassed. “I’m sure you’re well-acquainted with my many flaws. My temper, my tendency to get attached to people, my mediocre skill. But I can’t help thinking about the fact that I— General Kenobi fought in yet another war. And we lost. It makes me remember the other ones, the horrors that I’ve been too weak to let go—“

“Stop right there, commander,” Rex interrupted, setting his mug down with a clunk. “Let’s get something straight. Kenobi and Windu ran that war, and they won. Even with a saboteur at the heart of it, stringing it out. If the trap at the heart of the war hadn’t been sprung— and even when the Republic became an Empire, it was not because the Separatists had succeeded. And there is nothing weak about the scars of war. Wolffe, Gregor and I lived in a converted AT-TE for over a decade on Seelos, hiding even from allies and friends, because Wolffe was paranoid that either the Empire or revenge-bound Jedi would find us. Would you call him weak?”

Ben shook his head, his throat tight.

“Trauma does strange things to us all, and even the best meditation— or genetic engineering— can’t erase those scars. If you clear exits when you enter a room, that’s not weakness, that’s hard-won knowledge being put to work. The Jedi and the Empire did eventually find us on Seelos. It worked out, but Wolffe’s paranoia was well-founded. Give yourself some grace, Ben. Ca'nara ne gotal'u mirjahaal, shi gotal'u haastal.”

Ben nodded, his view of the kitchen table’s grainy surface blurred with tears. Time doesn’t heal, it only forms a scab. “It’s still hard… knowing they’re all gone. Quinlan, Bant, Reeft, Siri, Garen, my old master… Sometimes I can’t decide whether it’s a blessing or a curse, to have missed it all. And sometimes I panic, because it’s all gone and it’s all I ever wanted, to be a Jedi, so what do I do now? I mean, I’m not afraid,” he added hastily. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate— “There were times that that path was closed to me before, and I made peace with it— but there’s something different about knowing you’ll never see them again but at least they still exist in the galaxy, and knowing you’re really, truly alone.”

“Sometimes the scariest thing is knowing that there’s no one right answer,” Rex said gently. “But I have every confidence that you’ll figure it out. I saw what fate threw at the other version of you, and he didn’t Fall. You’ve got a great heart, Ben. A little panic here and there won’t bring you down; I’d be worried if you didn’t feel a little panic over the situation.

“You know you have a talent for negotiation. I happen to think you’re exactly where you need to be right now, learning from Karga, making the most of this quiet time. He’s different from the Jedi. But the Outer Rim is not Coruscant, and there’s plenty to learn here. You know that one tactic doesn’t fit all situations; this is the perfect place to practice that.

“But I think you need a little more, too. You’re a warrior too, Ben. And a bit of a trouble-magnet. And there’s no shame in it. Knowing how to fight well helps keep more people alive; it makes you a better peacekeeper. Tomorrow, Wolffe and I will assess where you’re at in your training and come up with a plan. We’ll make sure you sleep well,” he winked. “Now, finish up your tea, and get to bed. These old bones need their beauty rest, too.”

Ben chugged the tepid remainder of the mug, suppressing a yawn as he stood. “Thanks, Rex,” he smiled at the elderly man whose bushy white beard quivered with an answering grin.

“Anytime, Ben’ika."

As promised, the next morning Rex and Wolffe dropped Grogu off at school and took Ben out into the flats, where they put him through a series of tests to gauge his skill. Their knowledge of Jedi training had frankly stunned Ben, and raised more questions than it answered. They watched him sprint, leap, and lift objects with the Force, testing his ability to manipulate grains of pulvarized rock as well as massive boulders. Then they made him go through every kata he’d learned so far, at quarter, half, then full-speed.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Rex nodded at him as he plopped before them, drinking water and pushing the flopping, sweat-slicked hair out of his face.

“What’s interesting?” Ben asked, noting the loaded glance that the brothers shared.

“I’ve helped train two padawans,” Rex stared down at him, arms falling into parade rest. “One Temple-trained, whose entire apprenticeship was during the war. The other, a feral little orphan with a fair amount of raw power, whose master had only been a padawan himself when the war ended. Your skill level is altogether different. It’s obvious that you’ve had more formal education, even if it was interrupted. You have more control, more refinement.

“In my opinion, the best thing to do would be to continue refining your saber techniques— particularly Soresu— build strength and endurance, and introduce formal combat training. And the business of making war.”

Ben tried not to flinch. “Jedi are peacekeepers.”

Rex smiled, even as Wolffe rolled his eyes. “Mandalorians are not, and like it or not, you keep ending up in their company. Look at it this way— you’re getting the training you always needed. Now you’ll have it, just in case.”

Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rex’s smile went crooked. “The General told me, when we were in Kadavo, that the Clone War was his fourth war. Fifth, if that business on Naboo counted. Five wars, and never any formal training. And then there was me— seven years of training, never meant to last beyond a single war, taught how to efficiently wage wart never meant tot lead one.”

Ben paled. “I… told you about that?” It was a mark of how bad Kadavo must have been, if he had mentioned Melida-Daan to him. Even Quinlan had known never to bring it up.

“General Kenobi did,” Rex corrected gently. “And now here we are. Both of us. So let me teach you what I know, and let’s pray to the Force you’ll never need it, hm?”

Ben took a shaky breath, nodding. “My luck’s never been that good, so maybe this is for the best.”

And as Rex likely intended, Ben found little time to dwell on the past, too tired from a strict regimen of training, lessons Rex and Wolffe devised, and work for Karga. The clones really did know Jedi, Ben reflected wearily one night as he crawled into bed, happily sore from a long session working on his Soresu katas and full from a hearty stew. He slept better, and felt better, regaining muscle mass and developing new tone. Even the emotionally draining conversation about the Clone Wars— which Wolffe had excused himself from, taking Grogu out for flavored ice treats— had not left him awake at all hours of the night.

Learning of the Sith’s betrayal from within the heart of the Republic, the suffering of the clones as they were forced to turn on their beloved Jedi generals and commanders— Ben agonized over the sliver of relief he felt at realizing he had missed it all. Shame, for living and complaining about his uncertain future when his kin had been massacred. Loneliness.

But he realized, emerging one day from a lengthy meditation, that it was those very emotions that had driven Grogu to use the Seeing Stone to find a Force-bright soul who would understand. And he did— Force, did he ever. Bandomeer, the confrontation with Bruck Chun in the Temple, Melida-Daan— each experience had dealt harsh lessons, just not on the scale that Grogu had suffered. It must have been those lessons, he reflected, that helped General Kenobi survive the fall of the Order.

If war had taught him anything, it was the importance of going on, no matter how badly he wanted to lay amidst the fallen. He couldn’t forget, but he also couldn’t linger on the loss. But in this quiet moment of life, he could process the grief. And it would be slow, and painful-- but maybe in the end, it would be a flexible scar, and not a tight scab.

He still didn’t know what path to pursue, the future constantly shifting when he probed the Force for guidance, but the determination to persist helped settle some of the floundering panic over his uncertain destiny. Bonding with Grogu through games and meditation strengthened his connection to the here and now, lavishing attention and affection on the little part of the Order that remained, instead of dwelling on what had been lost. They were alive. And despite the grief, it was still a gift.

It was late when Din returned from his bounty, three weeks after his departure. The rest of the apartment’s occupants had long since retired to bed, and Ben had just washed his teacup when the front door lock disengaged. He tensed, then relaxed as a familiar Force signature drew near. It was fascinating how the close proximity had helped Ben get a better feel for the man and his beskar. The metal had initially warped Ben’s perception, but over time it become almost impregnated with Din’s true signature. It lent some credence to the stories he'd heard while on the run with Master Jinn and Satine, about the armor being the soul of the warrior.

“Din,” Ben smiled, offering his forearm in greeting to the older man as he set his rifle and pack down by the kitchen door. “You’re all right?”

“Seem to be,” came the amused response as he gripped Ben’s arm. The Mandalorian had revealed a very dry, blunt sense of humor that never failed to amuse Ben. “Everyone asleep?”

Ben nodded, leading Din back to the bedroom where Grogu slept soundly in his hammock. Din always wanted to see the boys after a hunt, and Ben could not begrudge his need to see them both, assure himself of their wellbeing. The thought of being so solicitously cared for, brought a blush to Ben’s cheeks that the darkness of nighttime thankfully hid.

He sat down on his bed, watching as Din laid a gentle gloved finger over Grogu’s head, and rearranged the little blanket covering him, radiating love-affection-relief so loudly that the beskar could not muffle it. It was fortunate that Din hadn’t brought up the topic of resuming the search for a Jedi teacher again since their return to Nevarro. The idea of this taciturn man’s heart breaking as he gave up the child was too much to contemplate.

Sap. That’s not the Jedi way.

Stowing the thought, he blinked in surprise as, instead of bidding him a good night and disappearing into his own room, Din approached the bed. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” he gestured at the end of the bed, where the armored man sat gingerly. “Is everything all right?”

“Did everything go okay with Rex and Wolffe?” Din asked, not answering Ben’s question. Right. Debrief. Ben could do this.

“Yes. I worked it out with Magistrate Karga that I can spend the mornings training with Rex and Wolffe, and work in his office in the afternoons,” Ben dove in, eager to share his progress with Din. Maybe he’d be impressed enough to keep him around a bit longer.

“I meditate and practice fine-control exercises before early-meal, then after Wolffe takes Grogu to school, we go into the flats to train. I’m up to three remotes now, all firing at once as I deflect fire,” he rattled off, trying to gauge Din’s reaction. “Then depending on the day, I either do strength or conditioning exercises. Push-feather or meditation with Grogu when he comes home from school. Then after late-meal, I play war games with Wolffe. Rex says I’ve already made immense improvement in my hand-to-hand and blaster deflection, and Wolffe says we can start sieges next week. And Grogu is doing great in school; he’s made some new friends, and the teacher hasn’t complained once about stolen cookies. He seems to really like Wolffe.”

Din said nothing, merely nodding as Ben spoke. There was a long silence, and Ben held himself still as he awaited some feedback from his guardian.

“Have you met any kids your age?”

“I— what?” Ben stared at the Mandalorian.

“Have you made any friends, Ben.”

“Ah, no.” To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d had his creche-mates, but bullies in his classes had done a decent job of isolating him, compounded by the back-to-back missions during his apprenticeship. He’d gotten used to not having friends.

He didn’t say this, though. He knew how pathetic it sounded. “I’m sorry, Din. I’ll make sure that I make time to meet peers and cultivate some friendships. I can cut back on the meditation time and conditioning to research what kids do for fun on Nevarro—”

Din sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

Ben wilted. He didn’t know what Din wanted, and didn’t know how to ask. He’d disappointed Din, and didn’t know how to make it better.

Stupid Oafy-Wan—

“Have you always been so hard on yourself?”

Ben blinked, thrown by the question. “Hard? I’m not….” he faltered as the helmet tilted in skepticism. “I’ve never been as capable as my classmates. I’ve always had to study harder, be better. They… the masters knew I was weak. Prone to passionate feelings. I was always in trouble, because I could not rein in my temper and let bullies get the better of me.” Stop talking, stop talking— but it was like a gasket had blown, and every insecurity came pouring out, to Ben’s horror. “My own master refused to train me at first, said I was destined to Fall and shouldn’t become a knight. That’s why I was sent to Bandomeer, to join the Agricorps. But then, when I was… in the mines,” he scratched at his neck unconsciously, “I proved to my master that I could be worthy. But then I disobeyed on Melida-Daan, and I’ve been a challenging student. So I have to push myself hard.”

Din was silent for a long moment. Ben fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “Couple questions. What’s Falling.”

“Falling is when a Jedi touches the Dark Side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering,” recited Ben, letting himself just— answer the question. Not think, or feel anything about it. “Because of our abilities, a Fallen Jedi is a danger to themselves and everyone around them, capable of terrible atrocities. It’s why we have to practice restraint and control.”

“So your master told you— when you were twelve— that you were destined to become some mass-murdering war criminal because… you had feelings.”

Ben forced his hands to flatten against the blanket, fighting the urge to curl into fists. “I lacked control—”

“Which as a child you were learning. Second question— why was your master on Bandomeer if he wasn’t your master.”

“He was investigating potential illegal activities there, that his former padawan— apprentice— might have been involved in. His, uh, Fallen former padawan.” Absently, he scratched at his neck as he tried to forget that awful feeling of the missing Force. The utter blindness, the hollow chasm that had grown in his chest as the one constant in his life remained out of reach.

“Is this Fallen padawan the one who enslaved you?”

He dropped his hand from his neck, looking away. It was a good thing Master Qui-Gon wasn’t here to witness this— so caught up in the past, not aware of the present— “I— yes.”

“How did you prove to your master that you were worthy?”

“You won’t understand,” Ben tried, fidgeting.

“Try me.”

“I offered to blow up my bomb collar, to rescue the other slaves,” Ben muttered. A flare of outrage escaped the beskar, quickly stifled.

“You’re right. I don’t understand.”

Ben suppressed the urge to fidget. “We are expected to sacrifice for the greater good—“

“Were any of your classmates ever asked to make such an offer to prove their worthiness to be taught? Or did all Jedi willingly endanger children’s lives like this? Do they all have scars like yours?”

“No!” Ben couldn’t help his shock. "Never! Danger happens, but masters are careful, they choose missions according to their padawan’s skills and abilities. It’s my fault I can’t keep up with my master—“

“Last question,” Din interrupted. The Mandalorian remained utterly still, entirely focused on Ben, and he tried not to feel like the quarry of a hunt. “What happened on Melida-Daan.”

Ben froze. He knew the question was coming, had known as soon as he let it slip but it still hit him like a ton of rocks. No one ever asked; they either already knew, or remained wholly ignorant of it. Even Rex, when he mentioned it, didn’t linger on the subject, and hadn’t brought it up again. It was a hidden scar, one that went straight to the marrow of him, and he had learned to live with it—but he had brought it up, and he felt it happen, felt the disconnect and the numbness seep in to safeguard him from the pain as he answered tonelessly, his eyes drifting to the window because then he didn’t have to see Din’s concern, didn’t have to feel— “my master accepted a rescue mission. Melida-Daan was in the midst of a century-long civil war between the Melida and the Daan, and a Jedi, Master Tahl, had been dispatched to mediate. She was taken captive and injured. We went to retrieve her. In doing so, we discovered that there was a third faction… the Young. Children from both sides who had grown tired of war and wanted the fighting to stop. In defying their parents, both sides began targeting the children. It was the Young who helped us retrieve Master Tahl. She was gravely injured and needed immediate attention. Master Jinn wanted to leave right away. I wanted to stay and help the Young end the war. I thought we could do it. I defied my master. He told me that if I stayed, I would be leaving the Order. He took my saber and my padawan braid, and left.

“At first, we made progress. The end was in sight, we were going to bring both sides together, after fighting for so long that they couldn’t even remember why they’d started. But then— we were betrayed, and Cerasi— a sniper bolt killed her. I was too slow. Nield couldn’t forgive me— relations broke down and I called for Jedi assistance. Master Jinn returned, and oversaw the end of the war. He allowed me to come back with him, and petition to rejoin the Order, and eventually took me back as his padawan.”

Ben wondered, dimly, what that said about him, that he couldn’t regret trying. That he resented Master Jinn for his role in the affair. That he struggled with his place in the Order after. He’d tried to serve the greater good— wasn’t the lives of so many innocents more valuable than a single Jedi? Wasn’t that the lesson of Bandomeer?

Ben startled violently as heavy gloved hands found his shoulders, and he found himself staring into the black visor of Din’s helmet, barely visible in the gloom of the darkened bedroom.

“I want you to listen to me, very carefully,” Din said softly. “What happened to you, was not your fault. I don’t care how difficult you might have been as a child— any adult entrusted with your care should have known better than to place you in those situations. No adult should have given up on you so easily. It saddens me that this happened to you, and that you punish yourself for it. I promise you, that I will not give up on you. Until you no longer want me, I will be there for you. To you, these may be just words, but a Mandalorian’s word is their bond.

“Now— I want you to promise me that you’re going to ease up on yourself. From this point forward, your life is what you want it to be. If that means we search for a Jedi teacher to finish your training, then so be it. If you want to learn the Way of the Mandalore, I will teach you. If you want both, or neither, we’ll find a way. But it will mean mistakes, and failures, and you will not hold yourself to impossible standards. You are brilliant, and disciplined. If that’s how you want to do things, I won’t stop you. But don’t do it to impress me. You’re my Foundling now, Ben’ika. You don't have to earn my willingness to care for you. I won’t push you away, no matter how badly you mess up. Understand?”

Ben’s throat tightened as he swallowed thickly and nodded, trying not to cry. The tears spilled anyway as he found himself hauled across the bed for a hug.

He’d never been a great Jedi. No one had ever wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi, had ever offered unconditional care and support. But maybe that didn’t matter anymore. Maybe, with Din and Grogu, in this strange new galaxy… Ben could just be good enough.

“Right,” Din said gruffly as Ben pulled away, wiping his eyes. “So where are these cookies you promised in your message?”

“Ah…” Ben glanced over at Grogu, still snoring away in his hammock. “About that…”

Din sighed.

“That thing has to go.”

It was the morning after their heavy talk, and while Ben had kept to his schedule, he’d expected the tired Mandalorian to sleep in. But Din had risen early as usual, and now sat at the kitchen table. Ben glanced over at the Mandalorian, currently wearing only his flight suit and his helmet, looking oddly soft as he stared down in evident displeasure at the lava meerkat. Char had a piece of toast in his paws, and he chittered at Din from his hiding place under the chair. After a month of such demands and zero action, Ben knew that the halfhearted annoyance masked a begrudging acceptance. In fact, Ben had caught the two dozing together during Din’s last break between bounties, the meerkat curled up in the Mandalorian’s lap while the man rested a hand on it as though he'd fallen asleep while petting it.

Still, in the interest of domestic felicity, he indulged his guardian’s daily complaints.

“Grogu would only sneak out and bring him back,” he replied, shamelessly throwing the toddler under the speeder. It was fine; all Grogu had to do was blink his giant eyes, and Din would sigh and everything went back to normal. “Yesterday, Char saved Grogu from being eaten by a massif.”

“I’d prefer the massif,” grumbled Din, accepting the smoothie Ben handed him. He fished the straw under his helmet then added offhandedly, “I heard back from my contacts. About stewjon’ade.”

Ben stilled, then sat down slowly as Din slid a data pad and a small wrapped package across the table. His focus was so complete, he missed how Din’s hand fell below the table to rub Char’s head as the meerkat ate his toast.

“I previewed it, and stopped by a market for some supplies,” Din continued, nodding at the package. Wolffe and Rex shuffled into the kitchen for caf, and eyed the interaction with interest. “Hard to find, but should be okay to get you started. If you want.”

Ben carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a small pot with sluggish blue liquid visible inside. A slim paintbrush rolled onto the table.

“It’s a temporary dye, lasts a few weeks,” Din supplied. “The pad has a list of facial markings and their meanings. Stewjon’ade didn’t have to earn markings, it’s preference, so pick the ones that mean something to you, try them out.”

Ben glanced up, feeling a little hesitant. “So… stewjon’ade showed their faces?”

Din shrugged. “Apparently.”

Ben glanced at Wolffe, who had stolen the data pad and was flicking through it. “Do you know if native Stewjoni also painted their faces?”

Rex shrugged, peering over the table at the pad Wolffe was hoarding. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Stewjoni. I’ve heard they’re pretty reclusive. There was rumor that the planet was practically stripped for resources. Its people…” he trailed off with a grimace. Ben didn’t need him to elaborate. He could guess. There was a reason Master Jinn had reluctantly stopped using Ben as the bait in their trafficking investigations.

“So far as I can tell, facial tattoos aren’t a mando’ad thing, so it probably came from Stewjon,” Din pushed on, redirecting the conversation. “The other package is for the hair.” Ben picked up the pouch, hearing the clink of glass. He pulled it open, and the beads rolled into his hand. Echoes of emotions not his own tickled across his palm, whispering dedication-nostalgia-affection in the Force. He couldn’t help but smile, and glanced up to see all three men staring at him.

And Char, from Din’s lap.

“They carry echoes from the artisan,” Ben explained. “In the Force. Good echoes, happy emotions. We— we did something similar for Quinlan as a birthday present. We meditated on good memories, so that he could wear them and concentrate on them when he’d get stuck in a bad echo.” Din tilted his helmet in confusion, but Wolffe and Rex simply nodded. “So how do I wear them?”

“Braids,” Din gestured at the pad that Wolffe was still hoarding; Rex reached across the table and snatched it, ignoring Wolffe’s growl of frustration. “Designs are in there. They wear their hair long. It hurts to cut it short, doesn’t it?”

Ben blinked, surprised. He’d never mentioned it, not even to his Master, too grateful to be a padawan to fight him over the terrible haircut. “How long?” he asked, avoiding the question.

“About chest to waist-length. It stops growing after that. They use braids to keep it under control, and the designs have meaning. It’s all there. Oh. And the tensile strength of your hair is way stronger than a human. You can use it to bind things.”

Ben fought the urge to gape, running his fingers through his hair. He’d had no idea. “Anything else?”

“They, uh, chirrup.”

Ben stared. “Chirrup.”

“Ummm— yes. It’s a sound they make in their throat. It’s instinctual, according to the notes, and different chirps mean different things. So… if you ever feel the urge to chirp… uh, try it?”

Ben couldn’t help his snort. “That’s absurd.”

His guardian shrugged. “Hey. It’s your culture. I’m from Aq Vetina. Don’t know the first thing about this. But give it a shot if it feels right.”

“I guess,” Ben glanced dubiously at the data pad. He couldn’t remember ever want to make bird noises in his throat. He’d have to read into this more. “Anything else?”

Rex chuckled, shoving the pad at Ben. “Why don’t you go read up on it yourself, Ben. Once Grogu’s awake and fed, we can head out to the markets.” Ben seized the pad, the paint and beads with an embarrassing eagerness and fled the kitchen for the bedroom.

After all, he always liked learning new things.

Rex watched him leave, then turned back to face the Mandalorian, noting how Din’s hand flexed, as though suppressing the urge to call him back. Rex bit down on a smile. For as gruff and blunt as the younger man could be— not to mention self-conscious— there was no mistaking his care for the little cadets.

Finally, Din turned back to face Rex and Wolffe. “It went well? Your messages didn’t mention any problems.”

“There were none,” Rex smiled. “After some of the feral little Jedi we’ve handled, these kids were no trouble.” We’ll stay as long as you want, he wanted to add, already dreading their eventual departure. Seeing Ben come into his own— it reminded him of Ezra, and Ahsoka, as their confidence blossomed and their skills grew by leaps and bounds. Even after all this time, the abilities of the Jedi entranced him, and it was a joy to watch Ben and Grogu do wondrous things— for once, not related to the business of war.

And to see Ben happy— to know he would not suffer this time as much as he had in the past— Rex was no fool, he knew that Ben was a trouble magnet, that the life of a Jedi was not easy. But this time— maybe this time there was hope for Ben Kenobi.

And Rex really did have hope for Ben. It was dashed a bit at their arrival; the kid’s expression so eerily similar to the looks he’d seen on the general’s face after harrowing losses, when Kenobi thought no one was looking. The look he’d seen on Kadavo. But, just like Ezra, the optimism of youth has not yet been fully beaten out of the kid yet, and he had slowly started to come into his own. It would take time— more than he and Wolffe had— but he believed that Ben’s destiny could be a far better one this time around; more than a lifetime of struggle and sadness.

“He asked about the war,” Wolffe cut in bluntly, popping Rex’s little bubble of hope. Din’s attention snapped to him. “We told him. Some, not all. Just as we discussed before you left.”

Din sighed. “How did he take it?”

“With the amount of horror, guilt, and compassion you’d expect,” Rex shrugged, sipping at his caf. The strong brew fortified his old aching bones. “He’s better now.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He’s actually sleeping now.”

Din leaned back, clearly stunned, and Rex felt a little bad for the way Wolffe phrased it. But if they’d learned anything about the taciturn Mandalorian, it was that he didn’t know how to handle soft. The poor kid was just as scarred as the rest of them, albeit in different ways. But Wolffe knew how to speak the kid’s language, and Rex left it to him.

“I— didn’t—”

“He didn’t want you to know,” Wolffe leaned in, his cybernetic eye laser-focused on the reeling Mandalorian. “He uses the Force to hide the shadows under his eyes. Meditates all night instead of sleeping. But you’ll know when he spars; his form is better when he’s actually slept.”

“There’s a tea,” Rex gestured at the counter, “helps with sleeping, and the nightmares. He loves tea. That and the exercise regimen will help. We’ll show you.”

“I’d… appreciate that,” Din said softly, hesitantly. As though afraid of acknowledging a debt.

“No debt,” Wolffe retorted brusquely, ignoring Din’s little flinch as he took a large gulp of caf. “They’re kids.” He paused, as Grogu’s squeal of excitement cut through the conversation and the child leapt onto Din’s lap, patting his chest plate affectionately. Rex smiled at the cooing kid. Way cuter than General Yoda. “We do have a problem, though.”

Din’s focus sharpened. “What kind of problem.”

Axe had to say this was the most boring stakeout he’d ever had the misfortune of enduring. Beyond the odd tectonic activity, Nevarro was unremarkable in every way. Even Tatooine had more excitement than this podunk Outer Rim trading hub.

He was missing the Boonta Eve for this. Bo owed him now.

Three weeks into his surveillance, and he’d found very little to report. Mando had a residence here, and stopped in for a few days every couple of weeks to check on the kids, who were under the care of two elderly men. A quaint domestic scene. The little green goblin he’d met on Trask went to school, while the redheaded teen spent his afternoons in the office of the Magistrate, and his mornings with the old men in the flats, far from prying eyes. He tailed them a few times, keeping out of sight. And— that was definitely a Jedi. And likely the stewjon’ad that prompted Mando’s request for archival information. The kid was good, moving seamlessly between Jedi forms and sparring moves that Axe recognized from his own training. Mando must have taught him a thing or two; the kid was far too young to have trained on Mandalore before it all went to haran. A kara-blessed stewjon’ad; the kid was rarer than an angel.

It was this thought that preoccupied him as he sat at a cantina table outside, watching the crowds mill about the weekend market. He shouldn’t care, and he didn’t, but the thought of what Kryze might do with this information lingered uneasily in his mind. Axe had no love for the Children of the Watch, or the Jedi for that matter, but these were ade. Precious, to be protected. The redhead was on the older side, post-verd’goten, but still Mando’s ward and that meant something. Kryze was angry, impatient, and hell-bent on her quest to restore Mandalore. And it wasn’t to say that Axe didn’t feel similarly, but watching the kids walking around with their guardians this morning, the unease deepened.

If Kryze perceived Mando or his kids as a threat to her plans, their status as children would not stop her. He remembered the Nite Owls before their split with Death Watch.

“Hello there.”

Axe blinked. The redheaded teen smiled at him from across the table, where he certainly had not been a moment ago. Only, he’d changed his look, and Axe had the uncanny impression that he was staring at a ghost.

The teen’s floppy copper hair, nearly chin length, had been wrangled back into a set of braids flat against the head, not unlike Koska’s preferred style. But these braids featured little beads at varying intervals, and Axe’s eyes fell on the one behind the kid’s left ear. A remembrance braid. There were several beads stacked on that braid.

Axe’s eyes drifted to the teen’s smiling face. Yesterday, the kid had a fresh face, dotted with a few freckles and beauty marks. Now, a thick blue line, flanked by a line of dots on each side, ran from the kid’s lower lip to under his chin. A row of dots marched straight down the center of his face from the hairline to the brow-line. And a thin slash hugged the line of his left cheekbone. Diplomat. Warrior. Swordsman. Bold claims.

“Hello,” Axe replied warily, acutely aware of his hands’ proximity to his weapons, wondering if he could flip it to stun fast enough. Kid or not, Jedi were dangerous. As were defensive stewjon’ade.

As though sensing his thoughts (could they do that?), the teen raised his hands peacefully, before picking up his cup. “I’m Ben.”

Are you really? “Axe.” And why the haran did he give his real name?

The teen smiled, and it was a sharp smile. “Lovely to meet you. So tell me, Axe: why is a Mandalorian so fascinated with the wards of another Mandalorian, that he’d tail them for weeks?”

Well, shab. This kid was good. Axe considered him for a long moment. The kid was relaxed, but a hidden coil of tension threaded each deliberate move. This lean little teen was ready to launch himself across the table at a fully-grown, armored Mandalorian (because there was no way this kid didn’t clock the armor hidden beneath the ugly poncho) if Axe threatened his family.

Mandokar.

Slowly, Axe reached up and gripped the upper edge of his cuirass with both hands, the weapons of his gauntlets now pointed directly at his own face, and he watched as the kid relaxed. Interesting. “Where are your guardians?”

“Around,” the kid shrugged. “But I’d rather have a conversation if possible. My guardian is the shoot-first, ask questions never type. You were answering my question?”

This karking kid. “Your Mando’s sudden curiosity in stewjon’ade. New developments make my alor… antsy.”

The teen’s cool blue gaze never wavered. “I thought Mandalorians weren't fans of Core-wold doublespeak.”

Axe couldn’t help his laugh. “You’re a brave one. Fine. Bo wanted to know why Mando suddenly wanted information about stewjon’ade when they’re all gone. She’s always looking for more fighters to join the cause. And Gideon’s on the move again.”

“Interesting,” Ben smiled, sipping from his cup, never looking away from Axe. He fought a shiver. This kid was intense, dangerous. Special. Those feral, protective instincts on display. Stewjon’ad indeed. “She thinks those events are connected.”

He shrugged. “I’m not convinced. But I don’t get paid to think.”

A copper eyebrow lifted. “Oh, they’re connected. Just not in the way she thinks. But if she sees rivals where allies stand, that’s to be expected.”

The nerve of this kid. Axe couldn’t help wondering if Mando had adopted him yet. And if he should accelerate his own plans for the Nite Owls.

“So now what?”

“Now, I go home, and tell her Mando found a kid interested in the stewjon’ade,” Axe nodded at him, standing. “Nothing else to tell.”

“That’s it?”

Axe stared down at the teen, suddenly reminded of the stories he’d heard at his buir’s knee a lifetime ago. Mando’ade and stewjon’ade had nurtured a strong symbiotic relationship for centuries, before and after the Dral’han decimated Mandalore's landscape and its alliances. The stewjon’ade had been fierce, loyal fighters, willing to abandon honor for the sake of those they loved. Endlessly compassionate and giving, self-sacrificing. And the mando’ade had cherished them, curbing that self-destructive tendency, acquiescing to their compassion in moments where hard-heartedness could lead to ruin. Losing the stewjon’ade to the civil wars, and then the Purge, had been a psychological blow, the likes of which they’d never move beyond. But the instinct to protect and fight alongside a stewjon’ad lived within every mando’ad to this day, as though the Manda itself hoped for their restoration. To bring back the balance that had helped Mandalore thrive for generations.

Axe felt that instinct come online as he stared down at this teen, so ready to take on an armored verd if he threatened his aliit. This rare child, last of his kind, in need of protection even as he dared to take on threats himself. Small wonder Mando felt so protective. He smiled down at the kid, his face aching with the little-used expression.

“If you knew I was tailing you, why wait to confront me?”

He shrugged, not even blinking. “I sensed no ill intent from you. Just curiosity.”

Axe nodded. “Then that’s it, verd’ika. I won’t deny that you’re a rarity, and I have a lot of questions. But you’re not a threat to Bo, and there’s no reason to treat you like one. So there’s nothing to tell.”

Ben stared up at him, his gaze like a med-scanner. Axe fought the urge to fidget. “Then you should take the alley to your left, if you wish to avoid an interrogation from my guardian,” the teen gave a small smile, a real one this time.

Axe snorted. He could probably take Mando, but this did not feel like the time or place for it. He glanced down the alley in question. “Got it. Take care, verd’ika.”

“Ret’urcye mhi, burc’ya.” Startled, Axe whipped back around, but the teen was already gone. He huffed a laugh, swept up his buy’ce and slipped down the alley.

Maybe Nevarro wasn’t so dull, after all.

Chapter Text

Always in motion, the future is.

Grogu’s talents were for the Living Force, not the Cosmic, but even he could feel that after four blissful months on Nevarro, something was about to happen. And while he thrived in the here and now, it saddened him to know that this time was already ending. Four months was a blink of an eye for his species. He wanted more time.

So much had already changed in this quiet interlude. It was a time of healing for all; even for buir, despite his long absences. Grogu’s connection to the Force grew stronger each day. Wolffe and Rex had gained some unspoken closure, and delighted in their daily care for him and Ben. And Ben—

Ben had transformed. Literally.

Grogu glanced across the living room at the teen he privately called vod. The blue markings on the young man's forehead crumpled as he frowned, prodding the projector. Those markings alone were an achievement.

Ben had disappeared into the bedroom with the paint and beads as Grogu greeted his buir, finally back from the long hunt. Buir always had good things stashed in his pouches, but this time he suggested going out for treats. Which was excellent; a new stall had opened, offering a veritable buffet of sweets, almost as good as the stall one street over that sold live frog spawn. Grogu wolfed down his breakfast, eager to get going, when a sudden shift in the Force caused him to still. Prodding the bond, he found it firmly shut.

Not good.

He waved at Rex, cooing. The old clone frowned at him, and then at the bedroom door. “let’s go check on your vod, hm?” He scooped up Grogu and carried him to the bedroom. He knocked once and then entered.

“You ready to go? We’re all— oh. Ben’ika,” Rex breathed, taking in the sight. “Cyar’bu’ad’ika, what happened?”

Grogu had to give Rex credit; Din would not have reacted so calmly to seeing the entire contents of their bedroom floating in midair. At the center of it all sat Ben, utterly distraught.

Grogu made to leap out of Rex’s arms, but the older man tightened his grip warningly, and approached slowly. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can sort it out. Can you put the furniture down?”

Tears leaked down the teen’s face as he nodded, everything falling with a clatter. Grogu squirmed free and leapt down. Ba’buir Rex (because even though he didn’t speak Basic yet, he could learn, and it was very clear to everyone except Din and Ben that they were buir and vod respectively, and Rex and Wolffe were ba’buire) carefully lowered himself down onto the floor, waving aside Ben’s choked protests, while Grogu busied himself with levitating objects back into place, hammering the closed door of the bond with love and affection as he did so. Ba’buir Rex would be better able to handle the talking part, anyway.

(Privately, Grogu also reveled in practicing his levitation. After hiding his abilities and restricting his connection to the Force for so long, working with Ben to strengthen them again made things feel right again. A point he often tried to make with Ben.)

“Can I give you a hug, Ben’ika?” Rex shuffled closer, and at Ben’s nod, wrapped his arms around the shaking teen. “Here. Drink some water, and tell me what’s going on.”

“Not thirsty,” hiccuped Ben. Rex shook his head, shaking the canteen in his hand.

“Drinking water tricks the body into calming down.” Ben grimaced, but took a sip, then proceeded to down the bottle. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Ben gestured at the data pad. “I…” tears welled as Rex picked up the pad and began reading. “I always knew I had to try harder than the others, that I was prone to attachments and more temperamental. I didn’t realize it was genetic.” He took a shuddering breath, and tears dripped down his cheeks. “I didn’t realize that I never stood a chance at being a good Jedi. My biology—” he cut himself off and bit his lip. Grogu’s ears fell.

That couldn’t be true. Obi-Wan Kenobi was one of the greatest Jedi of his generation; the whole crèche had wanted to be like him. Youngest Councilor in centuries. The Sithslayer. Master of Soresu, High General. But as he stared at this crying teen, Grogu couldn’t help but wonder how someone so broken and hurt had managed so much. Who had crushed his confidence so thoroughly— and how had he managed to rise above it last time?

At a loss, he floated a box of tissues to Ben.

Rex read, frowning slightly, then his expression cleared, softening. “I can see how you came to that conclusion,” he started gently. “But I think you’re reading your own fears and doubts into it. For starters, this document here comes from the archive of a Mandalorian. And not just any Mandalorian— a Nite Owl, who fought alongside Death Watch. And you know how Death Watch would view someone like this, how they would manipulate a people prone to self-sacrifice. Ben, what is the Order’s definition of attachment?”

Startled by the non-sequitur, the teen looked up, opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning. “There is no set definition,” he said slowly. “But it’s generally agreed that attachments are when connections, relationships, desires grow to unhealthy proportions, leading to obsession. A Jedi who puts their attachment above the welfare of others, above duty, is in danger of Falling.”

Rex nodded. “That’s right. Bonds, connections— they’re not the same as attachments, are they? And that’s what this pad says. Stewjon’ade formed strong bonds, and were deeply loyal. Deeply empathic; it’s no wonder that your so-called temper existed. You feel everything more than most. But it also says here that processing those emotions was critical to their wellbeing. You do that, don’t you?”

“But it also says they would forego their honor—”

“I think most Mandos would rather die than give up their armor. They’re stubborn, hard-headed. Mandos value honor highly, even if they twist the meaning of the word. But if it saved a life, you’d give up your saber, wouldn’t you? I saw High General Kenobi fight dirty plenty of times, take a beating, break a deal, give up his saber, if it meant he could save the lives of his men and serve the greater good. Because he— you— are a good, kind, compassionate, immensely forgiving person, who has and will repeatedly sacrifice yourself for the sake of others, for the sake of duty. If anything, being stewjon’ad helped Kenobi win the war, and save as many lives as possible. Ben,” Rex hesitated for a moment, “do you know how your master died?”

“I assumed it was when everyone else fell…”

Rex shook his head. “He died on Naboo. Ten years before the war. Kenobi watched him fall to the first known Sith in centuries. And even then, as he fought the Sith who killed his master and defeated them, he did not Fall. You lost everyone coming here, and you did not Fall. You create bonds, but you know how to grieve and let go. You are a great Jedi, Ben, and a kind, compassionate person. Never doubt that.” Tears continued to fall down the teen’s face, but Grogu felt his signature lighten. He toddled over and fell into Ben’s lap, patting his arm kindly.

“Besides, sounds like being stewjon’ad is pretty useful,” Rex teased, tapping at the pad. “Hardier than the average human, able to withstand harsher conditions, metallic hair, resistant to most toxins and poisons. Explains a lot of missions, actually,” he chuckled. “That plus the Force, no wonder the Sith couldn’t kill you.”

“That’s… good?” Ben managed a small, watery smile.

“Oh, they had it out for Kenobi.” Rex looked around, and spotted the paint, brush and beads on the bed. Grogu followed his line of sight, and reached out with the Force, summoning the supplies.

“Well done, Grogu,” Rex smiled fondly as they sailed across the room, landing gently in front of them on the floor. “Ben, it’s up to you what you do with this information. But I think it’s worth giving it a try. There are journals here, actually written by stewjon’ade. Recipes. Crafts and stories. Explore them. Take it from a proud clone— don’t let the opinion of some Nite Owl be the definition of stewjon’ad for you.”

Grogu didn’t fully understand all of this, but he felt an instinctive sort of pride when Ben emerged from the bedroom thirty minutes later, blue dye marking his forehead, chin and cheek, little blue beads catching the light from their place among short braids woven into his hair. The blush, and the tremulous smile, as buir, Rex and Wolffe awkwardly praised his new appearance, matched the rosy glow of the Force as it curled around them contentedly.

Grogu watched Ben and Rex now, hunched over a projection and prodding at it. The eerie blue of the projector danced along the bright edge of the beads in Ben’s hair. Three months after Ben’s breakdown, the braids had swiftly grown longer; a function of his biology, according to the data pad. Not that Grogu understood much about hair growth, having none of his own, but it was fascinating to watch. The design had changed a little as the hair grew longer, turning into an intricate web that kept the hair off his face but left most of it to hang long, the glass beads winking in and out of the locks. Ben was too humble to be proud of it, but Grogu could feel his happiness as he braided it every morning. Grogu smiled to himself.

This was what he had wanted. A community, with people who could understand him. He missed buir intensely when he was gone on hunts, and worried about him— what if he found another krayt dragon?— but he had faith that buir would always find a way back. He’d thought that Ben and buir would be enough, but ba’buir Wolffe and ba’buir Rex— their arrival had been an unlooked-for joy.

Spotting an abandoned fern cake on the counter, Grogu reached into the Force and lifted. The small tart floated gently in the air like confectionary dream—

“No more cakes,” Wolffe stared down at him, his stern expression undercut by the fondness of his Force signature as he snatched the cake out of the air. “You’ll ruin your appetite for late-meal.”

Time to deploy the ‘please’ face. Grogu rearranged his expression, and could feel the struggle in the older man. Just another second and—

“Nice try, bu’ad’ika,” Wolffe patted his head kindly. “But you’ve already had five cakes.”

Five? How did Wolffe know about the two he stole? Grogu had snatched Ben’s latest attempt at the stewjon’ad recipe when everyone was in the living room. Oh, clever, clever ba’buir. Grogu gave it up as a lost cause and hopped on the counter, sitting next to Wolffe as he stirred the pot.

“Set the table, please,” the old man grunted. Delighted, Grogu raised his hands, and focused on the stack of plates, directing them to the table.

Grogu loved Wolffe. He felt like buir in the Force, full of memory and discipline and grief and steady dedication, and Grogu couldn’t help but want to make him happy. He could feel how desperately the clone had loved his General, how much the war and the fall of the Order had taken from him, what he had been forced to do. And he knew that he couldn’t take this pain and regret and guilt away, but if he could offer his affection, his own unconditional love, maybe it would help. And it had, a little. Just as it had helped buir.

“Nice work, bu’ad’ika,” Wolffe patted his head again, as the last fork settled on the table. Grogu squealed as the old clone swept him up and carried him to the table. “Now, you eat everything, and you can have one last cake for dessert.”

So the ‘please’ face still had a 97% success rate, then. Grogu cooed in delight, and dug in.

“… and the risk matrix Ben provided supports this trade agreement. The cost-benefit analysis on the next brief shows that we will substantially increase our export capability.”

Ben blinked, not realizing his attention had wandered. He was supposed to be focusing on a trade agreement with Phindar. A brilliant Sullustan named Soli who managed finances, a deceptively crafty Bith lawyer named Drruuhs, and Ben sat at chairs pulled up to Magistrate Karga’s desk to consider the offer sent by Phindar.

But something was pulling at his mind, teasing like a waft of something distinctive in the air. Here and now, padawan. Despite Din’s kindly meant guidance to take it easy, he really did need to focus, as Master Jinn would have admonished; a lot was riding on this potential agreement. Besides, he had an income to earn.

He had tried to have all of his pay allocated towards the debt Din had accrued in returning to Nevarro. After all, it was because of him and Grogu that they had an apartment, and the cost of schooling and food. Magistrate Karga had simply laughed at him.

“There is no way I’m going to pull a fast one on a Mandalorian, Ben. Especially one like Mando. If he says you get paid, then you get paid.”

Of course, that was when Ben pulled out his negotiating skills. Half of Ben’s income now went to the debt, while he kept the other half. And he had to admit, Din had a point. Without mission funds or a Temple budget, the income paid for far more than he’d realized— clothes, extra groceries, a gently used data pad, a few art supplies to keep Grogu occupied after school. And now, with Rex and Wolffe staying with them, he could afford the decent caf. And he could pay for it all, and only had to hit up the cantina weekly to fleece the traders passing through in booster games of sabacc. It was a good system, and it worked. Din probably wouldn’t like it, but if he could triple half of his income in a single night to cover their expenses, and use the other half to buy down their debt, then why shouldn’t he?

Wolffe had squinted at that logic, but ultimately agreed to chaperone these weekly “investment growth opportunities”.

Misuse of the Force, possibly. But it wouldn’t be the first time he used his gift to turn a predicament towards a positive outcome. And there was a part of Ben that… hesitated at how well things were going. His luck was never that good. Din could fail to return. Din could decide Ben was old enough to manage on his own, or wasn’t worth the effort, though that was feeling less and less likely to happen, if he was being honest with himself. Still, anything could go wrong, and he needed to be prepared.

And the Force was still tugging on him; there was something on the horizon. Something big, and not— bad, per se, but the Force had celebrated his arrival to this new timeline and Ben wasn’t quite at the point where he could agree, so the Force’s opinion was a bit suspect at the moment—

“What do you think, Ben?”

Ah, damn. His attention had wandered again, pulled by that thread in the Force.

“My apologies, I lost track. What are we discussing?”

The magistrate smiled kindly. “You know, this doesn’t need to be done right now. Let’s call it an early day— you look like you need some fresh air.”

Ben let his gaze slip pointedly to the open patio that framed the magistrate’s desk. The older man laughed.

“You’re worse than Mando! Go on, get out of here. Take the afternoon. The man will have my head if I overwork you, and life is too short to be so disciplined at such an age. Go be young and enjoy the afternoon, Ben.” The magistrate made a shooing gesture, chuckling again as Ben sighed and stood.

“If you insist.”

The mid-afternoon sun beat down brightly on the crowded streets. He passed the cafe where he’d confronted Axe the Mandalorian— and by the Force, Din had been livid over that. Ben remembered well the potent combination of relief-fear-anger-protectiveness that had rolled off of the Mandalorian in heavy waves as he sat Ben down and explained why he could never do that again.

Which, of course Ben would. But he’d nearly started crying again, overcome by the swell of emotions being directed at him— no one had ever felt so strongly about his welfare, not even the terrifying Healer Che— and Din had backed down, apologizing for yelling (he hadn’t), and all was well. Particularly after Ben relayed the contents of his brief conversation with Axe the Mandalorian. Still. Ben had to be more careful.

Sitting down on a bench under a young tree full of bright green and silver leaves, he surrendered to the pull in the Force, settling into a light meditation. The Force pulsed with life as signatures of varying brightness moved to and fro, weaving a tapestry of intention and emotion. Ben had never been strong in the Living Force— he resolutely pushed away the memories of Bandomeer— but in this, where the Cosmic and the Living Forces met, he excelled. And so he waited patiently, sensing the crowd, until the thread that had pulled on him all afternoon tugged once more. Getting to his feet, he moved slowly through the crowd, letting the Force guide him. No one paid him any attention as he sidled up to a stall. Even the vendor barely glanced at him, immediately disinterested in Ben’s apparent low purchasing power.

Ben examined the table, full of salvaged hardware in varying conditions. “How much for this?”

The vendor’s unimpressed gaze passed over him. “More than you have,” the man sniffed.

Well, that was just rude. “It’s in good shape, despite the edge here where it was clearly dug out of the console.” He ran his fingers over the scuffed edge, pointedly ignoring the vendor’s suddenly wary posture. “Where did you scavenge it? I’m curious.”

“Clear off, kid,” the vendor snapped. “Don't want no trouble.”

Cara suddenly materialized behind the vendor, halting his retreat. Her gaze slid to Ben, shooting him a look. “I thought you weren’t supposed to wander unaccompanied.”

Ben did not huff, but it was a close thing. “I think after six months, I can safely handle my nine-minute commute on my own.”

“And yet here you are,” Cara’s skeptical smirk faded as she switched her focus back to the vendor. “What’s going on?”

Ben held up the hardware. “Selling salvaged Imperial tech is not a crime, but I had some questions about where this was salvaged, that they’re unwilling to answer.”

The vendor suddenly attempted to run for it, shoving Cara away and ducking around her. Ben flicked his fingers, causing a tower of droid parts to crash into the fleeing human. Cara tackled the man, flattening him. Ben bit back a laugh and circled the scene, crouching before the slowly suffocating man. “Now that I have your undivided attention, I just want to know where you got it. That’s all.”

The vendor wheezed as he sized up Ben, then puffed out, “Scavenged it.”

No kidding. “From?”

“The base.”

Cara stiffened, leaning more heavily on the man. “We blew that base up,” she hissed.

“Grrhkhh—” the vendor flailed, and Ben surreptitiously moved his hand, gently lifting Cara back as he looked at her meaningfully. She scowled, but backed off as Ben moved closer.

“I’m terribly sorry, you were saying?”

“It didn’t all blow up,” the man wheezed. “Some good stuff still there. No weapons, but other hardware, if you know what to look for.”

Ben nodded. “That is helpful. Thank you for your time,” he set a few credits on the table and stowed the device in his bag. The man’s eyes hardened.

“Do you know what that’s worth?”

This time Ben let his smile unfurl, and Cara snorted. “Do you even know what it is?” He nodded politely as the man spluttered, and turned away.

“So what was that really about, Ben?” Cara fell in beside him. “Scavenged Imperial tech isn’t a crime. And we did blow the base.”

“I am not sure,” Ben admitted. “But I need to go there. Something important is there.” He clocked how Cara stiffened.

“If there’s a threat, there’s no way—”

“Not dangerous,” he corrected. “But important. And—” he paused as the Force nudged him, “Rex should come too. Would that alleviate your concerns?”

Cara snorted. “That fancy lingo makes you stand out even worse than the powers.”

Ben sniffed, rolling his eyes. “Well pardon me for having manners.”

“As marshal, you are hereby pardoned. Also, if you get hurt again, you have to use those powers to keep Mando from shooting me. Deal?”

“Shooting is so uncivilized. But I can’t promise that I’ll save you from a brawl.”

“Nah, I can take him in a brawl…”

It was almost a relief to feel the wind whip his face as the speeder shot across the flats towards the destroyed base. The Force’s tug had grown more and more insistent, barely alleviated by Cara’s enthusiastic driving.

Rex had squinted suspiciously at Ben and Cara at the apartment before handing Grogu to Wolffe, then disappeared into his bedroom, returning with blasters holstered on each hip. “If I have to use these—”

“Then you’re welcome to ground me to eternity,” Ben cut across waspishly. “Now can we go?”

Rex’s eyebrow raise was arguably more impressive than Boba’s, and the beard did a good job hiding the smile that glowed in the Force. “Don’t rush me, Ben. These old bones aren’t what they used to be—”

“Oh my Force,” Ben groaned, practically throwing himself out of the apartment and into the waiting speeder as Cara and Rex laughed behind him. It wasn’t funny, the Force kept nudging him like an irritating toddler constantly trying to get his attention.

And there was an actual toddler in-residence for comparison. The Force was worse.

The shadows loomed long across the flats as the speeder slowly approached what must have once been a landing pad for ships. Steam curled up in tendrils from the craters that glowed dimly in the late afternoon. Ben leapt out of the speeder as Cara pulled to a stop, ignoring Rex’s grumbling protest.

“What exactly did you do to this base?”

“Overloaded the reactor,” Cara shrugged.

“And that didn’t feel slightly excessive?” He fought the urge to flinch as her signature soured instantly in the Force.

“Not for them.”

Ben didn’t press. He knew now what her facial tattoo meant, not unlike the braid behind his own left ear, stacked with beads for remembrance. Jedi did not seek revenge, but that didn’t mean Ben wasn’t intimately acquainted with the urge. He breathed in the sulphuric air, its smell and taste now familiar and grounding, and cast out his senses.

Okay, I’m here now. What am I looking for?

A way in.

Ben moved carefully towards the ledge. “There’s a stairwell here,” he called over his shoulder. “Looks intact.”

“Wait—”

Move NOW.

The Force surged with urgency, and Ben bolted down the rough-hewn stairs, the startled curses of his companions fading fast. He found himself on a bombed-out overhang, the doors blown wide. Faster, faster— he ran through the entrance, pointedly avoiding the moldering bodies in charred and melted armor, then turned right. The power had clearly been cut, but there was a room with a window ahead, spilling light into the hallway. Ben thanked Rex silently for all of those drills running across the flats, his feet practically floating across the uneven terrain of the hallway, which must have been flooded with lava at some point. The Force’s unrelenting howl of urgency suddenly flared with warning, and Ben drew his vibroblade as he turned into the room. Three hooded figures suddenly froze, clearly not expecting company. One stood near a partially-melted console, the other near a cabinet, and the third stood comically on one leg, about to stomp on a disabled MSE droid. All three were drenched in emotions of greed-violence-desperation-glee.

Ah. Not ideal.

Ben mustered up his most charming smile, even as he raised the blade. “Hello there.”

The scavenger about to stomp the droid raised his leg higher, as though to take care of the droid and then handle the intruder, and the Force pulsed with alarm again. So the droid was important. Interesting. Ben reached out a hand and pulled, yanking the droid away from the scavenger, then turned and threw the vibroblade at the man by the console, pinning his hand to the wall behind him. The scavenger howled as the others erupted into action, pulling blasters. Ben couldn’t hear Rex or Cara, and he hadn’t forgotten Rex’s warning, so he reached out again, shoving both into the walls with an almighty crash. They dropped like rag dolls upon impact, alive but unconscious. Ben turned to the remaining conscious scavenger, still bellowing over his hand.

“I am not here for you. I don’t want whatever it is that you have. If I remove the blade, will you simply leave and not come back?”

The man yelled something incoherent, his malice staining the Force. Ben sighed. So uncivilized. He pulled out the blade with the Force, catching it as it sailed across the room, then gripped the man with the Force and tossed him into a wall as well, wincing as the scavenger’s skull clunked against the stone.

They’d be fine. Probably.

Ben bent and scooped up the MSE droid. It was lighter than he expected, like a large tooka, and it beeped piteously in binary as he crossed the room to the console. “I’m sorry, little friend, my binary is not great,” Ben admitted, setting the droid on top of the console as he examined it. “And I’m not much of a mechanic. But if you want, I can try to repair you.” The droid chirped excitedly, and Ben smiled. “That sounds like a yes. Now please give me a moment to figure out exactly what is so important about this console, and we’ll get you out of here.”

There was a clatter in the hall, and Cara burst into the room, followed by Rex. “Ben, what the kark—” Cara exploded, silenced suddenly by Ben’s raised finger.

“Just a moment, please.”

“Are you kidding me—”

“Dune,” Rex cut across sharply. “Let the commander work.”

“This was someone’s office,” Ben murmured, mostly to himself, running his fingers over the console. The front and bottom had been damaged, but the screen and ports remained intact. He didn’t have Quinlan’s talent— and he would not dwell on that grief now, he had to focus, this was important— but the surface held echoes of stress-fear-curiosity-determination. He glanced around the space, catching the tell-tale signs. “A researcher’s office."

“They did experiments here,” Dune offered, her voice tight. “They wanted the kid because of his M-count. Said the volunteers’ bodies had rejected the transfusions, and they needed the kid for more. There was a lab full of bodies in tubes.” She crossed the room to check the unconscious scavengers, her signature suddenly blooming with rage. “Kriffing Imperial sympathizers,” she hissed, holding up a chit.

Ben felt his face drain. “They wanted Grogu, because of his midichlorian count. They wanted… oh Force—”

“For what?” Dune barked, but it was Rex who answered, his face haunted.

“To make Force-Sensitive clones.”

“Midichlorians don’t work like that,” Ben insisted, now crouched behind the console. He pulled out his blade, setting the tip under the edge of the panel to wedge it open. “They embody all living things. Force Sensitives tend to have higher concentrations. But you can’t transfer them to others. At least—” he faltered for a moment, “that’s not how the Force works.”

But science—

Or the Dark Side—

“Maybe not, but it hasn’t been for lack of trying,” Rex said, his voice hollow. “Is that why we’re here?”

“Yes. And no,” Ben answered, wincing at the vagueness of his answer. “There’s something here. I’ve- ah, got it.” The data rod came loose, and he held it aloft with a small smile. “I think this will be useful.” His eyes then fell on the droid. “Can we take the droid, too?”

Rex blinked, nonplussed. “The cleaning droid?”

“The Force was very insistent that I save it—“ The droid chirped. “— her, from being crushed. She’s damaged, but I could try to repair her.”

The ghost of a smile flickered on Rex’s face, as the earlier tension eased. “That would be a good project for you. Mechanics, programming, binary— sure, Ben. Bring her along. Anything else we need to grab here?”

Ben felt for the Force, but it remained silent. Helpful as ever. “I think this is it.”

Rex nodded, then glanced at the three crumpled scavengers. “This wasn’t exactly not-dangerous.”

“Your threat was to ground me if you had to use your blasters,” Ben argued, ignoring Cara’s snort. “Which you didn’t.”

“Sprinting ahead so that you could avoid your backup getting involved is not what I had in mind, Ben’ika.”

“I didn’t! The Force told me to hurry!”

“Right, the Force. Haven’t heard that excuse before,” Rex smirked as Ben sputtered incoherently. But it got Rex to smile, and Ben wasn’t grounded so—

Win.

Din ignored the chirp of his comm as he stared at the symbol before him, visible only through the infrared of his buy’ce.

He’d finally found them.

If he followed this trail, he would find his covert, and part of him yearned to take off now. Consequences be damned, he wanted to be among his people, whomever was left. And yet—

And yet—

He hesitated. He couldn’t do it yet, not without the children. And there was a very real chance that this would not go the way he’d hoped. And he didn’t know if he was ready to face that yet.

His comm chirped again, and he sighed, turning away from the hidden symbol as he opened up the message inside his buy’ce.

Dune: your kid is a menace, Mando.

Din sighed.

Mando: which one

Dune: Ben. he’s fine, everyone’s fine. but now i have a kriff-ton of flimsiwork to do, and i have to contract some workers to seal that Imperial base we busted a few months ago

“Shab,” Din sighed softly. He almost didn't want to know what fresh hell that signified. Four months of calm seemed to be the best he was going to get with jet’ikaade. He climbed the ramp of the rental ship, stalking past the bound and gagged bounties in the hold, and threw himself into the cockpit. He nosed the ship out of the port, leaving Glavis behind as they entered hyperspace. He’d be back soon, anyway.

Chapter Text

Cara dropped them off at their apartment, grumbling over the paperwork she’d have to do for the surly scavengers who had been dumped unceremoniously into the back of the speeder. The heavenly aroma of spiced nerf stew and fresh yeasted bread rolls lured them towards the kitchen, where Wolffe and Grogu looked up from their bowls of soup as Ben and Rex entered, Ben still toting the droid and the data rod. Wolffe raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“A MSE droid?”

“A new project for Ben’ika,” Rex grunted as he dropped into a chair, looking exhausted. Ben set the chirping droid down and scurried to the stove to pour Rex a bowl of soup. “Needs repair and reprogramming. And it’s a reason to brush up on binary.”

“And she can help keep the apartment clean,” Ben added, smiling as the droid whistled in agreement. Wolffe’s other eyebrow rose as well, but he merely smirked briefly into his bowl before glancing at Grogu, who was threatening to wear his soup once again.

“We found some intel,” Rex said abruptly, nodding in thanks as Ben set the bowl before him. “Seems the Imperials after Grogu are still in the business of cloning and Force sensitivity transfer.”

Wolffe slowly lowered his spoon, staring at Rex. “That explains a lot.”

Ben glanced between the two brothers. “You’re not nearly as shocked as I would have expected.”

Rex sighed. “When your cabur said they were trying to capture Grogu alive, we had our suspicions. Imperials experimented on clones after the war, trying to manipulate Force Sensitivity. And Imperial Inquisitors hunted Force Sensitives to either corrupt them or destroy them. But you’re a slow-aging baby,” Rex turned a sad smile on the burbling child, “so our theory shifted. I’m guessing that’s what’s on the rod?”

“I’m not so sure,” Ben hedged. Something about that did not ring true in the Force. Standing up, he retrieved the data pad from the charging port on the counter, and plugged the data rod in. Wolffe scowled.

“Did not even scan that for viruses or malware—”

“Ahh, give it a rest, Wolffe—”

“This is not just about the cloning research,” Ben interrupted, rapidly flicking through the files. “But the files are locked. But—” he grabbed the device he’d seized from the vendor, and attached it to the rod, ignoring Wolffe’s muted sound of annoyance. “There we go. This… it’s everything they were doing. Accelerated aging, delayed aging, midichlorian transfer, cloning…”

“Delayed aging?” Rex said sharply, and Ben passed the pad over.

“Looks like we found Dr. Pershing’s office. He was the lead researcher, with a deep interest in cloning and aging. Pershing and the researchers were studying the slowed aging effects of Grogu’s species, compared against the accelerated aging program of the Kaminoans, as well as the cloning of Force Sensitives…” he trailed off at the expression on Rex’s face, and busied himself with his own meal. Of course. He’d been stupid to forget about their accelerated aging. Of course they would grieve all of the vode who had marched on long before their time. He felt Grogu tug on their bond, smiling at the soup-clad child who eagerly sent sympathy-affection-understanding. There was a bitter irony, that the caretakers of the last remaining Jedi in the galaxy— one out of time, and one destined to outlive everyone— were old men cursed by artificially accelerated aging. Ben couldn’t help wondering, hoping even, that the answer could be on that rod. But would Rex and Wolffe even want such a solution now?

Rex shook his head, tapping at the data pad with a gnarled finger. “Looks like Pershing, or his predecessors, did figure out how to halt the accelerated aging. Tested it, too, with a 100% success rate. Not that it does much good now.” He sighed, as Wolffe snatched the pad to read. “At least I think so. It’s a lot of medical jargon. Kix would have understood this bantha fodder.”

Ben’s hand froze over the platter of bread as something prickled in the Force. “Who?”

Rex sighed, his expression falling. “Kix. CMO of Torrent Company, Five-Oh-First. He was researching this quietly in between campaigns. He had wanted to reverse-engineer our accelerated aging. This would have made sense to him.”

“I see. And he, ah, marched on?”

Rex gave a small shrug, scratching Char under the chin as the lava meerkat jumped into his lap and nuzzled at the old man’s chest. “Probably. He was kidnapped by the Separatists, and we never found him. They made a point of taking him alive, right near the end of the war. He’d been obsessed with the control chips that Fives had discovered, and I guess someone figured it out, and wanted to know how much he learned.” He smiled weakly as Grogu patted his hand sympathetically with a soupy claw. “The not-knowing is always worse. Bad enough to leave the KIA behind, but leaving the wounded and the MIA… we found some, later. Injured clones who just remained off the radar. Others captured while injured, and enslaved. Not that we figured that out until after the war…” Rex visibly gathered himself, managing a calm tone once more as he added, “Anyway, Kix was always studying, trying to save as many as he could. Saved my life more than a few times. Took a sniper bolt to the chest, and he still managed to save my shebs.” He pointed at his heart, and Ben couldn’t help but lean forward.

“He liked to study?”

“Mm,” Rex nodded, dipping some bread into his bowl. “He did well in medic training— of course he did— but Kaminoans and the trainers, they only taught us what they felt we needed to know. Once he got access to the Holonet— Kixy spent a lot of his free time researching everything he could on field medicine. Alternatives to bacta patches and pain relief for when supply lines were cut. Healing options for injuries that might have sent troopers back to Kamino for— well. And mental health; we were engineered to not suffer trauma, but after a while, some of the things we saw… Kix cared deeply for his brothers. He did everything he could to keep us alive and well. And after Fives, with the chips— I think he took that personally. Fives was vod, and a chip in every brother’s mind that could override their free will—” he paused, glancing at Wolffe, whose signature had gone sharp and sour with grief and regret in the Force. Grogu now patted Wolffe’s hand with the soupy claw. “I think you can see how Kix would take that personally,” Rex finished.

“What was he like?”

A ghost of a smile lifted Rex’s heavy expression. “Smart. Stubborn, and downright terrifying in medic-mode. And dumb, for someone so smart. He was a pretty boy.” He snorted as Wolffe rolled his eyes, patiently wiping Grogu’s face and hands. “Always wanted to look sharp. For the longest time, he had lightning bolts shaved into his buzz cut. We have accelerated metabolism, do you realize how often he had to get those karking bolts re-shaved? And a tattoo that wrapped around the back of his neck. ‘The only good droid is a dead one.’”

The MSE droid chirped indignantly from the ground.

“Not you, battle droids,” Rex waved her off. “Big clankers. Anyway. Kixy kept his fancy style until Umbara. But that sobered a lot of brothers up. And then losing Fives. After that, I think the drive to find a handsome nattie faded. Just trying to keep everyone alive was all that mattered, after that.”

“Was he part of, ah, your batch?”

“No. He was younger. Not by much but not in the first generation of CT’s.”

“I see. And I guess he must have worked with, ah, General Kenobi? If he was part of Torrent Company with you?”

Rex was grinning now, and Ben blushed. “He did. The General gave him a hell of a time with treatment though, always trying to escape the med tent. Why the sudden interest in Kix?”

Ben shrugged, unable to answer. He tugged on a braid subconsciously, knowing that the blue dye on his face did absolutely nothing to hide the blush. He didn’t know why. Kix was likely dead now, or as old as Rex and Wolffe. There was no real reason to be so curious.

And yet—

“Have you ever repaired a droid?” Wolffe interrupted, nodding at the MSE on the ground. Ben seized the abrupt change in topic with both hands.

“Not often, just minor repairs. We had to take a class on it, but I missed the second half— we were called out on a mission.” Ben tried to hold his practiced smile, but it faltered as the memory of Master Tahl’s death, and Master Jinn’s turbulent emotions after, hit him hard. The bond, still frail after Melida-Daan, had gone completely silent after her death, as though it had been cut once more. He’d spent weeks haunting the training salles, learning all he could and pushing himself to exhaustion— anything to distract himself from the silence and the spiral of guilt.

“MSE’s are easy,” Wolffe’s terse words cut through the heavy fog of Ben’s dark thoughts. “We used to steal the MSE’s on Kamino as cadets, reprogram them. Fox was the best at it, he had a whole squad of reprogrammed droids.” A throb of grief pulsed in the Force, well-worn and dull, before retreating once more behind Wolffe’s steady shields. “I’ll show you how to disassemble her. We can get replacement parts tomorrow. Make sure her Imperial programming is wiped, too.”

The moonlight streamed through his bedroom window as Ben lay in bed hours later, his mind still turning over everything he had learned today. The Force had not relented in its prodding, either. But its tenor had changed— no longer urgent, just insistent. There was some connection Ben was missing, something important.

Ben sat up. Across the room, Grogu snored peacefully in his little hammock, the bond blissfully calm. He glanced around the rest of the room. Four months in one place had resulted in a small collection of trinkets. As a padawan with a highly active Master, he’d learned to manage a strange dichotomy of emotion, never getting too sentimental about any personal possessions, while diligently caring for the bizarre menagerie of plants and pathetic life forms that his Master would pick up while on assignment and consequently forget upon reaching the Temple. But now, he had his own small collection of windowsill plants, happily growing in salvaged pots. Grogu’s growing cache of beloved plushies were stashed in a woven basket in the corner that Ben had crafted from a length of cording he bartered from the neighbor for a plate of fern cakes. The side table held his beads and face paint, and a cleaning kit for his saber, which lay beneath his pillow (Rex had nodded sagely upon discovering this, showing Ben his own sleeping arrangements which included a few blasters and blades cleverly stashed beneath the bed frame). Grogu’s coloring sticks and spare flimsi lay abandoned on the floor, a half-finished family portrait stacked on top— at least, Ben thought that was the subject; the figures were misshapen blobs, but Grogu’s art portfolio revealed a color-coding for members of the household. Ben couldn’t help but smile, comforted by the scene. This place had become a home.

But the Force, utterly unconcerned with Ben’s opinion on domestic felicity, had not let up on its insistence. Sighing, Ben cast his senses, confirming that everyone else was asleep— even Char, in the kitchen on his little pillow.

This didn’t have to be done now, but there was something about the late evening, when the entire city lay dormant, the buzz of life turned way down, that the Force could sing the loudest. And he would need it, for this type of meditation. Rising from the bed, Ben gingerly stepped around Missy— the MSE droid had agreed to the moniker— who was currently charging in the corner of the bedroom, pieces of her frame carefully laid out on the carpet. Silently making his way to the kitchen, he retrieved the data pad and returned to the bedroom, settling into his bed and pulling up a list of the galaxy’s systems. Something about the story of Kix didn’t add up. How had anyone known that he knew? Why take him alive? And to where?

The lack of closure bothered him. Rex’s little slip about leaving bodies behind hard sickened him— even the Young had managed to retrieve their fallen to pay their respects— and the idea that an army of brothers, led by Jedi of all people, had accepted that as normal… well, it was another notch in the perhaps I dodged a blaster bolt column of Ben’s time-travel reflection.

Maybe there was a chance for closure in the mystery of Kix.

Or maybe it was better to leave a painful topic alone?

Ben looked down at the data pad, feeling the insistent prod of the Force. Lineage of meddlers…

Ben closed his eyes and centered himself, breathing slowly as he slipped into meditation. The Force slipped and swooped around him, singing in anticipation as the list on the data pad began to scroll. System names flew by as Ben continued to breathe, letting the Force guide him. There was something he needed to find, something that connected everything he had discovered today, something that explained the Force’s insistence—

Stop.

Ben’s fingers froze, and the list halted. He opened his eyes, to find a system name highlighted:

Ponemah Terminal.

Ben frowned. It was in the Western Reaches, near Jakku. Why there? Opening another search, he pulled up a map of Separatist territories. Ponemah wasn’t listed.

Another name caught his eye, though, and he shuddered as “Count Dooku” splashed across the screen. While he sensed that much had been left out of Rex’s rundown of the Clone Wars, he hadn’t been keen to dig for what little remained publicly available after the thorough cleansing of the Holonet by the Empire. To know that his grandmaster had Fallen and stood against the Republic though— it made Ben wonder about his heritage. So many Fallen Jedi in his lineage— he shuddered again, then stilled.

The Obrexta III.

The name popped up on a search of Count Dooku, which Ben had not meant to click on, but the Force surged as his finger hovered over the name. It was a forum, dedicated to legendary treasure hunts.

The Obrexta III is among the most famous treasure hunts of recent history. A CIS ship rumored to hold a valuable treasure sought after by Count Dooku of Serenno, leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, the ship went missing after a secret mission in Republic space. It remains unaccounted for to this day, and is in the top ten legendary treasure hunts, just ahead of the treasure of Grakkus the Hutt and the missing idol of Iego. The contents of the ship remain unknown.

The forum appeared to still be active, users speculating as recently as yesterday on the contents of the ship. Jewels. Credits. Biological weapons. Secret Sith treasures, and Ben hurriedly backed out of the page as the speculation grew darker.

He stared at the darkened data pad for a long time, testing options for a response from the Force, until it finally sang.

Rex and Wolffe would need to travel to Ponemah Terminal, and take the data rod with the research with them.

Because somehow, improbably, he suddenly felt sure that Kix was still alive.

After all, I am here. And all things are possible through the Force.

Ben felt unusually anxious as the days slipped closer to his guardian’s return. He tried to meditate, but the uncertainty of Din’s reaction to sending off the clone brothers lingered, leaving him uneasy. He didn’t want them to leave, but they needed to. Rex and Wolffe had raised identical eyebrows at Ben’s announcement, but hadn’t contested it, leaving Ben wondering just how much faith the Jedi had inspired in the clones during the war. But convincing Din that this was for the best, was a different matter.

Finally the man of the hour arrived, knocking dirt from his boots and looking utterly exhausted, and nonplussed at the enthusiastic greeting by the apartment’s occupants; Grogu squealed with delight from the living room, his claws sunk up to his wrists in paint for his latest art project. Ben smiled as he approached, meeting Din as he dumped his pack on the floor and gripped Ben’s outstretched forearm, gripping his other shoulder in something approximating a long-distance hug. “Hey, kid,” the older Mandalorian sighed, a smile in his voice. “Sorry I missed your birthday.”

Ben shrugged, still smiling. “It’s all right. As Jedi, we don’t do big celebrations or lots of presents, anyway, so it was just like old times.”

Din let go, shrugging. “Still. Got you something in the pack. Smells good, what’s for late-meal?”

Ben picked up the Mandalorian’s pack and began to carry it to the kitchen. “I found fish and tubers at the market, so I decided to try that stewjon’ad recipe finally. Not nearly as spicy as the disaster from last week—”

“What is that.”

Ben stiffened at the edge in Din’s tone, turning carefully to see the Mandalorian staring down at Missy, who was dutifully trying to suck up the dirt that had come loose from Din’s boots.

“Oh. This is, ah, Missy? She’s a repurposed MSE unit that I salvaged and repaired. She’s been helping clean the apartment and assist with security and…” he trailed off, clocking the line of Din’s shoulders, feeling his own hunch up. Missy seemed to sense that something was off and backed up, hiding behind Ben’s legs and beeping fearfully in binary. Din wasn’t going to let Missy stay. And, Ben probably should have expected that— it wasn’t like he asked first— but he’d been so preoccupied with Kix and the data rod, Missy’s status in the apartment went unexamined. He’d messed up, and his guardian was angry. The droid would have to go.

Defeated, he set the pack down and knelt, missing the look that passed between Din and Wolffe, who nodded towards the kitchen. Ben smiled at the droid, feeling his eyes glass over. It was stupid to cry over a droid, stupid to get attached, but he’d worked hard on Missy. She’d become a steady companion, always at his heels, capable of far more than anyone else gave her credit for.

It was ironic; his old master had had a habit of collecting pathetic life forms, to Ben’s everlasting dismay. And now he scooped up the refurbished droid, listening to her bleat in panicked binary.

“No, little one, I’m not going to decommission you,” he murmured, glancing up in confusion as a swift, sharp shock-grief rippled from Rex into the Force. But the older man remained intent on his data pad, studiously avoiding Ben’s eyes, so he returned to the droid. “I’ll find you a new home. Maybe with Cara, or Magistrate Karga. I’ll make sure you’re okay, I promise.”

The droid beeped again. Ben frowned. “Again, but slower please. My binary is still rusty—”

Missy beeped again, slowly. “Oh. Yes, of course. As long as we’re here, I’m sure they’ll let me come visit you. And I’ll bring Grogu too; you know how he likes to have you take him for rides.” The droid chirped brightly, and Ben tried to smile. It would be fine. Visits would be fine. It was just a droid, he’d lost far more before and been fine—

“Ben.”

His head shot up at the sound of Din’s voice, and he scrambled to his feet. It was almost funny, the way that the Mandalorian immediately hunched his shoulders, as though trying to make himself smaller, less intimidating, even as he towered over everyone in the house. Ben stood a little straighter, forcing his hands to his sides to stop their fidgeting.

“No more droids,” Din declared, helmet tilted meaningfully. “Missy can stay. But no more. And she stays out of my room.”

Oh. Ben had completely forgotten about— of course. Din had reluctantly told him about Aq Vetina and the Separatist attack that landed him with the Mandalorians, during his last break between bounties. He gaped, looked down at the droid, and back up at his guardian. How could he have been so stupid as to forget?

“I’m so sorry, Din. I didn’t— I can find her a new home if it’s going to bo—“

“She can stay,” Din interrupted. Ben wilted, his eyes dropping to the floor. He’d messed up, again. “Ben. What did I tell you?” But he couldn’t look up. It was so stupid, and he was stupid, stupid Oafy-Wan—

His guardian sighed, and gripped Ben’s shoulder, giving him a slight shake like a naughty loth cat until he looked up into the Mandalorian’s visor. “Stop being so hard on yourself. So you forgot. It happens. It’s not your history, it’s mine. And I get to decide what I can and can’t live with. This changes nothing.” He gave Ben another little shake, his signature warming with a patient affection that drove a blush into Ben’s cheeks. “You’ll have to try a lot harder to push me away.”

Not trusting his voice, Ben nodded, and Din gave a small squeeze to his shoulder before letting go.

“Now let’s see this fish dish.”

Din wasn’t sure what to make of his return to Nevarro, bearing paradigm-shifting news, only to be hit with the revelation of Rex and Wolffe’s imminent departure.

On the one hand, the timing worked well. He’d found his covert— or at least one of their meeting places— and he would be taking the children to meet the covert, possibly rejoin them. There was little guarantee that his the children would be welcomed. Two old clones who embraced a version of the Creed that would likely offend rather than impress the Armorer or her representative, and who had no interest in changing their ways at this point— fairly so— would only cause more friction. On the other hand— to take the children away from the support system he’d inadvertently built here on Nevarro, felt selfish, almost cruel. Leaving behind the elderly caretakers who had volunteered to help and refused every credit he’d offered, felt wrong.

Only to arrive and learn that the men were leaving as soon as he arrived, bound for Ponemah Terminal, on Ben’s direction.

It felt slightly hypocritical that he, an itinerant bounty hunter, wasn’t ready for them to leave.

“So you leave tomorrow.”

Wolffe turned from the counter where he’d been gathering up medicine bottles and chipped caf mugs to load into a traveling crate, sharp eyes assessing Din before nodding once. “Ben’s sending us to Ponemah Terminal.”

“And just like that, you’ll go?”

The old man huffed once, shrugging lightly. “It’s like I told you before. When a Jedi tells you to do something, you do it. The consequences of not doing it are always worse.” Which still made no sense to Din, but he was willing to defer to the older man on this one.

“That sector’s pretty far.” The other side of the galaxy, in fact. And it wasn’t like Din hadn’t made similar trips, but—

“Ben won’t say it, because he doesn’t want to get Rex’s hopes up. But if there’s a chance that Kix is alive, somehow— we have to go. Jedi don’t get feelings and visions for no reason. There is always a purpose. Besides, you have your covert to meet.”

Din nodded, something aching in his chest at the realization. It had been… nice, in a way that felt wholly foreign and almost heretical, to have this warm little family, all of them scarred in some way and yet more welcoming and open than his covert had ever been. People he could trust. And it had taken time to adjust, and the bounties had helped, but now—

He felt that he had changed. From shedding his gloves and learning to braid Ben’s hair with bare, clumsy fingers, to checking local markets for tea and soft plushies, his life had suddenly grown more colorful, a little softer. He didn’t speak Mando’a with Ben or the brothers, but he did not object when the brothers spoke it to his kids, in that strange accent he’d only heard once before, with Boba. He looked forward to coming home— home— to an apartment filled with spices and fresh foods, a welcome respite from a diet of ration bars and rehydrated soup. He had shared about himself, stories, traditions. And he had struggled with that sharing, resisted. For so long, soft meant weak. In a galaxy where secrecy and strength meant survival, it was hard to believe they were finally safe enough for this.

But they had, and now, it was hard to imagine going back to the harshness of his covert’s ways. Now, the thought of possibly never again seeing these men, who had filled an unknown void in Din’s life, left a hollow feeling in the general vicinity of his heart. It was a child’s plea, but it played on repeat in his mind, crowding out rational thought.

Please stay—

It took a moment to realize that Wolffe was still staring at him, as though that cybernetic eye could see straight through beskar. And it warmed as much as it unnerved him, and he didn’t know what to do with that.

Whatever he saw, caused the old man to snort. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll be back. Rex enjoys being ba’buir too much to stay away for long.”

Words bubbled up and caused a traffic jam in Din’s throat, all fighting to get out and none succeeding. He settled for a nod, mentally lashing himself.

Wolffe’s expression softened a fraction, and his gruff voice took on the gravelly edge of soothing. “You’ll be fine. You’re good with them.”

Din shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He shouldn’t admit to such weaknesses, never would have before, but— he’d already made so many mistakes, and the only reason he’d gotten better was with Wolffe’s guidance. It was Wolffe who had coached him through unpacking Ben’s trauma. Wolffe, who talked him down when Ben introduced Missy. Wolffe, who helped him learn to cope with the unpredictable insanity of life with the Jedi. There was a pocket of fear, buried deep beneath the shame, of being left to flounder by himself once more. He’d had so many close calls with Grogu. Now he had two of them. He couldn’t do this, he didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t know if his covert would accept them all, or what to do if they didn’t—

“Yes, you do. And you keep doing just that, ad’ika. And when the push comes to shove, you’ll know what to do. Children are the future."

“This is the Way,” Din replied automatically, barely tasting the words. He stood very still as Wolffe shuffled closer, as don’t-touch-me Wolffe reached out and gripped Din’s shoulder in a surprisingly firm vice.

“This is the Way, ad’ika.”

“Vor entye,” Din rasped, his throat tight. The corner of Wolffe’s mouth quirked in a barely-there smile.

“No debt. Never between family. You need us, you call us.” And with a final squeeze, Wolffe let go and shuffled past him towards the living room. Din turned and watched him go, making a mental note to clean the filters in his helmet as his eyes burned. Those spices must be potent.

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” Axe leaned back in the chair, privately enjoying Bo-Katan’s ire as she launched out of her own seat and began pacing. She hadn't been impressed with his barebones report. “The new kid helps Mando take care of the little one, works for the magistrate of Nevarro in his free time, and Mando’s back out bounty hunting. Nothing else to note. Ben’s just interested in stewjon’ade, and Mando lived under a rock, so he reached out to you. Case closed.”

Bo-Katan stopped suddenly, turning to face Axe. “The kid’s name is Ben?”

Axe forced his face to remain perfectly unimpressed, nodding as he kicked himself. He hadn't expected that to elicit a reaction. He should have been more careful.

He still wasn’t sure why he cared, the more he reflected on the interaction. Call it a prod from the Manda he’d stopped believing in after the Purge. But that clever, capable, slightly feral teen had kicked something into motion right under his bes’karta, and he would lean into that instinct.

“I knew of a Ben once, a Stewjoni. A Jedi. It was his alias. But that was a long time ago,” she frowned. “He’s dead now.” Her frown shifted to a determined scowl. “Imperial shipments were tracked coming out of Morak to Rattatak. I want a plan to intercept and secure for ourselves.”

“Oya, alor.” Axe stood up and left, keeping his usual swagger in place as his mind churned, invariably returning to the teen on Nevarro. To the blue eyes that saw far more than anyone would ever desire. The Stewjoni Jedi named Ben.

He suddenly wondered how many gray hairs the kid had given Mando so far, and allowed himself a private grin.

Chapter Text

“Excellent, Grogu! That’s six whole feathers now! Well done.”

Grogu smiled bashfully under Ben’s murmured praise, eyes still closed as he kept the six feathers up in the air with the Force. Pillow-soft puffs of feather rose and fell in the air, caught by the Force and sent upward with a gentle thought. A light draft in the ship’s hold threatened to scatter the feathers; he directed them downward, away from the air, preening under the quiet approval flooding the bond.

“Do you want to take a break, or try one more feather?”

Grogu reached out, hesitating as his control slipped, then carefully lifted the seventh feather.

He was only fifty, but he wasn’t completely infantile. This was a distraction, a deflection. He could feel it throughout the ship— in Ben’s practiced smile and the shielded bond, in Din’s nervous tapping on his thigh as he stared out the viewport in the cockpit above, in his own swirling thoughts. The only beings not lost to their own nerves and doubts were Char, sleeping contentedly on his pillow on top of Missy, and Missy herself, who was cheerfully tackling the grime in the far corner of the ship’s hold.

In a way, the presence of the lava meerkat and the droid were a balm, points of complete calm in a space inhabited by sentient beings trying very hard to convince each other that everything was fine. Grogu had taken to sneaking out of his hammock at night, curling up beside the lava meerkat, whose warm body and simple mind was an anchor on this quietly fraught trip. Char’s unquestioning loyalty to Grogu soothed a deep fear that the complexities of life would claim Ben and Din all too soon. Char had no fear of politics, or finances, or the ever-present terror of existential justification. He gave excellent cuddles, defended his valuable Force Sensitive friend admirably, and ate the dangerous bugs, leaving a few of the good ones for Grogu. One really couldn’t ask for more in a friend.

Missy didn’t hold with bug-eating, but her willingness to convey both Grogu and Char endeared her to them both. And it even amused Din, his good humor leaking out of the beskar armor, as the trio went zooming around the apartment, Grogu squealing in delight.

MSE rides were a bit harder to pull off in the rented ship, so Missy had stayed out of Din’s way, diligently cleaning the hold and making minor repairs.

And Ben and Grogu had resorted to training, amusing themselves for hours with Push-Feather and increasingly difficult Force activities, pointedly ignoring the tension in the Force that heralded a turning point, that wrenched tighter with each passing hour.

Six months of bonding with Ben, and Char, and even most recently Missy, had done wonders for Grogu, he knew it. Din had done his best, and he loved the man he considered buir, but he didn’t understand, and Grogu couldn’t help him in this, not without speaking Basic. And even if he had— without feeling the Force like a sixth sense himself, it would have been impossible for him to give Grogu what he needed to truly heal, and begin to feel like his full self again. After decades of suppressing his abilities, he’d been slow to allow those old memories and skills surface. Ben’s compassion and patience had worked wonders, and he was sure the teen didn’t fully realize what he’d done, and what it meant for both him and Din.

Because Ben didn’t understand Din yet, not like Grogu did. Ben couldn’t let himself believe that their buir would do the impossible for the children in his care. Grogu believed it, because he’d seen it. It had taken a while to understand why Din turned him over to the Empire the first time, but he’d never doubted that the man would sacrifice his life for Grogu’s without hesitation. Ben would get there eventually, and yet—

And yet—

Grogu would be lying if he didn’t have his own hesitations about this reunion with the covert. The last interaction with the Armorer had been… harsh. Yes, she had decreed Grogu to be as good as Din’s until he found the Jedi— and good luck with that, he’d watched them all die that night— but she’d made it clear that she blamed him for the covert’s losses.

“Show me the one whose safety deemed such destruction.”

He didn’t need a mature, sophisticated understanding of emotion to recognize anger and resentment for the cost of a single Jedi’s life. It was hard to imagine that the rest of surviving covert would feel any more welcome. And Mandalorians felt so loudly— there would be no escape from their emotions.

And what if the covert made Din choose between them, and his Jedi children? He couldn’t imagine Din giving them up, after everything— but what would they do? Would Din resent him as well?

And then there was Ben.

A teen out of time, fresh from an assignment on Mandalore. He’d already run into issues with Din, and Din loved him, had softened considerably during his time with the Jedi. Ben still held so much pain from his past, he seemed to live in anticipation that anything good would disappear if he grew too comfortable; Grogu did not feel optimistic about the teen’s reaction to the harsh Mandalorians of this era.

And Ben clearly held worries of his own, shielding heavily and allowing only carefully controlled wisps of affection and praise to seep into the bond, a practiced, bland smile on his painted face at all times. Not that this fooled anyone; Grogu could feel Din’s worry, and so did Ben, who only tightened his shields in response.

Meanwhile, Din had taken to obsessing over them, not exactly smothering but always there, awkwardly asking if they were hungry, tired, thirsty, cold, hungry… The man didn’t need the Force to sense the tension, and in true Din fashion, addressed the intangible head-on with tangible solutions that didn’t quite hit the mark, but were appreciated all the same. Therefore, everyone was well-rested, well-fed, warm, and miserable. Ben’s distraction methods were a bit more effective, but there were only so many times one could play Push-Feather while Din worked out his own tensions while cleaning his small armory.

They needed to get to Glavis quickly.

The light clatter of boots on the cockpit ladder heralded Din’s return to the hold. He glanced at Missy and Char, then turned towards Ben and Grogu, taking a seat on a crate beside Ben. “You’re getting good at that, kid.”

Grogu couldn’t help his delighted coo, preening under his buir’s praise. Ben laughed softly.

“That probably doesn’t require translation.”

“Nope.” Din’s deadpan tone was undercut by his affectionate amusement suffusing the Force around them. “Fennec says hi, wants to know how your sniping lessons have been going, Ben.”

Ben tried and failed to bite down on a smile. “It still feels strange to have a master assassin as an auntie, checking in on my progress.”

Din’s helmet tilted, his Force signature blurring in a miasma of emotion suddenly. “Auntie?”

“Yes. You know, the sister of a—” Ben suddenly realized the implications of his comment, and blanched slightly, scrambling, “—a parent or guardian figure. It’s just a term of endearment for a friend of a, ah…” he coughed awkwardly and began picking up the feathers off of the cold scratched durasteel flooring, as Din remained silent for a moment longer.

“I think Boba would hate it if you called Fennec ‘auntie,’” Din finally decided, his tone mild as he added, “Fennec would be insufferable about it.”

Ben blinked, then broke into a relieved smile. “Well we can’t have that.”

Din merely shrugged, his amusement clear as he tapped at his vambrace. Ben watched him for another moment before venturing, “Any word from Rex or Wolffe?”

The mood plummeted immediately as the ship’s occupants considered their missing elderly companions. Grogu missed Wolffe desperately, the grumpy old man who possessed an unexpected snarky side and an eye-roll that Grogu deeply envied. It was another point of tension for them all, wondering how their new future with the covert would change their connection to the elderly brothers.

Our secrecy is our survival.

That did nothing for Grogu’s hopes to see Wolffe again.

“Nothing since the last update,” Din replied softly. Grogu noticed that Din’s hand fell to the edge of his new cape as he spoke, gloved fingers trailing over it. Wolffe had pressed it on him just before they climbed aboard an old but sturdy U-wing, gruffly brushing aside Din’s stuttered protests of his generosity before aiming a superb eye-roll at Grogu, who had giggled. It was nothing fancy, a charcoal length of reinforced fabric for which Wolffe had bartered some soup and a droid repair, but Grogu knew that Din cherished it as much as he adored his plushie collection.

“They’re due to reach the sector in two days, if they don’t stop,” Din continued. “We are dropping out of hyperspace in an hour, though.”

Ben’s smile didn’t waver, but it tightened slightly as he nodded. “Are we staying on the ship… or coming with you?”

“You’re coming,” Din answered firmly, then hesitated. “Unless you’d rather stay on the ship.”

“No, I’ll come,” he answered quickly, and Grogu nodded at Din after a failed prod at the bond with Ben. He hated that feeling, the aching silence. Ben probably didn’t even realize he was shielding so much. Which raised some painful questions about his apprenticeship— but Grogu had a better plan. Concentrating hard, he lifted the last feather carefully, and directed it towards Ben’s face, who startled hard as the feather tickled his nose.

“Grogu!”

Ben’s exasperation was entirely worth it, to hear Din’s quiet chuckle.

Glavis felt strangely familiar, despite having visited only once.

It had to be its cycles of light and dark, Din mused as they stepped out of shadow into a bright zone. The ring-shaped station cycled through phases of bright light and deep dark, largely skipping the hazy middle of transition. And it felt like a life Din once lived, where everything felt black and white.

It had never really been so, just as it was on Glavis, with slivers of transition; bounty hunting was a complicated profession. The moral gray of his job occasionally stood at odds with his own code. But it had been easier, before. There was his covert, and everyone else. There was his Creed, and the endless hellscape that awaited the dar’manda. But that was before the rainbow of light that was Grogu had upended his simple world, before Ben had added previously unseen dimension. Now, Din had to wonder if any part of his life was black and white.

Din tried to shove the thought away, as he carefully guided them through a crowded market, watching for sticky fingers and greedy eyes. They were on their way to meet his covert. He couldn’t have thoughts like that now. But they lingered, like the mild stench that perfumed the fog that wrapped around their ankles, compliments of the overtaxed life-support system that kept Glavis alive.

Many of the shoppers and vendors paid the smell no mind, continuing on as if all air always smelled like that. And to them, maybe that was true— most of the galaxy never traveled the way he had. Many never left their home-world. On Glavis, their lives had always been black and white, with fetid air slowly poisoning their lungs.

Not that he could cast any judgment— after all, he had lived in a sewer for some time. But he wondered— and worried— about where the covert had relocated. Would it be compatible for his children? Would they be safe? Could they be convinced to return to Nevarro?

He paused as Ben halted beside him, Grogu in his arms and pointing at a noodle stand.

“He wants that,” Ben supplied, smiling slightly.

“We can stop for noodles on the way back, kid,” Din nodded, then turned away, movement catching his eye. A group of near-humans were watching them a little too closely, the eyes of most lingering on Ben’s face-paint. The teen had foregone a hood, and Din hadn’t thought anything of it— Mandalorians were both hunter and prey— but Ben wasn’t a Mandalorian, and now—

With his eyes on the group ahead, Din missed the one sneaking up alongside Ben, one hand on a stunner and the other outstretched towards Grogu. He turned—

In the span of a breath— not even a breath, Din had blinked, barely registering the threat as he lunged forward and a hand fell to his blaster— when he suddenly stopped, dumbfounded. Ben stood casually, Grogu gently cradled against his chest with one hand, as the other held a buzzing vibroblade to the would-be trafficker’s trembling throat. The near-human stood frozen, wide-eyed and pulse jumping at the edge of the blade, horrified by the deadly expression on Ben’s smiling face.

“You know,” he started conversationally, and Din fought the urge to shiver at his tone, “where I come from, we have a saying. If you want the student, better make sure the teacher is dead.” Ben leaned in, his expression growing almost feral. “You must be a special kind of stupid to try and steal a child from a Mandalorian.”

Din scanned the crowd, checking for threats. But it seemed the surrounding denizens had suddenly found much less threatening spectacles to observe. Ben’s voice then went strange, as he stared at the would-be trafficker. “You will go home and rethink your life.”

The near-human straightened, wincing as the blade singed his throat. “I will go home and rethink my life,” he repeated.

Ben withdrew his blade, and the would-be trafficker took off like a shot. Din watched Ben, whose eyes followed the being long after he disappeared from sight. “How did you react so fast?”

Ben’s gaze slid to Din’s helmet, doing that slightly creepy thing where he somehow met Din’s eyes despite the visor, then deactivated the vibroblade and slid it into the hidden holster in the leather bracers Din had gifted him for his birthday. “A mixture of Jedi reflexes, and a little precognition. You wish I had warned you, instead.”

“That’s my job, kid,” Din replied gently, wondering when he had managed to improve his bedside manner. And wondering if it would be enough to get through to Ben. “To protect you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Ben nodded, but Din knew better, and switched off his external mike to sigh. The kid didn’t believe him. And given Ben's history, Din didn’t blame him, but he wondered what it would take for Ben to accept that Din meant it— and could deliver on such a promise.

Tabling the issue for later, he led them out of the market district, slipping down a level and switching on his HUD sensors to follow the markings. Behind him, the boys silently followed, a phantom at his back that he had to occasionally glance back at, to reassure himself that they were still there. It was a mark of their unease, that Grogu did not let out a single curious coo, nor Ben a sassy comment. Both remained stone-faced and silent.

Right. Ancient enemy.

At last, as they scaled a ladder down to the lowest level of the city, landing on a catwalk, two figures emerged from the architecture, and he felt Ben still beside him, as they beheld the helmed faces of Paz Vizsla and the Armorer.

The harsh whites of the artificial light stood stark against the pitch black of space beyond the atmospheric shield, washing out the blues and reds of the Mandalorians’ armor, the Armorer’s brass washing out into platinum under the light.

“You have returned, Din Djarin,” the Armorer called out, as he stepped forward. “But you are not alone.” Her visor locked on the two Jedi behind him. Din shifted slightly to beckon them forward.

“I have,” Din nodded respectfully. “And I bring my foundlings with me, to rejoin the covert.”

“You found another Jedi child.”

“I have,” he affirmed, wondering how she could tell; Ben’s padawan braid now blended into the elaborate web of braids that kept the free-falling copper hair from his face, and the lightsaber remained hidden under his long cloak. Something twisted in his stomach. Something felt off. He didn’t expect a warm welcome, but this—

“Then you have not completed your quest,” the Armorer declared, her tone flat. “You must keep searching until you can deliver them to their own kind.”

Din’s heart dropped like a stone.

“It cannot be completed; there is no Order to return them to. The Jedi are destroyed, their Order wiped out almost thirty years ago,” Din countered, fighting to keep the edge of his tone. There was no way the Armorer didn’t know that, and yet she hadn’t mentioned it. Pretty big detail to leave out. “I found a Jedi. Now I have two foundlings.”

“They are not foundlings,” the Armorer replied sharply. “They are Jedi.”

Din paused for a long moment, taken aback. Since when did that matter? She had essentially declared him as Grogu’s temporary father at their last meeting; now, the kid wasn’t even his foundling? What if he never found an adult Jedi who would take them?

Not that he had any intention of dumping these kids with a strange Jedi. Not anymore.

“You said, by Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its kind, I am as its father. The children have no kind to return to, and Grogu ages slowly. Ben is also not of age. Are they not mine then, to care for as a father?”

“The Jedi Order are eternal, like the Mandalorians,” the Armorer shook her head. “There have always been and will always be Jedi. A Jedi defeated the Emperor, and so they clearly live. Your quest is not complete.”

Din hesitated for a moment, wondering how far he could push this. He had already found one Jedi, who had rejected his request to teach Grogu. There was very little guarantee that this other Jedi (who the Armorer hadn’t bothered to mention before) would have a different answer for him. And Grogu didn’t want a teacher; Ben told him so, after Tython. He had a chance to call for a teacher, and he called for a friend. And Ben had said the Jedi were a religion; couldn’t one change their religion, if they truly believed? Cin vhetin? Could Din even make such an argument on their behalf?

“And— if they wished to become Mandalorian? If I adopted them, and they swore the Creed?”

“That one,” she pointed at Ben without even looking at the teen, who stilled as though not to flinch, “is a padawan. He has already sworn his oath to the Jedi way. Find his teacher.”

“His teacher has long since passed,” Din answered, hating the minute flinch of Ben’s shoulders— but this was not the moment for consolation.

“Then find another,” the Amorer replied coolly. “Their ways are anathema to ours. They foreswear attachments like adoption. They could never swear the Creed. You must find a teacher for them.”

That would have been nice to know before spending a year getting attached while looking for the Jedi.

“Actually, the Resol’nare and the Jedi Code are not that incompatible,” interjected Ben, bobbing his head politely at the Armorer who slowly tilted her helmet at him. Din shifted uncomfortably, uncertain as to whether he should stop his foundling. “We foreswear attachments, but we are— were— a communal people. And the Resol’nare calls upon Mando’ade to put their community and leader’s needs above their personal wants when required. Attachments are unhealthy obsessions where a Jedi places that personal need above the greater good, counter to both the Code and the Resol'nare. I see nothing in the Mandalorian Creed that encourages attachment.”

The Armorer stared at Ben for a long moment. “You are a Jedi.”

Ben nodded. “As was Tarre Vizsla. He left the Order, but the Jedi is a way of life, a religion, not just an organization. He didn’t stop being a Jedi because he became Mand’alor. And he sent his lightsaber back to the Temple, honoring the Jedi way of handling our weapons when a knight passes into the Force, or marches on, as you would say. Our lightsaber is our life, in the same way that armor is your soul, and so he honored both according to their respective traditions. He did not find the two ways of life incompatible.”

That… made an alarming amount of sense.

“The Darksaber belongs with the rightful Mand’alor,” snapped the Armorer. “Only the Mando’ad who wins the saber honorably through challenge may wield it, and rule our people. It is why our people are destroyed and scattered now.”

Ben frowned. It struck Din suddenly how blue his eyes and his tattoos were, standing partially in the shadows beside him. The warm brown of his leather bracers and long robe made the blues fairly glow in this stark, utilitarian space. “I beg your pardon, but the lightsaber is the weapon of a Jedi; its design and creation a long-held secret not shared outside of the Order. Other Force-Sensitive communities duo harness kyber as well, but no sect creates lightsabers like the Jedi, it is unique to our religion. If Jedi and Mandalorians are so incompatible, why is that the symbol of leadership? What was used to signify leadership in the millennia before Master Tarre created his weapon?”

What?

“Enough,” snarled the Armorer, her grip tightening on her hammer. Paz shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot behind her, his gaze shifting from the Armorer to Ben to Din. “You forget your place, aruetii. It is not for you to question our ways. Din Djarin, your quest remains incomplete. Return the children to their kind, then return to the covert to help rebuild. Come back tomorrow to restock your weapons.” And with that she turned and stalked off, Paz falling in behind her, glancing back once at the little party.

Frustrated and perplexed, Din turned to go, but paused as he took in the expression on Ben’s face as he watched the Armorer walk away. It was an all-too-familiar mixture of confusion-hurt-resignation, that swiftly melted into a placid expression. Din couldn’t blame him; he felt the same right now, although he had a feeling his reasons differed from the teen’s. But now was not the time for reflection. He gently gripped Ben’s shoulder, startling him slightly.

“Come,” Din said, as gently as he could manage. “Let’s get some food and head back to the ship.”

Ben remained quiet and subdued for the rest of the night, barely eating despite Din’s efforts; Grogu gobbled up the teen’s uneaten portion, but stole concerned glances at both Din and Ben. The teen gave a small, polite smile once the plates were cleared, and disappeared into his hammock. Tempted to follow him, Din let him have his space, getting Grogu to bed alone. He then retreated to the cockpit and pulled off his buy’ce, thoughts swirling. He needed to get himself in order before he could help Ben.

The encounter with his Armorer unsettled him. Ben had a rebuttal for every claim that she made. Once, Din might have denounced such apostasy without hesitation. But that was before Bo-Katan. And Fett. And Rex and Wolffe. And Ben’ika. The teen’s claims were logically sound, confidently delivered. In seconds, he had poked devastating holes in the web of stories that had bound their covert for decades. His comments sounded true. Like something he could have easily researched in an archive. And Ben probably could have, in his day.

But it all suggested that Bo-Katan had been right about his covert all along. Which left the value of his Creed, his vows, in doubt.

Apostasy.

And yet…

He’d known. He’d known all along, from the moment Bo-Katan removed her helmet, had known when he’d seen the heritage markings coded in Fett’s armor, and listened to Ben’s experiences on Mandalore— hell, from the moment a small child stared up at him from inside a floating bassinet— and he’d tried to ignore how his world faded from black and white into a mural of color, tried to ignore the coming reckoning. A moment, when he would have to decide. When he would have to choose his comfortable ignorance, or accept that he had no idea what it really meant to be a Mandalorian.

Apostasy…

But that wasn’t completely true, was it? His understanding had a lot of holes, but there were some beliefs that were inalienable, that every flavor of Mandalorian seemed to agree upon. Truly black and white. The ones worth killing and dying for.

One, in particular.

Din dragged his datapad into his lap and began a message.

Boba stared at his comm, something sinking and souring in his stomach that had nothing to do with the spotchka he’d snagged from Fennec.

“I think Mando thinks I’m a Mandalorian.”

“Are… you not?”

“Not by their standards,” he muttered. “I’ve sworn no allegiance or Creed.”

Fennec perched on the arm of the throne, frowning as she paused her chugging of the spotchka she’d snatched back. “What’s brought this up?”

“Another message from Baby Brother. Asking if I’ve encountered any other coverts. Which suggests that he found his old one, and they won’t accept the children.”

And that—made him angry. A familiar emotion, but unfamiliar in who he was angry for. Rather than face that, he mentally reviewed his list of contacts, those who might have come across a Mandalorian in their travels recently. A short list, these days; no doubt the survivors had gone to ground like Din’s covert, and a Mandalorian who didn't want to be found was about as difficult to locate as a Jedi.

Fennec frowned. “I thought they loved kids.”

Boba sighed. “It’s complicated.” His thoughts strayed to the ones he could have called brothers, the ade not acknowledged by Jango Fett. Not for the first time, he wondered what really possessed his father to do it. And if there were any left.

Fennec broke through the well-trodden dark path of his thoughts. “Invite him here. Him and the kids.” She rolled her eyes as he frowned, then coughed on a burp, somewhat ruining the effect. “We need muscle. They need a community, support or whatever. It’s not a covert, but it’s something.”

Boba nodded at the lump at his feet. “Fortuna’s not even cold, and you want to invite Mando and his kids here?”

Fennec nodded. “I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground. Nevarro’s suddenly on its way up, and you know that’s got to be Ben’s doing as Karga’s right-hand man. Karga was a Guild Manager. There’s no way he suddenly became a top-tier diplomat. Put Ben’s skills to work here. And Mando’s. You wanted to build something, right? Then call in Baby Brother.”

“You just want your sniper protégé to come.”

“Fuck yes, I do. Call them in.”

Boba rolled his eyes. He’d do it, once they moved Fortuna’s bloated carcass.

It was probably a bad look, for a family home.

“Sir— the beacon is currently transmitting from Glavis.”

The lieutenant stared at him, her professionally blank expression cracking slightly under her intense eagerness. “They are twelve hours away,” she continued. "Should I set coordinates?”

Gideon continued to stare out the viewport for another few precious moments, enjoying the growing tension in the eager lieutenant. Discipline was such an underrated power. The woman would stand there patiently until he released her, and it was heady, to have such a hold on another being— on a whole ship full of beings.

“Patience,” he let his lips curve into a cruel grin. The lieutenant blinked at the rare expression of emotion. She had so much to learn, and he liked that. “They got lucky on Tython. We won’t make the same mistake again.”

“Sir,” the lieutenant began carefully, “you said there is no such thing as luck.”

“Exactly.”

The lieutenant’s expression cleared as understanding dawned.

“Did our informant confirm the ship’s manifest?”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant nodded smartly. “The Mandalorian Din Djarin, the asset, and the human Ben.”

“And now they are in Glavis. Able to pick up and unload any number of individuals. Can you confirm their manifest now?”

The silence stretched painfully long before the lieutenant gave a clipped, “No, sir.”

“Six months is a minor setback, given the glacial pace of the Admiral’s return to this galaxy,” Gideon continued, his lips thinning into a frown as he glanced down at the data pad again. “Information is how the Empire maintained its strength; blind spots are how we lost it. There were unknown players on Tython. This time, we ensure the conditions are in our favor. A Mandalorian and Jedi are adversaries that only a fool would underestimate, even if the Jedi is just a baby. Their resilience to eradication is legendary. Have you learned any more about the teen— Ben?”

“Only that the magistrate of Nevarro is a fan of his administrative skills,” the lieutenant admitted reluctantly. “As is the Republic Marshal Carasynthia Dune. He’s got red hair, and blue facial markings. The informant couldn’t offer anything else of use.”

“And no Imperial profile.”

“None that we can find, sir.”

Probably a rescued Stewjoni slave, Gideon mused. Another example of Din Djarin’s bleeding heart beneath that beskar. Still a loose end, though. He hadn’t clawed his way up from ISB to Moff, to fall for such a rookie oversight now. Not with so much at stake. “Replacement troops have only just arrived; they will need to be ready, trained and disciplined to my standards before we engage again. Make sure of it.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant snapped off a salute and turned on her heel, her martial cadence disappearing swiftly. Gideon turned back to the viewport, allowing the cruel smile to return.

Next time, he would have all variables controlled. Next time, he would have the asset— and an undeniably resilient Mandalorian— at his mercy.

Next time, the Empire— and his plans— would prevail.

Chapter Text

Din had hoped for a clear plan by the next morning. Possibly some miraculous stroke of insight. Or even a stroke. Just, something.

Alas, the Manda didn’t see fit to grant him this; just a crick in his neck and the feeling that he’d overslept. He carefully climbed out of his hammock to stretch, and found Grogu carefully navigating a bowl of mashed grains and muja berries, watching Ben’ika go through his own exercises.

Din watched the teen for a moment, noting with pride as he shifted seamlessly into a series of jabs and blocks he recognized as his own. The kid must have watched him while they were all home on Nevarro, in between bounties, and began practicing them. Din refrained from commenting, starting his own stretches as Ben’ika completed the set and assumed a new stance.

Din didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard to look away as the young Jedi began a series of movements that looked like they were meant for a beskad— but the fluidity, the grace—
Din had never seen anyone move like that. Xi’an’s smooth litheness with her blades didn’t come close to the way Ben’ika moved like a Nautolan in water, the movements as easy as breathing. Even Ahsoka’s style on Corvus had lacked this fluidity, this grace. Hers was the way of a warrior. This was the perfection of an art form. He could see now, how the Jedi embraced peace over violence, for all their deadly prowess. A quick glance at Grogu found the kid equally enthralled, his cheek bulging with mashed grains he’d forgotten to swallow in his awe.

“It’s a good thing I spent years ignoring Quinlan’s attempts to interrupt my katas, or else your staring would be very distracting,” Ben’ika smiled, and Din suddenly realized that the kid’s eyes were closed as he moved through his forms.

“Right,” Din acknowledged awkwardly, glancing away. It then registered as he scanned the space.

“Ben, did you… clean, while we were sleeping?”

“Oh— ah, yes, just a little.” Ben’s forms faltered as he answered.

Banthashit. The hold was immaculate. Din didn’t even know that the walls were supposed to be that blue color, he’d thought the rusty orange was its original hue. In its current condition, Din had every right to charge the owner for the thorough cleaning, or at least get a credit on the rental.

Everything had been stowed neatly, freeing up far more floor space that Din’s original configuration had yielded, which was frankly embarrassing because Din was supposed to be the professional here. The dishes for preparing early-meal already sat drying in the tub used for cleaning, and a steaming bowl of grains awaited Din on the small crate that doubled as a table.

There was no way Ben slept at all last night. Din’s heart fell, and he caught the teen cringing as he completed the set. Dank, right. Empath.

“Ben,” Din started gently, only to be cut off by Grogu’s sudden squeal. Ben stiffened, his eyes sliding out of focus for a moment as a hand drifted towards his lightsaber, and then away again.

“There is someone here,” Ben said slowly, staring now at Grogu. “A Force Sensitive. They know Grogu. A-Ahsoka Tano?”

Din blinked, straightening. Of all the people he ever expected to see again, she was not one of them. Not after so thoroughly rejecting Grogu, and Din was not bitter about that.

Maybe a little.

He was more bitter about the incredibly vague guidance she had given him about Tython. Summoning people out of time would have been nice to know before going in.

Ben looked to Din, tense. “Do we let them in?”

Din took in the coiled tension of the teen’s body, how he had shifted himself to stand between Grogu and the ramp. Something in Din’s chest warmed and tightened all at once. Ben would defend his brother with his life— and did not expect anyone else to do it for him.

He stood up and strode towards the ramp, pausing to reach out and give Ben’s shoulder a reassuring grip. “She’s a Jedi, and an ally. I’ll let her in.”

He thought that would reassure Ben. Instead, shock flashed across his face, and a hand rose in an aborted effort to touch his face. Din’s heart fell, and he squeezed the teen’s shoulder before hitting the ramp release button.

Outside, Ahsoka Tano stood at the foot of the ramp, arms crossed and an enigmatic smile played on her lips.

“Ahsoka,” Din nodded at her. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to be here,” the Togruta Jedi nodded back. “But I sensed that a visit was needed.”

“Needed.”

“You went to Tython,” she continued, not moving. “And something happened. I felt it in the Force. I needed to investigate.”

Din tilted his helmet, unimpressed. “Then you should have come with us. It was… eventful.”

Her bright blue eyes never left his visor as she nodded. “May I see him? Grogu?”

Din hesitated for a moment, torn. What if she accepted Ben as her student? Could he handle Ben leaving? He would, if he had to, but it would crush him. Would Grogu accept his departure? What if Grogu changed his mind as well, now that he’d reconnected with his Jedi abilities?

Ahsoka remained still and silent, waiting for Din’s response. Only her eyes betrayed an understanding of his inner turmoil, and he really needed Ben to teach him how to shield, the Jedi ability to see beyond the beskar was deeply unnerving—

He had no right to keep this chance from his boys. Had no right to prevent a reunion, not when he had dragged them to Glavis with that same intention. With a terse nod, he turned and stalked back into the hold, feeling more than hearing the Jedi follow him up the ramp.

Ben stood there, Grogu in his arms. The child’s reassuring grip on Ben’s thumb didn’t escape him; the kid had often done the same to him. Din frowned, and glanced around. Ben hadn’t been idle, tidying up the hold once more. He’d also donned his long brown robes. Trying to look like a Jedi, Din thought, something sinking in his chest.

Ben’s gaze flickered to Din, painfully impassive, then back to the Togruta who stopped beside him. He bowed low.

“Master Jedi.”

Din glanced at Ahsoka, gauging her reaction.

Ahsoka stared at Ben, her placid expression unnerving in its cool detachment. Ben gave a small smile, but Din knew without any magic abilities that it was a farce of a thing. Grogu squirmed slightly, then jumped to Ahsoka, who caught him easily.

“I’m not who you were expecting, I suppose,” Ben offered as Ahsoka’s silence stretched on. “But you knew me.”

Dank ferrik. Din hadn’t thought of that.

“I… did,” Ahsoka allowed, nodding before she glanced at Din who gave a minute shake of his head, willing her to read his mind this time. Don’t you dare, Jedi. “Your signature felt familiar, one I haven’t felt in years. But I thought it impossible. But it really is you— in a sense—“ she turned sharply towards Grogu, who quailed slightly.

“He meant no harm,” Ben interjected, eyes darting between him and Ahsoka anxiously. “It was the will of the Force that I come here.”

Ahsoka turned back towards Ben slowly. “You sound so much like him,” she commented, sounding slightly unnerved. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Ben replied promptly, and Din caught the Togruta’s minute flinch. He fought the urge to fidget, feeling unsettled by that reaction; gods only knew what fresh hell that signaled.

“You’re a padawan?”

“I— was Master Qui Gon’s,” Ben faltered, his expression suddenly going impossibly smooth. Din frowned, confused.

“I see. You have accepted the fall of the Order well,” she commented. Din looked quickly to Ben, a bit stunned by the blunt statement, but Ben was utterly placid, nodding silently. He looked— wrong, nothing like the teen Din had gotten to know over the past six months. Ben was expressive, quick to smile. Now, it was as though he had walled off all emotion, as though his heart was impermeable, impossible to hurt. And it was just like Ahsoka, and maybe that was normal for jetiise, but it wasn’t Ben, and he felt his worry rising, alarm bells ringing in his mind.

“Ben is exceptionally skilled,” Din filled the silence, willing himself to stop talking, but if Ben wanted this, wanted to be a Jedi— “he picks up new fighting forms quickly. He’s helped Grogu get better control of his powers. They meditate daily.”

Ahsoka gave a small smile, as though amused by Din’s proud recitation. “I am not surprised at all. Grogu feels more centered; this is good. I had my doubts about strengthening his abilities, but you have done well, Obi-Wan.”

“I go by Ben now,” he answered softly. The Togruta nodded.

“But I’m afraid that my answer still stands,” she turned to Din, who tilted his buy’ce in dissatisfaction.

“You won’t complete Ben’ika’s training? He’s got to be nearly done.”

Ahsoka nodded, her expression sad but not apologetic. “It cannot be me. I warned you about attachments, and the dangers of anger and fear. My concerns still stand.”

“He just lost everyone he knew and still hasn’t Fallen,” Din snapped. Ben shifted nervously. “I think he’s got a solid lid on his emotions.”

“It’s okay,” Ben cut in before Ahsoka could respond, offering a tight smile. “I understand. It’s not the first time this has been an issue. I accept it.”

Din’s shoulders twitched in frustration, and he let escape a sigh as Ahsoka frowned at Ben. “What do you mean, not the first time?”

Ben’s expression went smooth again. “I was rejected by several masters when I became eligible for a padawanship. Too willful, too emotional, unimpressive grades. My master initially rejected me too; he felt certain that with my emotions and passion, I was destined to Fall. I did manage to convince him to take me on eventually—“

“After a stint in slavery,” Din interjected angrily, and Ben winced, but continued.

“— but it has been— was— a challenging padawanship. So I understand that you don’t want to take me on. It’s fine, really.”

Ahsoka stared at Ben, visibly aghast. Ben stared back, disconcerted. “You… didn’t know?”

“No. You never spoke of your padawanship. All I knew was that you were the youngest Councilor in centuries, the master of the Soresu form. High General of the Third Systems Army. You were perfect, as far as my master and I knew.” She sighed, shaking her head before turning to Din. “Can we speak privately for a moment?”

Din nodded stiffly, jerking his head towards the cockpit. Ahsoka set Grogu down and ruffled Grogu’s ears before rising gracefully to follow. Ben watched her go, then turned to Grogu.

“Push-feather?”

Was Ben always like this? Just burying his pain for the sake of others? Din could feel his teeth grinding in frustration as he walked away from the pair. First the Armorer, and now Ahsoka. Din wasn’t really one for coddling children, but he felt one harsh word away from flying to the Unknown Regions and swaddling both children in blankets for the next ten years. After all they’d been through, it seemed fair.

Rex and Wolffe could join them there. It wasn’t a half-bad plan, actually.

As he stalked into the cockpit and turned to lean against the paneled wall, Din contemplated giving this Jedi a piece of his mind. To seek his children out, only to refuse their education once again— he was beginning to wonder if Ben had it wrong. Maybe Jedi really didn’t take care of their children. He couldn’t imagine a mando’ad stumbling across two Mando children— possibly the only ones left— and just walking the other way.

Maybe Kryze would, but certainly none of his covert would have. Even Paz, that giant shabuir, had a parsec-wide soft spot for ade.

But waiting out his quarry had always served him well in the past. So he stood there silently, as the Togruta assumed a similar position across from him, her expression troubled.

“It’s not them this time. It’s me,” Ahsoka sighed heavily.

Banthashit. Din let the angle of his helmet do the talking.

“I am not refusing him training because he is unworthy,” the Jedi finally said, her low voice halting. “I… spoke to you once before of the dangers of attachment. Of being too emotionally invested, of being afraid of loss, of using our abilities to pervert the natural order of things, of committing atrocities in order to preserve the things we covet, or to avenge the things we lose. You understand, as a warrior— when your abilities are greater, so too must be your restraint.”

Din nodded, waiting for her to get to the point.

“In this case, it’s not Master— Obi— Ben, who would be struggling. It would be me. Obi-Wan Kenobi was my grand-master. His padawan was my master. And it was my master who betrayed the Order and joined the Sith to establish the Empire.”

Din froze, letting those words wash over him. “Ben’s padawan was your master.”

No, Ahsoka could not teach the ade. There was more to the story, and even thirty years on, it haunted her. He didn’t want a survivor so closely connected to the downfall of Ben and Grogu’s entire way of life, to teach them. Impartiality would be impossible.

“Yes. Anakin Skywalker. He was a great master, incredibly powerful. He loved his friends, and would do anything for them. And he looked up to Master Kenobi as a father. But he was twisted by the dark side, his love corrupted into obsession, and ultimately those closest to him couldn’t save him.”

Thank the Manda for buy’cese. Din wondered if she could feel his incredulity through the beskar. That sounded a little too close to blame towards Obi-Wan, and a little too close to a pass for a dar'manda aruetii, for his liking. Nope— this Jedi would not be teaching his children, thank you.

In a strange way, it was a relief. But he still burned in anger for Ben’s hurting heart. The teen anticipated rejection on all fronts, and so far had not been disappointed, merely waiting for Din, Rex and Wolffe to do the same.

Speaking of— “Rex never mentioned that.”

Ahsoka visibly startled. “You know Rex?”

“He’s like the kids’ grandfather. He and Wolffe came to Nevarro to help with the kids after my ship was destroyed by Gideon. He told us about the campaign on Mandalore, but left out your connection to Skywalker.”

The Jedi looked uncharacteristically conflicted. “Where are they now?”

Din tiled his helmet, considering her. She seemed to care, but— “Ponemah Terminal, maybe.” He’d let the brothers decide what to share. If she even went after them. Jedi were strange about their some-time kin, it seemed. Or at least Ahsoka was. Getting back on track, Din continued, “Ben’s a kid. How am I supposed to explain any of this to him?”

Ahsoka smiled crookedly. “I’m not a good judge of age-appropriate content. I was a commander in the Grand Army of the Republic at 14. What I think is normal, probably isn’t.”

What the actual kark— “I’m starting to think the Jedi really didn’t take care of their children,” Din fought to control his temper. He’d taken Grogu on some questionable hunts, lacking any better options. But battlefield commissions for children— “Maybe this is for the best.”

“I— can’t be impartial about that. But know that the Jedi cared for their younglings deeply. The Senate, influenced by the Sith, hobbled the Jedi in many ways. For all their bad decisions, they were good people.”

Din would reserve judgment on that. For now, he needed to console a demoralized teenager— and feed a toddler before he found something inedible to try. He knew that Char wasn't eating all of the bugs. “Can you at least assess his skills and learning, tell me how I can help him? He is a Jedi, whatever else he wants to be. Becoming a knight is important to him. I want to help him achieve that.”

“For Ben, yes. I sense that Grogu doesn’t really want to learn to be a Jedi, anyway— he simply misses the presence of Force Sensitives. He could have reached out to anyone, any teacher— and he sought a friend instead. He seems content taking direction from Ben in learning the Force, and that is enough for him. He’s very devoted to you; in having Ben here, I think Grogu’s little family is complete,” Ahsoka smiled fondly.

“Yeah, I figured that,” he sighed. Not that he was disappointed at all; in fact, he was elated. Getting his Armorer onboard was a different story. “Okay. Tell me what you know about Obi-Wan Kenobi. I don’t want any more surprises if I can help it. And what you know about Bo-Katan Kryze. I need to know.”

Once, Grogu would have given anything to find another Jedi.

Now— he found himself in the unlikely position of hoping they didn’t meet another anytime soon.

Ben busied himself about the immaculate hold, wiping up nonexistent dust and putting to rights the large collection of plushies that Grogu had brought with him on this trip.

Grogu sighed, tapping at Ben’s shields more and more insistently until he was hammering away. Finally, the young Jedi let them down a fraction, reopening the bond.

Ben.

The teen did not pause, did not turn to face him. I’ll be done in a moment.

Ben.

Hands stilled, and Grogu leapt from his perch on the crate to Ben’s back, scrambling up to his shoulder. Talk.

Ben sighed, straightening carefully; Grogu grabbed a fistful of hair to hold himself steady.

I don’t want to leave. I want to be… wherever you and Din are, as long as I’m allowed. But after yesterday— when Master Tano arrived, I think I hoped that maybe she was here because my place was meant to be with the Jedi, not with the Mandalorians like I thought, since the Armorer rejected me. And I would be sad to go, but I will follow the will of the Force, you know? It’s never abandoned me yet… but then she refused. And now— now I fear that I will have nowhere to go.

Grogu dropped over his shoulder, and Ben automatically wrapped his arms carefully around Grogu, his shields dropping just a fraction more. Grogu’s breath caught at the depth of the teen’s pain and grief, and felt a few hot tears drop onto his head. Grogu’s little heart wrenched. This was a pain his powers couldn’t heal. There was no cure for loss, rejection, disappointment. He hugged a little tighter, flooding the bond with love and support.

Din won’t abandon us like that. It’s not the Way. And even if he did, we have people now. Rex, and Wolffe. Karga and Dune.

You’re not a padawan, she would probably let—

Where you go, I go, he pushed back firmly. He would not let Ben’s losses be in vain, by abandoning him now.

“Thanks,” Ben answered thickly, his voice wobbly but fond. “C’mon, let’s play a new game. I learned this one in the crèche. We called it keepy-uppy.”

Ahsoka was wrong to turn down Ben, but Grogu was grateful; he didn’t want to lose Ben so soon. After so many years alone, he wasn’t ready to lose this bright light in the Force.

“So you haven’t heard anything about a Jedi child?”

Luke quailed under the withering stare of his brother in-law. Maybe seeking out Han had been a bad idea. “Kid, you really need to get out more,” Han shook his head, taking another swig from his bottle. “And change up your search. Did you hear about the bounty last year, that the Empire put out?”

Luke frowned. “The Empire’s gone.”

Han rolled his eyes. “Holy shit, kid. First— no, it’s not. Just ask Leia. And second— the bounty was a direct commission, out of Nevarro. No puck, no chain code, just a tracker. They handed out loads. Said the bounty was fifty years old, and they’d pay a fortune to bring it in alive. Then it came out that the bounty was a kid, and some hot-shot Mandalorian karked off with the kid after collecting the bounty and shooting up an Imperial safe-house. They spent a year on the run before getting the bounty canceled, but the Empire still wants the kid, or so they say; can’t imagine the Empire offering that many credits and just giving up.”

“You check the bounty boards?”

Han snorted. “I’m me. Of course I check the bounty boards. Need to know if I’ve pissed someone off.”

Luke shrugged, taking a sip of his drink, watching the beads of sweat roll down the sides of the glass and land with a plink on the sticky bar counter. Everything felt loud; a racket of emotions despite the bar being half-empty. Maybe the solitude had been ill-advised. “So what does this have to do with the Jedi?”

Han pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would the Empire want a kid? What’s so special about him? Then there’s the fact that people saw him redirect a fireball during a shootout on Nevarro.”

Luke knew he was gaping, but couldn’t help himself. “The kid’s a Jedi?”

Han shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe he’s a Nightsister, who knows. Maybe it’s the kid who reached out, maybe it’s a different one. Point is, you go around asking for a Jedi kid, when no one knows what that is anymore, you’re gonna be a while. But you ask the right questions, you might actually get somewhere.” He tossed a credit onto the bar and stood up. “Speaking of, I have somewhere to get myself. If I miss another late-meal and disappoint Leia, Ben’s gonna destroy something I love. Kid is such a mama’s boy.” He clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Good luck. And try to not be such a hermit. Bad for you.”

Luke watched him saunter off, wondering if he dared go visit his sister now, and decided that he didn’t dare.

It sounded like he needed to head to Nevarro.

“Maybe we should have brought a Jedi.”

Wolffe glanced over at Rex, who continued to stare at the monitor, the line of his shoulders slumping slightly. The ship lurched slightly as the turbulence of the electromagnetic storm they were skirting caught the edge of the wing, shoving it sideways. The hull rattled ominously for a moment, then subsided.

“We’re fine, vod,” Wolffe replied with more confidence than he felt. “If he’s here to find, we’ll find him. Just need to find the ship first.”

Not that he hadn’t had his own doubts. Following Ben’s tip about Ponemah Terminal had never been in doubt— something was here, and they would find it, Wolffe believed that— but their scanty information and the empty landscape did seem primed for an extended bantha chase.

Ponemah wasn’t a big system. But its sandy terrain shifted constantly, and the electromagnetic storms had downed a number of ships. They could spend ages searching for the right wreckage. There was no guarantee Kix would even be there— that could be only the start of the search for clues as to his whereabouts. And then there were the giant sand worms— because of course there karking were, scowled Wolffe, keeping an eye on the meteorological readings. Not that he was unduly concerned about the worms— he, Rex and Gregor had lived on Seelos for over a decade, after all. Still. They had to be smart about their search, but Ben hadn’t given them much to go on.

Although—

Wolffe glanced at Rex’s monitor with a sinking feeling. “Where are the sand worms supposed to be the most prevalent?”

“The Sea of Sand.”

Of karking course. “Then we start there.”

Rex finally looked away from the monitor, frowning at Wolffe. “Why?”

“Because we’re working with Jedi luck.” Which always meant the best and worst. If Wolffe had to guess, starting with the Sea of Sand meant that they would find the wreckage quickly, and it would be exceptionally dangerous.

Rex rolled his eyes, tapping at the nav instruments. “Good thing we were made for this,” he muttered. “At least these worms aren’t greater krayt-sized,” he said slightly louder, as if that made it better.

It didn’t.

“So what are we working with.”

“Permanent ion storm over the Sea. Lava geysers. Fifteen-meter sand waves. And the sand worms.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes. Of fucking course. Still. It had to be here, if Ben had sent them now. “Any bright ideas on how to locate the ship? It’s a Separatist ship.”

Rex grimaced. “If the ship’s systems are dead, then nothing but rebooting their systems its going to bring it back online. And even if it did— if it sent out any kind of signal, like a distress signal, all manner of treasure hunters would come looking. Let’s sweep the perimeter of the sea, see if the instruments pick up any wrecks that match the description, and once we get something, I’ll go on the speeder bike.”

That sounded like a horrible plan, but Wolffe didn’t have any better suggestions.

A stiff wind buffeted them again, and something crashed in the back.

“If that’s the caf that fell over, I swear to the stars—”

“You were the last one to drink it,” Wolffe could feel Rex rolling his eyes beside him. “And remember the soup rations?”

“Banthashit, that one was all you,” Wolffe tossed back, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

Just like old times.

Within a few hours, the rolling expanse of the Sea of Sand unfurled before them as they slowly crawled its border, scanning for wrecks. Above, out over the Sea, a miasmic nebula of crackling energy sent bolts of lightning streaking down to the surface, that rippled and rolled like a golden ocean, deceptively beautiful in its lethal glory. It strangely reminded him of Kamino, as two waves crashed into one another, throwing up enough sand to douse a geyser that had begun to belch lava. Chunks of obsidian dotted the landscape, appearing and disappearing beneath the waves of sand like flecks of inky foam on a turbulent ocean.

Wolffe just sighed at the beautiful nightmare, scanning the landscape for anything matching the description of the Obrexta III.

“Wait, what about that one?” Rex pointed suddenly, at a drowned ship about a klick and a half in from the border. Downed ships dotted the perimeter like a grim fence, less disturbed by the sand waves or the lava geysers. The ship graveyard had some worrying holes in it, and Wolffe tried not to think of what size creature could create them.

“Could be it.”

Rex tapped at the instruments some more. “It’s the right size.”

“You said that about the last one, and nearly got fried by that lightning strike.”

Rex got that stubborn look on his lined face, the one Wolffe had been facing down for decades (and usually failing to out-stubborn, the little shab had never listened to anyone but Cody very well—) and he mentally began resigning himself as Rex launched into it. “If Kix might be here, or some sign that he got out alive, I’m not quitting—”

“Gev,” Wolffe rolled his eyes. “Just go. But I’ll be saying I told you so when you get zapped this time.” There was no way this third venture could go smoothly. Rex shot him a dirty look that he was frankly too old for, and stalked back to the hold.

Wolffe watched silently as the speeder bike streaked out across the rolling sands, as he hovered above the sand just outside the border, running continuous scans. The last thing they needed was a sand worm stranding them on Ponemah. Din’ika would come help if they called, of course he would, but still—

He sighed, thinking of his serious, sharp, and incredibly unprepared Mando ad. His information gaps raised serious questions about his upbringing, yet he somehow simultaneously rolled with the punches that life with Jedi seemed to throw, as though he too had been literally raised for it. Wolffe hadn’t had the heart to tell the kid that his old covert was likely a Death Watch offshoot, but he had a feeling that the kid suspected it anyway, and he thought of them constantly, wondering how the reunion with the covert had gone.

Wondered, hoped, and dreaded the outcome of that meeting.

Wondered what fresh mayhem his bu’ade had conjured in the past week.

Wondered if Din had realized yet that he’d been all but adopted—

The comm crackled to life. “Confirmed Obrexta III, going in now.”

“Copy,” Wolffe bit out, his stomach doing a strange somersault. “Watch for clankers.”

“Roger, roger.”

That little smart-ass.

In retrospect, Wolffe should have expected to be jerked from his diligent scans during which he was absolutely not napping, by the sudden crisp bark from the comm, “inbound, engines hot!”

Wolffe nearly dropped the comm at the voice. It seemed impossible— “Copy.” He squinted at the viewport, and swore.

The speeder bike now bore two riders, weaving with a precision that he and Rex no longer had between the geysers, a sand wave right on their tail. And riding the crest of that wave—

Of karking course.

Wolffe brought the ship in low, firing over the heads of the speeder bike riders directly at the sand worm, who roared with an ear-splitting shriek that managed to penetrate the ship’s hull. The sand worm backed off for a moment, regrouping, and Wolffe brought the ship around, lowering the ramp.

“Go, go, go!”

He took off, even as the ramp continued to rise, hearing a clatter behind him as Rex wheezed into the cockpit. “Found him.”

Wolffe snapped his head around, staring directly into a face he never genuinely expected to see; not like that. Not a youthful, unlined expression, hair still curly dark, bright eyes alert and wary. A lean body, clad in battle-scuffed armor.

Manda. They’d cryo-frozen him. Of all the possible scenarios, he hadn’t imagined that one.

“C-commander?” Kix’s shock held just the barest edge of horror. And that was fair; Wolffe couldn’t say that he knew how he’d react to find everyone he knew suddenly looking so old.

“It’s just Wolffe, now,” he answered brusquely, glancing away quickly and gesturing at the seat. “Strap in.” He couldn’t manage any more right now, too overcome by the sight of Kix.

The young man was clearly bursting with questions, but thankfully did as he was told, eyeing the instrument panel warily as Wolffe and Rex hastened to haul shebs out of there.

The flight to Chandrila was long.

Kix had sat them down first, and walked them through shock protocols, things to watch for, before he’d let them tell him anything. Wolffe had been impressed; the kih'vod’ika knew his stuff. And he and Rex tried to pace the information for Kix. But it did not ultimately lessen the devastation of learning the Clone War’s outcome, the dark ages of the Empire, and the toll that the Rebellion had taken on the galaxy.

“I still don’t understand how you managed to find me,” Kix hunched over the broth on the third day, and it took everything within Wolffe to keep his expression neutral. Comet had been the baby of Plo’s Bros, and he’d looked just as Kix did now, right before an idiot natborn Imperial officer ordered him on a patrol, not long after the war ended. Comet never returned. And the wolf within Wolffe had howled at the loss, at the injustice— before remembering they all deserved it, after what they had done—

Kix glanced at him, and Wolffe stared back, let the pain cut keenly once more. It had been so long since a clone had looked so young, and Wolffe felt it like a vibroblade in the ribs. Then let it go, breathing it out as Plo’buir had taught him long ago. Passion, yet serenity.

“A Jedi,” Rex answered, a rare glee barely stifled. Wolffe rolled his eyes.

He had worried about his vod when they first arrived on Nevarro, worried that Rex would be gutted to be continually reminded that the teenager was not the man he remembered. But Rex surprised him, embracing the teen as his own person, all but smothering the teen with ba’buir energy. He wondered if time with other Jedi like Ezra and Kanan had helped. It had certainly helped Wolffe, and he spared a moment to feel the absence of his little green grandkid.

And the long hair, the braids and paint made a difference; Ben barely resembled the Jedi Master now, especially in that brown and blue tunic Din found for him. Only the predilection for the long brown robe gave any sign that Ben was more than he seemed.

Well, that and the batshit-crazy reckless nonsense he occasionally pulled. But he seemed better about that than he had been as an adult, so—

“I thought you said the Order—”

“Some survived,” Rex’s grin slipped. “And some of them found new padawans during the Empire. But the one who told us to come here and search— he’s like you. A young man out of time. Not cryo-sleep, but Force osik time travel.”

Kix’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he glanced again at Wolffe, who nodded. “Who is it? Anyone I know?”

“He goes by Ben now. Ben Kenobi. He’s seventeen.”

Kix’s expression of disbelief finally cracked Wolffe, and he barked a short laugh. “Show him a picture of the ad’ika,” he grinned.

“The dye and the hair help, with remembering who he’s not,” Rex smiled wistfully, as he flicked through pictures of the little family, of Ben training, working on Missy, cooking in the kitchen. “The little one— Grogu— he’s fifty years old. He lived through it all. But he’s still a tubie. Ben there— he got pulled from the early months of his mission to Mandalore. When he left, he was with his master, and ready to throttle the Duchess. Everything that came after— Naboo, the war— didn’t happen for him. But he’s still the same in many ways. A charmer, reckless, painfully clever, self-sacrificing. A true Jedi— and not at all, at the same time.” Rex’s smile fell suddenly. “I didn’t realize some of those scars were so old,” he added quietly, more to himself.

“Does he still want to be a Jedi? After— everything?”

“Yes— and no. I don’t think he wants to abandon it entirely— but he’s not going to resurrect the Order. Not like Luke. Which is why I haven’t contacted him, or Leia, about Ben. The kid doesn’t know about Anakin, or Luke; his cabur’s not ready to tell him yet. I think Ben wants to find a way to be more than just a Jedi of old. He loves Mandalore, and being stewjon’ad. I think he wants to have both. Time will tell.”

He watched Kix’s shocked face shift to a careful neutral as he looked at Rex’s holos, but Wolffe was no tubie, he recognized the veiled gleam of interest.

“And he told you to find me? Here?”

Rex grinned. “Sure did. He was very interested in you.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes, even as he smiled. Din'ika will have a conniption, he mused. And even the chaos that Rex’s expression promised couldn’t diminish the sensations currently burning a hole in his chest. It would be worth Din’s future conniption fits to have this; closure, for the mystery of Kix’s disappearance. The camaraderie, of having more brothers together again. The hope, that one of them could have a happy ending for once— a true happy ending. He suddenly remembered the data rod, and his smile fell in realization.

“There’s more,” he said suddenly. Rex and Kix looked up, confused. “Ben found files. Research files. I think he found the solution for rapid aging.”

Kix’s eyes went wide, then softened with a small smile as he looked at the holos again. “Of course he did.”

Chapter Text

Ben wasn’t completely sure what to expect when the cockpit door opened again. He’d dried his face (and silently thanked Din again for getting the quality dye that stayed put for weeks) and battened down his shields once more. But as usual, he’d failed to expect the unexpected.

Master Tano seemed more at ease now, actually smiling at him as she approached, so he loosened his shields slightly— and immediately regretted it. Behind her, Din followed closely— but his signature had taken on the acrid flavor of scorching anger and grief. Ben fought the urge to curl in on himself, and let Grogu jump to their guardian, patting his vambrace. What in the Force had they discussed that had caused such a reaction?

Had Din changed his mind after all? Had his other self done something so reprehensible that he was going to kick Ben out?

As much as he dreaded the answer, he felt the urge to ask on the tip of his tongue— when Master Tano halted before him, arms crossed. He noted belatedly that her outfit appeared to be a cross between the familiar Jedi garb and some Mandalorian-inspired armor.

Interesting.

“Your guardian says you still want to be a Jedi,” her lekku swayed slightly as she tilted her head, electric-blue gaze boring into him. “Is that true?”

She would have made a good Mandalorian, with straight-shooting conversational skills like that. He took a moment to center himself, a bit stunned by the question. “I have always wanted to be a Jedi,” he answered softly. “Even when that path closed to me at times. It’s a part of me, even if there is no Order.”

White facial markings rose. "You want to rebuild the Order?”

Ben considered the question. “I… think the Jedi can do good in the galaxy. We are meant to. Force-sensitive children are vulnerable, and the Jedi can help them. But if the Order was brought down by a few Sith, then there must have been deep flaws that allowed this to happen. I think I’d want to understand how that happened, before I considered rebuilding anything. I can think of a few practices that could benefit from change.” The assignment of padawans, for one— Ben could not imagine sending off Grogu on his own to join the Agricorps after a fight, or so harshly rejecting him. His bond with the child— and with Din— had reframed his understanding of more than a few personal experiences. He would not live with resentment in his heart— but he’d be damned before he repeated it.

Master Tano’s enigmatic smile brightened slightly. “Then let’s see what you’ve got.” She jerked her head for him to follow, and stepped around him, tapping open the ramp door. Ben startled.

“Ah— what?”

But she merely kept going, and Ben hastily followed, Grogu and Din silently bringing up the rear.

They didn’t have to go far before stopping by an old ship in a nearby hangar. The Togruta Jedi disappeared up the ramp for a moment, reappearing with an armful of training remotes. She continued on, and Ben hurried behind her, wondering where they were going now.

It was an empty warehouse, and Ben could see the appeal; he sensed nothing nearby beyond the primitive minds of a rat colony in the far corner. He stood quietly as she set the remotes down in the center of the room, gesturing for Din and Grogu to settle in on the sidelines before beckoning him forward.

“You know the Five Trials of Knighthood?”

“The Trial of Skill, the Trial of Courage, the Trial of the Flesh, the Trial of the Spirit, and the Trial of Insight,” Ben rattled off, suddenly nervous.

“Have you taken any of your Trials yet?”

Ben couldn’t help the way his heart fell as he shook his head. “My master— he felt that I wasn’t ready yet.” And true, he had only been sixteen at the time, but when he considered the kinds of missions they had gone on, compared to many of his peers—

“I will test your Skill,” Master Tano replied, seemingly unbothered by this. “For your Trial of Courage — you suffered a great hardship in coming to this timeline,” her smile vanished. “You lost everyone, suddenly. An entire galaxy you had once known is gone. And you did not Fall. You have continued on, living according to the morals of the Jedi when there are none to hold you to them, and you have continued to uphold them even as you embrace your heritage— and possibly that of the Mandalorians. Therefore I affirm that you have passed the Trial of Courage.
“I will not test your Trial of the Flesh—” her eyes unfocused for a moment, as the Force warped suddenly. “No, your Trial of the Flesh will come soon. And the Trials of Insight and Spirit not long after that. I sense you will know them when you meet them.”

Well, that was ominous.

And pretty on-brand for him.

The Togruta backed up, hands coming to rest on her saber hilts.

“Let’s see your forms.”

The warehouse was massive, and blissfully empty, a space of quiet on this busy planet. He warmed up then ran through his katas, first at quarter speed and then at full speed.

“Good.” Master Tano nodded sharply. “Your preferred forms?”

“My master focused on Shii Cho and Ataru, but I prefer Soresu and have been studying that since, ah, coming to this time,” he finished lamely, uncertain how comfortable she would be with the reminder that he had come from the past. “It feels more practical.”

Her signature flickered with amusement and something slightly more complicated as she crossed her arms. “True. Your odds of encountering blaster fire are much higher than your odds of crossing blades with someone.”

He wouldn’t let that hurt, he wouldn’t—

The older Jedi lifted a hand and tapped on her vambrace, and six training remotes rose into the air. “Defend yourself.”

Ben eyed the remotes warily. He’d practiced four at a time with Rex, because they only had four remotes. But six…

Well. It was a trial, after all.

He ignited his blade once more, sinking into the opening stance of Soresu. And for a moment, there was complete silence.

Then the firing started.

The remotes floated about, firing at intervals as Ben batted away the shots, grounding most of them, redirecting a few back at the remotes. It felt fluid, standard, and he— didn’t exactly relax, but he settled into the familiar exercise.

Until he realized that the remotes were attempting to encircle him.

He sank into the Force deeper, feeling it flow all about him as the saber moved nearly of its own accord, seamlessly blocking and parrying shots from the remotes. A thought flickered, quickly suppressed to keep his focus, but it lingered on the edges:

Why this specific training? Why had Rex and Master Tano both learned to execute this particular training? Why would anyone ever expect to be surrounded by trained soldiers with blasters and no back-up or way to leap out of the situation?

Nothing good could come of those questions, and he set them aside, to be explored at a less hazardous date.

“Disable them.” Ben registered the command, and reached deeper into the Force to obey, now aiming for the remotes. One by one they fell, and Ben straightened, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. Suddenly, Rex’s grueling conditioning program made a lot of sense.

Master Tano stood there, arms crossed once more. “You practiced with Rex?”

Startled slightly, he glanced at Din, who stared back. “Ah, yes. For about four months,” he finally answered, looking back to the Togruta, who looked mildly impressed now.

“That’s not long.”

“Yes, well, study and practice have been the only ways I improve, so I dedicated myself to it,” he fumbled, blushing slightly. It wasn’t that impressive, anyone could have done that more easily with more innate ability—

She reached to her belt and pulled off a flask, tossing it to him. “Get a drink, and then we’ll move on to the next step.”

“So I take it that I haven’t failed yet?” he dared between sips. The Jedi’s smile broadened as she shook her head.

“Good to see that this ordeal hasn’t cost you that famous sense of humor,” she chuckled as she reached for her saber hilts, igniting blinding white blades that seared the retina. Ben couldn’t help his stare; white kybers were incredibly rare. Not a color that formed naturally. Which meant that she had purified them. Which meant—

“Yes,” the Togruta was watching him, a small knowing smile on her dark lips. “They were taken from an Inquisitor who had bled them. Now. Set your sabers to training mode, and disarm me.”

Oh. This would not be easy. None of his peers were dual-wielders. And his preferred form had the offense come to him, where he would make his stand. It was the form of Resilience for a reason. But it depended on an offensive adversary; at minimum, he’d have to attempt a more offensive approach, to goad her into a more antagonistic posture.

So used to having the fight come to him, Ben now saw the limitation of Soresu.

She knew that too, judging by the knowing smile that hovered at the corner of her mouth. But Jar'Kai was not an inherently defensive form; it wouldn’t take much to turn the tables, fall back to a defensive posture, and wait her out.

But this was conjecture. He needed to get the measure of her, first. She was a Togruta, a cunning hunter and warrior to have lasted so long when other had perished, and she had defeated at least one Darksider. She would be a perilous adversary…

Then again, with so few saber wielders left in the galaxy, he might be able to squeak by a victory by sheer dint of more recent experience.

A dangerous assumption though. He catalogued her outfit again. She’d run with Mandalorians at some point. And she’d served with clones. Any advantage of training with Rex and Wolffe only served to even the odds, not produce an advantage.

But she hadn’t fought at Melida-Daan. Fighting dirty wouldn’t help him pass the Trial, but creative thinking might.

With a long inhale, he breathed out his anxieties, centering himself, and saluted the Jedi Master, who offered her own version of two-saber salute, then dropped into a ready position.

For a moment, no one moved.

“Your move, Ben,” Ahsoka said after a few more seconds passed, her tone dust-dry.

“I’ve been accused of being impatient, and now I’m accused of not being hasty enough?” Ben sassed, feeling the warmth of the ready position in his limbs. “I must endeavor to do better.”

Master Tano’s eyebrows shot up, then her eyes rolled. “You really were like this your whole life. I should have known.”

Which of course was when he charged forward, feinting right and dodging left to strike as she came off her back foot.

“That’ll only work once," she warned, meeting his slash with a powerful block, and he stepped back to block the swing of her shoto.

“Maybe once is all I need,” he couldn’t help a smile as she scoffed.

“Oh Force, you really are this bad with everyone you fight,” she sounded almost as fond as she did disgusted, and he wondered what sort of relationship they’d had in her time; something somewhat friendly, he hoped. She certainly seemed to think he was capable of a lot, as she suddenly began a flurry of slashes at various angles, forcing him back. He vaulted into a back handspring to gain some distance and re-set his stance.

Further conversation died off as Ben’s probing attack shifted to defense, as he’d hoped. Sinking into the Force, he let it smooth out his agitation. Resilience. It took dedication and discipline to do it well, and he held his ground and withstood Master Tano’s blows, adjusting as she leapt at him, striking with two blades simultaneously, then one at a time with blinding speed, too fast for anyone but a Jedi.

Ben lost track of time, absorbed in the fight. Even with the remote exercise, he felt energized, power just waiting in reserve for the right moment. And there had been a few close calls; a shoto knocked aside, victory nearly in reach when the Force pinged a warning and he restrained himself, avoiding a flying shoto that returned to the Togruta’s hand in a move that would have bisected Ben if at full-power and he’d been a half-second slower. Now she flagged, about to regroup and a chance to disarm appeared, could have been his with a flick of his wrist. He twisted his wrist and immediately regretted it, very nearly paying for it with is own saber as she suddenly caught his in a lock with her two and attempted to wrench it away. Startled by her power and suddenly in very real danger of being disarmed, he did the only thing he could think of:

He thumbed off the emitter.

The blue blade disappeared in a wink, and Master Tano stumbled back, startled by the lack of resistance. He flicked it back on and leapt after her, shifting out of Soresu and into Ataru. The Jedi seemed confused as he pressed her, not expecting the switch. And then, finally an opportunity—

He gave a great jump and leapt over her, tucking into a roll midair and landing with his blade at her neck—

—and her two blades at his.

“A draw.” Master Tano’s eyes twinkled above a rare smile as she withdrew, and gave a shallow bow. Stunned— he’d fought a Master to a draw— he flicked off his saber and met her bow.

“Well done,” she said calmly, as though she had expected no other outcome. And that confidence felt unearned— but then he remembered that she had known him before. It likely colored her perception of him now. Certain that he would pass this trial, because he had before.

Something he hadn’t considered.

So he merely bowed again. “Thank you, Master. How can I improve?”

The white markings above her electric blue eyes rose, but she remained silent for a long moment. “Where do you consider yourself weak?”

“Footwork is a little sloppy,” he answered promptly; he knew very well where he floundered. “I focus too much on the fight and fail to keep my senses attuned to changes around me. My Ataru is weak where it counts. And—”

“Aaaaand suddenly a lot of things make a lot of sense,” she interrupted, shaking her head. She sighed. “Your Soresu is excellent; keep working on that. Ataru is not where you excel; not by virtue of skill, but by virtue of confidence. You are more than proficient at it, but it’s not as comfortable for you, I can tell. Consider incorporating more Djem So into your practice, as your offensive form. And Niman, for awareness of your surroundings. It’s not a good primary form, not these days, but mastering it will help your primary forms.”

She surveyed him for a moment, expression inscrutable before softening once more. “You’re an excellent swordsman, Ben. Already far better than your peers would have been. I have seen more combat in the past few decades than most Masters saw combined prior to the Clone Wars, and you very nearly had me a few times. You lack confidence, not capability, or raw Force talent. I think you'll find that once you pass your Trial of Spirit, that confidence will come.”

Humbled, Ben bowed again. “Thank you for the opportunity to attempt this Trial,” he offered politely yet sincerely. Her smile took on a slight tease.

“Thank you for trusting me to administer it,” she returned with playful solemnity. “I affirm that you have passed the Trial of Skill. All that remain are the Trials of the Flesh, Spirit and Insight.”

“Any insight on how to pass those?” he offered cheekily, and her smile broadened, shaking her head.

“Nope. I never took my Trials,” she commented casually, then sauntered towards Din, who stood up abruptly, stepping forward to speak quietly.

Wait, what—

Ben’s many questions faded as he took in his guardian, while Grogu squealed excitedly at Master Tano’s pronouncement of Ben’s passing of two of the five Trials. The determination flooding from the Mandalorian’s Force signature was familiar in both timbre and intensity, but the anger— it was tectonic, and Ben didn’t know what to do with that. He slipped his robe on and tucked his hands into the sleeves, hiding his nervous fidget. What had he done wrong now?

Would Din change his mind after all? Curls of fear crept up, and he breathed them away. Passion, yet serenity.

Master Tano merely gazed enigmatically at Din, her head tilted slightly. “For the last three, time will reveal those trials, I suspect sooner rather than later. And if Ben does not feel confident assessing himself, either you or another Jedi master may determine that.”

“Another Jedi.” Din’s tone could not be more skeptical. Master Tano’s expression didn’t waver.

“I said there were few Jedi left, not none. The Force will provide. And if I’m wrong, you can make that call yourself. Or Ben can.” She tossed him a chit. “Advanced lessons for saber practice. He should learn to dual-wield. Just in case.”

Wait, what?

Din nodded, then turned, scooping up Grogu. “We need to get to the Armorer,” he directed at Ben, then added in a softer voice, his anger easing in the Force and allowing something closer to fondness to creep out, “good job, Ben’ika.”

Ben blinked, startled by the nickname, and smiled shyly, feeling a sense of relieved hope. Maybe Din wasn’t angry with him. He turned to Master Tano once more, gathering himself and sending her a pulse of gratitude.

“Thank you again, Master Tano,” he bowed, and this time, she smiled and bowed back, her signature meeting his with kindness-pride, edged with some emotion he couldn’t quite catch before it was gone again.

“May the Force be with you, Ben Kenobi.” Her eyes fell on his facial markings once more, trailing the braids and beads of his hair, and something lightened in the Force.

“And with you,” he answered, accepting the win and not questioning her sudden change of mood. He probably didn’t want to know. He followed Din out of the warehouse and through the streets, his senses aware for danger but not much else.

He’d passed two trials! He felt slightly dazed. Too often in his padawanship, his chance of ever even attempting the Trials had been in doubt.

It did not mean much in terms of their circumstances, he reminded himself sternly. There was no Order. No Republic-ordered missions. It was only for him, that this achievement was important.

Well, and Grogu. And maybe Din, Rex and Wolffe.

Still, the thought carried him down several levels and across the sector behind Din. If nothing else, he was achieving a childhood dream, and could go forward into this unknown future with some level of confidence in his abilities.

This euphoric bubble lasted right up until the Armorer stepped out of the shadows once more, the big blue guy suddenly flanking them by the ladder by which they had descended. Stowing his alarm, he cast his senses, feeling them warp around the beskar of the two unfamiliar Mandalorians, but he felt no overt hostility from the big blue guy, so Ben kept his hands far from his lightsaber, feeling the Mando’s eyes on him.

“You have returned— with the children.” The Armorer’s voice could not have sounded more perplexed or resentful.

“They are still under my care,” Din replied, and while his tone was respectful, Ben could feel that deep anger leaking out once more from beneath the beskar. He fought the urge to shiver. A Mandalorian’s anger was no small thing. And Ben wasn’t entirely sure at whom that anger was directed. A pivotal moment was approaching though, he could sense it; Master Windu would have had a migraine, if he were here. A stab of grief threatened to overtake him, and he hastily shoved the thought aside, refocusing.

“Then you must stock your armory. You will not return until they have been given to the Jedi.”

“I did find a Jedi.” Din passed Grogu to Ben, and as he passed, Ben was suddenly struck by Din’s sheer size. The Mandalorian had a habit of making himself smaller, more approachable when they were somewhere private, but here in this space, it felt as though he towered over them, not on par with the big blue Mandalorian, but a tight coil of lethal prowess encased in broad beskar-clad shoulders. Here in this hostile space, as dangerous armored individuals bristled with anger and wariness in the Force, Ben fought the urge to shrink away, holding still as Din moved away and reached into the crate, pulling out detonators and cartons of ammunition. “They refused to take the children.”

The Armorer tilted her helmet, and turned slowly to face Ben and Grogu, who whimpered and shrank back into Ben’s chest. “Why.”

“They had concerns about attachment.”

Which was incredibly vague, and Ben glanced at Din, carefully keeping his face blank. The Force grew suddenly tight, like a band pulling taut.

The Armorer stared at Din, unnaturally still. “You did not mention this before.”

“Because ‘their kind’ doesn’t exist; there is no Order to return them to. Only scattered survivors. And the children want to stay with me.”

“They are not welcome,” the Armorer insisted, tone flat as her grip on the hammer tightened. The short spikes of her golden helmet shone in the garish bright light as she turned and stalked towards a large kettle; a mobile forge, Ben realized. “Throughout time, stars-blessed children have lived among us. Sometimes, it was a gift. Better reflexes, better intuition. Sometimes it manifested as a curse, children who lost their minds and their lives to glimpses of futures they should not have seen, lost among the stars in their heads. But those who trained to use those powers— the Jedi, the Sith— they have brought nothing but pain and destruction to Mandalore. I will not risk the covert with their presence; the life of the little one has cost us enough.”

Grogu flinched, whimpering again. Ben held him closer, soothing him through the bond, then fell still as Grogu sent back images of a figure in battered armor looming over him—

— the clang of clashing weapons as the Mandalorian defended him from Trandoshans—

— arguing with Jawas over ship parts on a cold and arid planet—

— battling a Mudhorn, coated in mud and staggering with nothing more than a vibroblade in his hands as the beast roared and charged—

— playing with a silver ball that winked in the starlight visible through the viewport of an old gunship—

— a blurry, tear-stained view of the conflicted Mandalorian holding a camtono and staring after him as Imperials escorted him to a lab—

— the protective rage of a newly armored Mandalorian as he shot their way out of a safe house, carefully cradling his tired little body—

— explosions and flames as more Mandalorians arrive to cover their escape through the grimy streets of Nevarro—

— a battered and prone Din laying amidst the rubble of what Ben recognized as the school, begging Cara to leave him to die, to take care of the child and keep him safe—

— a pile of empty armor in the sewers—

— the Armorer, asking to see the child who merited so much destruction—

Ben swallowed thickly, hastily shoved his own anger to the Force, sent back not your fault, little one over the bond. Din’s fury was nearly palpable, a heavy weight as the tension in the Force wrenched ever tighter.

“Din,” Ben interjected softly, forcing himself to not flinch back as the Mandalorian’s helmet snapped in his direction. “If you could detour long enough to take us back to Nevarro, Grogu and I can—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your— she— it’s very clear that we — I can manage on my income working for Karga, and maybe when Rex and Wolffe complete their trip to Ponemah—”

“Do you want to leave?” Din cut across bluntly, and Ben shrank back slightly, despite his best efforts to remain still.

But he was a diplomat in-training. He could do this. He had to. He could let go. “It’s not a question of ‘want,’” he said softly. “It’s a question of duty. Your place is with your people. If our presence keeps you from rejoining them—”

“I made an oath to you, Ben. And to Grogu. I don’t go back on my word.” Ben gaped as Din turned to face the Armorer, shoulders squared.

“I will still help the covert and send funds to wherever you want, but my children come first. If my children aren’t welcome, then neither am I. I have a duty to them, and won’t abandon them.”

No— no, it wasn’t supposed to go like this, surely not— Din wanted to be with his people, Ben could feel it, so why—

“You forget your place, Din Djarin,” the Armorer replied, her voice low and menacing. “You made an oath to this covert first. They are Jedi. Our enemy.”

“I swore an oath to the Creed, to walk the Way of the Mandalore. And they’re children, first. Children, whose paths are not yet set. They need me. And I will not abandon a child, or a stewjon’ad. This is the Way.”

Din abruptly turned on his heel, and marched for the entrance, beckoning for Ben and Grogu to follow. Big Blue still stood by the stairs, and Ben tensed as he saw the Mando reach out a hand, then relaxed as he realized that he had palmed something to Din. Their guardian marched through the city silently, the port’s denizens wisely skittering out of his path as he walked. Ben silently followed in his wake, stepping through a clear path as the putrid fog that normally wrapped around their ankles rolled away in waves as the Mandalorian passed. It was an impressive, and intimidating sight, and Ben was numbly content to simply focus on staying close, setting Grogu down in his hammock once aboard the ship as Din disappeared into the cockpit to initiate the takeoff, wrestling with an overwhelming sense of stunned disbelief.

They had cost Din his place with his covert.

It was the Mando’s choice, yes, but it was one that their presence forced. And with the mando'ade of this time decimated, he could appreciate the cost of losing even a single member, especially one as talented and valuable as Din.

The ship took off, and Ben felt the Force warp, press down on him—

A planet of sand, saturated in gritty determination—

— Mandalorians, some baring their faces, surrounding him in a bright, sandy place, brilliant suns beating down upon their heads—

— explosions, and a firefight, he’s cut off from his squad but then there’s suddenly an armored stranger at his back and they fall into a deadly dance, a duet of lightsaber and blaster —

— the hum of a lightsaber, but unlike any he’d ever heard before—

— “ni partayli, gar darasuum”—

“— Ben, Ben— kid, what’s wrong with him—”

Ben’s eyes fluttered open, slow to focus. Din’s silver helmet and Grogu’s little face swam into view, radiating concern. It took a long moment to realize he was laying on the floor of the ship, the hum buzzing through the durasteel informing him that they’d already entered hyperspace. He felt a warmth on his chest, and realized that Char was sitting on it, chittering anxiously. By his ankle, Missy chirped in agitated binary, careful to give Din a wide berth. Ben set the lava meerkat aside with a soothing thought and carefully sat up, aided by Din.

“What happened?”

“Sorry, sorry, I should have told you— I sometimes get visions,” slurred Ben, embarrassed and woozy and not up for explaining this. His head ached fiercely, and his nose twitched at the scent of iron in his nostrils. “It’s been a while since I had one, but sometimes visions can be triggered by, um, big decisions.”

"Big decisions.”

“Mm. You know, destiny-altering ones.” He smiled weakly, letting it fall fast. He wiped at his nose quickly, trying to mask the action as an itch. “I haven’t had one in years, though. I, ah, was encouraged to disregard them.”

“You can see the future, and you were told to ignore it.” Din’s voice could not be any flatter.

Explaining visions to non-Jedi never went smoothly. “Not exactly— the future is always in motion, it’s not set in stone. So I might see a possible future. Or glimpses of one more likely to happen than the others. But there’s no guarantee that acting on it will change it; in fact, acting on a vision to avoid it could very well cause it to happen. So they're not very useful.”

“Mm.” The older man sat down on a crate, arms automatically opening to catch Grogu as the child launched himself towards the Mandalorian. He radiated disagreement with that assessment, but swiftly pivoted, his signature bleeding with determination.

“Couple things,” Din began firmly, blunt as ever as he caught the squealing child with ease.

“One. This was my choice. No one’s fault. The Creed’s pretty clear, as far as I’m concerned. Children are the future; your needs come first. I have no regrets. So no blaming yourselves.

“Two. There are other coverts out there. Ones with different practices. If we want to join one, we’ll find one.

“Three. You both have options. And there is no pressure to decide now. If you want to become Jedi, and only Jedi, we will finish your training and your Trials. If you want to become a Mandalorian, I will teach you. I would also adopt you, if you want, but I’ll teach you, regardless. If you want to be both, we can work together to figure that out. You don’t have to decide now, and you can change your mind. Except adoption. That’s, uh, permanent,” his firm tone faltered there, suddenly soft, vulnerable.

Ben hesitated. “You really want to adopt us? When we’ve cost you so much?”

“You’re pretty focused on what I lost. But I’m pretty happy with what I’ve gained. I chose my covert over a child once, and I regretted it every second after,” he angled his helmet at Grogu, who patted his helmet kindly. “I will never make that mistake again.”

Ben felt Din’s resolve, his sadness, but greater than these was love, and he flushed, averting his eyes. To have such emotion directed at him— it overwhelmed him.

“But your Armorer,” Ben began, hardly knowing why he kept pushing at this.

Din sighed. “She knows what she’s been taught. And her priority is the survival of the covert. She’s held us together through genocide. I think you challenged her understanding, and that makes her nervous. She can’t hold the covert together and survive if we’re questioning doctrine. I am unhappy with her decision, but I do not blame her. And I won’t let it stand in the way of my oath to walk the Way of the Mandalore. I believe that children—foundlings, especially— are more important than secrecy or exclusion. ”

Buir buir buir buir, chanted Grogu, squealing excitedly. Din glanced from Grogu to Ben, who smiled.

“Grogu wants to be adopted,” he translated. Din huffed, giving Grogu his full attention.

“Are you sure?”

Grogu reached up, patting his beskar cheek.

“Okay,” Din’s voice went a little wobbly as they touched foreheads. “Ni kartayli gai sa’ad, Grogu Djarin.” Grogu’s joy went supernova in the Force, and Ben chuckled.

“He’s really, really happy.”

“Me too, kid,” Din said softly, his voice smiling and fond. He turned to face Ben, silently waiting.

The realization slammed into him suddenly, and tears sparked in his eyes. Din had chosen them, him, willingly. Ben had been chosen. He had offered the Mandalorian an out, and Din had rejected the offer, countering with his own, to make Ben family.

And now Ben would have something to lose again.

But everything to gain.

“What does being part of an aliit mean to you?” he asked carefully, blushing as his voice wobbled. Din nodded, as though it had been the right question to ask.

“That we are connected, no matter what, and I will be there for you, however you need me,” the Mandalorian answered softly. “You’re a Jedi too, so I don’t expect you to place the aliit above the greater good. But there’s always a home for you to come back to.”

And it was everything Ben could hope for— a parent who understood the demands of following the Force. Still. He needed time to center himself, settle lingering emotions over the old teachings of the Order. And Din had said there was no rush.

“I’d like to think about adoption, if that’s all right,” he said finally. He let go of the breath he’d been holding as Din nodded amiably, his signature content and bright. “And I don’t know that I could ever not be a Jedi. It’s a part of me, like being stewjon’ad. But I want to be a ka’ra tigaan’la mando’ad. A Mandalorian Jedi. Err, stewjon’ad? Ka’ra tigaan’la stewjon’ad mando’ad? I don’t know—”

“Lek, verd’ika,” Din’s firm, determined tone was laced with a deep joy that raised a flush to Ben’s cheeks. “Ibi'tuur jatne tuur bajur.” He picked up the data pad, and pulled out a chit, sliding it into the device. “Then I will claim you as part of my clan. It’s not the same as adoption, so you can mark your armor with my sigil while you think over adoption. All right—let’s get started.”

“What… is that?” Ben stared at the data pad, wide-eyed.

“Training.” Din tapped at the pad, pulling open some tabs. “From Paz— the big blue guy,” he added. “We don’t always get along, but children— that’s something we’ll always agree on. And I think you got him thinking, Ben’ika. I doubt he’ll question much— he’s a Vizsla, after all—”

“He’s a Vizsla?” Ben echoed faintly, suddenly remembering where he had last seen blue armor like that. Great Force, he really had dodged a blaster bolt, there.

“But maybe he’ll push for more adoption. Children are the future. Shouldn’t matter what they look like, or what they can do.” Din handed over the pad, nodding at it.

“Right. Mando’a. Let’s see if we can fix that accent of yours.”

Ben scrunched his nose. “It’s fine!”

“You sound like you’re eight hundred years old, Ben'ika. We can do better.”

Grogu cooed in delight, sending amusement down the bond.

Chapter Text

The flight back to Nevarro could not have been more different than the one to Glavis. Din felt a lightness in the air, and while he imagined that he had the Force Sensitivity of a rock— though Ben assured him that his sensitivity was actually higher than the Force-Sensitive river stone he’d once had, because why the kark not— he couldn’t help but feel the relief himself. Decisions had been made, and they could only move forward. He hadn’t fully appreciated just how tenuous the children’s faith had been in his promises to care for them, and the sheer fullness of their joy rocked him to his core.

It had cut deeply at first, the thought that they had expected him to cast them aside if a choice had to be made. As if he could ever cast off a child—

But he had, hadn’t he? And he had atoned, and paid dearly for it, but it made sense that Grogu remembered, knew that while he’d gone to great lengths to keep him safe and find a teacher for him— at one point, he had chosen his covert over a child.

And Ben, the teen whose life-story was a holo-reel of rejection and tragedy. Whose skin bore the marks of lessons learned far too early. Every action— besides adopting Missy and Char— had been a desperate act to make himself as useful and indispensable as possible.

It wasn’t Din who Ben doubted. It was every adult.

And it made sense. Mandalorians were objectified, stereotyped, used to a galaxy that saw only hostile prowess. From what Ahsoka had shared, it seemed that the Jedi were no different, and without that same fierce predisposition to internal solidarity and bonds that bordered on possessive, it was no wonder that they did not expect to be treasured, and reveled when it was given.

She had also warned him.

“If Ben truly wants to be a Jedi, there will come a day when he must choose whether to let go of or sacrifice his attachments for the greater good. He might have to walk away, for the good of all.”

And the idea broke his heart, but— “I am no stranger to duty. Doesn’t mean I can’t love him while I have him.”

Her expression went doubtful for a moment, then visibly smoothed. Then proceeded to describe the storied career of Obi-Wan Kenobi during the Clone Wars.

Not much of it was new, and he had to wonder why Rex had left Ahsoka out of most of his stories.

No, what had him blindingly furious when they emerged from the cockpit had been Ahsoka’s stories concerning Bo-Katan. And he felt bad, could see that the children felt his anger, and likely ascribed themselves the blame, but he couldn’t hold it back. Not when he felt the need to beat the ever-loving osik out of something.

With an effort, he set the memory aside before it could overwhelm him again. The happiness that suffused the ship was too precious to soil with dark thoughts.

Din paused, then snorted. Dank ferrik. When had he gotten so soft?

The ship’s alarm beeped gently, and he eased out of hyperspace. The drab, mottled world of Nevarro hung in the inky black of space before him. It was going to feel strange, returning to their routine without the clone brothers— his buire, if he was completely honest with himself. His gloved hand fell to the edge of the cape again.

The ship’s comm suddenly broke into his maudlin thoughts. He answered without thinking, and thanked his buy’ce for hiding his look of surprise.

“Fett,” Din couldn’t help the relief at seeing a familiar face. When he’d decided to part ways with the covert, he hadn’t had a concrete plan for after. They could go back to their original arrangement— but Rex and Wolffe were gone, their return unknown. And being so far from the kids— no, if another option presented itself, he’d take it.

And judging by Fett’s expression, a new option had done just that.

“Su’cuy,” Fett nodded. “Take it things didn’t work out with the covert.”

Din shook his head, throat tight. He hadn’t lied to the kids last night, he did understand the Armorer’s position, but— it stung. He didn’t want the Armorer to be wrong, didn’t want to have to choose. His faith had been his one constant, and the mere existence of his children had upended so much of what he thought he knew, that part of him wished he could go back to that simpler time, if only because it was more simple. But he could never regret his kids, and it was foolish to dwell on things that could not be.

Plus, Fett was speaking again, seemingly glossing over Din’s awkward silence.

“Sounds like you need work, then, and a new home base,” the older man continued, tilting his head as though to gauge Din’s interest. Din leaned forward, allowing his eagerness to betray him.

“What do you need?”

“Muscle, mostly. A roster to help rebuild the guild here would be useful too. Though I wouldn’t say no to any help with the administrative dank,” Fett shrugged. “How’s your Aqualish?”

“Rusty,” Din admitted.

“I’m fluent, if that’s helpful,” Ben piped up from the hold, his voice echoing through the open cockpit door. “I speak twelve languages, and understand six more on top of that.”

Din turned back to Fett, who simply shook his head. “Looks like you and the kid are hired then, Mando. I’ll clear out some rooms for you. When can we expect you?”

“Four days,” Din supplied, mentally going over the to-do list. “We’re nearly at Nevarro, and I need to refuel and let Karga know that we’re going, grab a few supplies.”

“Good. K’oyacyi.” Fett hung up before Din could thank him, like usual, and he huffed a small laugh, bringing the ship down to port before spinning in his seat to let the kids know.

“Good news,” he announced, as he stepped into the hold. Ben and Grogu looked up from their game— at least Din thought it was a game, stacking brightly painted pebbles in midair. It never ceased to amaze him, uncanny and wondrous all at once.

They smiled at him, and Din felt his sappy heart melt instantly. Manda, he needed to get himself together.

“We’re going to Tatooine. Fett’s hired me, and he’s got work for you too, Ben’ika. If you want it.”

Ben beamed, nodding. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as I settle up with Karga, end our lease and collect our things, we’ll leave. Tomorrow at the latest."

Ben nodded, then his eyes unfocused for a moment. His smile fell. “I’ll stay on the ship.”

Din frowned. Ben normally volunteered to do too much. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” the teen’s eyes unfocused again for a moment. “But the Force wants me here, out of sight. I have a bad feeling… it’s unclear. But we shouldn’t linger here.”

The hairs on the back of Din’s neck prickled. “What kind of bad feeling? Is there danger?”

The teen hesitated, chewing on his words before speaking. “Something is about to happen, but I don’t know if the danger is on Nevarro, or further out. I just know it’s best if no one knows I’m here, and that you hurry back.”

Din stared at Ben, conflicted. His instinct was to shut the ramp and flee, obligations be damned. He could buy the ship via Karga and a funds transfer, and they could replace their things elsewhere.

He’d never done business like that before though, and he owed it to Karga to conclude their business in person. The man had moved mountains for him and his family.

Din sighed. “Stay on the ship, and keep your comm with you the entire time. Meditate, and if you get anything more concrete, tell me at once. Gro’ika, let’s make this quick.” The kid squealed as he leapt onto Din’s shoulder, and Ben immediately sat down, crossing his legs and setting into the now-familiar meditation pose. Steeling himself, Din punched the button to open the ramp and strode down, immediately sealing it behind him and directing the port worker to refuel the ship.

Kriffing Jedi osik. Din could almost see why Ben was told to ignore visions. “I have a bad feeling.” What does one even do with that information? No wonder the kid was a nervous wreck half the time; even Din felt on edge now.

He gave himself a small shake. This was why his covert drilled him on situational awareness. When one is hunter and prey, they must be on the lookout at all times. It had served him well, and he could count on it once more.

And at least Ben staying on the ship was a concrete action. It suggested that there was someone he needed to avoid. Concerning, but that rust-bucket would do the trick. They’d be out of here in an hour or so. And it would be fine.

It would be.

Din’s steadfast determination to not spiral distracted him the whole way to Karga’s office.

Great situational awareness, Din.

The magistrate beamed as they stepped into his office behind the protocol droid and he stepped forward to grip Din’s forearm, though it fell when he registered the missing person.

“Where’s my favorite politico?”

“Couldn’t make it,” Din shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the protocol droid. He felt suddenly paranoid.

Karga surveyed him. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah. And he’s sorry he can’t come back.”

Din didn’t know what it meant that Karga had become so good at reading him beyond the beskar. “You’re not staying.”

Din shook his head. “Came to square up my account, and grab our things. And, uh, thank you for everything.”

Karga waved away this last as he rounded his desk once more. “Of course. Your kid’s efforts more than made up for any effort on my part, and it’s always a pleasure to play with Grogu,” he spared a kind smile for the kid, who cooed and jumped from Din’s shoulder to the magistrate, who caught him easily. “You have to leave so soon?”

Din nodded, shooting a glance about the room. “Need to get to a job.”

“And the kids?”

Under any other circumstance, Din would have appreciated the older man’s concern. “Childcare for Grogu,” he answered pointedly, hoping that Karga would take the hint. He frowned, but it was with wary concern, and he wisely did not press. Though, Din would bet his buy’ce that he’d be getting an encrypted message from the man asking for details later.

That was fine. Now, he felt the itch to be gone, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“So we’re good?”

“You know that I know you’re good for it all,” Karga looked almost wounded. He tapped at a data pad. “You’re practically family.”

“I don’t like debts— even to family,” Din conceded, as Karga continued to look put out. “It’s my culture, Karga. Not personal.”

Karga sighed, then turned the pad around for Din to see. He fumbled with something in the drawer. “All right, all right. You’re square on your accounts now, though I do reserve the right to call in that favor when I need it,” and that a crafty glint in his eye told Din that he absolutely would. Which was fine. There were worse people to owe. “And I’ll take care of your landlady. If you need to leave quickly, no point in fussing with that.”

“And Ben?”

“As promised,” Karga now grinned, withdrawing a clinking pouch from the drawer. He dropped it into Din’s waiting hand. “The half of his income he asked me to use to pay off your debt. It’s all there, every credit. That’s a helluva kid you’ve got there, Mando. I’m sorry to lose him.”

“He is,” Din agreed, his tone softer than was wise. But it was true. And he had apparently grown very soft when it came to his kids.

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Karga clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve grown fond of your kids, Mando. And you’re not so bad yourself. Come visit whenever you can.”

Surprised by the knot of emotion in his throat, Din merely nodded, dipping his head a little lower than normal, before he picked up Grogu and left. The kid whined as they stepped back into the bright sunlight of midday.

“We’ll be back,” he said softly, giving the kid’s clawed hand a gentle rub with his thumb.

“They’ve left Nevarro,” Boba set the data pad down on the arm of the throne and leaned back, sighing. Something uncomfortable was beginning to curdle in his stomach.

Ben'ika had a bad feeling.

Those words were no end of trouble.

Shab’la jetii osik—

“That was quick."

“Mm.” He slanted a look at Fennec. “Happy now— what are you doing?”

Fennec sat at a bench littered in parts and tools, the barrel of a disassembled sniper in her hands. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she returned, not even bothering to look up.

Crime Lord. Daimyo of a whole gotra. The primary power of Tatooine, and absolutely no respect.

“Why?” he amended his question. This apparently wasn’t much better, because the master assassin actually rolled her eyes this time.

“Because he’s going to need a training weapon.”

It took Boba a moment. He frowned. “Mando said the kid doesn't like blasters.”

“Mando also said that Ben said rifles and snipers were okay.” Of course she had memorized Mando’s messages. “Lightsaber’s great for close-quarter combat, but he needs a ranged weapon, too. And real training.”

Boba sighed. “Auntie Fennec” was really going to her head. And he had been actively avoiding the idea of close proximity with lightsabers again. He stood up, eager for a distraction. “I’m going to find some droids to clean out a few rooms. We’ll hold off on the formal reception of tribute until they arrive.”

At that, she looked up, frowning. “Why?”

“One- it will be a show of force, that we have the means to back up our regime. And two— Baby Brother said Ben had a ‘bad feeling.’ It’s why they left Nevarro so quickly.”

Fennec’s frown deepened. “A bad feeling. So what?”

Oh, naive Fennec. She had so much to learn about the chaos en route to Tatooine. “A Jedi’s ‘bad feeling’ is always an understatement.” He turned and headed up the steps, squashing old memories of overheard snippets of conversation from clone troopers discussing their Jedi officers. General Kenobi’s ‘bad feeling’ had been notorious; even the guards at the Coruscant detention center would joke about it.

He added, not turning back, “it usually means everything’s about to go to shit.”

Chapter Text

At first, Grogu thought nothing of Ben’s continued meditation as they took off. He’d been well into it when they returned, buir pushing two large hover crates of their remaining belongings up the ramp. They moved quietly around the floating teen, who remained still, eyes closed and three inches off the ground even after they had entered hyperspace. Mindful of the challenge of meditating in space, Grogu positioned his two potted plants by the meditating Jedi, rewarded by a small smile on the teen’s face.

Hyperspace travel was boring, Grogu couldn’t blame Ben for continuing to meditate for long stretches. But something felt off about it, as though Ben were searching for something, and not finding it. By the third day, Ben’s silent disquiet had begun to set an itch in Grogu’s little body.. He tugged on the bond insistently until the young Jedi emerged from meditation, eyebrows raised at the interruption.

Soup, Grogu sent down the bond, waving his bread. He put it down before buir felt compelled to confiscate it again.

Ben smiled, sending amusement down the bond as he stood and joined them around the crate-turned-makeshift table. Buir handed him a bowl without comment, and Ben nodded his thanks, though the disquiet still clung to him like a heavy cloud.

“Why did you listen to me?”

Buir glanced up from the soup bowl at Ben, radiating confusion at the sudden question. “About what.”

“My bad feeling. My suggestion that I stay on the ship.”

Buir tilted his helmet. “Should I have ignored you instead?”

Ben floundered, and Grogu felt a fresh need to reach into the Force and bite the teen’s former Master. Who would tell a student not to worry about a warning from the Force? That was the whole point of having a connection!

“I… normally, I’m encouraged to set it aside,” Ben finally answered, his words halting.

“If your master told you to forget it, then… that was wrong,” buir amended, obviously revising his first thought, as his signature went derisive-disapproving. “A warning is a warning. I can’t believe your Force would give you such things and expect you to ignore them.”

“He said he didn’t sense what I felt, so it was my anxieties, not a true warning,” Ben muttered, suddenly very interested in his soup. Buir’s signature flashed in outrage before he reined it in.

“Sounds like he wasn’t as sensitive as you were. Maybe he didn’t like being reminded of that,” buir managed to reply calmly. “Doesn’t make telling you to ignore it the right answer, though.”

Ben frowned, thoughtful. Grogu sent him a pulse of comfort, and the teen smiled at him, acknowledging him in the bond.

“Have any updates for me on that?”

Ben shook his head slowly. “The danger is still ahead. But it’s not on Tatooine. I don’t understand what it’s trying to tell me.”

“You’ll figure it out,” buir replied easily, warm confidence setting a blush and a small smile on the teen’s face. “In the meantime, we’ll stay vigilant.”

A proximity alarm went off in the cockpit, and buir handed off the soup to Ben. “We’re coming up on our hyper lane transfer,” he informed them, walking out of the hold and into the cockpit. “Then it’s a day to Tatooine.”

Grogu watched Ben watch buir leave, his painted face wrinkling the lines and dots with a frown and pursed lips.

What’s wrong?

The Force, it just… Grogu knew that Ben’s connection was very different from his, that he felt the warnings more keenly, and as he cast out his senses, he could feel the Force grow taut, but nothing so concrete as what Ben was apparently feeling.

What is it?

It’s the hyper lane, Ben’s worry suddenly ratcheted up to panic. We can’t— “Din, stop!” he suddenly shouted out loud, dropping the soup to sprint for the cockpit, and Grogu felt it as the Force wrenched, spiking in its tension.

But Ben’s cry came too late, and the ship suddenly lurched out of hyperspace. Ben caught himself— and then was thrown to the floor as a blast hit the ship, frying the engines.

Scared, Grogu dropped his bread and jumped for Ben, who was picking himself up off the ground. Together they stepped into the cockpit, where buir’s calm movements across the instrument panel, testing systems, masked the panic blaring in the Force.

“Not sure what hit us, but it’s fried pretty much everything except for life support,” Din reported calmly. “Must have some kind of ion cannon onboard.”

“That’s a thing?” Ben said faintly. Buir nodded grimly.

“The Separatists had a weapon like that during the Clone Wars. Bu—Wolffe told me it obliterated his entire command. Only a single escape pod containing himself, General Koon, and two troopers survived. They destroyed the Separatist ship, but if the schematics survived…” he shrugged, gloved hands still skating across the instrument panel.

“Din… what is that.”

They all looked up to the viewport, where Ben was pointing.

And blinding fear gripped Grogu.

Not again, not again.

Peace, vod’ika, Ben whispered through the bond, sending waves of warmth.

But Ben didn’t understand, he couldn’t possibly understand what this meant—

“— it’s getting closer,” Ben was saying out loud to buir once Grogu finally tuned back in. A note of uncertainty threaded his tone. “You’re sure it’s Gideon?”

“Unless pirates have appropriated Imperial equipment— which is a risk,” buir said. “That’s an Imperial light cruiser. The New Republic is scrapping all they can find. It’s him.”

“He wants us alive,” Ben said, too calm. “That gives us more of an advantage than if he wanted us dead.”

“He wants Grogu,” buir corrected. “He won’t keep me alive. He’ll want you though, if he knows about you.”

Grogu glanced up at Ben, whose inscrutable expression gave away nothing.

“Do we fight?”

Buir suddenly erupted out of his seat, grabbing a satchel. He shoved it at Ben and began grabbing items- small weapons, credit bags, data pads, odds and ends. “If we have to fight our way out, we’ll have to take another ship to escape. Whatever is essential, pack. Only what will fit in the bag.”

Grogu stayed in the cockpit, frozen by the looming sight of the Imperial cruiser as Ben and buir clattered about behind him, all focus-determination in the Force. Given that his plushie collection would not fit in the sack, he’d just be in the way, anyway.

All too soon, the ship jolted as it connected with the cruiser’s hangar. Suddenly frightened to be alone in the cockpit, he jumped down off of the pilot’s seat and bounded into the hold, where buir caught him, one hand on a blaster. Ben’s lightsaber was out but not lit.

For an instant, the little family stared at each other, before buir and Ben moved towards the hatch, freezing in place as an amplified began to speak.

“Din Djarin.” The dreaded voice was muffled somewhat, but in the absolute silence of a dead ship, the words rang clear.

“It’s weird how much he likes saying my name,” Buir muttered, and Ben choked on air.

“You are surrounded by multiple squads, your systems incapacitated.”

“Does he get off on stating the obvious?” whispered Ben.

“Language, Ben’ika,” but buir’s signature lightened by a fraction.

“You and the child will come out without resistance. If you fight, I will blast your ship, space you, and collect the child’s body anyway. Choose wisely. You have thirty seconds to comply.”

Buir immediately turned to Ben. “Hide,” he whispered. “We can’t fight, not like this. But they’re only expecting Grogu and me. Hide yourself, and when the chance comes, take it and get yourself and Grogu out of here.” He handed over the satchel and his blaster, then pulled two vibroblades from his boots and passed them to the teen, who loaded them into the satchel.

Ben nodded, eyes wide with fear tamped down by determination, then he jumped up and opened a panel, disappearing into the ceiling of the hold. Grogu bit down on a cry, feeling Ben’s warm comfort in the bond, even as Grogu’s terror threatened to overtake his mind.

“I’m here, Gro’ika,” buir held him close. “We’ll find a way out of this. Ni kartayli gar darasuum, ad’ika.”

Oh, buir, thought Grogu, placing his little claws on the metal panels of his buir’s helmet, before touching the cold beskar to his forehead. I love you too.

Together, Grogu’s claws gently held between buir’s thumb and first finger, they opened the ramp, and descended slowly towards the squads of white and black plastoid. His terror spiked at the sight of Force-suppressing cuffs in the trooper’s hands; as though he could sense it, buir held him closer and whispered, “udesii, ner cyar’ad’ika. K’atini, ke kotyc.”

Endure, be strong.

At least he wasn’t alone.

For now.

Wolffe had to concede: there were worse places to have an existential crisis.

The bright, soft sands of Champala’s beaches clung to his legs as he gingerly stretched out in the shade, settling in further. The midday sun set the surface of the sea shining like crystals in a cave, winking and flashing as the tide carried the waves along to their finial destination.

It should have been relaxing, and it was, but relaxation couldn’t be further from his mind as he watched the figure down by the water’s edge, the old aches of grief, affection, anger tumbling gently in his chest.

Kix sat alone, arms wrapped around his knees as he stared into the surf that crashed then hushed away from the sand, each inevitable curl of aquamarine water yanked away from the glistening powdery sand by the tide. The young clone had sat there for the past hour, and they had left him alone.

Beside Wolffe, camped out under the ridiculous umbrella that Omega had procured from somewhere, Rex sighed. None of them were really equipped for this. When Omega had lured them from their original destination of Chandrila to meet on Champala, Rex had hoped that maybe seeing more familiar faces— apparently he and Hunter had met once, on Anaxes— and a clone not aging as they did, would be helpful. Seeing Omega was always a treat, and Hunter had mellowed considerably with age.

But Kix had merely seemed more startled, unnerved by these new developments he had missed and after a polite introduction, had withdrawn to watch the waves.

“At least he’s not obsessing over the research?” Rex offered halfheartedly.

It wasn’t much of an improvement, and they both knew it.

“Have you reached out to the General?” Wolffe asked instead.

Rex shook his head. “Wasn’t sure how long this would take,” he waved a vague hand at the scene.

On Rex’s other side, Hunter hummed. The grizzled commando still wore his hair long, a curtain of white held back by a patterned bandana. “Omega will talk him around. She’s good at that.”

“What am I good at?” The woman dropped down into the sand next to Hunter, and tossed Wolffe and Rex a pair of melons.

“Everything,” Hunter gave her a small smile as he nudged her shoulder with his own. “But specifically, talking Kix into getting the treatment.”

With a sigh, Wolffe shifted his gaze towards the lone figure at the shoreline. No doubt the young man felt their gazes on his back, but if it bothered him, he gave no sign, still staring straight ahead into the undulating aquamarine sea.

Kix had been excited at first, to discover the long-sought answer to the problem that had hung over their heads since their decanting. Until reality set in; this would not be like discovering the solution thirty years ago. Even if Rex and Wolffe took the cure, they were in their twilight years. Kix would be alone far sooner than anyone wished, and clones weren’t meant to be alone.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair that this gift could feel like a curse, and Wolffe felt the sympathy roll back, overtaken by anger at the injustice. Finding the answer now, after so long— it felt cruel. Ben would never have intended it so, but the Force… Wolffe had tried to have faith in it, as Plo’buir had taught him, but to permit the casual cruelty of preserving a single clone, only to have him wake decades later— what if Ben hadn’t guided them to Kix? What if Kix had been woken another twenty, thirty years later, when the last clone had long since passed?

Wolffe and Rex had discussed meeting up with Ben and Grogu before Kix made a decision, before ultimately deciding against it. They were made for the Jedi, but this was a vode matter. Kix had to want to live a full life, not feel obligated to do it.

Perhaps Hunter was right. If any clone could understand what it was like to watch those around you grow older, the feeling of being displaced, and still see a value in living a normal lifespan, it was Omega. She had watched Hunter, Crosshair and Wrecker grow old without her, had mourned the sniper and the demolition expert’s passing. He could see even now in the careful way she watched Hunter, hovered without being obvious. It was one thing to lose comrades in combat, but to know that all too soon, that Kix would be left behind as everyone else marched on—

Kix had to decide for himself. Without the influence of a convincing silver tongue and a pair of blue eyes.

Wolffe frowned, and pulled the data pad from his pack. Din had sent a short message, that they had vacated Nevarro for a permanent job on Tatooine, after the meeting with the covert didn’t pan out. But something about the language of the message didn’t sit right. He queued up a reply, to send once they returned to the ship and its long-range comm.

Found Kix, he's with us. Let us know when you reach Tatooine, ad’ika. Stay safe.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s first attempt at a notice-me-not had been an accident.

He’d been hiding from Bruck Chun. It was a futile effort, he’d have to come out eventually and Bruck would find some way to make him look terrible in front of the Masters again, but… he’d needed a break. Just for a moment, to center himself and remember why he was here again.

He’d ducked into a closet located just off the training salles of the Temple, and curled up on the floor, hugging his knees. Too emotional, too passionate, too temperamental— but he knew he was meant to be a Jedi, could feel the rightness in his bones, how the Force sang at the thought. He just had to find a way to prove it to everyone else.

There was a sudden sound at the end of the hallway, and Obi-Wan froze. He wasn’t ready, he needed more time. He reached for the Force, pulling it around himself like a blanket, dimming the light within him. I’m not here, I’m not here—

“Oafy-Wan! I know you’re here!” Bruck’s derisive tone rang out.

“No he’s not, I can’t sense him—”

“Huh. Well he was here. Maybe the archives.”

The door shut again, and Obi-Wan breathed, releasing his tight grip on the Force. Now he had a little more time. And proof to himself that he was meant to be a Jedi.

Ben listened carefully as the ramp of the ship descended and Din stepped out with Grogu, mindful to remain perfectly still and avoid any sound that would give his presence away. He’d found the smuggling cache while anxiety-cleaning the hold during their stay on Glavis. It had been filed away as a good-to-know. He’d never dreamed that he would be smuggling himself at some point. He glanced around, considering his options.

If he were a maniacal warlord, he’d make sure that his captured enemy had no chance of escaping. And as a former intelligence officer, he’d comb the ship for information. Which meant Ben needed to make sure there was nothing interesting to glean, and slip out before they scuttled or ejected the ship.

Ben could feel the instant that the Force-suppressing cuffs on Grogu were activated, the terror that no amount of soothing through the bond could allay, suddenly silenced. The sensation never got easier, and it took every ounce of restraint to stifle those Stewjoni instincts and remain hidden in the smuggler’s cache of the ship, straining every sense to track movement in the hangar.

There was a quiet chitter of confusion, and Ben’s gaze snapped down to the hold in horror. The lava meerkat had woken up, and was now nosing at Missy, who had been powered down and charging when the ship was attacked. Missy’s memory hadn’t been wiped recently— who would be interested in her cleaning routine?— but someone like Moff Gideon would make use of it. And as for Char— well, Ben knew exactly what the stormtroopers would do with him.

“Orders, sir?” The question drifted in through the open ramp, and Char looked up, confused.

“Call in a scanning crew. There might be something of use onboard,” came the cold voice of the Moff, uncomfortably close to the ship. The fading sound of heels clicking on the ground accompanied the trooper’s salute.

Ben would have only moments to move.

He shifted the panel open slightly further, and dropped back down, wrapped tightly in his notice-me-not. Silently padding towards an unsuspecting Char, he whispered “sleep.” The meerkat dropped, curled into a ball, and Ben quickly stuffed him in the satchel, then unplugged Missy and hefted her under his arm. After one last look at the cockpit for anything important, he pulled his lightsaber, and drove a hole into the ship’s memory core, obliterating the communication and navigation logs. A single perfect hole that was not immediately obvious as a lightsaber stab, he noted with grim satisfaction as he stowed his saber and crept towards the ramp.

Two guards stood by the open hatch, vigilant but bored.

“So this wasn’t a drill? That was the real deal?” the trooper on the left was saying.

“Yup. We finally got ‘em. About time; we’ve lost a lot of good guys trying to catch these two.”

“Huh.” Silence. “I thought he’d be bigger.”

The trooper on the right snorted. “You don’t have to be big when you’re covered in a million credits’ worth of beskar. That guy and his two friends took out two whole transports on Tython. I heard it from the sarge during chow yesterday.”

“I heard it was three transports.”

“No, it was definitely two.”

“And anyway, I was talking about the little green guy.”

“Oh, that? Don’t be fooled. That little guy can pack a punch.”

“You’re full of it!”

“I’ll bet you two night shifts that he’ll break containment at least once.”

“That’s an easy bet, you’re on.”

“You obviously haven’t heard the stories,” the trooper on the right insisted. “I heard he can manipulate fire, and killed a bunch of Purge Troopers on Nevarro. And his bite is venomous, he can kill you in, like, ten seconds.”

“You’re so full of it. Enjoy night shift for me.”

Ben scanned the hangar. There were a few troopers milling about, and uniformed officers. But the Force nudged him to the right. He reached out, and pushed two crates together on the left, resulting in a voluble bang.

“What was that?”

“Go check it out,” advised the trooper on the left. “I’ll stay here.” He watched his comrade march over to investigate, blind to Ben as he slipped down the right side of the ramp and took off, hugging the shadows. He followed the Force, weaving between transports and stacks of crates until he stopped at a dark corner of the hangar, poorly lit and disused, if the grime and dust on the rusted durasteel flooring was any indication.

Using the Force to carefully shift some crates, he walled them in. Only a Force-assisted leap would enable anyone to access their little corner. He powered up Missy, who beeped in alarmed binary, while Char crawled out of the satchel, disoriented and agitated.

“It’s okay, calm, udesii,” Ben soothed, hushing them. “We were attacked, and we’re on an Imperial ship. Din and Grogu have been taken captive, and we are hiding right now until I come up with a plan to get us out of this mess.”

Because there was no way he was leaving them behind.

Poor Char just cocked his head in confusion, while Missy’s binary grew even more concerned.

“Just, give me a moment to think, please,” he pleaded. Missy reluctantly piped down, while Char nosed about their new little domicile. Ben sat down, his back against the paneled wall, hugging his knees.

Places like this never failed to feel cold. No heating system invented could dispel the chill that permeated a ship of this size. The Force felt no better, the cold of dark and dangerous purpose staining the very decks of the ship. These were loyal troopers and officers, clinging to the cause long after defeat had been conceded by former compatriots. To be caught here would be certain death. This wasn’t Ben’s first time in hostile territory with no hope of cultivating an ally, but the certainty of danger never failed to set a chill in his heart.

At least this time, he wasn’t totally alone.

He managed a faint smile for the little droid, who bumped his knee in what presumably constituted affection.

“This will be our little corner, okay?” he glanced from Missy to Char, who cocked his head in confusion. Ben sighed. “I’m sorry Char, but you’re probably going to spend the next few days mostly asleep, my little friend.”

Char chirruped, nosing at the bag. Ben pulled out a biscuit, and began feeding him pieces. “I’ll make sure you eat and do your meerkat business, but you can’t blend in as well as we can. Sleep is best for you.” The meerkat climbed into his lap and nuzzled his neck before accepting another piece of biscuit. Ben blinked back a sudden burning in his eyes, sinking a hand into the meerkat’s warm, sleek fur, petting him absentmindedly.

He was alone.

Char and Missy were here, but they were counting on him. Until now, he’d always had someone around, some support. Even when he wasn’t sure of his welcome. But now— now, he was truly alone, in a way he hadn’t been in years, if ever.

Infinite sadness.

But that wasn’t completely true either, was it? He wiped at his eyes angrily, setting his jaw in determination. He might be alone in this moment— but he had a clan to rescue. And they had allies out in the galaxy. He needed a plan.

He wasn’t just a Jedi. He was also Stewjoni, which came with its own strengths and weaknesses. He needed to leverage the former, and account for the latter, if he was going to survive this and pull off a rescue.

Char nosed at his hand again, and Ben gave him some more biscuit. On the ground in front of them, Missy sucked up the fallen crumbs, chirping in unimpressed binary.

Ben retrieved the data pad from the satchel, scrolling through messages and contacts. Ben needed… help. Numbers. Which meant he needed to decide on who he’d contact.

There was a new message on Din’s data pad, from Wolffe. He hesitated for a moment, before opening.

Let us know when you reach Tatooine, ad’ika. Stay safe.

Relief and longing welled in Ben’s chest, before he stuffed it down. He couldn’t call them, much as he wanted to. Two elderly men had no business in a firefight if Ben could help it, and Kix… well, he had no right to ask such a thing of someone he’d never met. For all he knew, Kix was equally elderly, and deserved the same consideration as Rex and Wolffe.

There was another clone he could call, though.

Fennec would come in a heartbeat; she’d become oddly interested in his training, and enjoyed a good fight. Boba… Boba might not come for him, but he’d come for Din. He’d kept in touch, offered them jobs— Din trusted him.

Cara would come too, if asked.

And then there was Bo-Katan Kryze. Din’s signature had gone downright violent at the mention of her the other day. But she had a whole crew, and Axe was there. She had some history with Moff Gideon, and that could be incentive enough to help. Certainly she wouldn’t come for them.

So he needed a way to contact them. Which meant accessing a terminal without being caught. Which meant learning the shifts and rotations. Which meant needing a disguise and a solid notice-me-not. He’d have to avoid meal shifts and the barracks, and be on the lookout for security holo feeds, which wouldn’t be impacted by his Force suggestions. And then he needed to plot out some sabotage that would assist the rescue crew.

He went through the mental catalog of lessons from Rex. They had been immensely fascinating, but applied to open warfare more than anything else. They hadn’t had time for special operations— ARC training, as Rex called it— before they had left for Ponemah Terminal. A missed opportunity.

But the thought triggered another. Rex had known about Ben’s combat experience from his older self. Tactics learned from hard-fought experience, not training. Melida-Daan had taught him a great deal, that he had often wanted to forget but used all too often.

Theft. Sabotage. Guerrilla warfare. Not tactics a Jedi would willingly embrace— or Mandalorian, for that matter— but ones that a Stewjoni would have no problem shelving their pride to deploy, if it saved innocent lives. Family.

He couldn’t get caught. It would be all over then. He knew he’d do anything to spare his clan, and Gideon would exploit that.

Force, he was going to need so much meditation when this was over.

In his lap, Char yawned, the excitement of the past hour catching up to him. “Nap time, Char,” Ben said softly, then added, “sleep.”

The meerkat immediately curled up and fell asleep. Ben carefully stuffed him into the crate with the air holes, and then used the Force to move the crates around it, hiding it from view. He stood up and shouldered the satchel.

“Stay here and watch this area,” he ordered Missy, who chirped an affirmative. “I’m going to retrieve some clothes.”

An hour later, Ben clipped on the last piece of white plastoid to his black body glove, and stuffed his robe and favorite blue-brown tunic into the satchel, then shoved the satchel behind the wall panel he’d pried open. He picked up the blaster, surveying it with distaste before slipping on his helmet.

Force, it was a good thing he was a Jedi. He couldn’t see a thing!

At least he was nearly tall enough for the gear. A short Stormtrooper would stick out. And his hair wasn’t too long yet, that he could tuck it into the helmet. He’d have to avoid ever removing his helmet, though. The braids, beads and face dye would give him away instantly.

“All right Missy, here’s the plan,” he spoke quietly to the droid, manipulating the controls of the HUD to get the hang of it. “We’re on intel collection, which is where you excel, my little friend.”

Missy chirped proudly.

“We need to collect as much information about this ship and its operations as we can, without getting caught,” he went on. “I am going to attempt to contact some allies for help, but we’re going to have to do our part when they arrive.” If they arrive. “And we can only do that if we know what we’re working with, and plan some sabotage in advance.”

Missy chirped an affirmative once more.

Ben felt desperately grateful that he hadn’t had a chance to paint Missy before they departed for Tatooine. Meditation had derailed his list of activities to keep Grogu occupied during the flight, and he couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence.

Now, his only concern was how to tell the difference between Missy and the MSE-6 droids aboard the Destroyer.

Steeling himself, Ben stood up, tucked the droid under his arm, and leapt to the top of the crates, landing silently on the other side. He set her down and signaled for her to follow.

I am a Jedi, and stewjon’ad. A warrior, and follower of the Force. It will provide. It always has.

This mantra saw him through the first patrol. Squads marched here and there, and he tagged along at the end of one going his way, blending in until he had made a full circuit of the ship, and discerned the rhythm of the patrols and movement of uniformed officers. It was on his second pass that he lifted a code cylinder from an officer and found a console. Fighting the urge to duck around the corner, he turned confidently, allowing the hall security holo to capture the moment. It would look far more unremarkable than sneaking around.

“I’m adding you to the roster of authorized droids,” Ben whispered to Missy, tapping at the console. “And here—” he tapped again, and Missy chirped. “Just tag along, and keep your sensors running as you complete your chores. Make sure you act like the others do, so that you blend in. Meet me back in our corner in the hold when your shift ends, so that we can debrief. Okay?”

Missy chirped.

“You’ll do great,” Ben smiled. “It’s always the little ones everyone underestimates, trust me. If you need me, I’ll be on Besh shift, and I’ll have a small dot of blue on the heel of my left boot.” He showed the droid, who chirped, then bumped his ankle affectionately before taking off.

Part one: complete. Part two: commence. He cast his senses, feeling no one nearby, and used his stolen credentials to begin digging.

Troop strength. Officer complement. Weapons. Coordinates. Current location. And— after a moment’s hesitation— prisoner wing.

Grogu was being held in a secure cell, with Force suppressing cuffs and a double-guard. Due for a medical checkup soon.

Din was in a cell on a separate level, with a triple guard. Ben couldn’t help his surprise at that; whatever strange proclivities Moff Gideon had, he certainly didn’t underestimate Din. There was a note on the cell, and Ben read it.

A sick horror curdled in his stomach.

He needed to get help fast.

Committing everything to memory, he closed the console and stepped back into the hallway, joining this squad marching and then that one, jumping from group to group as he made his way to a conference room that— according to the schedule in the console— was currently empty. He passed a passel of MSE-6 droids, wondering if Missy was among them.

Hoping she was okay.

Seeing the conference room door ahead, Ben cast his senses. Feeling no one inside, he flicked his fingers subtly at the security holo, hearing the angry buzz of a glitch. He slipped inside, and went straight to the console, pulling off his helmet and plugging in the comm number he’d memorized from Din’s data pad.

No answer.

Swallowing down his panic, he ended the call, and queued up a message.

Ni cuy Ben’ika. Gedet’ye.

Ben gave it five minutes, then dialed again. He cast his senses once more for anyone approaching; this was eating precious time.

“I’m a little busy taking over a syndicate, kid.” Boba’s raspy voice boomed as the call connected. Ben winced, adjusting the volume. “Do I want to know why you are calling me from an Imperial code?”

In the background, Ben heard Fennec call out, “Is that Ben? Let me talk to him—”

“Because I need help; our ship was attacked by Gideon’s forces,” Ben murmured quickly in Mando’a; if there was any chance that the call could be intercepted or recorded, the rare language could buy some precious time in decoding. “D—Mando and Grogu are being held captive. They didn’t know I was onboard so I snuck out. But I can't get them both free and escape, there are too many and they scuttled our ship."

Boba stared at him.

“I— I have money. Not much, but— and if you’ll accept a debt, I’ll work for free, I’m good at administrative work and speak twelve languages. And I think Mando has some money,” Ben pressed, losing steam as he wracked his thoughts for a solution. His best bet had been Boba, and he was running out of time to call for other reinforcements. “And I have experience with resolving trade disputes. And security. And— ah, I can cook—”

Boba sighed. “Gev, kid. We’ll come.”

Ben exhaled slowly, blinking back the burning sensation in his eyes. “There are others who can help, too. I can give you their information. Cara Dune is a marshal on Nevarro, works for Greef Karga. She’s an ex-shock trooper with the Republic, she’d help. And Bo-Katan Kryze has people, and she wants Gideon for something—”

“Kryze?” Boba’s scoff was scathing. Evidently not a fan, either. “Why not call her first, then?”

“Because my— Mando trusts you. He doesn’t trust her to actually help us. He’d rather owe you than her. But she’s got firepower, and a reason to come since Gideon’s here.”

There was another long silence. “Fine. Give me the comm codes and the coordinates on your cruiser. No promises on the others.”

Ben rattled them off quickly, adding in the number of troopers and officers and everything he’d gleaned from the console, including incoming flight and its schedule-- the Force had prodded him on this-- then paused, uncertain of how to end the call. Boba huffed softly.

“Hang in there, Obi-Wan. Don’t do anything too jare’la til we get there.”

“I would never,” Ben scoffed, offended. Nevertheless a small part of him warmed as Boba chuckled.

“Yes, you would. You always have.” And with a soft click, the call disconnected. Ben slipped his stormtrooper helmet back on, exhaling shakily. Help was coming; now they just had to survive until it arrived.

“Well, fuck.”

Boba continued to stare into the middle distance as Fennec dumped an empty pack on the table, loading fresh fruit and ration bars. He barely startled as she slammed a camtono onto the table, carefully piling bacta packs into the canister.

“Snap out of it, boss,” her normally melodic tone was flat and harsh. “We don’t have time for this.”

“This.”

She waved at him with a meiloorun. “This. You can wallow and ruminate later. We’ve got kids to save. They’re more than a day away. We need to move now.”

Boba raised an eyebrow, and she huffed. “If I have to call the bitch, then I’ll do it. But what I don’t get is why you’re still just sitting there.”

“Because, my faithful second, calling Bo-Katan Kryze, former Mand’alor and a Death Watch alum, is no small feat,” he sighed. “Not when you’re me. You have to have a plan.” He punched in the comm code that Ben had provided, then pulled on his buy’ce.

“Who is this?”

“I think you know damn well who I am,” Boba returned evenly. Fennec shot him a raised eyebrow. Fair. He needed to tone it down. He just really didn’t like her— and for good reason. “I have a proposition for you.”

The woman sneered at him. “Not interested, clone,” she leaned forward to end the transmission.

“Moff Gideon. I have his location and coordinates.”

Kryze froze for a moment, then leaned back, eyes narrowed. “What do you want.”

“Muscle— for a rescue operation.”

She scoffed. “Boba Fett has a heart after all. Can’t handle it yourself, clone?”

He tilted his buy’ce, biting back his first three retorts. “Thought you’d want to take another crack at Moff Gideon. He’s holding Mando and his kid hostage.”

The Mando standing behind Kryze startled visibly, before catching himself, but he couldn’t fully eradicate the worry in his eyes. Interesting.

Kryze seemed unmoved. “So?”

No wonder Ben called him first, if this was the kind of reception he’d expected. The emotion that realization sparked— he had been Ben’s first call, Mando’s first choice— lay strangely in his chest, and he hastily stowed it away, refocusing. “You help with the assault, you get Gideon, and the ship and materiel, and a portion of any New Republic bounties onboard. We retrieve Mando and the kids, and take our portion of the bounties.”

Kryze’s went calculating, and she turned to her second, who leaned over and spoke quietly in her ear. Her expression soured.

“Fine. Send the coordinates for the rendezvous and your plan.” She cut the transmission abruptly.

“Sure thing, princess,” he drawled, pulling off his buy’ce as he rolled his eyes. He stood up stiffly. It would be a shame to spend a few days away from his bacta tank, but needs must. “I’m refueling the ship, and notifying 8D8 to lock down the palace until we return. You call Dune. We leave in an hour,” he tossed her the long-range comm, ignoring her snort.

Appearances, and all. Crime lords weren’t supposed to have hearts, and the less people aware of that new development, the better.

Chapter Text

Din had to hand it to Gideon— the shabuir was a clever demagolka.

Every nerve screamed in protest as flames radiated through his chest and limbs. Or so it felt; he’d never been electrocuted before, not like this. Beside him, the machine hummed away quietly, so innocuous compared to the nauseating pain it induced.

Ten minutes on, one hour off, with longer breaks to eat, sleep and piss, though the machine had rendered this last unnecessary, frying his fine motor control. At least— he thought it was ten minutes on, one hour off. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore. He’d already cracked a few teeth and soaked his kute with sweat and urine, gritting his teeth against a scream for mercy.

He’d kept his armor, though, and therein lay the true beauty of Gideon’s insidious plan.

“Your honor is everything,” Gideon had proclaimed as the troopers wrestled Din into the chair, securing his arms and legs. “So I’ll let you die with it intact. But you might want to rethink the cost of honor.” He gestured for the troopers to move back, and flipped a switch.

The machine had hummed to life, and Din tasted blood in his mouth as he bit down on a scream. It was worse than a burn, or a broken bone, as electricity arced throughout his body, every muscle screaming in protest as they spasmed and flinched.

“Only works on beskar,” Gideon had waved an arm through the beam, unaffected. “Rather ingenious little invention. Not what its creator intended, but that’s what real visionaries are for. I’ve dialed it down from incineration to simply induce pain.” He flipped the switch. The vibrating pain vanished, leaving behind muscles twitching as nerves struggled to adapt under the sudden loss. Ligaments and tendons and muscles Din didn’t even know he had were all spasming, and he could feel sweat pooling under his kute as he attempted to— recover, or something. Endure.

K’atini.

“I’m not giving you… anything,” Din panted. At this point, he didn’t have much to give, anyway— which begged the point of this effort.

Gideon shrugged. “I don’t want anything from you. I have everything I need now. In fact, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll share something for free with you. Something to think about in your… spare time.”

Din didn’t answer, focused on regaining control of his breathing. But Gideon didn’t need a response. He never did.

“I know that you've met Lady Bo-Katan and her merry band of murderers. Don’t worry about how I know,” he waved a dismissive hand. “But I was surprised to learn that you had worked with her, given her past. And then the thought occurred— perhaps you didn’t know her past.”

Gideon paced nonchalantly before Din, his black garb doing strange things to the view in Din’s HUD, like a shadow, or a small ghost hovered in his wake. “Otherwise, why would a survivor of Aq Vetina work with one of those directly responsible?”

Din felt certain that his heart had stopped.

“And then I remembered, of course! You were a child. And then your covert took you in, those radicals so set on isolationism and preserving the ‘old ways’; I’m surprised they even let you fly. Of course they wouldn’t tell you what the Children of the Watch had sprung from. Children… of the Watch. Death Watch. The child recruits collected from the ruins of Death Watch’s false flag operations.”

Gideon stopped pacing, and a terrible smile transformed his cold, sneering expression into something truly sadistic as he stepped closer to Din. “Have you discerned it yet? Pre Vizsla— yes, that Vizsla— and his right-hand woman, Bo-Katan Kryze, led the terrorist faction of Mandalore, exiled on Concordia while the system was ruled by a pacifist— Kryze’s sister Satine, in fact. I suppose your lessons left out the fact that Vizsla and Kryze conspired with the Sith-- Count Dooku, then Darth Maul, to stage attacks on systems in the Mandalorian sector, that Death Watch would interrupt. Crude, but effective. For a while, at least. It destabilized Duchess Satine’s grip on the Mandalorian government, and drummed up recruits for Death Watch. Picture it: dramatic holos of the legendary Mandalorians, routing the battle droids, picking up orphaned children from the rubble. Such heroes. Who wouldn’t support the saviors, while the pacifists squabbled amongst themselves and fell to corruption?

“But Vizsla’s ambition did not account for the scheming of the Sith and their great plans,” Gideon resumed his pacing. “That fool Vizsla fell to Maul in a challenge that he should have seen coming. That’s when Bo-Katan realized her mistake. The Darksaber fell to the hands of an outsider, whose only goal was to use the throne and the Duchess to lure the Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi to Mandalore, to take his revenge on his longtime enemy by killing the Jedi’s one-time lover.

“And then— Death Watch split. Those who followed the Darksaber, sided with Maul. They wore red and black, to match the Zabrak, and horns on their helmets.” He paused, smirking knowingly at Din as his stomach dropped. “The others fled with Bo-Katan. They rescued the Jedi, who watched Satine die right in front of him before being imprisoned, and from there it devolved into madness until Bo-Katan re-emerged, with another Jedi and the Republic clones beside her. But… she didn’t have the Darksaber.” He unclipped a boxy hilt from his waist, and a brilliant black light leapt out, snarling with energy.

“But the Children of the Watch— what to do with them? Cloistered on Concordia, where Death Watch had been exiled for decades— why, might as well hunker down, and await the reemergence of the true Mand’alor. Which, was an open question— was it Maul, alive but defeated? Was it Ahsoka Tano, who bested him? Was it Bo-Katan, who claimed victory? Didn’t matter. Only history could offer refuge— and so they retreated, burying themselves in dogma and ancient ways, refusing Bo-Katan’s call to arms when she raised an army in a doomed fight against the Empire.

“It’s a cautionary tale, isn’t it? To be so buried in ancient history, that you cannot recognize your modern enemies. Kryze, the Jedi— you are either the most broad-minded Mandalorian alive, or the most ignorant. But I guess it doesn’t really matter now, does it, Din Djarin? All of that secrecy, abandoned for an enemy child. Your people truly scattered, so few in number that you must work with the murderer of your village. It makes you wonder.”

He extinguished the blade, and Din watched him step closer, spots dancing in his vision from the blade, Gideon’s head almost close enough to head-butt. But Din was barely conscious at this point, and remained still.

“I know you do. You think of it constantly. Honor is everything, isn’t it? But at what cost?”

And with that, Gideon withdrew and stepped briskly towards the entrance, Gideon’s hand flicked, and the trooper beside Din turned the machine back on.

That shabuir.

He’d tried and failed to deduce how Gideon found them again; they’d been careful. Din had lost track of time, his thoughts fractured by the pain. He tried not to consider the possibility of permanent damage, in the unlikely event of his survival.

He tried to not think about a lot of things, failing miserably as they cycled through his exhausted brain, interrupted only by the machine. Not all of Gideon’s ‘story’ was new. Ahsoka had filled in many blanks, as had Rex. But the details concerning his covert— well, Gideon was ISB. He was a master liar. But… Din believed him. Remembered the Armorer’s shifting stance on the jet’ikaade, her sudden recollection of details about Jedi that would have been really karking nice to know when he’d started; the dim memories of Concordia. It fit, all too horribly well.

And Bo— that was painfully easy to believe. She’d been conniving and manipulative, twisting Din’s code of honor to suit her needs, reneging on the deal they’d struck until she got what she wanted. Her secrets and duplicitous behavior had nearly gotten them all killed more than once. It was frankly a wonder that anyone still followed her lead. Ahsoka had mentioned the false flags; Din just hadn’t considered that his village counted among the victims.

Which begged the question: if she somehow resumed leadership, became the Mand’alor again and earned the Darksaber— would he honor his own pledge, and follow? Could he hold true to his oath and follow someone like that, when her actions flouted everything that he believed a Mandalorian should be?

Not that it mattered, really— he was trapped on an Imperial ship, with no means of escape; ambushed at a hyperspace junction. Fett and Shand would never know what happened. And no one would come looking for him and the kids.

It took everything within him not to lose his mind with fear and despair when his thoughts would circle around to the realization that Grogu was in that monster’s hands again. After everything— Kuiil and IG-11’s sacrifices, losing the Crest— Gideon had gotten his bloody hands on his son, and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought made him sick.

Grogu— and Ben, even more so— they had softened him. Din had been conditioned to lose, he’d lost so much in his life and kept losing, and he was prepared— until Grogu. Until Ben. Until Rex and Wolffe and Dune and Fett and Fennec— he had people who held onto him, people to lose again and it nauseated him.

But… he couldn’t regret anything, other than failing to protect Grogu. And that was the thought that kept him sane, kept him from questioning everything. He knew the cost of his honor. Gideon knew nothing of what it meant to be a Mandalorian. What Din valued above everything else, including his sworn Creed. Raising a stewjon’ad had thrown the nuances of his beliefs into sharp relief, and Din had had ample time on hunts to consider them, reconcile them. He’d never regret embracing Grogu as his son, even if it had cost him his place among his covert. He loved the children, their sweet curiosity and generous nature, their attentiveness in learning the Way of the Mandalore.

No, Din Djarin knew the exact cost of his honor. And its value. He knew exactly what he’d pay to preserve it, and he knew the price of sacrificing it. And while he wanted more time with his children, a chance to free them, he could die now with no regrets. Well, one regret. Ben deserved a real buir, not that dar’buir jet’baji of his Remembrances. His clever, compassionate, sassy verd’ika, so eager to learn and prove himself, full of so much potential. He didn’t want Ben to lose another aliit.

No one had mentioned Ben. No one mentioned anything, actually, not speaking to him as they turned the machine on and off, feeding him, silently dragging him to the refresher to relieve himself and hose him off. The realization inspired equal parts hope and dread, and the longer time went on without any apparent awareness of his presence, the tighter the tension ratcheted within Din.

Maybe Ben had escaped. But why not interrogate Din over the escaping stowaway? In fact, he hadn’t seen Gideon since he was first strapped into this chair.

At least, he didn’t remember seeing the shab.

So then Ben must still be on board, either hiding on their ship, or stowed away somewhere on the cruiser. The teen was a Jedi, he could have abilities to hide himself. But for how long?

The trooper on guard reached over and turned the device on, and Din’s thoughts vanished like mist on Tatooine as bolts of electricity arced across his body, skating from plate to beskar plate.

Time passed strangely as Din twitched and groaned, still fighting to not cry out.

The machine was still on as another trooper entered the cell, carrying a cup with a tray on it. They set the tray down, then turned to the trooper on guard, waving their hand in a passing motion.

“You will go take your shift break now.”

“I’ll go take my shift break now,” the trooper nodded, and left. The trooper with the tray approached, switching off the device. The electricity disappeared, leaving his muscles spasming and twitchy; the twitching never stopped now. If he was lucky, he simply passed out between rounds. The trooper leaned forward to feed the straw under his helmet, and for a moment, Din considered head-butting him. But he was in no condition to escape; black spots danced in his vision, and his arms trembled violently.

And then the trooper spoke.

“Please drink, buir,” came the soft Mando’a in that archaic accent Din hadn’t managed to correct yet. “I only have a few moments. Just drink, the video surveillance is still on.”

He'd finally snapped.

“I’m hallucinating,” Din rasped. “It can’t be you.”

“It’s me, buir. Don’t you recognize my terrible accent?” Din could hear the smile in the trooper’s voice. “Missy is on patrol, collecting intel for me. Char is in a crate in the hold, sleeping. I put a Force suggestion on him.”

Din slumped. “Ben’ika.” Tears pooled beneath his buy’ce. How ironic, that this could be the moment that broke him.

“Drink, buir,” Ben pleaded. Din dutifully pulled the straw into his mouth and drank greedily, forcing his spasming throat to swallow and praying that he didn’t throw it all up in his next bout with the machine. Ben shifted slightly, blocking the camera in the corner, and stripped off a glove, wrapping callused, sun-kissed fingers around Din’s wrist. The spasms in his chest and extremities began to subside.

“I found my brother, they’ve got him in Force suppressing cuffs. He’s okay, just tired. They took blood samples. I’ve visited him already.”

“Get him and run,” Din rasped as quietly as he could. “Please, save yourselves. I’ll die with honor, knowing that my boys are safe.”

Ben made a wounded sound inside his stolen helmet. “Even if I agreed to that, they scuttled the ship.”

“Then steal another—”

“I called Boba for help. Gave him Cara and Kryze’s comm information, and everything I could about this ship. Help is coming. Just hang in there a little longer.” Ben’s fingers flexed on his wrist for a moment, then withdrew, pulling the glove back on again. “I’m sorry I can’t do more right now. I can’t stay any longer.” But the boy made no move to leave, seemingly rooted to the spot.

“It’s okay, Ben’ika,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” and the words came out in a sob that stabbed Din worse than the electricity. “I— your pain— and I can’t stop it, or they’ll know—“

“This is not on you, ner ad.” He tried to shift his hand within the shackle, to grip Ben’s wrist, but his hand wouldn’t cooperate and he would not think about that right now— Ben’s hand gently slid into his. “It’s only pain.”

“It’s only pain,” Ben echoed, as though trying to convince himself. “I will come back as soon as I can, and if the situation changes—”

“Forget that— I’m proud of you,” Din coughed. “When Fett gets here, get to your brother. And If it all goes to shit, save your brother. Promise me.”

“I swear, buir,” Ben gently squeezed his hand and then straightened, turning with military precision, and marched out with the tray, nodding at the guard on duty outside the cell. Din watched him go, chest aching and a trembling, tear-stained smile safely tucked away in his helmet.

Ben had never called him buir before.

It wasn’t formal adoption, but it might be as karking close as Din would ever get, and he savored the moment, treasuring the sound of the word on his son’s lips until the guard came in and wiped away all coherent thought with the flick of a switch.

Chapter Text

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:15:23      CHARGE COMPLETE. EXECUTE COMMAND “return to our hiding place”.

BK-1: “Perfect timing, Missy. I sense that our reinforcements are close; according to the schedule, the shuttle should be arriving in the next ten minutes or so. I need your help with this next bit. Can you be brave and help?”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:15      COMMAND COMPLETED. BIOFORM QUERY “can you be brave and help” LOGGED. RESPONSE REQUIRED: UNKNOWN. REVIEW PRIORITY COMMANDS. W-01: “all commands and requests that safeguard the life and wellbeing of Ben Kenobi, Grogu, Din Djarin supersede any other commands.” RESPONSE REQUIRED, AFFIRMATIVE.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:20      beep beep

BK-1: “I’m sorry to ask this of you. You can say no.”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:22      BIOFORM STATEMENT “you can say no” LOGGED. REVIEW PRIORITY COMMANDS. W-01: “all commands and requests that safeguard the life and wellbeing of Ben Kenobi, Grogu, Din Djarin supersede any other commands.” BK-01: “commands that risk continued existence of MSE-6-I337Z may be refused.” ANALYSIS COMMAND EXECUTED. RESPONSE REQUIRED, AFFIRMATIVE.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:25      beep beep

BK-1: “As long as you’re sure. I need you to sabotage security systems. Disable doors, cut power, any kind of mischief you can manage. Take care with life support, but everything else— lights, security— bring it all down.”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:30      BIOFORM COMMAND “sabotage security systems” LOGGED. COMMAND VIOLATES BASE PROGRAMMING. PRIORITY COMMANDS SUPERSEDE BASE PROGRAMMING. RESPONSE REQUIRED, AFFIRMATIVE.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:17:32      beep beep

BK-1: “you’ll do great, Missy. You’ve done so well already; your recon has been flawless. This is the last step. Be careful, and do not draw attention to yourself; find a terminal where there is low foot-traffic, so that no one sees you accessing the systems. Do not take action until the shuttle has landed. We have to time this perfectly. Din asked me to retrieve Grogu first, so that’s where I will go. Do what you can for Din, buy me some time to get to Grogu before I go for Din. Can you do that?”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:18:35      BIOFORM COMMAND "Be careful, and do not draw attention to yourself; find a terminal where there is low foot-traffic, so that no one sees you accessing the systems. Do not take action until the shuttle has landed. We have to time this perfectly. Din asked me to retrieve Grogu first, so that’s where I will go. Do what you can for Din, buy me some time to get to Grogu” LOGGED. BIOFORM QUERY “can you do that” LOGGED. RESPONSE REQUIRED, AFFIRMATIVE. EXECUTE PERSONALITY SUBROUTINE: CONFIDENCE

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:18:45      beep beeeeeep beep beep

BK-1: “I admire your confidence, Missy. It's well-earned. We have— ten minutes now. And— the shuttle has been sighted. Best get going. I will meet you back here when it’s done, I will not leave without you. Okay?”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:00      BIOFORM QUERY “okay” LOGGED. CONFIRMATION RESPONSE REQUIRED, AFFIRMATIVE.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:01      beep

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:01      COUNTDOWN INITIATED, T-10 MINUTES.

BK-1: “May the Force be with you, Missy.”

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:30      BIOFORM STATEMENT “may the Force be with you” LOGGED. EXECUTE W-1: “and with you” RESPONSE.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:32      beeeeep beeeeeep bee beep beep beeeeeep beeeeeep

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:19:35      BIOFORM REACTION “surprise” LOGGED.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:28:59      CONSOLE ACCESSED. PERIMETER SECURITY CONFIRMED. BASE PROGRAMMING DEACTIVATED. EXECUTE “sabotage” COMMAND. PRIORITY: DD-3. RECALL LOG: “they’re torturing him, Missy. They have a machine electrocuting him. If I could cut the power— but then they would know something is wrong. I can’t save him yet.” ANALYZE COMMAND LOG. EXECUTE “sabotage the power, the security” COMMAND TO: DETENTION LEVEL 1.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:29:01      CONFIRM: POWER OFFLINE TO DETENTION LEVEL 1.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:29:55      EXECUTE “sabotage the power, the security” COMMAND TO: TK BARRACKS 1, TK BARRACKS 2, TK BARRACKS 3, OFFICERS QUARTERS LEVEL, ARMORY, BRIDGE. BRIDGE COMMAND DENIED, AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

MSE-6-I337Z: 12:32:55 EXECUTE “sabotage the power, the security” COMMAND TO: BRIDGE, DENIED. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

UNKNOWN: “Lieutenant said it was coming from down here— what the, it’s a droid!”

UNKNOWN 2: “Blast it!"

“This is a shit plan.”

Axe summoned the remaining dregs of his patience and refrained from pinching the bridge of his nose, opting to glance at the others surrounding the holo-table to gauge reactions to Bo-Katan’s assessment.

Not great.

The assassin Fennec Shand looked unimpressed, the ghostly blue of the display doing nothing to soften the flat stare aimed squarely at his alor. Marshal Dune hadn’t bothered to hide her eye-roll. Fett’s reaction was hidden by his buy’ce, but if the slow tilt of his head was any indicator, he was genuinely contemplating murder. Mercifully, Koska had kept her reaction silent this time; she’d already gotten into it twice with Fett, and Shand looked about ready to slip one of those slim blades in Koska’s eye if she went for a third round.

Frankly, it was a kriffing miracle that no blood had been spilled yet.

Well, other than those Imperial pilots, but they didn’t count.

“I want Gideon, but this will get us blown out of the void before we even get close,” Bo-Katan continued. “And while no one may miss you,” she shot Fett a nasty smirk, “I have a people to lead and a planet to restore.”

Even with his buy’ce on, Fett looked about one second from putting a bolt between her eyes. Axe couldn’t decide whether he’d stop him; he had no love for the clone, but even he was contemplating murder at this point.

If he was tracking this right, Ben and his family had been on Gideon’s ship for three days already. Axe was… ambivalent, on Mando, but he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, and Ben and the green kid were just that— kids. And Ben was stewjon’ad. He knew what Gideon was capable of, and he itched to be placing some targeted holes in some Imps already. Bo’s dithering was grating on Axe’s last nerve as well.

“The doctor says we need to get on the ship before they deploy the Dark Troopers,” Dune cut in. “A staged emergency is our best bet at ensuring that we’re not stopped for clearance codes we don’t have.” The burly marshal thankfully didn’t recognize him from his surveillance on Nevarro, and had proven willing to work with everyone to rescue Mando and his ade, and take down Gideon. Which was good, because in the absence of someone from Mando’s aliit, she was the glue holding together the most dysfunctional rescue squad, ever. And to her credit, she looked ready to beat everyone into submission to do it.

Axe respected that.

“She’s right,” Fennec piped up, and Axe stifled his amusement as Dune’s expression brightened and her cheeks flushed. “The urgency of a chase would forestall the need for transmitting clearance codes.”

“That’s not how Gideon works,” Bo-Katan insisted. “He’d rather see the good doctor blown up than compromise his security.”

“That is true,” Dr. Pershing nodded from his seat off to the side, still dabbing the Imperial pilot’s blood from his face and hair; he’d finally recovered from the shock of standing right next to a man who took a blaster shot point-blank in the face when the motley rescue crew confiscated the ship. Axe couldn’t begrudge Cara for putting down the pilot after his verbal potshots at Alderaan, but it did complicate matters. It would have been useful to have the pilots on-hand. But they had resisted being boarded after Fett disabled their ship, and Axe would have shot them in the face for comments on Mandalore, so.

Improvise and adapt.

Fett wouldn’t say why it was so important to take this ship before attempting an assault on Gideon’s ship, and Axe now wondered if the clone had even known. The convenient timing of taking the one ship carrying Gideon’s most-important researcher, one that also happened to be a total hut’uun and begged them to turn him in alive for his bounty instead of killing him, and volunteering scads of intel, enabling them to sneak into Gideon’s ship— felt too coincidental.

This felt like… jetii osik.

“Then—" Fett's long range comm pinged. The hair on the back of Axe’s neck prickled as Fett read silently and looked up.

“I have the clearance codes,” he announced. “New plan. We’ll—”

“What?” Kryze interrupted sharply.

“I… have… the… clearance… codes,” he repeated slowly, clearly enjoying her mounting frustration. “Mando’s other kid is hiding onboard. He’s feeding us intel as he gets it.”

“Just like that, exactly when we need it?”

Axe caught the half-breath of hesitation, and put two-and-two together. In this one thing, at least, they were agreed.

“I told you about his other kid,” Axe cut in smoothly, drawing the attention to himself, ignoring Fett’s sharp helmet tilt, letting his relief in knowing that Ben was alive and unharmed feed the confidence of his comment. “The one interested in the stewjon’ade. He’s clever, probably snuck onboard. Guess the Manda provides.”

Kryze didn’t look convinced— if anything, she looked more disbelieving, as if he’d said something out of character (which frankly, he had)— but everyone else nodded and relaxed. Fett stared at him for a moment, then with a tiny nod, started again.

“We go in undercover, then. We take the Imp’s shuttle, transmit the codes. Once in the hangar, it’s a full assault. Two teams; Kryze leads team one to neutralize the security and get Gideon. Team two handles any security between the hangar and the detention wing, and extracts Mando’s family.”

The bounty hunter glanced at the chrono, then at the group. “Let’s get moving.” He then stomped off towards the Imp’s shuttle. Any later and the delay would be suspicious. Shand moved to grab Dr. Pershing, but Axe stepped forward to intercept.

“We have holding cells onboard,” he offered. The assassin glanced at Fett, who shrugged. She echoed the gesture, and waved at the researcher huddled in his seat.

“He can eat your ration bars, instead of ours,” she smirked, and sauntered off, Dune hot on her heels.

“Alor’ad?” Axe pulled his bemused gaze from the motley crew and focused on the confused verd in front of him. “Orders?”

“Lock this one up, live bounty protocol,” he replied. “When it’s time to bring in reinforcements, stun him.”

“That’s really not necessary,” began the researcher, paling at the thought. The verd snorted and grabbed the researcher’s arm and hauled him up, marching him off with two more verde following behind. Axe watched them go, shaking his head.

Easily the weirdest op he’d been on in the last five years. But he had the niggling feeling that this was normal when Mando and Ben were involved, if Fett, Shand and Dune’s strange acceptance of the whole situation was any indicator.

“All right,” Bo-Katan spun in the copilot seat to face the crew that had crowded into the cockpit, an hour later. “Who has the best fake Imperial accent?”

Axe raised an eyebrow, watching the motley crew stare at each other before Dune sighed.

“That’ll be me,” she suddenly slipped into a high Alderaani accent. “Move.” She pushed past Axe and stationed herself next to the shuttle’s comms, making a fist for silence as the line went live.

“Shuttle X247697, transmit your clearance codes.”

Fett punched the console’s buttons, then nodded at Dune.

“Codes transmitted,” she replied. The shuttle stood eerily silent, only the hum of the engines breaking the tension that grew thicker as the moment stretched.

“Shuttle X247697, you are clear for landing,” came the crisp reply.

“Copy that,” Dune bit out, then cut the connection. She shouldered past Axe again, making for the hatch. Axe had a half-assed quip that died on his tongue as he met Shand’s unimpressed stare. Deciding that he liked his eyes in their current shape and color, he swallowed it down and followed Dune back to the hatch, where the rest of the Nite Owl squad they’d brought was wrapping up their gear-check. Dune caught him staring, and leveled a challenging glare at him. He raised his hands in surrender. He wouldn’t mind a spar, but they didn’t have time. Koska sidled up alongside him, shooting him a confused glance.

“Why did you volunteer to go with the clone?” she asked quietly.

Axe had expected the question, had known the moment that the rest of the Nite Owls had tilted their helmets in astonishment at his immediate offer to accompany Fett. It had been slightly suspicious, his anxiety getting the better of him. But he’d had an hour to come up with an alibi, and smirked confidently at the young woman. “Someone had to make sure he stayed on-task,” he lied easily. “Are you complaining about a chance to show the alor that you’d be a better second?”

Koska frowned, and for a moment, his confidence faltered. Maybe he should have taken another approach— “I don’t need you out of the picture to prove that,” she retorted, and Axe swallowed his relief.

“Well, don’t look a gift massif in the mouth,” he snarked, just to piss her off a little more. An irritated Koska was a Kryze toady who asked fewer questions. He turned, to find Shand staring at him, her expression calculating. He returned a bland, slightly mocking smile, knowing she didn’t buy it for an instant. He’d heard about Shand; no one made it this far as a stupid assassin. But she hadn't gutted him yet, so there must have been something reassuring that she'd picked up on.

Truly, the most dysfunctional rescue squad ever, he decided, as the shuttle landed with a gentle thump. Everyone here was as likely to kill each other, as they were the Imps. And do it with style.

Bo appeared, muscling her way to the front of the crew, then glanced back, leveling a sharp nod at them all before opening the hatch. Axe watched as her team streamed out, Dune flanking Bo on the left with the biggest fucking carbine he'd ever seen, Koska on Bo’s right, and Shand covering the crew from the rear, sniping targets.

Fett moved up alongside him, silent for a long moment. The sounds of blaster fire and explosions had faded when he finally moved. “Let’s go.”

Axe covered his six as they stole through the smoke-filled hangar, hugging the shadows and taking out targets as silently as possible. Half of the halls stood pitch-black, even the emergency lights powered down, and he frowned as he switched to night-vision. What was going on? Fett moved forward confidently, as though he had expected this, and yet when the troopers they encountered were scattered, disoriented, the clone hesitated again and again to shoot the shabuire, waiting until they were spotted and shot at before dispatching the enemy. After the third time, he simply sniped the Imp over the clone’s shoulder, startled when Fett whirled back and shoved him into a wall.

“What the fuck—”

“Ben is disguised as a stormtrooper, mir’osik,” Fett practically growled at him, his voice gravelly and harsh over the in-helmet comms. Axe gaped at him from beneath his own bucket.

“And you didn’t think that was important intel to share?”

Fett shoved at his shoulder again. “No. The less anyone knows about him, thinks about him—”

“Don’t banthashit me— I’m here for Ben, clone,” Axe snapped, shoving back and straightening. “I know what he is. What he can do. And I know who you are, what you’ve done. I’m here to make sure the jet’ik’aade get out safe. That gonna be a problem?”

What a karking world. A Mandalorian, protecting the Jedi. Then again, that was why they were all here, wasn’t it?

Fett didn’t answer for a long moment, long enough for a trooper to round the corner. The clone wrapped an arm around the unsuspecting trooper’s neck, paused for a moment, and then yanked, dropping the body like a rag doll. With the threat eliminated, he turned back to Axe.

“He’s more than you think,” the clone said reluctantly. “A lot more. And my history aside, Mando would burn the galaxy down for both kids. That’s enough for me.” He dropped the charge pack on his carbine and slammed a fresh one into the stock, then added, “You better watch Kryze, though,” before rounding the corner.

“Is that a threat?” Axe couldn’t help the question, though it wasn’t the one he wanted to ask. Something in Fett’s words set a chill under his skin.

“It’s a warning. Because she’ll kill him, once she figures it out. And if that happens, Mando might really burn the galaxy down.” A pause, and then, so quiet he could barely catch it, “so much for cin vhetin.”

Axe gaped, then shook his head, refocusing. This wasn’t the time; a distracted verd was a dead one. But the thought burrowed into his chest, like a frost, begging for his attention.

He followed Fett down the halls, pulling up the schematic in his buy’ce. Fett didn’t speak again until they got to the detention wing, listening to the comm chatter of the other group.

No one had found Gideon yet.

Fett finally turned to Axe. “Mando is on this wing. Cell 455.”

Axe considered the map, and then their quarry. “If Gideon’s still here, and went to the kids first, he’ll have the Darksaber. And possibly Dark Troopers. Mando could help in a fight.”

Fett nodded, hitting the console to open the door.

It wouldn’t move.

Axe tapped at the console. “Power’s out.” He turned to Fett. “Thoughts?”

The clone had already retrieved his gaffi stick from his back, and set the end in the crack. With a powerful shove, he wedged the door open. Axe grabbed an abandoned hovercart, and positioned it in the doorway to hold it open, before switching on the lights of his buy’ce.

“Why would they cut the power?”

“They didn’t,” came the low reply. “Ben did.” He pried open the door to cell 455, which mercifully remained open, and rushed in.

Axe followed more slowly, struggling to accept what the dim lights of their buy’cese revealed.

“Ka’ra, vod,” Fett breathed, switching to external comms, ripping open the restraints that held a limp Mando to the chair in the middle of the room. A device sat near him, pointed at the captive Mandalorian but offline. Axe now understood why Ben had cut the power, and swallowed down the bile. “What did they do to you?”

Axe took a deep breath, pushing the long-suppressed memories down, willing his hands to stop shaking with rage; he could barely manage the clasp. “It’s a weapon. Called the Duchess. Designed to interact with beskar to incinerate anyone wearing it. They dialed it down to torture him.” Of course— if anyone would have saved the schematics for such an abomination, it would have been Gideon. And he had weaponized Mando’s beliefs against him, probably to force him to beg for the beskar’s removal. Axe felt an unfamiliar well of sympathy mingle with the blinding fury in his chest. He might disagree with the cult, but Mando was a decent guy, a good warrior. Honorable.

That demagolka needed to die as slowly and as painfully as possible.

“Osi’kyr,” the clone muttered, catching Mando as he fell forward from his loosened restraints, checking his pulse, shaking him gently. “Mando, come on, kih’vod’ika. Don’t make me take the karking helmet off. Answer.”

“B-boba?” Mando’s voice came out in a whisper, and something clenched in Axe’s chest. “Boba. Is this— am I hallucinating again?”

“No, kih’vod’ika. We’re really here. We’re getting you out,” the clone wrapped an arm around Mando’s chest, hauling him up and over one shoulder, pulling loose a blaster with his free hand. Axe stepped in to mirror him on the other side, and they began to haul Mando out of the cell and down the hallway.

“You’re here, Ben said you would come, but… where are the ade?”

“I don’t know, kih'vod’ika,” and Axe glanced between the two, feeling… almost as though he was intruding. He had figured they were friends— after all, no one mounts a rescue for a rival colleague— but Fett sounded almost like a brother. A bizarre turn of events, given Mando’s whole… everything, as a Child of the Watch. And Fett being Fett. “I found you first. We’ll get you secure, and then—”

“No,” and it came out like a groan, but Axe’s heart tripped over the raw panic in his voice. “Them first, just leave me—”

“Bridge is secure,” Bo’s sharp voice cut through on comms. “No sign of Gideon. I want a sweep—”

“Put him on the sled, we’ll get him there faster,” Axe offered, as Mando tried and failed to wiggle free. “The bridge is—” he pulled up a schematic in his buy’ce, “one level up and two wings over. We’ll drop him off there, and go look for the ade.”

“No, just give m’a blaster—”

Axe glanced pointedly at the Mandalorian’s hands, which trembled violently, then at Fett.

“No, kih’vod’ika, you’re no good to us dead,” Fett said firmly, dumping Mando on the cart. He grabbed the handle and began hauling to the elevator, which still worked. “Let’s get you secure first.”

“‘m t-t-taller than you, v-vod. And the ade—”

“You cursed me with ‘Auntie Fennec,’” snapped Fett, wrestling Mando back onto the cart that he was trying to escape from. Axe shoved them all into the elevator as the doors opened. “You’re stuck with ‘Baby Brother.’”

Distracted by the flailing Mandalorian, Axe blinked as the elevator doors opened once more, and they tumbled out, cart and all. Getting their bearings, Axe and Fett glanced around, and froze.

“Osi’kyr,” Axe swore.

The sparking remains of what must have been a dozen Dark Trooper droids littered the half-lit hall. The dismembered husks were piled and slumped haphazardly, as though something had torn through them in their haste to get to the other side.

“Well,” Fett turned to the left, pushing the cart at a run and leaving Axe to scramble after him, “Ben’s fine.”

“Ner ad,” Mando tried to roll off the cart, and Axe ran alongside, shoving him back on. Contemplated whether strapping the Mandalorian down with his whip cord would go over well.

“Stay on the fucking cart, or’dinii,” Axe grumbled, dodging a flailing arm, masking his alarm with irritation. Mando’s total lack of motor skill— if that was permanent—

“He’s not there, kih’vod’ika,” Fett called, not slowing down. “Passed through. We’ll follow his trail as soon as we get you secure.”

Axe glanced back at Fett, doubtful. The clone shook his head.

“You ever fought a Jedi?”

“No,” Axe responded honestly.

“Only way to— defeat them,” Axe shot another look over his shoulder at the hesitation, “is by surprise, get them before they can sense your intent. If you hesitate, you’ve lost.”

Which explained why Fett hesitated with the troopers. Just in case.

“And get in tight. Most Jedi are osik at hand-to-hand. Ben though— he’s different.”

“He’s so good,” Mando slurred from the cart, pride bleeding through the pain. “An’ he bites. But he needs me—”

The open door of the bridge appeared around the next bend, just as Mando successfully rolled off the cart. Axe caught him by one arm and nearly went down, as the cart tilted dangerously and slammed into the back of his leg. Swearing loudly, Fett shoved the cart away and grabbed Mando by the other shoulder, hoisting both of them upright.

Axe was definitely not reluctantly impressed.

Together, they dragged Mando through the open hatch. The inky black of the massive viewport stood in stark contrast to the harsh glare of the lights that illuminated the bridge. The dull gray of Imperial officer uniforms littered the durasteel floor. A few Nite Owls had taken their places at the console, flipping switches. And in the center of the room, Dune and Bo stood arguing, while Koska and Shand stood off to one side, watching tensely.

“— if I don’t find Gideon—”

“That’s not our primary— Mando!” Dune spotted them and ran over, grabbing the half-conscious Mandalorian and muscling him single-handedly into a chair, before reaching into a pouch to pull a med-scanner, one of those crummy ones the Rebels usually carried. Fett yanked it away and shoved a far more expensive one into her hand, so she dropped the look of murder that briefly appeared. “What happened to you?”

“Does—doesn’t matter,” Mando slurred, trying to get out of his chair and nearly falling out. “Ner ade—”

“You stay,” Fett clamped a hand on his shoulder, pinning him to the chair. “They electrocuted him, check his heart. We will go search for the kids—”

“We need to find Gideon,” Bo hissed.

“You do— I need to find the kids. That was the plan—”

“Your inside man said he was here. If you’ve double-crossed me—”

“Don’t question my honor.”

“Don’t make me laugh—”

“Check the escape pods. Lock down the hangar. Not my problem. I’m here for Mando and the kids, that’s what we agreed to—”

Axe chose this moment to retreat, to where Koska and Shand stood on the other side of the bridge.

“What’s going on?”

“No one can find Gideon,” Koska had pulled off her buy’ce, and he followed suit. She looked nervous. “What happened to Mando?”

“They tortured him… with the Duchess. Smaller version,” he replied, watching how her eyes widened in horror, then shift to Mando with something akin to pity… and awe.

“How is he alive?”

“Not sure. Stubbornness, maybe. Mandokar, definitely,” he said, sighing heavily. “Means ‘made of the right stuff,’” he elaborated, for the confused assassin listening to the conversation. “So no one knows where that monster Gideon is."

“Has it occurred to anyone that if we find the kids, we’ll find the maniac who captured them?” Shand drawled, and honestly, it was a good point. But as Axe glanced back at Fett and Bo, both of whom were now shouting, there wasn’t much point in trying to interrupt that.

A flicker of movement in his peripheral caught Axe’s attention, and he looked to the open door of the bridge. His eyes widened. Then they dropped, and widened further.

Osi’kyr.

Chapter Text

“May the Force be with you, Missy.”

Ben blinked in surprise as the droid beeped back before zooming off. Who programmed her with the response? A mystery for another day, if they survived this one.

Swallowing down his nerves, he turned to the lava meerkat, who peered about the hangar with interest. He’d been asleep and trapped in their little cave of safety in the remote corner of the hangar. Now, he looked about in curiosity, taking in the strange sights.

“Char, can you help?”

The lava meerkat chirruped, and Ben’s chest ached. A droid was one thing— but a lava meerkat was so obviously out of place, stood a much higher chance of getting hurt. The shuttle was due in ten minutes; ten minutes before all hell would break loose and attention would not be concentrated on them— but it only took one errant shot to end it all.

He knew that better than most.

“I need you to start some fires. Stay out of sight, but anywhere you can, get things on fire. Melt some plastoid, torch some consoles, whatever you can. Can you do that?”

The lava meerkat chirped, then took off, sprinting on all fours low to the floor.

Ben tore off the torso and upper arm and thigh pieces, leaving the extremities and shoulders covered and deliberately ignoring how vulnerable the tight body glove felt without the useless plastoid. It was necessary. He’d need his full range of motion for what came next.

Pulling his lightsaber from his satchel, he stuffed the bag back in the panel and sprinted for the detention block, his notice-me-not wrapped tightly about him as he went. Halfway there, alarms began to blare, and chatter filled the halls of fires, malfunctioning systems, and blaster fire in the hangar. They had come.

The comm chatter of a passing trooper caught his attention, and he slowed for a moment, listening.

“It’s a rat!”

“Shoot the rat!”

“Negative, cease fire, CEASE FIRE. The karking thing just blew up the chow hall, shooting it only makes it worse.”

Well, then. Happy turn of events, there. He hoped Missy was faring just as well.

He continued on his way, undeterred by the sudden pitch-black of the hallways as the lights, then the emergency lights cut out. No one noticed the redheaded teen racing through the halls, his Force trick holding steady.

It worked great on the stormtroopers.

Not so great on the Dark Troopers.

The hulking droids had already begun to enter the hall, lumbering towards him. Ben dove to the ground, tucking and rolling past the first two, then jumped up, igniting his saber and slashing all four to pieces, gleaming pieces of durasteel flying in every direction. Reaching out with the Force, he grabbed one, and threw it into the other, leaping after them to dismantle them. It felt so excessive— they were only droids, following orders, and he tried to not think of some trooper using Missy as target practice— but they stood between him and his clan, and it wasn’t really a choice. In moments, the hall resembled a droid repair shop, and Ben stepped gingerly around them, and sprinted down the next hall.

Two guards stood at Grogu’s cell, and they raised their blasters. With a sharp yank in the Force, Ben ripped the blasters from their hands, and Force-pushed them into the wall, where they crumpled like wet rags, alive but unconscious. He waved open the cell door.

Grogu sat on a bench at the far end of the room, his little cuffs glowing. Ben nearly stepped in, then hesitated. It would be the perfect trap—

But Grogu cooed at him, then toppled over onto his side, and Ben was across the cell in an instant. The child blinked blearily at him, and an inferno of compassion and rage filled Ben, setting a slight tremble in his fingers as he unclasped the cuffs. To harm a child—

I am also a Jedi. Calm. A Jedi does not act in anger.

The bond flared to life, relief-love-gratitude flooding from Grogu’s end as he grew more alert. Then a flare of panic.

“Well.” Ben thanked the hard-won instincts developed on Melida-Daan as he swiftly turned and ignited his saber, falling into the defensive stance of Soresu without faltering. Only— this was no trooper.

“This is a surprise. And I am difficult to surprise.”

Moff Gideon.

He wore a strange outfit, all black with an absurdly long cape and bits of armor. It almost looked like Mandalorian armor. A rectangular hilt hung at his belt, an unusual design but the mournful song of the kyber rang true; this man had a lightsaber, for some reason. But he was not Force Sensitive; he must have stolen it. Ben beat back a flare of indignation at the fact, determined to stay focused as he catalogued the man before him. But what drew Ben’s attention was the calculating smirk and the ice-cold eyes of the Imperial. This man was clever, and dangerous.

This was the man responsible for Grogu’s capture, and years of hiding. Responsible for Din’s torture, the destruction of his ship, his whole covert— this man had cost them so much. And now he stood before Ben, smirking.

A flare of rage unlike anything he’d ever felt rose hot and fast in his chest, and his hands shook slightly on the hilt of the saber. The power to punish was right there—

I will not give in to the Dark, Ben swore desperately to himself. Rescue, not vengeance. There was a justice system for a reason, and this man would pay— just not by his hand. Getting Grogu and Din out of here was more important. Ben’s anger, at the injustice, in defense of life, his determination to protect, was understandable, justified; all the same, he would not be governed by it.

Ben took a deep breath, and with a massive effort, let go of the rage. Mind clear, he catalogued the Moff once more, calculating his odds. The Imperial stared back, clearly doing the same; the man’s eyes raked over Ben’s face and hair.

“I was confident that only two occupants were in that craft, that Din Djarin’s latest charity case had remained behind on Glavis. And yet here you stand, a Stewjoni, in stolen armor, wielding a lightsaber of all things. Have I somehow gained two Jedi? Or are you an imposter, child?”

“I am leaving, and you will let us pass.”

“A Stewjoni with a Coruscanti accent,” Gideon’s eyebrow rose. “Even more intriguing. But I’m afraid that you are going nowhere. Not if you want the child to live.”

“If you know the Stewjoni,” Ben let his expression harden, “then you should know not to get between a Stewjoni and their kin. Stand aside.”

“Kin. That is a bold claim. All the same—” Gideon drew the lightsaber hilt and ignited it.

It was black.

“That’s not yours,” Ben declared. It burned, the ancient kyber’s raging song howling to be out of the hands of the unworthy. It yearned for connection. Retrieving that saber became Ben’s second objective— after rescuing Grogu and surviving this encounter, of course.

“Actually, it is mine. I won it from Bo-Katan.”

Actually, that changed nothing. “That’s not how lightsabers work. It’s not a trophy. And it doesn’t want you."

“You don’t recognize this. Interesting,” Gideon commented lightly, his gaze never wavering. “This, little Jedi, is the Darksaber. The weapon of Mand’alor Tarre Vizsla. Retrieved from the Jedi Temple by his descendants, and wielded by the rightful leader of Mandalore.”

“That is a stolen lightsaber, and it’s not yours,” Ben countered stubbornly, contemplating whether to shift from Soresu to Ataru. This space had low ceilings, though. And Shii-Cho wouldn’t help. Gideon wasn’t Sensitive, and he may not know how to use a lightsaber, but he was older, bigger, and an unknown opponent. Niman could work, but there was nothing to throw in the cell, and unless he threw Gideon into the wall really hard, there was no guarantee that tossing Gideon around would end the fight; he couldn’t afford for the man to summon reinforcements.

Soresu it is.

“Now now, let’s listen to reason, shall we? If you really are a Stewjoni Jedi, then perhaps you’ll accept a deal,” Gideon attempted an honest, earnest expression that could not mask the slimy cold of manipulation in the Force. “If you come willingly, I will let the child and Din Djarin go, alive. I’ll even let you examine the lightsaber, hm? Surely you would find such a storied weapon interesting. You assist me with my research, and Din Djarin and the child go free. Two lives for one.”

This guy really did like saying Din’s name. Ben swallowed a slightly hysterical laugh and refocused.

“I really am a Stewjoni Jedi,” Ben managed a small smile. “Which is how I know that you’re lying.”

Gideon’s expression dropped into an angry snarl, evidently not used to being denied.

“I am taking my brother, and my guardian, and that saber,” Ben let his eyes fall briefly to the beskar hilt in the Imperial’s hand, before returning to those ice-cold eyes now warming in anger, “and I will go through you if you do not let me pass. Last chance to stand down."

“Then come and take it, child,” Gideon snapped, charging forward with a wide swing. Ben darted forward and knocked the swing wide with a quick tap, the blades barely clashing.

The Imperial had power, but not speed. Ben snuck out viper-fast ripostes between blocks, singeing the man’s armor and forcing him back to regroup. The temptation to slip into a more aggressive form lingered, but Ben knew that too much confidence would cost dearly; this was no spar, and Gideon was willing to kill. Even if the Imperial did not know the forms and where to find the weaknesses, Ben wouldn't make it easy for him. Soresu was an impenetrable fortress of defense, and Ben’s best chance was to wear the man down and then strike, unless he sensed that the man planned to cheat.

I am a Jedi. I do not strike in anger, or strike first. I stand for justice, not vengeance.

Gideon came forward again, and Ben met him halfway, gaining some extra space between him and Grogu. “You have training,” Gideon grunted, confused and distracted as he stabbed and found his movement pushed away once again. “How? Where? The Jedi are all dead.”

Ben wouldn’t let the reminder hurt, letting it pass over him like water. “You obviously have no training,” he snipped, watching as the thought further distracted the Imperial. He remembered suddenly the spar with Quinlan (don’t dwell, not now) where his creche mate grew more and more distracted and irritated as Ben prattled on, ultimately forced into a spar-ending error by the constant chatter. Or, it would have been the end of the spar, if Quinlan hadn’t chucked his saber away and launched himself at Ben with an almighty roar.

It worked with Quinlan. Perhaps it would work again.

“It’s a lightsaber. An elegant weapon of precision. Not a sledgehammer.” He bit back a smile as the man’s signature roared with offense. He sank deeper into the Force, letting it guide his movements as he prattled on.

“And how do you know that we’re all dead?” Ben queried politely, batting away another heavy swing with a light flick of his saber, darting forward to singe the man’s arm again. Gideon gritted his teeth, his signature suffused in pain and rage. “My abilities are a blessing from the Force; do you think you can kill the Force? You might as well eliminate all life. The Force is in everything, you know— or maybe you don’t—”

“I will kill you,” Gideon snarled, panting heavily as he shifted to the right and swung again, having been pushed back by a series of painful blows. Ben sensed his sudden understanding; Gideon knew he was outclassed. He intended to circle, use Grogu as leverage to force a surrender, or at least retreat with the little Jedi in tow.

Not a chance.

“—it’s an energy field, it surrounds us and penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together. And you—” Ben saw his opening, and dropped out of defense, charging forward in a blurringly fast series of moves, burning a shoulder, stabbing a thigh, slashing across the chest, feeling the Force guide his actions, surrendering to its intent “—will not harm it anymore.” And with a flick of the wrist, he sliced off Gideon’s saber hand.

And then—

Gideon was supposed to fall back as the Darksaber clattered to the ground, quiet again. Was supposed to try to block his next blow. Was supposed to retreat, give up, call for help with his remaining hand.

But Gideon zigged where Ben anticipated a zag. And there was no warning from the Force, as Ben’s follow-up blow went unchallenged and slid through the man’s chest instead when Gideon lunged forward. Gideon’s stunned look of horror seared itself into Ben’s brain, mirroring the shock on Ben’s face.

Why hadn’t the Force warned him?

He withdrew his blade, holding it defensively as Gideon toppled heavily to the floor. The all-too-familiar feel of a Force signature winking out confirmed that he was dead.

Ben allowed himself exactly one deep breath before moving again. This was not his first kill; not by a long shot. And not his first accidental kill, either. There was still much to do. He would process this later.

A quiet burble behind him had Ben quickly extinguishing his blade and whirling around to pick up Grogu. “You okay?”

Okay. Bad memories. But bad man is all gone now.

“Yes, all gone.” Bless the simple logic of children. “Let’s go find Din.”

Buir.

“Buir,” Ben echoed, smiling shyly, tucking Grogu into his left arm as he bent down to approach the Darksaber, his fingers hovering over the hilt. He could feel the kyber reaching for him, its song keening. Hopeful that it wouldn't reject him, he picked it up, feeling a warmth zip up his arm—

He stood in a desolate landscape, the ground’s texture unfamiliar under his bare feet— he looked down, to see stone warped and smoothed as though melted and reformed like volcanic rock. It stretched as far as the eye could see, and all around him, the stones sang a lament.

We were once beauty, bounty.

The scene changed, from lush terrain, to harsh sandy desert, to glass, the Force hollowing and crying in grief, and Ben realized with a sickening jolt—

This was Mandalore—

A rumble— no, a roar— deafening, vibrating in his bones, shaking the obsidian ground that cracked and shattered, as massive evergreens and huge furred and feathered animals shot from the underground, transforming the landscape—

A new beginning—

The roar had fallen to a throb in the air, punctuated by drumbeats, and chanting, Ben looked up into a blanket of stars, winking in time with the voices—

A new leader—

Wait, what?

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person,” he shouted, startled as he glanced at his own body now covered in a striking mesh of beskar armor and the tabards of the Jedi, met with laughter and the unmistakable sensation of being patted on the shoulder.

Blessed child of the Manda.

Oh, no. No no no. Not this again.

The sensation of little claws digging into the black body glove covering his chest greeted Ben’s return to consciousness first. He blinked, his swimming vision slowly resolving to reveal a pair of giant brown eyes staring into his.

Okay?

“How is it,” Ben held Grogu with one hand, shifting him to his lap as he hoisted himself up with the free hand still gripping the saber hilt, “that I can go ten years without a proper vision, and now I get one per week?”

You’re special.

“Specially cursed,” Ben muttered, wiping at his nose, grimacing at the crimson streak now gracing the back of his hand. “How long was I out?”

Just a few minutes.

“Wonderful,” he sighed.

You have the Darksaber, Grogu pointed at the hilt.

“Ah,” he stared down at the hilt in his hand, the bloodthirsty little kyber inside practically jumping for joy at the connection, eager for action. “That's going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

Mand’alor.

“I think not,” Ben snorted, regretting it as he wiped at his nose again. A teenage Jedi as Mand’alor. He deliberately ignored the ping of brightness from the Force at the thought. Absolutely not. “The Armorer said it used to be wielded by the Mand’alor. But I think we’ve established that that covert is, ah, not the norm in Mandalorian society. Kryze wanted Gideon, she didn’t say anything about the saber. And it’s a Jedi’s weapon.”

Ask buir. He’ll fix it.

“Sure,” he replied, with a confidence he didn’t feel as he clipped the saber to his utility belt. That would be way too convenient. Ben Kenobi never got that lucky. He set that aside to consider later. "Can you reach out, try to feel for Char?”

Ben lit his own blue saber and carefully approached the entrance to the cell, back through the hall of destroyed Dark Troopers, casting his senses for approaching life forms. But the hall, and the next one, were empty save for blaster bolt-ridden Stormtrooper bodies that lay crumpled on the floor. The one live trooper they encountered quickly backed up and began running the opposite direction; a staccato of blaster shots and the flare of a signature winking out of existence suggested that their rescue lay that way. Ben and Grogu quietly crept towards the sound of raised voices, and his heart leapt.

They had all come.

Boba Fett stood on the bridge of the ship, arguing with a redheaded Mandalorian who shouted back. Boba’s hand was pinning Din’s shoulder in place where he sat in a chair, Cara hovering about him with a med scanner; Din looked as though he were trying and failing to get out of the chair. Ben could feel his pain, even through the beskar; but his signature shrieked with panic-worry-protect, insensible to his own injuries. Fennec stood off to one side with a handful of blue Mandalorians, seemingly content to watch Boba and the redhead fight it out. Axe Woves stood with them, his helmet off, and clocked Ben first, eyes widening before quickly stifling his recognition.

“Grogu! Ben’ika!”

Din launched himself past Boba out of the chair, staggering towards them. Ben quickly extinguished the blade and ran forward, throwing out a hand to catch the Mando with the Force as he stumbled, using the Force to hold them all up as Din swept them into a crushing hug. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Where’s Gideon?”

Buir is hurt, Grogu sent through the bond. Give me to him, I can fix it.

“We're okay. Gideon’s dead,” Ben’s answer came out a bit muffled, with his face shoved against Din’s chest-plate. He could feel Din’s body trembling violently, and the grief and guilt welled hot and fast. He carefully shifted Grogu around to reach the small patch of skin exposed at Din’s wrist. “You’re hurt, buir, you need to sit—”

“He’s dead?” Ben cringed at the sharp tone of the redhead, full of rage and disappointment. Din stiffened. Ben pulled back to face the Mandalorian, whose un-helmed face was tight with anger, then dropped in stunned disbelief.

“Yes. My apologies,” he shifted his support of Din to one arm gave a short bow, remembering too late that Mandalorians scorned such things. Someone whispered, awestruck, “Manda, a stewjon’ad,” and he fought the urge to reach up and self-consciously touch the paint and the braids. “I am Ben—”

“Kenobi,” the redhead choked, suddenly whipping around to stare at Axe, whose bemused raised eyebrows cleverly hid a maelstrom of confusion-worry-protect in the Force. The redhead turned back again, staring at Ben once more. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re dead.”

Ben’s face drained, and he shot a glance at Boba, whose impassive helmed expression belied the anger-defensive-fear of his Force signature. Stifling a sudden desire to run, he mustered up a small smile as he mentally gauged the current distance of his hands to his sabers. “No, actually. If you met Obi-Wan Kenobi, the adult man you met is dead, but— well, it’s complicated, but I believe it’s been best described as time travel ka’ra osik.” Someone made a choking sound, but Ben couldn’t tear his eyes away from the redhead, who now glared at him as though he had personally done her wrong.

His heart clenched. Had he done her wrong? What did she know? Were they not safe now?

“Ad’ika,” Din pulled his attention away, “where is Gideon?”

Ben threw all of his focus into the question, trying not to flounder in the maelstrom of emotion and ratcheting tension in the room. “His body is in Grogu’s holding cell. He had a stolen lightsaber, and attacked me. I meant to disarm him and escape, but I didn’t anticipate his feint and killed him by accident. And retrieved the saber.” He unhooked the Darksaber and held up the hilt.

“Oh, haran,” Boba muttered, barely audible through the vocoder.

“That saber belongs to me,” the redhead hissed, taking a menacing step forward as a hand dropped to the blaster on her hip. One of her companions called out warningly, “alor, that’s a kid…”

But the redhead stopped abruptly as Din stepped in front of Ben, and several blaster charge packs whined to life around the room.

“Take one more step towards my kid, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Chapter Text

Everything hurt.

But that didn’t matter.

Because his kids were still missing.

And then they were here, and nothing else mattered—

Until Ben held up a saber hilt, and the galaxy tilted on its axis.

“Oh, haran,” Boba muttered, barely audible through the vocoder.

“That saber belongs to me,” the redhead hissed, taking a menacing step forward as a hand dropped to the blaster on her hip. One of her companions called out warningly, “Bo, that’s a kid…”

But Din heard nothing as he mustered the last of his energy and coordination to step in front of Ben’ika, fury setting a pounding thrum in his ears. He had no weapons, no plan.

But that had never stopped him from doing the right thing before.

“Take one more step towards my kid, and I’ll kill you myself.”

For one eternal second, only the low buzz of ship’s engines could be heard, punctuated by the squeak of gloves gripping blaster stocks.

“Before we all start shooting at each other,” Woves cut in, pacing very deliberately towards Ben; Din noted that he was the only one besides the ade, who hadn’t pulled a weapon— “I have a few questions?” He slotted himself in the space between Kryze and Din, motioning to the Nite Owls to lower their weapons before gripping the upper edge of his chest armor, his gauntlets now pointed at his face. He stared meaningfully at Din, who sighed and staggered. A strong grip grabbed him by the arm, and Boba dragged him back to the chair that he’d vacated; Ben and Woves followed. Behind Woves, Kryze stepped back and turned away, a startled expression on her face, as though she had only just realized that she had challenged a kid in a room full of his aliit.

Glancing about the room, he could almost acquit her. Emotions were high for them all. He would have been a wreck, if he had been on the rescue squad for his kids. And Gideon had cost them all dearly.

Still. That was his son she had threatened, even in a moment of thoughtlessness, and he felt grateful that Ben tacked close to him now. He wasn’t sure he could handle his kids being out of grabbing-range right now. Grogu hopped out of Ben’s arms into his lap, and immediately shoved his little claws under the hem of his sleeve. The pain and spasms began to fade.

Slowly.

Woves glanced around dramatically, as though checking to make sure everyone was nice and cozy. It was a sheb move, but Din couldn’t deny that it eased the tension. “Great. Now— did you just say you are a time traveler?”

“That is correct,” Ben stared straight at Woves as he answered, as though willing him to believe him. Din mostly focused on staying conscious and upright as Ben walked through his journey from Mandalore to Tython, then on to Nevarro. Grogu’s healing was helping, but the sinking realization had settled in his chest all the same.

The nerve damage was permanent.

Grogu let go, immediately passing out. Din cradled him closely, thanking him silently for trying. Intentionally not thinking about the tremors and weakness that remained.

“And what have you been doing since— uh, coming to this time?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what a Jedi does in a galaxy with no Jedi in it,” Ben smiled sadly. “Leveraging my skills to assist Magistrate Karga in Nevarro, learning city management, training with… Grogu, and Mando,” Din noted Woves’ slight eyebrow raise at the omission, but the other Mando let it go— “and reconnecting with my birth culture. I decided recently to swear the Creed, so Mando has been training me on the Way.”

“His covert’s beliefs?” Woves glanced at Din, his expression inscrutable.

“Not exclusively, no.” Ben shifted slightly. “I studied as much as I could on Mandalore before leaving for my mission. The archives had a copy of the Supercommando’s Codex, which I found really fascinating—”

“Of course you did,” muttered Boba.

“—and I am stewjon’ad, so some of the aspects of my— of his Creed, don’t align well with my Jedi upbringing or with what comes naturally as a stewjon’ad, so we’ve been working at a way to reconcile them all.”

“Right,” Woves blinked, a bit stunned by the comprehensive answer. “Now, explain exactly how you came to possess the Darksaber.”

“When I sensed your approach, I sent my pet droid and my pet Char— a lava meerkat from Nevarro— to sabotage systems and create some chaos while you began your assault, so that I would have a clear path to rescue Grogu, as I promised to do. I entered the cell and got him free, but we were stopped by Gideon. He was confused by my presence, and tried to bargain for the safe passage of my family. But I refused, and he wouldn’t step aside, so he drew his saber and attacked. I remained in a defensive form, because I did not want to attack in anger, and waited for the right moment to strike. I removed his saber hand—“

“You what—” Fennec started, waved down by Boba.

“And then— I thought he would retreat, I thought my next move would force him back further. But he lunged forward instead, and—” Ben turned to Din, his eyes a shining stormy blue.

“I’m sorry, buir— I swear, I didn’t mean to, I don’t know why the Force didn’t warn me to step back so that I didn’t—“

And there was his sweet, thoughtful teen, so anxious to please. This was not a being ready to shoulder the responsibility of a whole people.

“It’s okay,” Din soothed, pushing as much feeling and sincerity behind the thought as possible. He noted with grim satisfaction the slight fall of the boy’s shoulders. “I believe you. You did what was necessary, and you are safe now. We will handle the rest—”

“And what do you propose?” Kryze snapped, speaking for the first time since her claim. “The Jedi holds the Dha’kad’au, an aruetii who has no place as leader of Mandalore. The law is clear—”

“It’s a lightsaber!” Ben suddenly burst, almost frantic. “It’s a weapon, the weapon of the Jedi. We seek out the crystal in our Initiate Trials, like the verd’goten, and we bond with it. The construction of a lightsaber is a closely guarded secret. It’s a part of our soul, not a kingmaker. It was returned to the Temple by Master Vizsla to honor the ways of the Jedi because it is a Jedi weapon; it was never intended to be some sort of divine…. thing! It’s pained, and it’s happy to be bonded again, but—”

“It bonded with you?” And Din could see the instant Ben realized his mistake; he had not meant to reveal that.

“Yes— because it’s a Jedi’s weapon—”

“Ben, that might all be true,” Woves said, almost gentle, “but you cannot discount the fact that the few survivors of the Purge believe the saber makes the leader. That’s you.”

To Din’s horror, Ben’s expression of desperation suddenly smoothed into a blank neutrality.

“Of course. Perception is reality,” the teen said softly. He took a deep breath. “What must I do, then?”

No. No, this couldn’t be right. Surely the Manda would not be so cruel, to steal this boy’s childhood again.

“We need a minute,” Boba interrupted, and Din looked up to see the older Mandalorian tilting his buy’ce meaningfully at Woves, who nodded and stepped away. Ben looked down at him, confused.

“Just stay by me, and give me a chance to talk to Boba, ad’ika,” he said quietly, and the teen nodded, kneeling to check on Grogu, who lay snoring in Din’s lap.

“Vod— if you care about that kid, you need to adopt him, right now,” the gravelly voice sounded over his in-helmet comms.

“Of course I do. And I want to. But like this—”

“Right now, your priority is keeping him alive. There is no way they will let him leave this room without either accepting the title or challenging him. He’ll never survive a challenge right now, not against someone like Princess who is experienced in fighting Force users. And even if she doesn’t— it can’t be him, not yet. Trust me. I know what happens to kids who take this role on too young. It’ll destroy him. He needs time, and guidance. Adopt him, and take the title until he’s of age. If you don’t do it, he’ll follow his duty and go with Princess, and fuck-all could happen then.”

Din glanced over at Ben’ika, his heart aching. “He deserves better.”

“Maybe. But he needs you, now. ”

Din turned, looking up into Boba’s helmet. Maybe it was the torture, but he felt less inhibited, freer with his honesty. He had slammed Boba's comms with questions, that the man had patiently answered. He had asked Boba for intel on other coverts, and the man had read between the lines and offered him a job, a home for his aliit. Ben called for help, and Boba came. Creed or not, this was a man Din could call vod. “I’ll— I’ll need help. I don’t know what I’m doing, either.”

Boba didn’t answer, only nodding. But it was enough, giving Din a surge of resolve. He could do this. For Ben’ika, his ad. With Boba’s help. And Boba deserved to know. “Din. My name, it’s Din Djarin.”

Fett huffed, shaking his head. “You need a medbay, kih’vod’ika,” but his voice was gruff, like Wolffe’s, and Din managed a smile beneath his buy’ce, the muscles spasming at the effort. “Let’s get this shit done first, and get out of here.” He switched to his external mike and abruptly barked, “Kryze.”

Bo-Katan stalked over from the bridge, her eyes sparking with anger. Woves followed, expression wary.

“Well?”

“I will accept it on his behalf as regent,” Din announced, fighting a bizarre urge to laugh. This was insane. Maybe he had gone insane; maybe he was still in that room with the Duchess, and this was all an elaborate hallucination. He’d never wanted to be anything more than a bounty hunter— now, he was regent to a decimated system, because his kid beat a war criminal and rescued a Jedi weapon. None of this made sense, and it would define his life from this point forward.

Kryze’s face darkened.

“That’s not how this works.”

“He’s too young to take the mantle,” Boba cut in. “He’s a minor.”

“He’s older than your donor was when he made his illegitimate claim,” spat Kryze.

“That’s enough,” snapped Shand, as Woves stepped in to pull Kryze back. The redhead shook him off, only to face Shand staring her down. “The point is that Ben is a legal minor. Whatever your cultural laws, it’s a bad look for you to take on a kid. Din is his parent, and assumes all responsibility for his kid. Including this, right?” She directed this last at Woves, who nodded.

“There’s precedent for regents.”

“Great. Then if we can put a pin in the rest for now, we’ve got a planet and a fledgling crime syndicate to get back to. If you need us, we’ll be on Tatooine.”

“But…” Din turned sharply to see Ben, trying and failing to remain calm, “that’s not fair to force you to adopt me and take this on, D— Mando. If it’s my duty to accept this role and go to Mandalore, then… I am prepared to do that.”

Din heard Boba’s sigh of frustration and caught Ben’ika’s wince. “Ben, you need to understand—”

“I’m not taking him to Mandalore,” Bo-Katan hissed. Around the room, everyone tensed. “You really think I could show up with Obi-Wan Kenobi of all shab’la people and tell them he’s now the Mand’alor? We know our history, Mando. A Mandalorian never forgets.”

“Bo—” Din began warningly, but Bo raged on, her sharp eyes reduced to glittering slits as she glared at his son.

“I remember you, Obi-Wan. Ben. You and your master let my father die. Then you installed my sister on the throne in Sundari— a pacifist! I watched her destroy my culture. And then, when the Sith you failed to kill took over my planet, you failed again. He killed her, because of you. I don’t know what Force devilry brought you here now, but I would rather suffer the dishonor of challenging a child for the Darksaber, than bring you to my homeland again, and try to explain this to my people.”

In the stunning silence that followed, Ben’ika made a wounded sound. Din looked up at the teen, who was trying and failing to assume that calm veneer he was beginning to associate with the Jedi of old. Ben’ika could not look more crushed, and yet what was worse— he seemed resigned. As though his failure and rejection was a foregone conclusion. Din’s blood boiled as the boy managed to say quietly, “I am sorry that my actions in the past have caused so much pain. It may feel like an empty comfort, but please know that I would never have intentionally hurt Mandalore or its people. I… I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know,” Din began, his breath ragged with exhaustion and rage, “because it did not happen for you. Kryze, you shabuir— he is a verd’ika. You stand there and condemn him for things he never did, because he didn’t live it. He just told you that. He’s seventeen; it never happened, for him. To say nothing of the things you did. I spoke to Tano. Do you forget your role in how that dar’jetii got to Mandalore in the first place?

“Ben lost everything when the Manda, the Force brought him here, and he’s still willing to put duty first. If he accepts the Creed, then the rest shouldn’t matter. He will be Ben Djarin. And until he’s ready, if you want him, you’ll have to go through me.”

As he spoke, he glanced around the room. Fennec and Cara looked lost, Fett slowly nodding, Reeves and the other Nite Owls uncertain, their gazes bouncing between Bo-Katan and Ben’ika. Woves, however, looked thoughtful, regarding the teen with a slight frown. Din turned back to Ben.

“Can I adopt you?”

Ben nodded mutely, unsmiling.

He deserves better, Din thought. This was a banthashit situation, and he hated Bo-Katan more than ever for forcing it like this. He inclined his helmet to the teen’s dyed forehead and murmured “Ni kar’tayli gai sa ad, Ben, aliit Djarin, clan Mudhorn.”

Straightening, he held out his hand expectantly, and Ben silently set the Darksaber hilt in his palm. Such a small weight, Din thought as he wrapped his fingers around the beskar hilt, for such a heavy mantle. “I accept the title of Mand’alor on his behalf, and I will accept any challengers as well, once I am recovered.” He turned back to Bo-Katan, who looked like she had swallowed a live squid from Grogu’s soup.

“Fine,” she bit out. “We’ll send you your share of the bounty on Gideon and Pershing once the Republic pays. Now get off my ship.”

“That’s a funny way to address the Mand’alor,” Boba commented drily, and the tension spiked, but Din could tell that Boba was enjoying himself immensely as Bo-Katan gritted her teeth, and saluted Din, then Ben, with a fist crashing to her chest. Around them, the other Nite Owls reluctantly followed suit, though Woves seemed to be eyeing Ben with interest.

“All right, Din Djarin,” Boba’s dry tone sounded in Din’s buy’ce. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before I put a hole in the foot of the Princess.”

Ben followed his buir in a daze back to the hangar, barely aware of his surroundings. Boba had loaded him and Grogu onto a hover cart, that he and Fennec were pushing, Cara bringing up the rear, wary and alert in the Force. Axe Woves led the way, having offered to drop them off on the uninhabited moon where they had stashed their ships prior to the assault. At some point, Char had found them, leaping with a chitter onto buir’s lap and nuzzling Grogu’s face.

“Is that coming too?” Fennec squinted at the chittering lava meerkat.

“This is Char. He’s with us,” buir answered calmly. He raised a hand to pet the animal, then caught sight of its trembling, and dropped it. Ben’s heart squeezed, as Char shoved his head under the gloved hand, as though to help make it easier to pet.

The smell of smoke and ozone in the hangar brought Ben out of his fog, and he looked about. “I need to grab something— I stashed the bag with our belongings in the corner of the hangar.”

“I’ll come with you,” Fennec volunteered, moving smoothly to his side. He nodded politely, guiding her to the corner. They walked in silence for a moment, until the sounds of the others had faded behind them.

“You okay, kid?”

Ben couldn’t help a wry smile. No, he was not okay. “You know, back during the days of the Order, the Knights and Masters had a running competition for who had been accidentally declared a planetary leader or married to a dignitary. My master was notorious for accidental marriages. Somehow, I don’t think the Order’s legal team will be getting me out of this little accident.”

“Little accident,” Fennec snorted. “At least you have your sense of humor still.”

“Certainly,” he managed a cheeky grin, latching onto the conversation as every other sense floundered. “I actually get worse, the more danger I’m in. It’s a coping mecha— oh, Force.” He broke into a run, Fennec cursing behind him as she struggled to keep up. He’d fallen to his knees by the time she caught up, carefully cradling the broken pieces.

Missy lay at the foot of the crate wall, her blasted shell bent and warped where holes had punched through the casing, and mangled her wheels. A trail of fluid marked her flight to their “safe place.” She had come back here to hide, after her heroic efforts.

And he had not been here for her.

“Oh, Missy,” he screwed up his face, trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry. I put you in danger, and I wasn’t there for you.”

The droid didn’t answer, and he could not tell if it was a lack of power, lack of fluid, or if she was simply too damaged. He looked over the fractured frame, at a loss. Where to even begin diagnosing the damage— He felt a warm squeeze on his shoulder, and looked up with glassy eyes at Fennec, who— didn’t smile, exactly, but let her sympathy unfurl in the Force.

“We need to go, Ben,” she said gently. “Give her to me, and get your bag.”

He nodded, standing to hand her the droid, then took a deep breath and reached into the Force, leaping to the top of the crates in one bound, to Fennec’s foul-mouthed shock. He dropped down, pried open the panel and retrieved the bag that contained all that his little family had left in this galaxy, then leapt up and over, landing next to her. She scowled.

“That’s just showing off.”

Ben was startled into a small laugh, and followed her back to the Gauntlet that had arrived with reinforcements, falling back into a daze as they took off, landing at some uninhabited moon, where they debarked. Axe watched them leave, his Force signature complicated but Ben couldn’t bring himself to focus. He merely followed instructions, moving where he was told, sitting where he was told. It took a long moment to realize that they were now in hyperspace, Grogu fast asleep in his lap, and that Fennec was trying to check him for injuries.

“I’m fine,” he declared, the words automatic. “I’m not injured.”

Fennec eyed him skeptically before handing him a nutrient pack. “Drink that.” She stepped out, leaving Ben with the two Mandalorian warriors. Boba had pulled off his helmet— Ben was struck anew by the resemblance with Rex and Wolffe— and was doing his best to blast a hole through Din’s helmet with a glare.

It seemed that Din was a difficult patient.

Runs in the family, Ben thought, slightly hysterical.

“Stop squirming, kih’vod’ika, the karking scanner doesn’t work with beskar,” Boba snapped, waving the scanner. Din— buir— batted at the device, shaking his head.

“Grog healed me, as much as he can. Nothing hurts—”

“Nothing hurts—”

“— I just need something to drink, that’s all.”

Boba sighed, shaking his head. “Rest,” he growled. “Keep the heart to hearts to a minimum. And when we reach Tatooine, you’re getting in the bacta tank.” He gave them all one last glare— except Grogu, who received a softened look and tiny twitch of the mouth— then stomped away.

Ben set the snoring Grogu in the blanket nest that Fennec had made, next to Char who curled around the small child in his sleep, and sat down beside Din again. The older man stretched slightly, stifling a groan, then reached to his belt and unclipped the Darksaber, fumbling with the latch the first time. He handed it over to Ben.

“I believe this is yours.”

“Not right now, it’s not,” Ben said carefully, taking it anyway and examining the hilt absently.

“Not my preferred weapon; I’d probably accidentally chop my own leg off if I tried it. Better that you get comfortable with it. Maybe you can show me later how to use it. Once my hands settle.”

Ben didn’t argue, tried to not think about the tremble of his guardian— buir’s hands, that was likely permanent. He should have tried harder to get Din out sooner, sabotage the machine, attempt a rescue on his own— it was his fault—

There was a soft hiss, and Ben glanced up to see— too late to look away— Din’s helmet now rested in his hands as the man gazed at him, face to face.

Ben could see his face.

He stared at Din— at his buir, whose soft brown eyes blinked bemusedly against the light of the room. “Why did you do that?” Ben asked finally, wincing at his uneven tone.

Din smiled a little. “Because you’re aliit. And because I’m starting to question some of the things I was taught. For so long, our secrecy was our strength, our strength our survival. We hid our faces, even from each other. But— that makes showing my face the ultimate sign of trust. And if I can’t show my face to my children— no. I trust you. You are the only ones for whom I would gladly break my Creed, if it saved your life. There is more than one Way to walk. But… only with family. Ner ade. I will show my face to no one else.” He set the helmet down on the floor; it rattled slightly as his hands fumbled. “I also have been wearing it for four days, and I feel disgusting.”

“You— you shouldn’t,” Ben replied, a bit ragged, trying to distract himself by grabbing a damp cloth for the Mandalorian. Breathing felt difficult.

“Why.”

“Because it’s not the same as with Grogu. He wanted it, and you wanted it—“

“Do you regret being adopted?”

Ben choked on the answer as multiple words fought to escape his throat simultaneously. At his hesitation, Din’s clean face fell, and he set the towel down.

“I see. Well, if it’s a real problem, you could renounce me-”

“No,” Ben burst out. “It’s not you at all. It’s me. I forced you to adopt me—"

Din’s eyebrow shot up, but something eased in his expression. “I seem to recall offering to adopt you. Twice now. Did you think them empty words?”

“I—of course not. But— I messed up, killed Gideon—”

“In self-defense. Only Bo-Katan is mad that he’s dead, and that’s because she wanted to do it herself and win the blade. The rest of us are happy he’s dead. Trust me.”

Ben’s hands curled into fists as he felt his control slip. Din wasn’t getting it. “I ruined her plans to retake Mandalore.”

“What is the real problem, Ben’ika?”

“I’m a mess!” Ben exploded, wincing as the tray rattled. “See? I can’t even control my feelings. I am the worst possible person to be Mand’alor. I’m going to ruin everything, stupid Oafy-Wan like always—”

Din grabbed Ben’s flailing hand and yanked him into his arms, holding the young Jedi tightly against his chest.

“If you’re waiting for me to push you away for having feelings after a harrowing rescue, then you’ll be a while,” Din replied calmly, as though they were discussing the weather and not Ben’s childish outburst. “You have been through a lot. Remaining hidden behind enemy lines. Arranging our rescue. Fighting and killing Gideon after he tortured me and hurt your brother, without leaning into vengeance. Learning about Satine. Getting adopted. Accepting the role of Mand’alor. Any one of those things would be overwhelming for most. You feel, you process, you let go. Why would I punish you for that? We've talked about this, Ben’ika. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ben wept. Acknowledging the fear, the horror, the relief, and the dread of expectations. But most of all, he wept for the man who held him without complaint despite his injuries, who withstood his volatile emotions, who accepted and embraced him, instead of holding him at arm’s length in cool disapproval at such a display. Din saw him at his weakest, and had not turned away. Din had stepped forward as a shield, taking on a role Ben knew very well the man had no desire to carry, and did it without complaint or resentment. Ben had earned none of this care and dedication, and had been given it anyway. Bare fingers carded his hair as he cried, gentle and soothing, their tremor faint.

“I never wanted you to leave. Never wanted to lose you to the Jedi, or the New Republic. I wanted to respect your right to choose. But never doubt that you’re wanted here. And we’ll face this together, okay?”

Ben nodded, head still buried in Din’s shoulder. Trembling fingers passed over the braids and beads, uncaring of the oily grime that caked his hair.

“I’ve wanted to adopt you for a while now, Ben’ika. When I was strapped to that machine, it was the one regret I could think of. Bo-Katan was a shabuir for forcing a special moment like that. Can I adopt you again?”

Ben raised his head, wiping at his face. “You want to?”

Din nodded, smiling. He pressed his forehead to Ben’s, murmuring “ni kartayli gai sa ad, Ben Djarin. Ner cyar’ad’ika.”

The Force curled around them, content as a loth cat. Ben felt another tear leak out as he whispered, “thank you.”

“Never between family, ad’ika. I hope you never go through anything so harrowing again,” the Mandalorian's smile fell. “But I am so proud of you. Not many could have done what you did, nor so well.”

“But—” Ben pulled back and his eyes fell to buir’s hands, which trembled in his lap. “I failed. Look at what’s happened.”

“We’re alive, ad’ika. That’s a victory.”

“But why didn’t the Force warn me? Why did it let this happen? I never meant for Gideon to die, for you to, for all of this—”

“Maybe that was what the Force wanted. Mando’ade would not have been so swift and clean in their judgment, and the New Republic… Maybe the Force worked through you to end this once and for all. You said yourself, that you submitted to the will of the Force. What would your teachers say about understanding the will of the Force?”

“We…. don’t, usually. It’s why we trust in the Force,” Ben faltered. And that was probably true, but in this moment Ben felt unequal to the argument, and so let it rest. He needed time and meditation to process.

“How did you manage to cut the power to my cell?” buir asked, changing the subject abruptly. Ben stared for a moment, then felt the tears well again, as he shifted his gaze to the charred scraps in the corner.

“I didn’t,” and he didn’t bother to wipe them away, mourning, just feeling it. “Missy did.”

There was a long pause. Ben startled slightly as buir’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll fix her, ad’ika. She might be a little different after, but— well. She’ll be in good company. I’ll help.”

He wiped at his eyes, turning to meet his parent’s small smile. “Really?”

Buir nodded. “She’s family.” The truth of it rang sweetly in the Force, and fresh tears fell even as Ben wiped at his face. He glanced over at Grogu, still curled up in his blanket nest with Char.

“I couldn’t save any of Gro’ika’s plushies.”

Buir shrugged. “They can be replaced. I know a woman, based in Mos Espa. She made him some clothes, repaired the bag I used to carry him in. She might make him some new ones, if I ask.”

There was a knock, and buir grabbed his helmet, slipping it on as he called “enter.”

“I thought I said keep the heart-to-hearts to a minimum,” groused Boba as he stomped in, two bowls of soup in his hands.

“That’s a funny way to address the Mand’alor,” buir said mildly, and Boba squinted at him.

“I will flatten you in a spar, kih’vod’ika. See that I don’t.”

Ben couldn’t help the smile that made his cheeks ache as buir laughed at Boba. Fennec sauntered in, dropping onto the floor beside him and winking at Ben as she tossed him a meiloorun, followed by a stars-damned knife. He’d accrued a strange family. But it was his now.

They would be beside him, in whatever came next.

Leia Organa was having a week.

Only minutes after waving Luke off after a three-week stay (which was completely fair after a full year of silence and trying to sneak out of Chandrila without saying ‘hello’), she’d received a summons to a meeting, that led to an unexpected trip to Coruscant, for which little Ben flatly refused to be left behind despite being extremely bored during the back-to-back meetings she’d endured from the moment she landed.

All of which to say, as she watched her son stare wide-eyed at a young clone, Leia should have expected something like this to happen.

“When you said you were calling in your favor, I thought it would be a house, or bail money,” Leia smiled wryly at Rex, who snorted. “Not medical procedures.”

“Can’t say I ever thought it would be necessary, or possible, General,” Rex turned to Kix. “But the Force works in mysterious ways.”

The hairs on the back of Leia’s neck stood on end, but she contained her reaction to a polite smile. “Indeed. The timing is a miracle. If you had asked even a few days ago, I would have had to turn you down. But Dr. Pershing was just brought into New Republic custody yesterday. Thanks to the data rod you offered up, I was able to convince the Chancellor that we needed his expertise for this procedure. Dr. Pershing agreed to assist, in exchange for shortening his probation.”

“That’s good news,” Rex said, almost warily, and Leia caught Kix and Wolffe exchanging a look. Ben frowned, fisting her long skirts as he half-hid behind her. “How did you capture him?”

At that, she met Rex’s searching gaze. “We didn’t. A Mandalorian turned in the bounty. They also collected the reward for killing Moff Gideon. His body was delivered with Dr. Pershing as proof.” As she spoke, she watched as Rex’s face drained, feeling his sudden spike of anxiety.

“I see. If you’ll give me a moment, General, I— I need to make a call.”

“Of course. The room to the right of here has a long-range comm—" The old man turned and left the room before Leia could say another word. She turned to Wolffe and Kix. The younger man’s face was completely unreadable, but he radiated confusion in the Force. Wolffe’s reaction was far more muted in its shock, and it was he who filled the silence.

“Clan business, General. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Leia nodded politely, watching as the two clones stepped to the side and began speaking quietly in that language Leia had only caught snippets of during the war. The younger man’s signature suddenly spiked with alarm, and Leia forced herself to not react. She admittedly didn’t know that much about the troopers, but neither had mentioned family before. Her curiosity intensified. The Mandalorians had been wiped out in the Purge, the Rebellion stretched too thin to lend support; it was one of Leia’s great regrets. Obviously some had survived, but she hadn’t thought that the clones were close with the people of their genetic template.

“That’s a cute little cadet you have there, General.”

Leia looked up from her data pad to see Kix smiling down at Ben, who was still hiding in her skirts. She shuffled him forward, and Ben frowned.

“What’s a cadet?”

“It’s what my brothers and I called the little ones,” Kix’s smile went bittersweet.

“You’re sad.”

“Yeah. What’s your name, cadet?”

“I’m Ben.”

“Nice to meet you, Ben.” Kix knelt down and offered his arm, chuckling as he showed Ben a warrior’s greeting. “Did you pick your name?”

“Natborn, Kix,” Wolffe reminded him, and the younger clone grimaced.

“I’m named after Ben Kenobi, the greatest Jedi who ever lived!” Ben’s little chest puffed out proudly. Kix froze, and Leia glanced up to see Wolffe meet her gaze briefly before looking back to Ben.

“Sounds like a good choice for you, then,” Kix forced a smile, turning with no little amount of relief as the door opened and Rex stepped back into the room, looking both relieved and aggrieved all at once.

“Apologies, General.”

“None needed,” she forced a smile. “Everything okay?”

“Jor’haa Din’ika?” Wolffe demanded. Rex glanced at Leia, who busied herself with her data pad, giving them a moment to speak privately. Ben retreated back to her skirts, peering around to watch them carefully.

“Lek,” Rex muttered. “Val cuy, ti Boba. Ben’ika piruni sur’haaise Gideon. Tayli Dha’kad’au. Cuy mand’alor.”

“Osi’kyr,” breathed Kix, looking dumbfounded. Leia’s eyebrows shot up despite her best efforts. That word she knew.

Something very interesting was happening with the Mandalorians. She’d have to look into that. Quietly.

Chapter Text

“Ready?”

Ben’s paintbrush passed over the stripe on his chin. “Yes.”

Buir joined him at the small table, leaning against the wall as Grogu toddled over, cooing. “Touching up?”

“Must look one’s best, as the majordomo,” Ben smiled inwardly, thinking of the majordomo of Mok Shaiz, the mayor of Mos Espa he had observed last week. How he kept his robes so pristine despite the dust was a true mystery. “A ragamuffin would do us no favors.”

“You? A ragamuffin?” Buir’s voice held humor. Ben grinned mischievously as he set the brush aside and sealed the small jar.

“I was a terror when I was an Initiate, very stubborn and horribly prone to error. Had my fair share of messy disasters— there was a memorable incident with glitter glue— and you saw me when I came to Tython— not my best look.”

Which was wildly underselling it, and Buir’s emotions swirled somewhat violently at the reminder, but he only replied mildly, “well, you look fine now.”

And that was true. A month out from the fight on Gideon’s ship, more than seven months after coming to this timeline— Ben was physically better than he’d ever been. On a steady, solid diet meant for stewjon’ade for the first time in his life, he’d put on several inches and a fair amount of muscle. Now he looked long and lean, instead of gangly and underfed. Glossy, vibrant hair fell about his shoulders, with a faint metallic sheen he’d never noticed before.

Although… fresh fish on Tatooine was as rare as a thunderstorm. If Ben had to live on imported dried fish for the foreseeable future, this glow-up could prove temporary.

“Are you ready?” Ben turned the question on his parent, who was tucking a yawning Grogu into Ben’s bed for a nap.

“Sure. I have the easy job. Stand there and look intimidating.” The bitterness seeped out, before being reigned back in. Ben swallowed tightly, very carefully not reacting. “Did you finish cleaning the saber?” buir asked abruptly, glancing down at the hilt on the small table, resting quietly next to the small pot of dye.

“Yes,” Ben seized on the topic with both hands. “No wonder it was all worked up, it had a thousand years of grime. All clean now, and soothed. No more delusions of grandeur,” he snorted, then stilled in the sudden silence that followed. Dank ferrik.

“Did you… see something, when you picked it up?”

Ben hesitated, and buir nodded encouragingly. “I know visions don’t necessarily happen. I know it’s just a lightsaber; I believe you. But you don’t have to carry this alone.”

“I’m not sure what I saw,” Ben said slowly, describing the vision. It felt strange; no one had asked him to describe a vision since he was a small child. He couldn’t help hunching, waiting for Din to tell him to forget it.

Always in motion, the future is.

Buir smiled, a small thing that didn’t diminish the seriousness in his eyes. “I don’t know a thing about visions. But it sounds like we might be pretty busy in the future.”

“I— you don’t seriously think—“

He shrugged, an uncoordinated thing more resembling a flinch. “I guess we’ll find out. But it sounds nice.”

“Nice,” Ben echoed, feeling slightly hysterical. He stood up and began pacing. “Just rebuild a whole society from scratch on a decimated planet. No pressure.”

“You think the work on Tatooine will be much easier?”

“I—” Ben froze, his mind reeling. Actually— “no. It won’t be easy. And they aren’t that different, are they? Centuries of memory and struggle, implementing new ways of doing business will be an uphill battle. But if you can fix Tatooine—”

“You can fix Mandalore,” buir finished, nodding.

“A pilot program.”

“But you’ll be working with many races, not Mandalorians.”

But something about that did not ring true in the Force. “I’m not so sure… I think we’ll have company, eventually.”

“Then you’ll see if everyone can work together. It’s a good plan. And I know you’ll do well.”

“I— wait, you don’t think that—“

“I think you were right about the Darksaber, when you asked the Armorer what was used to signify leadership before Tarre Vizsla’s time. You’re in charge because they think you have divine right via a saber. Doesn’t mean that you won’t be a good leader, though.”

Ben flailed, and buir chuckled, pulling him into a kov’nyn. “You’re not alone, and you have time to learn. Your song’s not written yet, ad’ika.”

“Do you think the Darksaber will ever be just a saber again?”

“Maybe. People like symbols.” Buir held out his hand.

With a tiny sigh, Ben set the gleaming beskar hilt of the Darksaber into a slightly trembling hand, and watched buir clip it to his belt.

It wasn’t so much that he hated to be parted from it— he’d bonded with the saber, and worked to soothe the ancient— and somewhat ornery, how fitting for a Mandalorian blade— kyber, but he still had his original saber. And the saber seemed content with buir, despite not being able to bond to the holder.

No, Ben’s angst stemmed solely from the arrangement that the saber’s constant passing represented. He’d agreed to the regency because he thought that it would be temporary burden upon his new parent; Din would buy peace by holding it while he recovered, then in a few months to a year, Ben would take back the title and responsibility. That logic had assuaged the guilt of roping buir into this in the first place.

Only— he wasn’t getting better.

The med droid had declared him healed last week, after a full month of bacta treatments and healing by Grogu. But the nerve damage, the delayed reflexes lingered.

Would always linger.

Buir took it hard, despite never complaining, despite the brave face he put on. Gone were the days of his physical prime, of careful sniping and outdrawing gunslingers, of dexterous repair of his kit with a steady hand. Only brawling and blunt force remained. But he insisted on continuing the arrangement, buying as much time as possible before Bo-Katan or anyone else got wise to the ruse and attacked. Insisted on being a living shield for Ben, wearing the Darksaber in public as a living target to draw attention and threat away from Ben. And Ben—

Ben was doing exactly what he wasn’t supposed to, shoving all of his grief and guilt into the Force, focusing on what he could control. Namely, the security and stability of the palace and the city, just from behind the scenes. Buir and Boba and Fennec would hate it if they knew, but that was fine.

He hated this arrangement, too.

A Jedi does not hate.

But a Mandalorian does. He followed buir out of the private quarters and down the hall to the throne room.

If Ben was being honest, he was a little disappointed so far; in all his diplomatic forays, few had been quite so… anticlimactic.

But then, maybe this was normal for the court of a crime lord.

He watched as the Trandoshan who presented a Wookiee pelt to Boba walked away (and it looked like Master Tyvokka, and Ben would not think of that—) and took a calming breath, examining the list on the data pad. He bit down on a grin.

Well this should be interesting.

A tall Twilek in luxurious green robes and lekku wraps swanned in, glancing about the bright, newly cleaned throne room and offering the most absurd bow that Ben had seen since his first diplomatic trip to Canto Bight with Master Qui Gon.

He could almost see why Mandalorians found the practice distasteful.

As the Majordomo to the Mayor of Mos Espa wove elaborate apologies and insults together, Ben smiled politely, waiting until the majordomo fell silent, blinking expectedly. His robes somehow still looked immaculate despite the theatrical bowing and scraping.

“What a fascinating opening impression,” Ben finally replied, still smiling. “Disappointing, but not surprising.”

At that, the Twilek’s smarmy expression fell slightly, startled by Ben’s accent, before swiftly recovering. “Do I detect a fellow graduate of the Coruscant finishing school? My apologies, my apologies— your appearance, I had assumed—“ he let the inelegant inference linger as Ben continued to stare him down, still smiling.

“An understandable mistake, given Tatooine’s socioeconomic makeup and the mayor’s tacit support of the slave trade.” Behind him, Fennec choked slightly. “However, I assure you that those who work for the daimyo are free and Freed, and adequately compensated. And my Coruscant education is more than up to the task. Now,” he smiled more widely as the Twilek’s expression fell further, “the matter of tribute.” It was probably un-Jedi-like to enjoy his squirming… but pettiness felt partially justified at the moment.

“Ah, yes— another understandable misunderstanding,” the majordomo tried to rally. “I bring the mayor’s heartfelt welcome.” He emphasized the apparent gift with an elaborate sweep of his arms.

“How generous,” Ben smiled thinly. He bit back a laugh as the man covered his dismay with enthusiasm.

“It is indeed! But as to the matter of tribute, well— I feel it incumbent upon me to to point out—”

“If you please, I’d like to stop you right there,” Ben interrupted, still smiling as he pulled out a datapad. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that tribute is a symbol of submission and allegiance by a lesser party to a greater one. According to the ledgers, the mayor paid tribute to Jabba the Hutt, Bibb Fortuna. For very obvious reasons, tribute has never been paid by the daimyo to the Mayor, so your implication that we would begin such a practice is both grossly improper and borderline treasonous. Not to mention counterproductive given your annual payment. So, let’s forget that your request ever happened, and move on to how you would like to settle your debts.”

The majordomo paled. “My— our… debts?”

Ben nodded amiably. “It appears that your office pays a regular sum in additional to the one-time tribute— very generous— and you are in danger of being behind on the payment. You’ll soon find that Mandalorians don’t care for debts. They settle them swiftly, one way or another. How would you like to pay?”

Ben sensed his buir shift visibly behind Boba, catching the majordomo’s attention. The man gulped.

“I— well, that is—”

“I will consider the tribute fulfilled and the payment waived, if you will take a message back to your employer,” Boba interrupted, his deep gravelly voice brooking no opposition. The majordomo looked hopeful. “Tread lightly.”

“Ah,” the majordomo nodded vigorously, eyes wide. "That is, ah. Generous. Thank you. I will convey your message.” He bowed his way out of the throne room, taking the steps to the exit two at a time.

“Well damn, Ben,” Fennec chuckled.

"Do I want to know how you knew all of that?” Boba sounded pained under his helmet.

“Probably not,” Ben beamed.

“Right," the resignation was thick. "Who's next.”

A protocol droid tottered down the steps, bearing a large fabric bundle.

“Someone sent a droid?” Boba’s tone was deeply unimpressed as an agitated protocol droid shuffled into the room, bearing a large bundle. “And what is that? A Life Day present?”

He started to wave the droid away, uninterested in such a humble package delivered by a droid instead of the organic who should have paid their respects.

“Hang on, boss.” Fennec interjected. “This is the ring kissing part of the job. Maybe there’s someone’s firstborn child in there.”

“I can assure you that is not the case,” Ben replied drily. “All the same, it would be best to receive it.”

Boba snorted, a rather distorted sound thanks to the vocoder, but changed his hand signal and beckoned the droid forward.

“Who is this from?” asked Fennec.

“The vassal requested that her name not be revealed until the parcel is delivered,” Ben replied. Boba and Fennec glanced at each other, slightly wary now.

“You’re a rented droid?”

“That is correct, Lord Fett,” the protocol droid began. “I am the property of Norra Kusi who operates a droid rental service out of—”

“I got it,” Boba cut across the explanation. “Present the parcel.”

The droid unwrapped the package and handed one corner of the fabric to 8D8 to properly display the gift. A large tapestry unfurled, but this was no standard offering of expensive textiles.

“Whoa,” breathed Fennec, while Boba’s helmet emitted some strangled sound.

A stylized silhouette of Boba’s helmet featured boldly in black on a field of moss green, with subtle intricate swirls of goldenrod and crimson bounded by a black border just set in from the edge of the tapestry; upon closer inspection, the black band revealed a repeating pattern of black symbols in miniature— ocean waves, the mythosaur, the sigil of Master Mereel, and the gaderffii stick.

Flawlessly executed, the impeccable craftsmanship was stunning, the choice of colors and symbols demonstrating an intimate knowledge of the new Daimyo of Tatooine; no average bystander would have known to include waves. It was a masterful display for the palace of a new daimyo, regardless of its humble delivery. For a moment they all remained still, taking in the exquisite artwork.

Artistry aside, there was something about the tapestry that called to Ben. Something more, in the Force. And if he hadn’t already met the artist, it would be beyond foolishness to touch something so portentous in the Force, but, well.

Impulsiveness seemed to run in the family.

Ben stretched out a hand to grasp the silky edge—

He dropped, like he had leapt off the top spire of the Temple with his crèche mates, only he kept falling, the swooping sensation never ending—

— only he wasn’t falling from a height, but deeper into a well of love and grief, memories flashing by too fast to see clearly, but each one etched with tender care, laced with bittersweet regret—

— and it went on and on— love, grief, devotion, respect, regret, longing, repeating like the pattern on the border of the tapestry, intertwined like the woven threads of the tapestry. It was exquisite and agonizing, impossible to endure and yet unthinkable to comprehend its end, and he didn’t know whether to scream or cry or laugh, it was too much—

“Ben, Ben— what is it?”

Ben blinked, surprised to find himself on his knees, the tapestry held tightly in his fingers. “My apologies,” he murmured as Fennec pulled him to his feet, and he wiped at his face. “The artisan who made this is…exceptionally talented,” he glanced at Boba Fett, whose expression gave nothing away, but his signature roiled with emotions Ben had not expected. Boba knew this artisan, and was aware of her ability. And he had kept her secret.

“She… she put a great deal of love and care into this. Hours and hours of time, meditating as she wove. I’m not very talented at picking up echoes of emotions from an object, but this one… it’s very strong. I’ve never encountered an object so imbued with the creator’s emotions before.” Mostly because such abilities were vanishingly rare in the galaxy. “There’s just so much of it— love, devotion, affection, regret, respect—"

“That’s impossible,” Boba denied flatly, his tone declaring an end to the discussion.

But Ben shook his head, heeding a nudge from the Force. He licked his lips, tasting the brine of his own tears. “Haat, ijaa, haa'it— I can feel it as though it were my own feelings. I— I didn't know it was possible, this kind of love and devotion… or heartbreak.” He reached up to touch his cheek, wiping away another errant tear. “It’s devastating, the intensity— I can’t…” Words failed him, and he shook his head again, feeling overcome.

Boba stood up abruptly, stomping down the steps of the dais and across the throne room before anyone could so much as startle.

“Where are you going?” Fennec called after him.

“Town.”

Fennec raised her brows, turned to Ben and buir. “Guess we’re going to town. You coming?”

Buir shook his head. “Grogu is down for his nap right now.”

“I’ll go,” Ben volunteered, wiping his cheeks and taking a steadying breath. “And we’ll bring our new guards with us.”

Buir nodded, his relief flaring in the Force, and Ben bit back a frown, merely leaning forward to meet his parent’s forehead in a kov’nyn.

“K’oyacyi, cyar’ad’ika,” the strength of his affection melted away Ben’s frustration, and soothed the remaining edges of the emotional whiplash from the tapestry.

“Ret, buir.” Ben pulled close his cloak and trotted to catch up to Fennec, who had started walking towards the entrance, flanked by the newly commissioned Gamorrean guards.

“So… you up for a bet?”

Ben snorted, glancing about from beneath the shadow of his hood. The high suns bathed the landscape in blinding white. It was folly to be out at this time. “What kind of bet?”

“The nature of the boss’s relationship with this weaver.”

“I’m afraid I have an unfair advantage in this. The emotions in the tapestry—“

“Yeah, yeah, I could tell you without the magic powers that it was serious—“

“It’s not magic—“

“I mean, do we have some speculation as to what happened?”

“I’m going to guess a misunderstanding,” Ben glanced ahead. A few clicks away, the city of Mos Espa shimmered like a mirage. “She ended it, but it was involuntary, and she deeply regrets it. He obviously thought it was her choice, and was hurt, but still cares. So the real unknown we should be betting on, is how long it takes for them to get back together.”

“You got all that from the tapestry?”

Ben made a vague gesture with his hand. “That was also a story arc on Corellia Red. Bant and Reeft were obsessed with it, tortured the rest of us with marathon watches when we were all in the Temple together.” Fennec cackled, and Ben preened. It was getting easier to think about, to talk about. Somehow, having a much bigger, more immediate problem lended a great deal of perspective on the past.

It helped that Fennec had a uniquely helpful tendency to not pry. “In that case, we’ll go to the Sanctuary. We’ll stop by the weaver’s on the way back, give them a little time to get their dank straight.”

Ben nodded, inwardly pleased. It was the one cantina he hadn’t been to so far, being too out of place in such an establishment.

And it was exactly as he expected, the kind of place where he and Master Qui Gon would have been painfully conspicuous. Sumptuous greenery and tasteful gilding against pristine white walls made for a somewhat trite oasis that nevertheless felt impossibly grand on this grimy dustball of a planet. Ironic, too that the most polished beings in Mos Espa were both Twileks, and of the two, Madam Fwip was far better versed in wielding her charm and etiquette as a shield. Looking at her, no one would think her vulnerable to the flesh trade that enslaved so many Twileks the galaxy over. And she knew it, with the way she immediately curried favor with Fennec in such a way that flattered without relinquishing her hard-won authority.

Ben on the other hand, she sized up with no small amount of hesitation, her gaze lingering on his face paint and the beaded braids holding his hair back.

“A surprising choice for a majordomo, I must admit,” she said finally, her smile firmly in place as her eyes tightened slightly. “I take it that the new daimyo intends to continue business as usual."

Right. Tatooine. She thought he was a slave. “Not quite, Madam. I think you’ll find that the Mandalorian abhorrence for debts means that everyone is paid for their labor in the palace, from cook to majordomo.”

“Indeed,” her smile grew slightly sharper. “What a refreshing perspective, though not very profitable.”

“Short-term investment for long-term gains,” Ben maintained his bland smile, ignoring the cold disgust that emanated from Shand and echoed in his own chest. Few beings were their own true master, but slavery… that had no place in the galaxy, not for any reason.

Her skepticism lingered in the Force, but that was fine. Coruscant wasn’t built in a day. She turned her attention back to Fennec, who was more than happy to receive it.

“I didn’t realize that I’d be placing bets on you, too,” he snarked as they stepped out of the Sanctuary, nodding to the Gamorreans who fell in beside them. The suns had begun their slow march to the horizon, bathing the dusty walls of the city architecture in a hazy gold, as the city’s denizens reemerged from their midday retreat to traverse the sun-baked streets.

“Hilarious,” Fennec deadpanned.

“You didn’t even need me, I could have stayed home and let you handle all of the diplo—“ he broke off as the Force pulsed with warning.

“What is it?” Fennec dumped the credits of the Sanctuary’s tribute into a pouch and jammed her helmet on her head, glancing about carefully.

“Something’s coming.” Heat shimmered in waves as he cast his senses out, but nothing in the vicinity felt off. “It’s not here. It’s somewhere else.”

“Let’s get to the weaver’s shop.”

They almost made it.

Ben had just sighted the faded, sand-beaten shop sign of the weaver’s when the first masked assassin dropped from a rooftop in front of Boba, who had stepped out of the shop just then with a petite woman in tow. Ben sprinted ahead, leaving Fennec cursing behind him, landing a flying kick on the newly arrived assassin. He landed on the ground, dust rising in plumes as he turned to see Fennec had closed the distance, engaged with an assassin. Several more had closed in with energy shields, attempting to box them in. Ben smirked.

Cute.

Reaching into the Force, he leapt high over the shield perimeter, landing on the other side. “Seriously?!” shrieked Fennec, but Ben didn’t falter, shoving the assassins in the Force and scattering them. He followed in an instant, wrenching a staff from one of the assassins as the Gamorreans charged the others, squealing their war cry.

“Is there a reason,” Boba grunted as he grabbed an assassin in a headlock, “that you’re not using your karking lightsaber?”

“Didn’t seem like a very low-profile thing to do,” Ben snipped, dispatching another assassin with a satisfying thwack to the stomach with staff. He turned to take out another menacing the woman, only to watch her land a spectacular punch to the fighter’s throat. Well, then.

“So help me— nothing about this is low-profile!”

To Ben’s great disappointment, the lightsaber did make an instantaneous difference, as he tossed the staff and ignited his saber. Whatever the Night Winds were being paid was clearly not enough to encourage them to finish the fight, and they began to scatter, attempting to disappear into the crowds that had gathered along the edges, murmuring and pointing. Fennec flattened one assassin and secured him for interrogation.

“Let’s get back and debrief,” Boba declared tersely. He began to turn towards the petite woman, freezing as she slipped a hand around Boba’s arm and tugged him towards the city limits. Well. That answered Ben’s question.

No one spoke until they were safely beyond the city, and the large red walls of the palace were in sight. The weaver then smiled up at Ben kindly, as Boba pulled off his helmet on her other side. “You must be Ben, the majordomo.” Her eyes flicked to the hood Ben had tugged back up before returning to is face, twinkling. “What an eventful first day for you.”

“At your service, madam,” Ben gave a slight bow, barely restraining a grin. Her bright signature brimmed with mirth, and his own reached out to it, warmed by proximity. She had no training, and no real power; still, always a blessing to be near another Force Sensitive. “Would you believe me if I said I’ve been accused of being boring?”

“No.” Boba and the weaver responded in unison, and Boba quirked a small smile as she burst into laughter. The woman was clearly capable of miracles, if she could get Boba Fett to smile.

“Well, it was worth a try,” Ben grinned, as the weaver pulled herself together. “Your artwork is exquisite, madam. I have many questions.”

“I’m sure you do, and thank you for the compliment,” her eyes dipped down to the saber hilt at his hip, before returning to his face. “I am Cerium Nola, but please call me Cerium,” and as Fennec chimed in with her name, Ben watched the weaver’s demeanor shift slightly. Her smile remained genuine, but a composure slipped over her, not unlike the serenity of a Jedi. Almost like a ray shield in the Force, she looked as though nothing had ever hurt her, and it was foolish to try. A clever deflection, to deter unwanted attention and to hide the emotional scars of a harsh life.

But he noticed that those ray shields flickered— even disappeared— when her attention was solely on Boba. In those moments, the depths of feeling that he’d felt in the tapestry flashed out, slamming Ben’s shields like a sucker punch. He would have to adapt, if her presence in the place intended to be longterm— and he rather suspected that it would.

Buir met them at the entrance, his still, menacing posture at total odds with the panic-protect-anger that screeched in the Force. “An attack?” he demanded tersely.

Fennec tugged the lead, causing the captured assassin to stumble slightly. “Everyone’s fine. And we’ll have answers.”

Buir didn’t seem to believe her, crowding into Ben’s space to check him over. “You’re all right?”

“Haat, iijaa, haa'it,” Ben smiled as best he could in the face of the overprotective parent scrutinizing him. “But I would like some water. Is there latemeal?”

Buir sighed, finally relenting as Grogu jumped to Ben’s shoulder. The youngling gave his head a hug as buir greeted the weaver, evidently acquainted with her. Has he been like this the entire time? he directed at the youngling.

Worse.

Fennec dragged the assassin off to the cells below while everyone else made for the throne room. A spread of food was available, including buir’s usual cup of soup, complete with straw. The usual pre-meal chatter felt stilted and tense, and Ben reached out in the Force, trying to grasp why it felt off. They had defeated the assassins, and were now safely back in the palace— so why had the Force’s warning not abated?

“Wasn’t sure what everyone would want, so I had the kitchens send up a little of a lot,” buir shrugged, picking up his soup.

“Well as long as there’s dried fish then I’m—” the Force screeched “—stop!”

He threw a hand and ripped the cup away from his buir, catching it midair. Everyone froze.

“Ben—” buir began, but Ben cut him off.

“Fennec, do you have a kit for testing poisons?”

“What?” Boba’s question came out in a snarl. Fennec took the cup from Ben, her face grim.

“I’m on it.” She took off for the kitchens. In the sudden silence, Grogu gave an adorable coo, which visibly relaxed those present. They were still fine. A close call, but alive.

“Ration packs for everyone, until the food has all been tested,” Boba declared, then softened as he turned to Cerium. “Ner sarad’ika, I am sorry—“

“I am not,” she replied, her smile only slightly strained. “I know the risks of being here. As long as you still carry those mujaberry ration bars, I will be fine.”

And that solved the mystery of the uneaten fruity ration bar stash that Boba refused to share with anyone except Grogu. The child in question cooed, pulling from his robes a slightly squashed package.

“Grogu!” Buir chided. “We’ve talked about stealing.”

Not stealing. Planning ahead. He held it out to Cerium, whose shocked expression melted into adoration as she carefully opened it and offered him a piece.

Ben relayed that to the adults, who paused. “He— whatever,” Boba soldiered through the disbelief, sitting down heavily on the throne and pulling Cerium down beside him, “can we get to the debrief now?”

“The stop at the Sanctuary went well, Madam Fwip paid her tribute,” Ben reported dutifully. “I didn’t sense a problem until we drew closer to the Madam Nola’s shop.”

“Cerium, Ben,” the weaver chided kindly.

“The Night Wind are supposed to be expensive,” Boba frowned. “And very good. They were unprepared for the fight.”

“Which means someone has been watching you, but not well enough,” Ben mused. “Someone with deep pockets. The narrows the possibilities down some. An attempted poisoning though—” he paused, glancing at buir. “That feels different. Separate. Very targeted. Someone knew that you would eat soup from a cup with a straw, or else eat privately, where no one could realize the problem until it was too late. My feelings tell me someone was targeting you as the Mand’alor.”

The adults exchanged significant looks.

“They sent the Night Wind for the daimyo,” Ben pressed. “A public attack meant to discredit his power, prove him vulnerable. They could have done the same to buir— another Mandalorian. Instead, they attempted to simply eliminate him quietly, out of public view. That points to a different attacker, and a different motive.”

“That makes sense,” Boba admitted reluctantly. “Except that who knows that you’re the Mand’alor? We only opened today.”

“That news has made the rounds,” Cerium shared, her composed expression undercut by the worry in her voice. “It doesn’t mean much to most, but it’s no secret that the leader of the Mandalorians is working with the daimyo.”

“So we have a mole,” Boba growled.

“Or the spies are more numerous than we realized,” countered Ben.

“Or both,” chimed in buir.

“Probably both,” Cerium gave a small smile.

“Fennec will handle the mole, and tightening security,” Boba tapped at his vambrace.

“They won’t give up, whoever they are,” Ben countered. “We need to investigate.”

“We will,” Boba glowered at him. “You will stick to the administrative dank, and feed any suspicions or feelings to your buir or Fennec to look into.”

“Better that I remain the target,” buir added, before Ben could counter. “If they don’t realize the importance of your true status, this will keep you safe.”

This again. Ben very carefully did not grit his teeth. He appreciated their care, but he was a Jedi. He’d survived three wars before coming here. And Bandomeer— he was no stranger to danger, and this sudden need to keep him from any whiff of violence was hardly in keeping with the training of young Mandalorian warriors. Or stewjon’ade.

Probably.

Cerium seemed to sense the shift in Ben’s demeanor, and elegantly stepped into the verbal breach before it escalated. “Given today’s activities, it will be important to be seen tomorrow, in public. Business as usual, so to say. If this gotra is here to stay, the people must see that. I do have to return to my shop tomorrow, and get things settled, but I would have time after. Ben, are your markings painted or tattooed?”

Startled by the abrupt change in topic, Ben gaped for a moment before replying, “Painted. I’ve been looking into getting them tattooed, but we’ve been a bit busy lately.”

“I could take you to a tattooist who is a dear friend of mine tomorrow, if you’d like? You could see her work and decide for yourself. And see more of the city, and be seen.”

“Thank you, I’d like that,” he smiled, touched by the gesture.

“Are you sure?” Boba’s worry rumbled like thunder in the Force. “To do that, to be seen by everyone as allied with the gotra—”

“My allegiance was guessed by most a long time ago, so today doesn’t change very much,” the weaver smiled softly at Boba, waves of adoration pulsing so strongly in the Force that Ben nearly staggered, and pulled his shields a little tighter to give himself some space to recover.

Buir seemed to sense his struggle, and nodded at him. “Ben’ika, why don’t you go start your evening meditation? I think we’re done briefing.”

Ben looked to Boba, who nodded curtly, then to Cerium, who smiled, her bright blue eyes twinkling. He stood and left, not heading directly for the private quarters, but meandering the halls until he came to an open balcony.

He leaned against the stone railing, staring out into the murky darkness. With three moons, the sky never fully darkened. He’d never seen the stars while living at the Temple, but Nevarro had given him a taste for a stunning night sky. Here, a few scattered stars could be seen, but nothing like the velvet black studded with winking crystals, that a night sky could be.

His mind wandered as his eyes scanned the midnight horizon, the moaning silence of the desert winds broken only by the occasional howl of a massif in the distance, rising in a thrilling echo that haunted the far-off canyons. It was so, so different than anywhere he’d ever lived— even Mandalore. The landscape echoed with millennia of struggle— and resilience, desperation and determination. There was pain— this palace in particular needed years of meditation to clear out the pain, fear, and debauchery that stained its walls and floors in the Force— but there was hope, a gritty, bloody sort of hope that Ben remembered from the darkest moments of his young life.

There had to be a way to end the slavery here.

Old memories threatened to overwhelm him, and he turned his mind once more, landing on Rex and Wolffe— and Kix. Rex had sent him dozens of messages over the past month, while Wolffe had commed buir, and Ben— really, deeply appreciated that. Was gratified that even though Rex had had no choice in getting to know his older self, he used that knowledge to give Ben the kind of support he needed now.

He wasn’t ready to talk about it. When asked, he gave the answers he knew that his listeners wanted to hear, the right answers. But Rex’s messages— he could take his time, think, then respond. Or not, and Rex wouldn’t push it. He missed the elderly man intensely, even as he cherished the space he was being given.

And he wondered. About Kix.

Kix was young, not much older than himself. Wolffe had revealed to buir that he had hesitated to pursue the rapid-aging treatment, and Ben could appreciate that. All the same, he was privately glad to hear that they had all taken it in the end, and were now traveling the galaxy, seeing sights that they had never had the liberty to visit as young conscripts— slaves— during the war, sights that their many brothers would never get the chance to view themselves. The thought made Ben smile, imagining the old men and a young clone, exploring the galaxy under more peaceful circumstances, though he did wonder at Wolffe’s parting comment.

“Better do it now— he probably won’t want to leave, after.”

Ben had taken his question to the Force, and received a pulse of something that resembled laughter in turn. Unhelpful. Still, he hoped they were enjoying themselves, wherever they were.

They deserved it.

A chirp at his ankle drew his attention, and he smiled as he crouched down to greet the droid.

“Su’cuy, Missy,” and chuckled at her greeting. “As alive as you, my little friend. Everything is quiet and secure now?”

The droid chirped an affirmative, before going on. His face fell.

“Missy, what did you see?”

The newly refurbished MSE-6 chirped in agitated binary. Ben’s stomach twisted as he listened.

“I was afraid of that. You’re sure it was the palace manager? You saw him slip it into the soup?” The Sullustan had been on Ben’s radar since they arrived. Fennec and Boba had assured him that employees motivated by greed could be reliable if paid enough, but experience had taught Ben otherwise. The question was— who had paid the Sullustan more, to secure his cooperation?

Each of the crime families of Mos Espa had motivation, and then there was the under-the-radar presence of the Pykes, which Ben was building a case to present to Boba and Fennec as a clear threat. But Ben’s credits were on another player. He hoped he was wrong. But his luck was rarely that good.

“You did wonderfully, Missy. As always,” he smiled kindly at the droid, who chirped with pride. He’d done his best to enhance her programming during the refurbishment, and her brush with death combined with the enhanced programming had resulted in a surprising level of boldness for a MSE-6 droid, eager for a surveillance mission no matter how risky.

Missy chirped, seeking her next task. Ben sat back, rubbing at his jawline as he thought. “Run your usual patrol, then go check on the Night Wind assassin. He’s in the cells. Don’t get anywhere near him, just watch from a distance, see if he says or does anything— or if anyone tries to visit him. Your taser is charged?” In response, the droid extended her hidden prongs, and zapped them experimentally. “Good. Use it if you have to; you caught that womp-rat unawares the last time, and your aim has improved immensely. I will head into the city now. You know what to do.”

Missy chirped, bumping his shin affectionately. Ben chuckled, patting the top of her little shell.

“And with you, Missy.” He watched the green and orange painted droid roll away, her blue Mudhorn sigil clearly visible on the top despite the gloomy dark of the hallway. Then he pulled his cloak close, drawing up the hood, and leapt over the balcony, landing lightly on the sands below before beginning his run to Mos Espa.

He had a conspirator to hunt.

“My love, you seem troubled.”

Boba couldn’t help staring, fearing to even blink.

But she was still here. His Cerium, his sarad’ika, the diminutive little flower with nerves of beskar, the one and only love of his life. Here in his arms, as though she’d never left, those bright blue eyes seeing more than he ever let anyone get close enough to see.

It was late, and they had retreated to his rooms, with the vague notion of resting after such an eventful day. But sleep couldn’t be further away in this moment as he beheld her beauty, marveling at how the past twelve hours had turned his life upon its head.

He’d been livid, when Ben described the emotions he felt from the tapestry. Boba believed him, despite his verbal doubt. And it had lit a rage that burned hot in his blood. How dare she feel anything— she had abandoned him, rejected his offer to travel with him, leave this skughole and her ungrateful, selfish family behind. She had left him standing, waiting at that hangar for hours without a word, without even a sorry, can’t. He’d taken his heartbreak out on his bounties, more vicious and destructive than ever, stewing in his own pain even after he’d crawled out of the sarlacc.

She had haunted his dreams, memories as vivid as a holo of that soft lithe body reclining on the cushions in her apartment above the shop, the late afternoon suns illuminating the radiant smile that only he got to see in that quiet, private space, when he could relax between bounties and she could shed that famous composure she wore as a shield against the harshness of life on Tatooine; where they could be soft together, something he hadn’t been since he was a child. Those dreams had felt like a mirage when he woke, surrounded by the bare durasteel of his ship and, later, the arid solitude of the desert.

He thought he’d made peace with his past while in the sands; the lie of it pulsed in the ticking vein in his forehead as he marched through the streets of Mos Espa.

But deep beneath the anger, lay hope— a stupid, useless emotion, a weakness he’d never fully eradicated, especially when it came to her. Whether it was hope for closure, for another chance, he didn’t know. He’d figure it out when he got there.

And there probably should have been words. But they had fled as he crossed the threshold of the weaver’s shop, to see Cerium seated at the loom like it was only yesterday that they’d first met, the afternoon suns illuminating her and setting aglow the dust that permeated the air. Her sun kissed brunette hair encircling her head like a braided halo, and those electric blue eyes, at once so soft and so compassionate, saw right through the visor, igniting a love he’d thought he had smothered long ago, one that had burned too bright and left him scarred.

And even then, there was a chance for words— to say hello, to engage in some inane conversation, to demand answers. Except all thought vanished as her famous composure transformed into a naked expression of wonder, and hope. And love— it was so plain on her face, as though five years of torment were some horrific nightmare and not a memory. This was not the feckless girl he’d manifested in his memories, one capable of callous cruelty. It seemed impossible to do anything, except rip off his buy’ce and charge forward, meeting her in the middle of the shop as she flew towards him, catching her by the waist and holding her close as lips long denied met with passion and relief.

And it was only much later, after many tears and explanations— after learning that she had not abandoned him, that she had been tricked and sabotaged by her selfish family and friends into missing their rendezvous, that guilt from trusting them had kept her from reaching out to explain what had happened— that she had mourned him every day since his supposed death at the sarlacc— that he remembered that he had a Jedi to thank for this moment. Left to his own devices, he undoubtedly would have stewed in his bitterness and doubt, maybe never to learn the truth. He would have lost more time, and regretted it.

And so, he treasured every second that he had to memorize those radiant features, now furrowed slightly in concern.

“I am afraid to sleep, for fear that when I wake up, this will have been a dream,” he confessed, running a calloused hand gently along the edge of her cheek, tracing with his thumb the small scar on her brow and remembering the fight that had caused it. Brave, brave little flower.

“My love,” Cerium’s soft smile was a vision, “don’t you think I have the same fear?”

He kissed her, then held her close, inhaling the sweet spice of her favorite tea as she melted in his arms.

“What is truly bothering you?”

He sighed. “I find it strange that it is a Jedi who has brought joy back into my life, after all that the Jedi have taken from it.”

“Even after accepting my ability?”

“Even then.” He stared past her at the open balcony, into the desert. “The gap between a Force-Sensitive and a Force user can be wide. Sometimes… I forget. Who he is. And then I remember. But now he’s brought you back into my life. And for that alone, I could forgive a lot. It’s just… strange.”

Cerium was silent for a long time. “He strikes me as a child, who has not been a child for a long time, and doesn’t really know how to be young anymore,” she said finally. “I can see how it would be hard to take him as Ben Djarin, and not see everything that he had once become. I worry about him. And about Din.”

Boba frowned, even as he bussed his beloved’s forehead. “Why do you worry about Ben, sarad’ika?”

“He has this new chance, right? Well, not new to him, but still— he can actually have a youth, have fun, such as it exists on Tatooine. Instead he’s got a better work ethic than everyone in this palace, and none of us are exactly shirkers.”

Boba’s chest warmed at the word “us,” even as his frown deepened. “You think I am overworking him? I’ve given him administrative osik. It’s boring, he gets it done fast, and then his time is his own."

Cerium’s smile grew knowing. “Do you know what he’s been up to for the past month, when he’s not doing your administrative osik?”

Boba opened his mouth, paused. Closed it again, took a deep breath. “He hasn’t been meditating, has he,” Boba said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d had his suspicions, but—

“No. Today was not the first time we met. He bought his hooded cloak from me three weeks ago, carefully digging for information. He’s spoken to several of my friends, always casual, barely drawing their notice. And I have caught him heading towards the slave quarters a few times, always in the evenings. He’s very careful, very subtle, it’s hard to catch him at it; I only catch him if I am weaving and my mind is… elsewhere. But unless I am very much mistaken— he’s been building an information network since he got here."

“He's what?!”

“What do you mean, they’re gone?”

Bo-Katan knew her voice was too shrill, but she couldn’t help her tone as she glared at Woves, who stared back, resigned.

Or was that resentful?

“The team we sent to Phindar is gone, alor,” Woves repeated. “They reported heavy losses before we lost contact. The remaining two verde seemed… angry. It’s unclear if they all perished, or…”

Bo-Katan stared at the map, a burning sensation mocking her eyes. The third team to disappear in as many weeks. Years of struggle and sacrifice, fighting for the restoration of the glory of Mandalore. Now, the fragile remains of her crew were disappearing, their morale crumbling.

Not for the first time, she wondered if she made ether wrong call on the bridge a month ago. Anger and frustration aside, she understood Din Djarin’s point. It wasn’t Kenobi’s fault that he was here now. He hadn’t asked to be captured by Gideon, and frankly it was a karking miracle that he called for help instead of trying to handle it himself, as the old Obi-Wan Kenobi would have. And to Djarin’s point— the teen didn’t shirk his new responsibility.

Now that was Obi-Wan Kenobi, through and through.

But the point remained that a Force user, an aruetii, held the Darksaber. All of her plans to regroup and retake Mandalore were waylaid. And she didn’t need ka'ra magic to feel the looks that followed her down the halls of the Destroyer that was slowly emptying by the day. Gideon might be destroyed, but more Imperials remained on the fringes, just as committed to their cause as she was. Raiding their depots and intercepting shipments had grown exponentially more dangerous just in the past month. She needed to buy time, until Djarin recovered enough to challenge him. If she did not act quickly…

Someone else would. Someone like Woves.

“After our next op, I want you to go to Tatooine,” she declared, watching her second closely. His skeptical face was oddly reassuring. “Observe clan Mudhorn, and the clone. Report back on the welfare of Din Djarin and Kenobi. I want to know if Djarin is fit for a challenge yet.”

“And who will be your second while I’m gone?”

Bo-Katan leaned back in her chair, letting the pause lengthen just a moment longer. Good, worried about his position. Not thinking of defecting. “Reeves will do. She can handle a temporary assignment.” And Woves would hate the idea of Koska usurping his position. A little bit of stoking the competition would keep them both off-balanced just enough to distract from the greater issue.

“How temporary is this? Just get eyes on them, and then return? Or do you want me to stay until he’s fully recovered?” he pressed, looking sour.

“The latter,” she replied, feeling much better for having a plan. “Now, let’s talk the Mon Cala job.”

Chapter Text

The second sun had just crested the horizon as Boba entered the throne room, helmet tucked under one arm and a cup of caf in his free hand. Cerium was already there, with Ben, and the two were holding some kind of measuring device, conferring quietly by the windows. His sarad’ika smiled at his entrance, beckoning him over.

“You have perfect timing, my love,” she gave him a quick kiss, then gestured to the windows. “We were just discussing the decor for the throne room. It’s so much lighter now— with the skylights opened— and we want to maintain that lightness, while also tying in the color scheme of the tapestry. Do you have a preference—”

Oh, hell no. “Ner cyare, I do not understand decor, at all. I trust your judgment,” he interrupted gently. He absolutely did not want to get pulled into… draperies and decorations.

Thankfully, Cerium laughed, turning to Ben. “See? Exactly what I told you. Help me, Ben Djarin, you’re my only hope.”

Ben smiled, glancing at Boba before replying, “I didn’t go on that many diplomatic missions to royal residences, but based on what you’ve described, I think your plan will have that aesthetic. Not overly opulent, but it sends the right message…”

Boba left them to it, sitting down on the throne with a cup of caf and a data pad. He’d nearly finished reading through Ben’s daily report when Fennec, Din and Grogu entered. He nodded as they approached. “Did the assassin have much to say?”

Fennec snorted. “Not at first. Then Grogu here did his little levitation trick, and the guy started babbling like a quacta with a stick in his—”

“There are children present,” Din interjected sternly.

“So it’s fine if he watches you cap bad guys, but I can’t swear?”

“Anyway,” Boba cut across the two, “what did he say?”

“Well, he blamed the mayor, but Grogu said he was lying. And the Night Wind work for the Hutts. So my money is there. But the mayor could be involved,” she grimaced at the uncertainty. Boba agreed. Not knowing their enemy was a problem.

“I need to go into the city today. After an attack on the gotra, it’s important to be seen. We can’t be perceived as weak. And I haven’t met Madam Garsa yet. Will you cover my six?” He directed at Din, who nodded and followed him towards the steps.

“You should go by way of the southern edge of the commercial district; there are a group of teens who loiter in that area who need work,” Ben called out, as he and Cerium approached. Boba stopped, turning to frown at the Jedi. How the hell would he know that, unless— right, sneaking out. He glanced at Cerium, who frowned, shaking her head slightly. They needed proof that couldn’t be explained away as Force osik, before they could confront him.

“Kids?”

“Teens, young adults— they’re stealing, because there is no work for them, and it’s creating friction. The kids need work, but more importantly, they need a cause. And you could use more eyes on security in the palace as well as in the city,” Ben continued.

“Why don’t you hire them?” Boba retorted, unimpressed. A bunch of children was not his idea of hired muscle. “You’re allowed to hire staff as you see fit. That’s majordomo work."

“I will keep that under advisement for the future,” Ben bowed, smiling slightly, and Boba suddenly felt utterly certain that he was going to regret that delegation of authority. “But you did ask me to pass along my feelings and suspicions to you, rather than act on them myself. And for this particular group, I think it would be best if the offer came from you.”

That sassy little osik. Boba frowned, ready to argue, when the smile and light touch of Cerium’s hand on his arm, just above the vambrace, thoroughly derailed his reply. He was going to have to work on that; eventually someone would catch on to how soft he was for his cyare, and make trouble with that knowledge.

The suns’ inexorable march through the sky had begun to scorch the ground as Boba, Din, and Grogu entered the city, heat beginning to rise in hazy waves from the ground. The din of Mos Espa felt surreal, like a memory of another life. The dusty haze of a slowly simmering day under Tatooine’s twin suns was at this point more familiar than Kamino, but the noise— a multitude of species calling and responding, advertising and haggling and cursing one another while the day was not yet too hot for commerce. Life with the Tuskens had not been silent, but— economical. Efficient, when too much could attract any number of predators in the Dune Sea. And then after— silence had become so profound, he’d sometimes forget what his own voice sounded like, harsh and raspy after long disuse. In comparison, Mos Espa felt like Coruscant. It would take some getting used to.

As would the talking. Somehow it had escaped his awareness that crime lord was, in part, a politics role. Ben was handling the hot air magnificently, but already Boba found himself talking far more than he had in the past five years combined.

A clan had that effect, too. Apparently.

Boba sighed, glancing over at his adopted kih’vod’ika’s brooding prowl beside him. Din wasn’t chatty.

Until he was.

“Are Jedi always kind of… mysterious?” Din finally broke. Boba couldn’t help a snort.

“The Force is one big mystery. So yea— if they’re listening to the Force, they can be. They’re also sneaky little shits.”

Din’s helmet snapped towards him. “What?”

“They claim a lot of dank as ‘will of the Force’. You have to learn to call them on that osik.”

“Huh.”

Boba mentally set a timer for the next question, scanning the crowd as they walked.

“Do you think—“

42 seconds.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes. He is pulling some sneaky osik. Probably because of the Force, but he is definitely being sneaky.” He paused, mulling over his next words. This was not the time or place for that conversation. Cerium had said as much. And she was far better at this crap than he was. “You should talk to him about it,” he settled on. “Obi-Wan’s got good reason to be wary of trusting adults. But he did good with the Gideon situation. This is not the place to backslide.”

“Ben,” Din corrected softly.

“Yeah,” Boba grunted. He was getting better about that. The tattoos and hair helped. But there were still moments—

“I guess it’s more important now than ever,” Din continued, and Boba glanced over, frowning. He didn’t like that tone at all.

“It’s always important.”

“Yeah.”

Boba waited. There was no way that was the end of t— “He doesn’t want me to be Mand’alor. He hasn’t said it, but— he doesn’t want me to carry the responsibility. The risk. He doesn’t want me to protect him.”

Boba sighed. He’d wondered when this would come up. “Jedi are trained to do that for others. They don’t expect anyone to do it for them.”

“But he’s more than just a Jedi. He’s stewjon’ad. He’s learning the creed, and he let me protect him before we were captured. Now—“

“He’s a teenager. And a Jedi. And not just any Jedi— he’s Kenobi. I watched a fully grown Kenobi kick my dad’s shebs, and Jango was the template for the army for a reason. He’s survived how many wars now? Physical protection isn’t what he needs most.”

And there was the simple fact that none of them wanted to say aloud. They didn’t need to. Din had been a lethal warrior, one of the best Boba had met. His armor was a shield and a weapon in ways even Boba hadn’t really utilized, a perfect specimen of the Death Watch Fighting Corps. He was cunning, but his physicality was his strongest asset— and now it was fundamentally, irrevocably weakened. It was a severe blow, and Cerium was right to be worried about him. Hopefully she would be able to help him better than Boba could.

His idea of helping was beating the osik out of someone until they saw the error of their thinking. Not the most useful in this situation.

“But what kind of Mandalorian am I, that I cannot protect my children? That I cannot die for my ade?”

And Boba could understand. He could. But—

“The kind that understands that sometimes the hardest part is living for them. That dying is the easy way out, and the ones left behind would suffer without you. I would know,” Boba swallowed thickly as he shook his head. He knew his tone was too harsh, too personal, but this— Din needed to understand— “They need you alive, even if you can’t put your body on the line for them. What kind of Mandalorian? A teacher— you still have much to teach them. You want to protect them? You stand as a shield, a deterrent. That will have to be good enough.”

He hesitated, then sighed, his shoulders softening. Feelings were hard, even with Cerium. And this particular topic cut close to many wounds that hadn’t healed nearly as much as he thought. “I won’t say it gets better. The bacta tank didn’t erase all of the damage from the sarlacc. But you get stronger in other ways. You adapt.”

Din didn’t answer, and Boba let it go, continuing on their way. He didn’t know what it was like to have a kid to worry about. But he did understand the need to protect. It was what had brought him and Cerium together at first, had kept him up at night, wondering if his association kept her safe or put her in danger, wondering if there was more he could do. And the hardest thing had been stepping back, when he thought that she had rejected him, giving her the space that he thought she wanted and hoping against hope that she would be safe without him.

But Cerium wasn’t a Jedi. And there was a difference.

The train of thought slipped away as they rounded the corner and came upon a curious sight.

Half a dozen modified speeder bikes sat parked in a semicircle in a small cul-de-sac, all gleaming chrome and bright paint jobs. There was no mistaking the labor of love involved in maintaining such pristine machinery in an environment such as this, and Boba could appreciate that. Keeping his own armor and ship in working order required the same loving attention to detail; the very same that Din now lamented being unable to do. He felt a fresh surge of sympathy for his kih’vod’ika, and something approaching understanding for the young adults who now stood behind the bikes, watching their approach warily. The bikes were arranged in a defensive formation, he suddenly realized. What were they defending against?

“Something we can help you with, old man?” A slim brunette with a mechanical arm tossed the challenge out with a feigned fearlessness that Boba almost believed. He bristled slightly at the address, only to have Din murmur through the comms “udesii.” He took a calming breath, then pulled off his buy’ce. The young woman blinked, and he bit back a snort. What had she expected? A Gungan?

“Heard your crew was in need of work,” he replied evenly. “I have work.”

“What makes you think we want to work for a bounty hunter?” she scoffed.

“This is the daimyo,” Din cut in softly. “And manners cost nothing, little one.”

Her gaze cut to the silver Mandalorian, a complicated expression not entirely hostile twisting her face for a moment. “They do here,” she finally threw back.

“Fair enough,” Boba replied. He’d been much the same at her age. “Security and surveillance are the job, for the gotra. Run patrols, help secure the palace. Be eyes and ears in the city. You’ll be paid, and offered food and lodging.”

She glanced at her companions, who looked conflicted. “And if we refuse?”

Boba shrugged. “There is no obligation. You’re free to continue stealing to live and suffer the consequences. You could take the job, and leave later if it’s not to your liking. I’ll fire you if you don’t pull your weight, and you’ll be back here to do whatever it is you do to stay alive and keep your rides in good order.”

The woman stared at him, then at Din. “Why us? You could spend your money on seasoned fighters, if that’s what you really want.”

Why indeed. And now he saw why Ben wanted him to make this offer. Shab’la jetii osik. “I could tell you about my values, or give you a sob story about giving the next generation a better chance, but you have no reason to believe me. All I can say is that I won’t ask of you anything that I’m not willing to do myself. Jabba ruled with fear. I intend to rule with respect. It’s your choice.”

Message delivered, Boba gestured for Din to follow, and began to walk away.

“Well,” Din chuckled softly, “that went—” the sound of half a dozen engines starting up cut him off, and Boba glanced back to see the kids falling into line behind them. Din began to laugh even harder, and it was almost worth being the butt of this private joke, to hear the young Mandalorian laugh, a rusty, disused sound.

“What, exactly, is so karking funny,” groused Boba.

“Well— I might not know what kind of Mandalorian I am, but I know what kind you are.”

“I’m not a Mandalorian,” Boba snapped reflexively.

Din’ika, the little shab, pointedly glanced over his shoulder, where half a dozen gleaming speeder bikes followed at a crawl, almost like a procession. “Right. And you didn’t just adopt half a dozen kids.”

“I gave them a job. I didn’t adopt them.”

“Yes, you did.”

Boba took a deep breath as Din continued to chuckle. When did this become his life? He used to disintegrate people for less. “Laugh it up, kih’vod’ika. Guess who gets the kids when I march on.”

“I already have two, ori’vod’ika. Jetiise, at that. What’s six more?”

They were nearing Madam Garsa’s Sanctuary. Cerium and Ben were already there, and stepped out into the midday suns as they approached. Cerium’s usual unflappable composure was firmly in place, but beneath his hood, Ben looked unusually grave, the crisp blue lines and dots of his new tattoos standing bright against his pale skin.

“We have a problem,” the teen started, before falling silent, unnaturally still.

And then Boba heard it, and stiffened.

The drums.

He turned slowly, as the processional drums grew louder and a new threat rounded the corner with the pace of a massive slug.

Dank ferrik.

“This is a lovely plant,” Ben smiled at the orchid safely enclosed in the glass jar. Cerium had stopped at her shop first to speak to her sister, a sullen blonde who had stared somewhat glassy-eyed at him from behind the counter as Cerium spoke, and to pack up a few essentials from her apartment above the shop to transport to the palace.

“It’s a Murakami orchid,” she paused her bundling of fibers into a sack and smiled fondly at the black and purple flower. “A gift from Boba.”

Ben blinked, surprised. “Really?”

She laughed. “He doesn’t seem like the gift-giving type, does he? But I have several treasures, souvenirs from worlds he visited for bounties. And always handed over with a ‘here’.” She mimicked his deep voice, and thrust out a hand abruptly. Ben laughed. Now that he could believe.

“I suppose he taught you how to fight as well?”

“Mm. He came in one day with a torn flightsuit. So he recognized me when I ran into some trouble during a delivery at the Hutt palace. For some reason, he decided I needed to learn to defend myself. So he taught me. And we just… went from there, I guess.”

Ben sensed that there was much, much more to the story, but he didn’t press. “Do you know that your orchid is Force Sensitive?” He asked instead, reaching out to scratch the head of the sand-colored loth-cat that had just jumped onto the table beside the flower, head-butting Ben in the chest in its quest for pets.

“I had guessed. The orchid and Dusty here have been my companions for some time now. Sometimes Dusty will do strange things. But Tatooine is a strange world.”

“It is indeed,” murmured Ben, following her out of the apartment, through the shop and past the sullen blonde who eyed him skeptically, and into the streets of the city. He could feel the strangeness in the wind, the heat of the suns, in the Living Force that permeated everything. Grogu had noticed it too, given his affinity. There was an edge to this planet, that could take a lifetime to understand.

“Your hood, Ben,” Cerium broke into his rumination, pulling her own cream and blue hood over her braided crown. Ben pulled his hood up, savoring the small respite from the suns’ brutal rays. And the reduced scrutiny from passersby. People were beginning to recognize him now, which was a good thing, but… he pulled the hood a little deeper. So used to going unnoticed, being known felt strange.

“This tattooist normally works out of Mos Eisley, but she operates a salon here as well, on Centaxdays and Taungsdays,” if Cerium noticed his discomfort, she kindly didn’t mention it. “She’s a dear friend of mine, and while tattoos are not for me, I have many friends of several species who rave about her work.”

“Then I look forward to seeing it,” Ben smiled at her briefly, before returning to scanning their surroundings. It would be poor form to get ambushed when buir and Boba had been so reluctant to let them leave without a guard. In fact—

“Will our escort be welcome in this district?” He smiled wryly at Cerium, who startled.

“Our— what?”

“One of the Gamorreans— Agglatch, if I’m not mistaken— is tailing us, about 20 meters behind.”

Cerium sighed. “I suppose that will be the new norm.” She shot a sideways look at Ben. “You had better get used to it.”

Well. That was a clear warning. But stubbornness was a strong stewjon’ad trait, and he continued on in silence, following her down one alley and then another, carefully not looking down a side street that he had crept along last night, in search of the would-be assassin’s client. He’d heard rumors of seeing an armored individual in this area, but no one could give a clear description.

He refocused as Cerium stopped before a nondescript door and knocked lightly. As the door opened, a protocol droid ushered them in. Ben couldn’t help his wandering gaze as he followed Cerium into the lobby. It was… beautiful. Light and airy, a floral scent perfuming the air. Comfortable cushioned seats dotted the space, and Ben could almost forget that he was on a dustball on the edge of known space.

“Cerium and Ben to see Xiara,” the weaver informed the droid, who bowed and gestured to the adjoining room.

“She is expecting you. Please, this way.”

They followed the droid into the next room, and they had just taken their seats when the sound of rustling fabric announced the arrival of the artist.

“Cerium, my dear,” the Twilek’s soft, breathy voice matched her appearance; she was stunning, like so many of her species. Nearly every inch of her peach-colored skin aside from her face was covered in tattoos, and her long flowing jade-green dress revealed enough skin to showcase the extent of her body art. She embraced the weaver, then nodded gracefully at Ben as Cerium made the introduction.

“I am Xiara,” she introduced herself in a soft, breathy voice. “And you… must be Ben. I had heard rumors that you were Stewjoni. They did not mention how young you are.” Her bright green eyes trailed over his facial markings.

“I am,” he affirmed, accepting a data pad that the tattooist handed over. He flicked through the portfolio. “Your work is exquisite. Are you familiar with Stewjoni facial tattoos?”

“Not very,” Xiara acknowledged, “but I understand the style, and am familiar with markings for many cultures. I have met only one of your kind before. They were also marked, a different style. Are you… certain, that you want these markings? They will be permanent, unless you have them removed.”

Ben smiled faintly. “I am not afraid of displaying my heritage, and I accept the risks.”

The Twilek still hesitated, turning to Cerium. “Is he a minor? Do you have his guardian’s consent?”

Ben gaped as Cerium visibly fought back a smile. “Yes, I have his guardian’s consent.”

“Very well. Please make yourselves comfortable, I will be right back with my tools.” She swept from the room, and Ben turned an indignant look on Cerium, who finally burst into laughter.

“Am I a minor? For the love—”

“You really must work on letting people be concerned for your welfare,” Cerium quelled her laughter, turning a loaded look on him. “Ben, truly. I’ve been concerned since you first stepped into my shop, fishing for information. Is it so hard to believe that we all just want the best for you?”

Ben gaped, then looked away, flustered. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe not. But I see a kid willing to do whatever is necessary to help others, at the cost of himself if needed. I know a little something about that, and it cost me dearly for a long time. It’s okay to let others share the burden of your self-preservation, you know. Especially when putting yourself first doesn’t come naturally. You’re meant to be a leader; leaders have followers. And they will want to look out for you, as much as you look out for them. You’ll have to accept this, some day.”

Ben didn’t know what to say to that, and mercifully, Cerium dropped the subject, now examining his paint marks. “So do your markings have meaning?”

“Yes,” he reached up to touch the line of dots on his forehead. “This is a marking for warriors. The slash on the cheek is for swordsmen, which is my specialty. And the lines and dots at my chin are for speakers, diplomats.”

“And this one? Did you design this one yourself?” Her fingers ghosted his temple, where a fourth design lay. Ben nodded.

“I researched stewjon’ad clan markings. They are usually on the temples., framing the eyes. You’ll recognize the mud horn in the center—” where a tiny version of buir’s sigil sat, shaped by tiny dots instead of the solid lines that adorned the pauldron that inspired. “These—” he traced two sweeping lines that spread from the mud horn, one up towards his eyebrow, the other in the direction of his cheek, flanking the corner of his eye, “are the wings of the Jedi Order’s symbol. I figured, since two thirds of clan Mudhorn are Jedi…”

“It’s lovely, and very thoughtful,” Cerium smiled. “What did Din say?”

“You know him— man of few words,” Ben grinned. “‘Looks good, kid.’ And then when I pressed him, to make sure it was actually okay, he reminded me that I was the only one who would ever wear them as a stewjon’ad, and I was welcome to any form of self-expression I saw fit.”

“He didn’t say that,” Cerium laughed.

“Well, not in so many words,” chuckled Ben. He sat back as Xiara swept in, smiling graciously as she set down her tools. Cerium settled on a chair, keeping up a steady stream of quiet cater with Ciara as the tattoo gun buzzed, and Ben felt grateful the weaver was with him. Getting the tattoos should have been momentous, a ritual ceremony, but… that time for the stewjon’ade, like much of Ben’s old life, had passed. And he could not bear the pity of buir and everyone else, trying to create an illusion. He knew what he was, what had happened to his people. And the Jedi part of him abhorred fanfare, anyway.

And as he sat up and stared into the mirror Xiara handed him, taking in the bright blue markings, he smiled. For once, at least for this moment, he knew exactly who and what he was. The only question that remained, was what would come, from this point forward.

The warm amusement of the Force was oddly encouraging.

Given the simplicity of the marks, the appointment went quickly and the suns hadn’t quite reached their zenith when they emerged from the salon. “If we hurry, we can meet the others at the Sanctuary,” Ben suggested, glancing about as they entered the main thoroughfare. Something felt… off. The energy in the city had shifted, now unusually tense. The Sanctuary was a likely place to get answers.

A grim Madame Fwip met them at the entrance to the cantina. “It’s always a pleasure, my dear Cerium, but I did not expect to see any of you today,” she stated bluntly. Cerium frowned.

“Did something happen?”

The Twilek glanced at Ben, then back at the weaver. “The Hutts are here, for their cousin’s territory.”

Ben looked back into the street, where he met the wary eyes of passersby. “Interesting, don’t you think? That the Hutts had no interest in Tatooine for six years, and now they suddenly come to stake their claim? Months after Fortuna was deposed?”

“I'm sure I don’t know, majordomo,” Madame Fwip answered lightly, her Force signature a violent storm of emotion. She was afraid. Ben couldn’t blame her. Power shifts meant more adaptation for her to weather. “But I wish you luck. If you’ll excuse me,” she withdrew back into her cantina, as Boba and buir rounded the corner. They hurried towards the pair.

“We have a problem,” Ben began, then stilled as the Force pulsed in warning. He turned to see a massive litter born by staggering beings— slaves—and upon the mobile platform—

Hutts.

The one on the right was using a rat as a sweat rag, while the one on the left waved a pink fan. Brother and sister? “Boba Fett,” the possible-brother rumbled in Huttese. “There is business we need to discuss.”

Boba stiffened in offense. Ben leaned over slightly, murmuring quietly, “According to Madame Fwip, they are claiming this territory as their own. Jabba was their cousin.”

Boba gave a tiny nod, before declaring aloud. “This is my territory.”

Well. Not the response Ben would have made, but it sufficed.

The Hutt brother snorted. “This is Jabba’s territory. And now… it is ours.”

Ben felt Boba falter slightly in the Force, matched by a familiar stubbornness. Ben felt the Force ping in warning.

“Your claim is null and void, according to your own family charter,” Ben stepped forward, gesturing at the tablet that one of the Hutt slaves had held up. Thank the Force he had looked into this when they first arrived. “If you wished to make your claim, then it should have been done when Jabba died, six years ago. Instead, your family made no claim while the throne was held by Bib Fortuna, and by right of conquest, which is valid by Hutt law, it is now the claim of Boba Fett.”

The Hutts leaned back, as though startled to be addressed by him. The sister leaned over towards her brother, whispering. He then turned his bulbous eyes on Boba once more.

“My sister is insulted, Fett,” he rumbled. “Keep your Stewjoni pet on a shorter leash, or we might not be so merciful to it when we take back what is ours.”

Cerium grabbed buir’s arm as his hand dropped to his blaster, his rage like a siren in the Force. Boba’s own icy calm cracked slightly.

“I keep no pets, or slaves, Hutt,” Boba ground out, and Ben wondered at his anger. Pet certainly wasn't the worst thing he’d ever been called, and there was a certain irony in the fact that the pet was actually the rightful Mand'alor. More importantly, they hadn’t refuted his argument. They knew as well as he, that they had no legitimate claim anymore, and that whatever action they took next, would not necessarily be sanctioned by the Hutt family. “This isn’t your gotra anymore, and we do things differently. Loyalty born of respect yields a stronger family than one born of fear. Send all the assassins and cowards you want. We’re not going anywhere. If you wish to discuss business, your majordomo can confer with mine,” and he gestured at Ben, who bit down on a smile. They’d drawn a crowd, and the new daimyo’s words had caused stir. The locals were now leveling considering looks at Boba and his entourage.

The Hutt twins paused, and the sister leaned over to whisper in the brother’s ear once more. Ben hadn’t missed the intentional prowl of a massive black Wookiee towards the front, but he felt confident that the immediate danger was passed. A single Wookiee gladiator was a formidable opponent, but not one they couldn’t handle, and Hutts never got too close to actual fighting if they could help it.

“Doing business in public is uncivilized. We will discuss this later.” The Hutt signaled for the litter to turn around.

“Then next time, come to the palace instead of the streets,” Boba shot back. The brother sneered.

“Sleep lightly, bounty hunter. And your pet.”

No one moved until the litter had rounded the corner once more and disappeared from sight. Buir was at his side in a flash. “Are you all right?”

Ben blinked, confused. “Yes?” Grogu crawled out of buir’s satchel, and jumped to Cerium, who caught him easily as she drew level with Boba.

He’s afraid for you.

Ben sighed internally. “It’s fine, buir. Really. Anyone can find any reason to demean a being. And the opinion of a Hutt is worth less than—”

The Force screamed, and on instinct, Ben shoved his parent with the Force, knocking him down as a dart flew out of nowhere. It stopped midair, and hung there, and Ben looked over to see Grogu with one claw out, holding it in place. Ben traced the shot back to the source, and saw an armored figure in the shadows of the alley. He was up and sprinting across the square before Boba could shout after him.

The assassin had mapped out their route well, and darted down one alley, then another, the turns too sharp for Ben to augment his run with the Force. Still, he slowly gained on them, until he turned into a dead end.

It was empty.

“Up,” a whisper from the shadows, and Ben could barely make out the figure of one of his informants, pointing to the sky.

“Thank you,” he nodded, then gathered the Force to him as he leapt to the roofline. He had just landed when he saw the figure cut their jetpack and drop like a stone out of sight, too far to see exactly where.

A jetpack.

Ben sighed, shaking his head. To use an assassin to gain the Darksaber was dar’manda, and counter to Bo-Katan’s need for a spectacle, he couldn’t believe that the assassin came from her, but… who else could be behind it?

“I will have you know,” the irritated voice of Fennec Shand startled Ben, and he whirled around to see her haul herself onto the rooftop, “that they are all incredibly pissed at you right now.”

"As they like to constantly point out, I am a teenager,” he snipped without even thinking. “I believe this kind of behavior comes with the territory.”

Fennec stared for a moment, before bursting into laughter, and beckoned for him to follow her back to the palace.

The second sun had finally set when Ben could “go meditate.” Buir and Boba had complained about him haring off after the assassin, and Ben made noises of contrition, and they sent him off to go “hang out with kids his own age.” Ben and the Mods had stared at each other uncomfortably for a long moment before Skad handed him a cup of something that was not water and turned the tunes up on his ride, filling the hangar with something approximating music.

“What’s your deal?” Drash asked. “You were cagey about it, when we met last night.”

“It's complicated,” Ben hedged. “But I’m the majordomo now.”

“What’s that?” Skad pointed at the hilt on his hip.

“A lightsaber.”

Skad stared. “Banthashit.”

Twenty minutes later, they all got yelled at for throwing empty bottles at Ben, who was busy chopping them up with his saber.

Waving goodbye to his new friends, he followed Din to the private quarters, where he was shooed away to “play” with Grogu. Ben swallowed this with a smile, resolutely refusing to calculate just how much time was being wasted in this moment.

Thankfully, Missy was waiting for him at the balcony, and he disappeared over the railing, sprinting across the darkened dunes to the city.

But it was fruitless. His contacts and informants hadn’t seen any more of the armored figure than he had.

“White and red, maybe?” the Kiffar who ran a fruit stall shrugged. “They wear a poncho normally, so it’s hard to see. Maybe they’re working with the Pykes?”

“The Pykes?” A thread of dread shivered through him. “I thought they were just running spice through the town.”

The Kiffar shrugged. “Yeah, but now you’re here. Maybe they’re nervous, and called in someone to take care of it.”

Ben didn't like the sound of that at all. First Hutts, now a potential Pyke escalation. He hadn’t counted on them making moves, particularly when they hadn’t made any policy changes regarding the sale and movement of spice, or slaves.

Yet.

Moreover, assassination of the Mand’alor wouldn’t help the Pykes much, unless the goal was to destabilize the Mandalorians and the support they could provide to the gotra—

The Force tugged in warning, and Ben frowned, glancing at his quiet comm. It was late, but no one had noticed his absence. But the Force tugged again, more urgently, and did not abate as he sprinted back across the cooled dunes to the palace. It spiked as he reached the private quarters of the daimyo, and he forced the door open. A massive shadow stood over the bacta tank that sat near the balcony. Ben lit his saber, and the blue blade illuminated the Wookiee who roared at the intrusion. A sharp spike of fear from the bed alerted Ben to Cerium’s presence. Thinking fast, Ben called out to the Wookiee.

“I'm afraid visiting hours are over. Why don’t we take this downstairs?”

The Wookiee roared again, and reached for the controls. Ben sprang forward, forcing the Wookiee to jump back, howling in alarm as the lightsaber singed the fur of his arm. Drash and Skad appeared in the doorway, and backed out of the way as Ben forced the Wookiee downstairs. Realizing the fight was no longer his to control, the Wookiee made a run for it, batting the Gamorrean guards out of the way as he barreled down the stairwell. He had nearly crossed the throne room, aiming for the balcony at the far end, when the grate directly in front of the throne suddenly dropped, sending the Wookiee down into the rancor pit. Ben slowed as he met Fennec, who had thrown a knife at the button to trigger the release. She glanced at Ben’s clothes, but said nothing as they drew closer to the rancor pit, where the Wookiee continued to howl. Drash edged into the room, followed by the Gamorrean guards.

“So….” Drash broke the long silence. “Do we wake the boss up for this?”

Ben glanced at Fennec, who shook her head. “It’s handled. Get back to your patrols, and you— go to bed,” she directed at Ben. “I’ll go let Cerium know it’s safe now. We’ll reconvene in the morning.”

Ben did not sleep.

By the next morning, it appeared he’d had a lot of company in his sleepless vigil. Fennec had foregone her usual spotchka-caf double-fisting for an extra-large cup of caf, while half of the Mods were actively nodding off where they lounged in the throne room. Even Cerium’s radiant glow seemed dimmed. Only buir, Boba, and Grogu seemed alert.

And deeply irritated.

“I don’t care if I’m in a coma, you wake me up if there’s an intrusion!” Boba raged. Cerium picked an unfortunate moment to yawn, and his ire increased. “In my quarters, no less!”

“We had it under control,” Drash declared confidently, but Skad shook his head.

“We got lucky. If Ben hadn’t returned when he did, we never could have handled the Wookiee alone.”

Blast. Ben did not flinch, but he could see the glances that buir, Cerium and Boba shared. Even Drash seemed to notice, and she awkwardly cleared her throat. “Uhh, if you don’t need us, we’ll go, um— check the hangar.” The Mods fled, abandoning Ben.

Traitors.

“The good news,” Ben attempted a small smile, “is that the Hutts will mostly likely cede their claim now. If they sent their best fighter on-hand, they won’t—”

“How long have you been sneaking out during your meditations?” Boba cut right to the chase, after a quick glance at buir, who seemed lost for words.

Almost instinctively, Ben deflected. “The Force—“

“How. Long.”

Ben weighed his options. None of them were great. He steeled himself for the worst, and answered, “since we arrived.”

A choking sound emanated from buir’s helmet.

“Where.”

“Several locations throughout the city. The Aqualish district, the Trandoshan district, the Klatooinian district. The ports, the commercial area, the slave quarters— I’ve cultivated a network of contacts, who keep me informed on the activities of the area.

“It was necessary,” Ben continued, keeping his tone as even as possible. “Without an understanding of the social and political landscape, I can’t effectively advise. Information gathering is a critical first step, and something I am familiar with from my missions. I took the usual precautions, and the gotra has benefited from the effort.”

“That stops now,” buir finally managed, his voice painfully flat.

Ben nodded, fighting to control a grimace. He had prepared for this possibility, and would shift his networking to a more public-facing one—

“And you’re grounded.”

Ben blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “What?”

“I said you’re grounded.”

That’s what he thought he heard. Ben laughed, quickly sobering as buir and Boba remained silent. “You’re serious?”

“When I offered you the position of majordomo, it was to help with administrative dank, not to risk your life by sneaking out to gather intel,” Boba’s curt tone cut sharply, but it had nothing on buir.

“You are the ad be’alor, Ben. The true Mand’alor. I cannot protect you if you are taking unnecessary risks without backup—”

“I— I wasn’t at risk!” Ben frowned. He looked to Cerium, who grimaced sympathetically, but notably did not speak up. “Firstly, the administrative work is done. You’re welcome to check my files; everything is up to date. Second— I am a Jedi. I have been trained to infiltrate, to gather information. The places I’ve gone— you can’t just walk in looking like you and ask questions! If I hadn’t been doing this all along, I never would have found the Mods, or learned about the inner workings of the other families. Or found the Mandalorians who are skulking about. Or the Pykes—”

“That is true,” Cerium confirmed, and he looked to her, hopeful. “But without any backup or anyone knowing that you had gone, you could have gone missing for many critical hours before anyone would have thought to investigate.” Ben blinked, thrown. It was a fair point, to which he had no immediate response, not without throwing Missy under the speeder. Moreover, the waves of concern floating his way in the Force were disorienting him; to have such maternal emotions associated with his welfare was a first. Possibly ever.

“And you broke my trust,” buir added softly. Ben’s counter argument died on his tongue. “I thought you were safely in the palace all this time, meditating. I didn’t think you would take risks, so soon.”

Ben felt gutted. He— he had felt so confident in his ability to get in and out, so certain that what he was doing was right and the only way to do it, that the risk was worth it. He had to, this work was important. He had to shoulder his fair share.

“If— if I had asked,” he began hesitantly, “would you have said yes, though?” He feared the answer, oddly enough. Because if they would have said yes, then he would have broken their trust for nothing—

“You went into the slave quarters, Ben,” Boba’s frustration crackled in the Force. “Of all the places for a stewjon’ad Jedi minor to wander—“

“That was where I was safest,” Ben snapped, finding his ire once more. Broken trust was one thing, but this— “they look after their own.”

Every adult visibly paused. “Their own?” Boba finally asked.

“By the suns,” Cerium breathed, her bright blue eyes widening in horror.

Ben pulled at his collar, exposing his neck. “My first time was at age 12,” he retorted, defiant.

“Your first time—”

“Twelve—”

“I understand your fears and I apologize for violating your trust, but do not presume to tell me that I do not know the risk I take when I go into the city,” Ben knew he was pushing his luck, but that age-old stubbornness reared its inconvenient head once more. “On every mission I’ve undertaken, this kind of information-gathering and network-building is standard, and important. I had decided that it was worth it, and I stand by that decision. I only regret how it has affected you.”

Boba’s jaw rolled, and he turned to look at Din. On his other side, Cerium had retreated behind a composed expression of neutrality. Only the softness around her eyes suggested the sympathy that rolled in waves from her Force signature, an ache of maternal concern that left him still floundering. Buir’s guilt-fear-anger tumbled like thunderclouds, and it took everything in Ben to hold his position and remain steady on this. He knew the importance of his work, just as he knew that they would not have allowed it. He was used to being underestimated, discounted. Although…. buir had never underestimated him. But he did want to protect him, from everything now— and that simply wasn’t realistic, or even feasible anymore.

And maybe that was partly the problem: that Din’s physical ability to protect his children had diminished. It had to be a hard thing to accept, for a warrior whose physical prowess had literally fed his covert for years. Ben would have to meditate on that later. There would plenty of time for it now, he thought sourly. It was a petty thought, beneath him as a Jedi; the kind of behavior Master Qui Gon would have censured. Too stubborn, too passionate—

His parent visibly gathered himself before trying again.

“I know you weren’t trying to be reckless, or hurtful. But you need to trust us to have your back, just as we need to be able to trust you. You aren't alone, Ben’ika. And it is our responsibility to keep you safe, so that you never have to know that kind of horror again. For now, your mobility is curtailed.”

Ben fought the urge to narrow his gaze. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Escort, Ben,” Fennec materialized from where she had watched in the shadows. “You want to go anywhere in the city, someone has to go with you. And you can’t ditch them.”

“Anyone?”

“Not Grogu,” Boba snapped.

Ben could work with that. He did feel bad worrying Din, but the work he was doing needed to continue. They would eventually understand. Hopefully. “I understand, and will abide by that,” he nodded, forcing himself to appear suitably chastised. “I am sorry,” he added. It wasn’t exactly a lie— not from a certain point of view.

Boba didn’t appear to buy it, but buir’s shoulders sagged, as though punishing Ben had been physically taxing. And he did need to find a way to make it up to the Mandalorian, to rebuild that trust.

Ben’s gaze shifted to Fennec, whose mouth quirked slightly before she turned to Cerium. “You still wanted to head to your shop today?”

“I do, please. I need to reassure my customers and settle things with my family.”

Fennec nodded, then looked to Ben. “You in?”

Boba startled. “Now, wait—“

“Yes,” Ben jumped in. “It’s imperative that I go today.”

Buir’s signature went sharp with worry. “Why today? Did you get a bad feeling?”

Ben shook his head. “No. But there are people I need to meet. And I’ve laid the foundations of my network; now— especially after yesterday— it’s important that we make a public presence known. Continue to show that we— you— are here to stay.”

Buir nodded, but Ben could feel his hidden gaze still trained on him. He sighed internally. He needed to repair that rift somehow.

Tea. He would get tea while in the city, and brew some for buir. That had always been a good opener for mending rifts— or at least papering over them— with his old master. Not that he intended to paper over the issue with Din— Ben had fallen into old habits and that wasn’t fair to lay fully at the feet of the one person who had never discounted him— but he had a sinking feeling that his buir wasn’t quite ready to fully accept that he couldn’t protect Ben from everything forever.

Tea would be a good start.

Two Months Later

Axe took a sip from his tea, savoring the spicy, fortifying flavor as a familiar figure appeared at the end of the street, and glanced at his chrono. Right on time.

Ben Kenobi— nope, Djarin— made his way down the main drag of Mos Espa’s commercial district slowly, either stopping to chat with vendors or various denizens crossing his path, or being stopped by some being or another, eager for his attention. His escort varied from day to day; in the two weeks of his observation, he’d seen at least half a dozen various individuals accompanying him on his daily walk— the assassin, Djarin, a memorable time with some teens who had been heavily modified with bionic body parts, even a Wookiee— which did not vary in timing or course. He frowned at the thought, turning his head away as Ben passed him. Such predictability was dangerous. He’d heard chatter at the cafe of attacks, both in public and allegedly at the palace, targeting the daimyo as well as his staff. Apparently the Wookiee had attempted such an attack before being caught and—to the complete bemusement of the Mos Espa locals— hired as muscle. Axe couldn’t fathom the intent of such a public, predictable walk, then.

Unless… that was the point. ‘Keep trying, your efforts are futile. We are here to stay.’

Yeah, that sounded like the teen who had gotten the drop on him at their first meeting, and then orchestrated a rescue from karking Gideon’s ship. And like a kid who would totally hire a Wookiee who tried to kill them.

With a small shake of his head, Axe stood and slipped on his helmet, pulling the hood overtop. The hideous poncho had been a decent disguise, but he’d be glad to get rid of it soon. He needed to reach out to Ben— and Din Djarin. It had been three months since the fight on the ship, three months since the kid had earned the title and promptly handed it over. Three months of deteriorating conditions amongst the Nite Owls, and Axe was beginning to feel the bite of desperation. The situation on Tatooine seemed tense, but not overly volatile. Maybe there was a chance.

“Fancy meeting you here, Woves.”

Woves froze, the unmistakeable hum of a saber near his throat. It didn’t escape his notice that the only passersby who acknowledged the unusual interaction, seemed ready to intercede on the teen’s behalf, eyeing Axe with undisguised suspicion. “Su’cuy gar, Mand’alor.”

“Ad be’alor, actually.” The hum fell away as Ben circled around to face him, a dangerous smile playing on the teen’s lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The assassin Shand stood a few steps away, arms crossed and content to let Ben handle it. “Which you know. Which begs a few questions.”

Axe very slowly reached up and pulled off his helmet, clipping it to his belt before gripping the upper edge of his chest plate under his poncho. “I was hoping for a warmer reception.” This kid had no idea how rare it was for a Mandalorian to disarm themselves the way he typically did with Ben.

Or— maybe he did know, and that was the only reason Axe was still standing.

“Then you should have come to the front door.” The teen’s eyes went hard, and his tone ice-cold. A shiver went down Axe’s spine. “Two weeks ago, when you first arrived. Whatever Bo is up to, I don’t take kindly to threats. Assassins are dar’manda. If she has a problem, she can challenge, just like everyone else—”

“The assassins aren’t us. And I’m not here for her, alor,” Axe interrupted hastily, pressing a fist to his bes’karta. He should have known that the kid would clock his presence immediately. Jetii osik. “I’m here for myself. And for my squad.”

A single copper eyebrow rose, but the teen remained silent, which Axe took as permission to continue.

“Ever since Kryze returned without the saber, the verde have been getting restless. Our raids on Imperial supply depots have grown infinitely more dangerous, with little reward. Morale is low. My team is going hungry.”

“So you want a job.” The teen’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I won’t deny that I’m skeptical of a Jedi teen and a Child of the Watch leading what remains of the mando’ade. But Bo’s vendetta is about herself, not the mando’ade. And yeah. My squad needs work. So I’m here, if you’ll have me, alor.”

The stewjon’ad stared at him for so long, Axe wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed for the kid’s health. Finally, the kid smiled, and Axe almost wished for the deadpan stare to return.

“As it happens, I do have work for you. And your squad, if they’re willing to accept the terms. Security work mostly, some hunting. Food and lodging provided. You’ll answer to me. But you won’t be working for me, in that I won’t be the one paying you. You’ll be on the payroll of the daimyo. Boba Fett. Can you live with that?”

Axe desperately wished for his helmet as he swallowed down the first three reactions, struggling to keep his face blank as he considered the offer. It was a good deal. And it would give him a chance to see both Ben and the Mando in action. For the sake of his squad, he could live with the clone and whatever rabble he’d collected.

“Oya, alor.”

The teen’s expression softened. “Good,” he suddenly dropped into Mando’a. Axe startled slightly, thrown by the accent that landed somewhere between Concordian and an archaic dialect. “Because this is a trial run. If we can stabilize the situation here, between three rival crime families and meddling external forces, and do it without killing each other, then there’s hope for reuniting the diaspora of mando’ade, and maybe even the restoration of Manda’yaim. Blind faith is for religion, not politics. I don’t expect you to believe in this, now. But I will gladly accept anyone who’s willing to give it a chance.”

Axe realized suddenly that he was nodding, dumbfounded. This kid was truly something else. “Okay. Where do I start?”

“The Mandalorian assassins,” Ben answered immediately in Basic, his eyes sparking. This kid needed some hobbies. Maybe Krev could bring his bes’bev and teach the kid— “I’ve tried tracking them, but they’re very good at evading me. I don’t recognize their markings. If we could—”

“Ben,” the assassin stepped forward, looking deeply amused, “Before you start scheming, we need to go back to the palace first. And I need you to promise me that I will be in the room when you tell him that you’ve hired Woves’ squad.”

The teen’s earnest expression went impish. “Well, he did say I could hire whomever I want…”

Chapter Text

Do it again!

“If you insist,” Ben grinned, raising the balls of yarn into the air, slowing juggling them in the air before glancing at Grogu. “Wait, are you recording again?”

Grogu giggled as he angled the data pad up for a better shot. Keep going— more balls!

“You should be doing this,” Ben sighed fondly. “You are much better at manipulating things than I am. Ah, and Dusty returns! Hello, Dusty. How did you get in?”

The loth cat meowed plaintively, tail twitching as she watched the balls rise and fall, clearly plotting her next move. From beside Missy, Char watched the cat warily with his beady red eyes, edging closer to Grogu. Not that he had anything to fear; Missy’s aim with that little taser had improved immensely lately.

It was good to see Ben smiling and laughing, the joyous ring of that sound echoing in the Force. Grogu hadn’t realized how upset buir and the others would be when they discovered Ben’s subterfuge. Grogu had helped cover for Ben’s evening exploits, because his behavior was standard for Jedi on missions and Ben knew what he was doing. Padawans far younger had handled much worse. And in the months since the ‘grounding’ (Grogu had had to ask Ben to explain what that meant), Ben had struggled immensely, possibly even more than buir did with his physical challenges. Ben was hobbled by their care, and it confounded Grogu; he and buir had done some incredibly dangerous things together. Hadn’t Ben proved himself on Gideon’s ship? He was 2/5 through his Trials!

But Ben didn’t complain, didn’t rebel. Didn’t confess to Grogu or Missy’s involvement. Didn’t do anything that strayed beyond the prohibitions placed on him. He had exacted his own sort of mischief— hiring Axe was a stroke of petty brilliance— but Grogu had noticed that Ben’s inner light had dimmed just slightly. He’d mostly patched things up with buir, but it wasn’t true healing; both were holding back. And it hurt Grogu’s heart to see.

So he had dragged his brother into actual meditations once more, resuming their former daily practice, and wrangling his more educated brother into tutoring him in certain Force techniques. It was true that object manipulation wasn’t Ben’s forte, though it was very much Grogu’s. But he delighted in watching the Jedi who could have been General Kenobi, flow seamlessly from form to form, a deadly wonder to behold. He could see that Ben genuinely enjoyed the practice, losing himself in his katas, sinking into the Force in a way Grogu could only hope to match some day.

Grogu’s own meditations and attunement to the Force had improved— possibly the only good thing to come from Ben’s grounding. His brother’s energies had been redirected into a variety of activities, the least of which was a growing collection of succulent plants, brought to them by the Mandalorians who had joined the palace in the last few months. They brought back succulents along with their bounties or supplies, rewarded by Ben and Grogu with beatific smiles. Word had spread somehow, and now new arrivals entered the palace with a small pot in hand, like a little tribute. The surge of greenery was a welcome anchor in the Force, and gave him the ability to meditate better. Together with Ben, they worked to clear the negative energies that had stained the palace walls for centuries.

But practice wasn’t the only aim of this afternoon’s juggling session. Tonight was the long-awaited party, in which the palace would open its doors to the glitterati of Tatooine— such as that was. Ben would be networking with the heads of crime families and prominent businessmen and undoubtedly fending off advances by the younger Mandos who should be pulling security instead of ogling the ad be’alor— or so Axe had said this morning, causing Ben to choke on his mashed grains. And Missy could not be there to zap the ankles of the overzealous or overly-intoxicatd, so he would be on his own.

With his brother a bundle of nerves, a little distraction would help.

Plus, ba’buir Wolffe had requested more holo pics and vids of them. He said something about Kix liking them, which made no sense since they hadn’t met Kix, but Grogu was happy to make them all smile if it only took a few pics to do it. They’d made some silly faces, showed off Ben’s new vambraces. And now, Grogu’s crowning achievement, the levitating yarn trick.

Which would be even funnier, if—

“Whoa, Grogu!” Ben yelped in alarm as Grogu began pelting him with plushies gifted to him by Cerium. The generous weaver had hand-crafted a whole crate of them, giving Grogu plenty of ammo to lift and throw with the Force in quick order. The cat yowled too, leaping for the balls of yarn. Grogu squealed in delight, checking the pad to make sure he got them all on the vid.

The door opened suddenly, startling Grogu. Ben took a small frog to the face. Dusty made off between buir’s legs, her ill-gotten gains firmly clamped in her wide grin.

“Uh… are you ready?” He took in the sight as Ben attempted to set his appearance to rights. Grogu didn’t bother, still cackling as he stopped the recording and sent the vid and the pics. Ba’buir was gonna love this. Maybe Kix too.

“Yes,” Ben scooped up Grogu, and gave him a quick kov’nyn. "Just a little fun," and they were rewarded with a pulse of joy from their parent in the Force. He was passed to buir, who tucked him into the crook of his arm as usual, one thumb holding his hand. He could feel the slight tremor in the hand, and it dimmed some of his joy, helping him focus on their trek to the glittering throne room.

Show time.

Indeed, Ben’s affectionate amusement suffused the bond.

Axe hated parties.

Correction: Axe hated these kinds of parties. Ones with his crew, plenty of food and alcohol and maybe a warm body for the night, that was fine. But this—

Rich fabrics absorbed the soft light as heavy jewels refracted it, creating a strange kaleidoscope of color and light from within his HUD. There was more wealth in this room tonight than the rest off the planet combined, and normally Axe wouldn’t care, but he’d been on Tatooine for a few months now and Ben had made him care, damnit. And now, when he would have simply drunk the wine and ignored the murmured hum of false admiration and simpering and networking that these fancy to-do’s generated while he pulled security, all he really felt was disgust. He marveled at Ben and Cerium's ability to bear it with a smile.

Axe turned off his external mike to snort as a guest floated by, exclaiming loudly over the palace’s transformation.

It was true— the palace was transformed.

Cerium had accentuated the natural beauty of the throne room’s architecture with gauzy drapes that caught the soft light of the wall sconces and gave the room an airy feeling, while heavier ones flanked the open balconies, the varied colors of the room all tying back to the tapestry that hung in place of honor across from the throne. No longer the dank, fetid chamber of Jabba’s basest impulses, where scum and villainy lurked in shadowed corners, cushions and lounges dotted these formerly dark spaces, offering the guests comfortable places to rest and partake of refreshments. A few couples even felt so emboldened as to dance together before the throne, although everyone gave the grate of the rancor pit a wide berth.

And then there were the Mandalorians. Everywhere.

Gleaming armor and the sharp eyes of seasoned hunters manifested the impression of a paramilitary guard as the mando’ade stalked the perimeter of the throne room; a decent-enough perception for the guests to leave with, even if the truth was a bit more complicated. These were not the sloppy, unscrupulous bounty hunters and mercenaries who had gathered around Jabba like flies to a swamp, and the difference was felt in the wary glances of the various family heads who attended. Axe had purposefully set a rotation of mando’ade who filtered in and out of the room, and he watched with a faint smile as the Trandoshans, Aqualish, and Klatooinians tried and failed to assess the daimyo’s full strength.

Meanwhile, the daimyo himself was being led from group to group by his more gracious consort. Fett did not even bother with smiling, but nodded politely as Cerium chatted cheerfully. Axe noted that he stood directly over the grate covering the entrance to the rancor pit, occasionally offering a shush or a coo to the lumbering beast below as it let out the occasional agitated roar, startling the crowd into a sudden cowed lull. It was an effective way to remind them all exactly who was in charge, and the consequences of his displeasure.

Not that Axe cared much. True to Ben’s word, he and his team took direction from the teen, and were given substantial liberty to flex their skills and expertise as they saw fit. And after the first initial re-introduction— where Ben explained that he had hired Axe’s team and Fett immediately dumped him through the grate into the rancor pit, saved only by his jetpack and quick reflexes— he and Fett had given each other a reasonably wide berth, warily orbiting one another.

Axe couldn’t exactly say he was warming to the clone— his consort, girlfriend, partner, (whatever Cerium was to Fett) was lovely, great with conversation— but things were improving. Slowly. Slower than Ben likely appreciated, but decades could not be undone in just a few months. It helped, oddly, that Fett seemed to feel the same.

They’d only really gotten into it once, which in true Mando fashion helped to thaw some the iciness of their relations. But it had come at a high cost.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ben hissed at Axe and Fett, who both stood there, glaring murderously at each other. Ben and Cerium had cleared the throne room of visitors after he and the clone had begun arguing, with Axe throwing down an offer to use his fists to make his point. The teen’s tone caught Axe’s attention, and he glanced at him, astonished to see the fear and frustration oddly naked on the teen’s tattooed face. “You can’t do that here!”

“Ben, this is how Mandalorians resolve their differences,” Axe frowned, oddly reassured as Fett nodded.

“Ben’ika, I’ve told you that this is not the soft-shelled Senate—“

“It’s a gotra, where the strength of the family head is based on the family’s unquestioning obedience and respect, especially in public!” Ben cut them off, pacing. “You don’t realize how much you’ve undermined our efforts here— by challenging his authority—” he pointed at Axe, “—and by not immediately punishing him for questioning you.” He pointed at Fett, who looked ready to argue before the weaver stepped in.

“He’s right,” her calm expression now unusually grave. “I understand that Mandalorians handle things differently, but this is Tatooine, and we are unused to your ways. What they see is a leader challenged by his own people, not a unified front of people who are allowed to have opinions.”

He glanced back at Fett, who met his gaze with the unspoken agreement. Save the beef for the soundproof training rooms. The verde were’t going to appreciate hearing the orders, but this wasn’t Mandalore.

Not yet.

Axe could appreciate what Fett was trying to do here, and that was enough to make this arrangement work. He could feel the city’s tension as the gotra prepared to start a new chapter on Tatooine, the likes of which this system had likely never seen before. And he could see Ben’s attempt to use this as a test case. He’d managed with aplomb so far; anyone paying attention could see that he was doing the work of a Mand’alor, even if he didn’t wear the saber in public. The teen gave the orders, he resolved disputes, knitted together the fractious factions that had begun to arrive on Tatooine along with Axe’s Nite Owl squads. There was a tenuous breath of hope once more among the mando’ade, too fragile to even name, but which gained strength with every day.

Not unlike the feeling Axe got when he patrolled the city, actually. Something was building, brewing; the gotra grew in popularity, even as the threats grew more dire. A precipice approached, and if they could pull off the transition here, then the possibilities for Mandalore grew that much more tangible.

Axe glanced around the room, spotting the teen as the light flashed on the beskar vambraces adorning his forearms. It felt like a crime that it was the teen’s only real armor, but it had been a lucky-enough find in the Hutt’s vast treasury, and luckier still that Axe had managed to poach the best smith in the Nite Owls. Not quite a goran, but they could adjust-to-fit the vambraces that Fett and Djarin had practically shoved onto the sputtering teen before hauling him off to a room full of paints. With any luck, the rest of the custom-fit armor would be ready within the next few months.

Now, the teen and his orange-gold vambraces edged in green and blue lurked in a slightly shadowed alcove. He had temporarily taken refuge, seemingly catching his breath after being accosted by both mando’ade and Tatooine denizens in droves.

He’d earned this small reprieve; he’d already spent four hours working the crowd, greeting and facilitating introductions and putting down incipient fights between belligerent Mandos who were supposed to be pulling security.

Like the one in front of him now.

Ben— and Djarin— had handily managed the influx of Nite Owls and other coverts who had heard rumors of a new Mand’alor, fending off potential challenges and courtship spars, putting that endless energy to use in service of Tatooine and a few of Ben’s “special projects.”

Speaking of—

Axe’s comm dinged, and he pulled up the message. Perfect timing.

Axe carefully worked his way through the crowd to retrieve the ad’alor— and wrangle the di’kutla verd. The last thing they needed was another scene like the last verd who tried to put the moves on the Mand’alor’s son— the rightful Mand’alor.

He’d finally drawn near, ready to quietly threaten the wayward Mando with a month’s worth of cleaning shifts in the lower levels of the palace— the stench was horrific down there— when Ben spoke.

“I think you’re forgetting who you’re speaking to, verd.”

“No, I think I know exactly who I’m talking to,” the Mando’s tone set Axe’s teeth on edge and he moved forward, but not fast enough.

“Then you’ll understand why you’re now assigned to the patrol in the Jundland Wastes for the next three weeks. Better go brush up on your Tusken Sign.”

“But— you can’t—”

“Oh, but I can,” Ben’s cool tone matched his icy smile. “And if you kark up our relations with the tribe there, I will find out, and you will regret it. Have a pleasant evening. Dismissed.”

The Mando gaped, then jammed his helmet on, gave a swift salute that looked almost like a swing, and stomped off. Axe sidled into the gap, angling his helmet at the teen who slumped. “I was going to assign him latrine duty. You won’t be able to put them all off like that, though."

“Maybe not, but there are alternatives to fighting, you know. For the record, I only did that so as to avoid a scene,” Ben sighed, scrubbing his tattooed face.

Axe glanced at Ben, before returning his gaze to scanning the room. “You know, if you’re just… not interested, in—uh— relationships… I can let the kids know. Get them to back off.”

“No, it’s not— it’s not that.”

Axe hummed. So there was someone. Possibly.

Ben’s smile looked only slightly brittle. “I’m happy with the way things are, and focused on securing Boba’s rule here, and the reunification of the mando’ade. Things like relationships can wait.”

Axe merely raised an eyebrow under his helmet, smirking as he chuckled. “Oh, to be young again. Time is never on your side, kid.”

His smirk fell as the kid’s expression went complicated, ducking Axe’s gaze and muttering into his glass, “I bet Kix doesn’t have to deal with this.”

Logging that cryptic remark away for later, Axe shook off the petulant turn of the conversation in favor of distraction. “Finally got a lead on the armored figure you kept seeing.” He tracked how Ben stilled for a second, before resuming his easy, distant smile again.

“Is that right?” Ben took a casual sip, still scanning the crowd before adding, “who’s taking point?”

“Me. And you, if you want.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Ben cut a brief frown at him. “I can’t just leave. I’m the majordomo—”

“Who’s already talked to everyone. Everyone’s drinking now, there’s no business happening at this point. There’s more security here than the Republic Senate has—”

“That’s not saying much—”

“And Shand will cover for us for a few hours.” Shand wasn’t exactly friendly, but on this one point, he was allied with the assassin. Axe’s personal life goal was to match Shand’s dedication to enabling Ben’s mischief, without getting shot by either Djarin or Fett. Speaking of—

“I’m ready, but we have a complication,” the teen nodded meaningfully at the far end of the throne room, where a clearly suspicious Mand’alor stared at them. Axe tried not to sigh; he kind of understood the whole parental responsibility, but Djarin took it to a whole new level; they all did here. Fett, Cerium— Axe felt like he was was missing something. Fett was weirdly insistent on Ben continuing his Jedi training, while Djarin insisted on treating the boy like a stewjon’ad. And Cerium saw an ex-slave. Axe wondered what the kid saw in himself, with so many conflicting opinions pressing on him.

Either way, he could appreciate the kid’s obvious chafing at restrictions that had lasted far longer than the initially-threatened month.

“I’m guessing you have a plan?”

The teen’s expression brightened with an impish grin. “I was hoping you’d ask. I’ll meet you by the stairs.”

Axe didn’t have to wait long. He watched as the teen strolled leisurely towards the Mods, hailing the one with the prosthetic eye before leaning forward, speaking quietly. The Mods grinned and nodded, and Axe blinked—

Ben had vanished.

Axe sidled through the crowd towards the stairs, an eye on the Mods who somehow convinced Max Rebo and his band to strike up a jazzy number, to the consternation of Fett and the delight of his little queen. He lost sight of the Mand’alor amidst the waving arms and appendages, only to jump slightly as the teen murmured behind him.

“That went better than expected.”

“What did you say to them?”

“I asked who was most likely to get Max to play that new single from the Holonet. From there it devolved into the usual betting spree. I’ll find out later who won.”

“This whole karking place runs on bets, doesn’t it,” Axe grumped as they entered the hangar, nodding at the Mando on duty. He absolutely wasn’t still irritated by the bet on how many muja berries he could fit in his mouth. The Wookiee had cheated, and Axe would die on that hill.

Ben just chuckled as he hopped on the speeder bike. Axe clambered on behind him, barely getting his balance before the kid gunned it for the city. The roaring whine of the speeder filled the silence of the evening, and the kid cut the engine as they neared the city limits, let it glide silently to a stop before sliding off and leaping with a bound to the nearest rooftop.

“Show-off,” Axe muttered, engaging his jetpack.

Landing on the rooftop beside the smirking jetii, he led the way to the spotter’s perch. It had taken months to track this location down, a frustrating hunt but finally, finally paying off. Axe nodded to the verd coming off-shift as he crawled past them, and signaled to Ben to get comfortable. Axe laid down and began tuning the controls on his HUD. The dull hum of the city at night was a balm ton his aching head, and the metallic scent of dust that the filters could never fully keep out washed away the rank perfumes of the throne room. He hoped somebody would air the space out before reopening for petitioners tomorrow.

They’d sat in comfortable silence for fifteen minutes before Ben finally spoke.

"Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” Axe bit down on a smile as the teen squinted at him.

“I’m sure you think you’re hilarious.”

"I know I’m hilarious.”

Ben scoffed, and Axe nudged him. “Your question.”

“What is it about me exactly, that has you uncertain about the viability of Mandalore’s unification?”

Axe didn’t choke, but it was a near thing. “Kark, kid. I thought you were gonna ask about my armor paint, or something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can start with simpering questions first, if it would put you at ease.”

It was Axe’s turn to squint at Ben now. “You’re a snarky little shit, aren't you.”

“I prefer sassy. Your answer?”

This fucking kid.

“It’s not you, exactly.” Axe sighed, scanning the street again. “You’re a helluva kid, Ben. I figured that out the first time you got the drop on me on Nevarro. It’s been a long time since the stewjon’ade and the mando’ade worked together, and you woke those instincts immediately. No— the issue is what you are, not who you are. A Jedi, and a stewjon’ad. And before you say it— Tarre Vizsla was born to Mandalorians. And yes, cin vhetin and everything, but it’s one thing to be born Mandalorian and also be a Jedi, and another to be a Jedi and become not only mando’ad, but Mand’alor. And stewjon’ade— they were a part of us, equals, but— the Mand’alor was always mando’ad. A few rid’alor’e were stewjon’ade, but… I’m just not sure how everyone’s going to react. The history of non-Mandalorian Mand'alore is not a great one. Your values are different. It’s what makes the two work well, but a trained peacekeeper who’s got a martyrdom streak a mile wide, as Mand’alor? The bar will be higher. It’s not fair, but it’s true. They’ll want to see if you can make hard calls, be ruthless if necessary. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, even a kid like you.”

The evening hum of Mos Espa filled the silence for a long moment. “Thank you for your honesty,” the teen finally said softly. “It is a lot to ask of anyone. I hope I can meet your expectations some day.”

“I didn’t say they were mine.” Axe continued watching the apartment across the way, scanning for movement. “You’re doing fine so far. I see what you’re trying to do, and it’s working. It’s all the other empty bucket-heads I’m thinking of. War is hell.”

“Yes, it is,” Axe tensed at that tone, but remained vigilant. “Well, I hope it doesn’t come to it, but I hope my conduct in my fourth war meets their expectations.” Axe whipped around.

“Your fourth war—”

"Second question-- what exactly about Boba is it that bothers you? Is it that he hasn't sworn a Creed? That he's... a clone?"

"We aren't pulling any punches tonight, huh," muttered Axe, as he forced himself to turn away from this latest What the Fuck moment and refocus on the apartment across the way. "I'll be honest. It's hard to separate Fett from his father, and what he did. It's so dar'manda... not fair to blame Fett, but no one's perfect. Never had a great opinion of the clones, but that was before you told me about the chips, so that does change things a bit. Fett took bounties from the Empire, though. Not just one, like your buir, with beskar on the line. We're talking several. Dozens. He worked for osik like Jabba. I'm coming around, but you know. A Mandalorian never forgets."

"Don't I know it," Ben retorted drily, then added hesitantly, "so... if there were other clones, ones who never worked for the Empire, who supported the Mand'alor and joined... hypothetically... do you think you, or others, could accept them?"

Axe's mind blue-screened for a moment. Other clones? Weren't they all dead? "Uh... hypothetically yeah, sure. I think I could get behind that. Not much chance of that happening though, right?"

Ben didn't answer.

"Right?"

“Movement in the alley.”

Axe shelved Part B of this What the Fuck moment and caught the light of an open doorway as an armored figure stepped into the darkened alley.

“That’s the Mandalorian I saw,” Ben breathed. “Red and white— a strange color combination for armor. How would you honor a parent if you’re leaving your past behind? Or maybe it’s to honor a new parent in one’s life? Or maybe they’re clan colors— but I haven’t seen a sigil anywhere—” Ben clammed up as Axe zoomed in, and began swearing in every language he knew. He kept up a steady stream as the armored figure in the alley met with a Pyke, and disappeared into a speeder that immediately shot off into the night.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this recitation of the foulest language imaginable,” Ben cut in drily, “but I do have a party to get back to, and a curfew on top of that, and if we’re following them—”

“We’re not following them,” Axe turned to Ben, whose amusement vanished instantly. “This just got a lot more complicated. That wasn’t a Mandalorian.”

The tattoos on the kid’s forehead wrinkled as he frowned. “Is he wearing stolen armor?”

Axe sighed. “I wish. That dar’manda demagolka is an Imperial. Your conspiracy chart just got more messy.”

To Axe’s surprise, Ben merely sighed, shaking his head. “I really hate it when I’m right.”

This fucking kid.

Axe wondered if this Kix character would be a mellowing influence on Ben, or if they’d make him worse. He almost hoped to never find out.

Almost.

“Any word from the Djarins?”

This again.

Given that Wolffe was facing Kix, he did not roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. Rex had no such restraint, and grinned openly at Kix.

“New one just came in, Kix’ika,” Rex reminded him, as Wolffe shook his head. “Enjoy.” He tossed the data pad at the young brother, who caught with a scowl, a flush creeping up his neck. He stalked off, parking himself in the shade of Naboo’s largest waterfall to scroll.

“You shouldn’t tease him,” grunted Wolffe, swallowing a smile as the sweet-sour of the fruit exploded on his tongue and hit the back of his throat like a sucker punch. It was incredible that some people ate like this all the time.

“Like you were’t stifling an eye-roll,” Rex stole a piece, snatching away his ill-gotten gains as Wolffe stabbed at him with a fork. “Since when are you the soft-touch one?”

Since when, indeed. He knew when. The same day Rex became a ba’buir to his old General’s Master, his one-time fellow slave. The simulations never prepared them for Force osik, yet here they were.

He breathed in deeply the floral scent of Naboo’s north side as he pondered his response. The smell here was much better than the fungal, fetid stench of the Gungan swamps they’d explored yesterday.

“Because you know exactly what will happen when we get there,” he lowered his voice, in case the thunder of the waterfall hadn’t fully masked their conversation. “And he’s only got four vode left to rely on, if it doesn’t go well.”

He glanced back over at Kix, who now stared at the data pad, a complicated expression marring the familiar features. Somewhere near a pained smile, almost yearning— a look that Wolffe once would have ridiculed. Now, though— now, Wolffe couldn’t blame the kid, hell he was rooting for him. They both deserved a happy ending. Six months post-cryo and Kix hadn't aged a day, if anything he looked younger than ever, the strain of war falling from his face and shoulders. After so many years of just hoping for survival, wishing for happiness for his vod'ika set an ache in his chest, hope living alongside fear like a pair of turtledoves beating their wings against a cage.

“It will go fine. It’ll be cute, and nauseating, and we’ll have our hands full keeping Din’ika from stabbing Kixy. And you mean five.”

Wolffe scowled. “We’ll see about that.” Ponds’ death was a wound that never fully healed. Boba may have earned some goodwill by taking in the Djarins, but calling him vod…. Wolffe would reserve judgment. “Where are we going next?”

Rex took the abrupt subject change in stride. “He wanted to see Anaxes, but there’s nothing left to see. So we’ll head for Nevarro. I already commed Cara. She said we had good timing.”

Wolffe frowned. “Why’s that?”

Rex made a grimace that set an ache in Wolffe’s teeth. Force osik. “Well….”

Luke sat in the cockpit of his X-wing, scowling at the stone arch that led from the airfield into the small city that had squashed his best lead.

“Mando? He’s a great guy, one of my best hunters. His name? I never asked. Why are you asking about his children? Yes, multiple— no, he didn’t tell me where he’s going, and I wouldn’t just tell a stranger my good friend’s business— I don’t care if you’re the Chancellor! That young man is like kin and he— I don’t have to know his name to have him be like family— Marshal Dune, I think I’ve heard enough, please see him out of this fine city. As the Magistrate of Nevarro, yes I can evict you. Good bye!”

This would probably be around the time that Leia would tell him to give up.

Then again, he might not have missed the mysterious Mandalorian’s departure by months if Leia hadn’t conned him into multiple nerf-brained missions. It almost felt deliberate, the way the Force had thrown obstacle after obstacle in his way as he attempted to make it to Nevarro.

Luke let his head hit the instrument panel, breathing deep the sulphuric smokiness of Nevarro as he tried to center himself and think.

“R2, tell me you found something,” he begged the astromech perched behind him. The droid warbled a profanity-laced response, and maybe it had been a mistake to let him go on that mission with Chopper last year, his vocabulary had been horrific ever since.

“Wait, really? Rex and Wolffe were both here?” Luke mulled over the revelation. He hadn’t spoken to either since the end of the war. Reaching out now would be somewhat awkward.

R2 chirped again.

“R2, we’ve talked about reading my messages, you can’t just— well, I was going to read it, but Leia didn’t say it was urgent so— oh, back off. Fine, we’ll go back to Chandrila— wait, Coruscant?! No, I don’t want to go anywhere near Coruscant. We’ll make for Chandrila. Because there’s no way Leia will tell me what I need to know without wrangling another visit out of the deal. And probably a mission.” Luke grimaced as he eased the ship out of the airfield and into the sky, missing the sharp gaze of a very protective Republic marshal watching him carefully from the shadows.

Chapter Text

“He won’t wear that piece.”

Din sighed, turning away from the armor stand to tilt his buy’ce at Boba. He would never regret accepting his ori’vod’s offer to swear to House Mereel, but the older Mando had taken his “brotherly” responsibilities a bit heavy-handedly lately.

Not that Din was an expert on what to gift a teenage Jedi who was also the rightful Mand'alor. But he had consulted Rex and Wolffe on the design. It was a far cry from what he wanted for Ben— too many gaps, too many opportunities for a lucky shot or stab— but somehow Boba still took issue. With the back plate, specifically.

“It’s done now,” Din replied as evenly as he could. “He won’t be able to train on the jetpack if it’s any smaller. If there’s a problem, we can adjust the fitting. But I’m not scrapping the gift. He’s earned it. And it’s for his birthday.”

Boba’s unimpressed eyebrow rivaled Wolffe’s, and Din wondered if it was genetic. Then wondered if the brothers were in contact.

Then decided he had enough on his plate without tapping that potential sarlacc pit of drama.

“It won’t let him twist enough, here,” Boba pointed at the back plate. “I told you that before.”

“He’s not favoring Ataru anymore,” Din reminded him. “All of those acrobatics aren’t necessary in Soresu.”

“He’ll always be more acrobatic than a Mandalorian, Din,” Boba insisted stubbornly. “And he might favor one style, but what if he needs to deploy Ataru against an enemy that calls for it? He’ll be hindered.”

“He’s working on his Niman as his secondary—”

“Even Shii Cho requires more flexibility than you and I ever had. Half of his spars against that shab Woves are ended because he does something that that di’kut couldn’t do even as a youngling. More, smaller plates will be better, or he won’t wear that piece at all.”

Din scowled, grateful for his buy’ce to hide his expression. He knew that Ben would always be a Jedi, that his particular approach to the Creed would look differently than Din’s; he just hadn’t expected that to be so hard to accept. The sheltered isolation of Din’s brutal training could not have been more different than Ben’s upbringing— but it had worked, he’d been alive and well for decades before the injury. But Ben resisted every attempt to keep him safe, to offer him the same shelter from outside danger-- and in the case of the armor, he likely would conveniently “forget” the pieces that hindered his mission.

And maybe Ben had a point— the danger still found Din, inside the palace where he spent most of his useless days, while Ben ably fended off attacks with far less armor. Maybe Din had the wrong of it, and Boba the right— that he should focus on teaching, not physical protection.

But as he clenched his fist, feeling the slight delay, the tremor in each finger, the rage and despair of his predicament flared anew. The saber might rest on his hip, but he’d never felt less like a Mandalorian, much less the Mand’alor. And when Ben took back that responsibility— as he inevitably would try to do when he reached his majority in a week— then Din would truly have nothing.

He wondered if it would be selfish to call Wolffe. The man old before his time would understand.

He’d obviously taken too long to answer, because Boba sighed, gripping his shoulder briefly. “All armor gets adjusted, it’ll be fine. If the stories I heard were true, half the fight will be getting him to wear any of it. It’s a good gift. Now go find your kids and meditate or some dank before the guests start arriving. You’re wound tighter than ever.”

Because of course it was meditation, not go to the range, go find a Mando and beat the shit out of him. Din let the thought stew as he stalked towards the family quarters, barely remembering to nod at both the genuine and the mocking salutes of the mando’ade he passed. Because while he did practice and spar, it was early in the morning, in a restricted wing, where no one could see the fumbles, the delayed reactions, the missed shots. The aim that wasn’t improving, and it was foolish and prideful to bind all of his identity and value in his aim and strength, but—

His helmed gaze fell on his sons as the door slid open, who looked up and smiled, and Din felt certain that his heart was going to burst out of his chest at the sight, even as the bitterness simmered. He and his emotions were not close acquaintances, but he wasn’t a completely empty bucket. He knew that his own life was only the start of what he’d give for his children’s well-being. In the strictest interpretation of his Creed, he’d already sacrificed his soul in letting them see his face. He bared it now, forcing away his dark thoughts to let a genuine smile creep into disused muscles.

He kept it hitched up as his boys got that seeing-too-much look on their eyes, the med-scanner look, and there was a reason he loved his beskar. Their smiles grew a little too fixed, a little too determined, and he dropped his gaze to the mountain of plushies sitting before them. He didn’t want them feeling his frustration, his despair, his rage against the unfairness of it all, his guilt that he could not simply be grateful to be alive with his children, his shame that his best would never be enough to protect them. He didn’t want their pity, their guilt that for all their inexplicable gifts, they could not make him whole again.

“What are you doing, ner ade?”

Their smiles softened, growing bashful. At least they had this. And some day, it might be enough.

“Grogu’s unlocked a new achievement level,” Ben bit his lip as he grinned mischievously. He suddenly looked like the teen he actually was, and not the unnervingly competent majordomo he presented all day. He gestured at his vod’ika, who closed his eyes and stretched out his claws, frowning in concentration. Din’s jaw dropped as no fewer than thirty plushies slowly rose from the ground, floating like stars in the sky, their weightlessness just as unfathomable. Ben grinned, standing to walk among them and poke a few. Din noticed with a strange pang in his chest that Ben’s tunic, some cross between a kute and the tabards that the Jedi supposedly wore, was a little short in the sleeves again. He was nearly as tall as Din now, and the auburn hair, adorned with little braids and beads, now draped partway down his back.

Din wasn’t ready. Ben had been in Din’s life for only a little more than a year now, but Din could still see that emaciated, sunburnt teen with the unfortunate buzzcut and trauma in his eyes. He deserved more than a single year of— could Din even call it reduced responsibility, with all that Ben took upon himself?— before the full weight of his title fell on those newly broadened shoulders.

And then there was poor Grogu, his first foundling. The one who summoned a Jedi out of time so that he would not be alone. Manda knew how much time they’d get together when things changed. A child who never got to be one, and a child who would remain one for decades. Din already felt out of his element, but navigating that dichotomy felt impossible.

Ben cut a glance at Din, and he hitched his smile back up. “Kandosii, ad’ika,” he watched with satisfaction as the boys smiled at each other once more, and felt it grow genuine as they began launching the plushies at once another, a bizarre game where the plushies never touched a hand or claw and yet managed to sail across the room with unerring accuracy. It reminded Din of the training games he played with the other foundlings. He wondered what Paz would think of all of this, his one-time friend whose physicality was even more of a personal trademark, and with a soft spot for ade a parsec wide.

He’d probably tell Din to get his buy’ce out of his shebs.

If only it were that simple.

He’d call Wolffe after the dinner. For now— “Wrap it kids, we’re needed down in the throne room. The family heads will be arriving soon.” He watched as the jet’ika who would be Mand’alor shifted, his lightheartedness falling away into determination, and tried to ignore the tightening feeling in his chest.

At least he’d be wearing armor soon.

Boba sat on his throne as the last member of the Aqualish family disappeared up the stairs, and stewed.

Around him, droids cleared the table while members of his House spoke quietly in little clumps throughout the room, undoubtedly discussing their impressions of the dinner. Except for Skad, he was definitely betting on how many spun-sugar puff balls he could fit in his mouth before he choked.

Boba and Fennec’s brainchild of an alliance-maker, the dinner had not gone well. The skepticism of the family heads was more muted than expected, almost performative. Something was off, and he tried to not glance at Ben too often for a read on the room, but even those glances were useless; the Jedi had barely spoken, his face a neutral mask. It unnerved Boba almost more than the ambivalent Dok Strassi. The family heads had become distant in the past few months, the fawning behavior of the palace party giving way to telling silences and delayed cooperation with small changes to business. This dinner had probably been too little, too late to stem the influence of the Pykes, but it had felt necessary, for some reason.

Maybe he should have left the speaking to Ben and Fennec— but Ben had insisted that he not play a large part in this. Maybe that should have been a clue to its inevitable failure, but the Jedi hadn’t warned him off—

It took a long moment to realize that Cerium had sat down at his side, her little basket of mending in her lap. She leaned against him, her warmth reassuring as his thoughts continued to percolate. He watched as Ben signaled to a Mando guard to sweep the room for any bugs left behind, then dismissed them as he turned to face Boba.

“They’re going to betray you,” the teen declared bluntly. Over on the side, Skad choked.

“Your Force tell you that?” Boba snapped, regretting it as the teen hunched slightly before straightened again. Cerium frowned slightly at her mending pile, and Fennec had wasted no time in lobbing a slice of meiloorun at his head.

No respect. At all.

“No. My spies in the three families told me,” Ben retorted.

“I thought you handed that over,” Din’s vocoder did nothing to hide the frown in his voice, and Boba bit down on a grin as Ben shot him a look of polite disappointment. Of course he hadn’t handed the spy ring over, not when it remained his best source of information. Din had Ben’s liberties in a chokehold, and had for months, far longer than Boba had suggested. They were all in for a world of hurt when the kid reached his majority in a week.

“I manage it with him,” Fennec jumped in. And Ben’s number-one chaos-enabler probably did, for the sake of giving him cover.

“I thought you handed that over, to help me with the mission rota,” now Woves was frowning, and when did that shab walk in? Ben’s eyes widened slightly at the unintended slip, and now Din was shifting on his feet, which meant this debrief was about to go sideways unless Ben regained control, but now Boba was considering the duties he assigned to the teen, and the meditation Ben did with Grogu, and the walkabouts with Cerium—

Seriously, when did this kid sleep? At this rate, he’d be running Mandalore in a year.

Or dead.

“Anyway,” Ben hurried on, “they’ve got deals with the Pykes to eliminate you. You cut into their margins. They don’t care that the Pykes’ product is bleeding the people dry and killing them.”

Dank ferrik. “Do you have any suggestions on a counter-strategy, since this was a waste?” Boba groused, gesturing at the table.

“Not a waste,” countered Ben. “You want to be fair. You gave them a fair chance to make a better choice. Now your path is clear.”

“What path?”

Ben visibly paused, fighting the urge to glance around, and something strange wrapped around Boba’s heart at the hesitation. He was either going to really like, or really hate this proposal.

“Insurrection. Or, more appropriately, emancipation,” Ben said carefully, watching Boba and Fennec closely. “The Am— the enslaved here are owned by the three families; most other inhabitants can’t afford slaves, and are just trying to keep from owning debts that enslave them. But the families own a lot of people. Your business decisions stalled the slave trade, but there are still unfree people here. If you disable their chips, arm them— give them the means to free themselves— you will have three very distracted families, who won’t have the bandwidth to turn on you. You’ll have the gratitude of a slave population on a world that has known slavery for centuries. And you may end up with some fighters willing to return the favor against the Pykes when you confront them, which will have to be soon. They’re nearly ready to make a move.”

The room went deadly silent as everyone stared at Ben.

“Your plan is to upend centuries of economic structure to destabilize the ruling class, generate loyalty, and take out our enemies one at a time?” Boba shook his head at Ben. “You are a bold one, Ben.”

“It would work—”

“Not disagreeing,” Boba raised a hand to silence the teen. “Just wrapping my mind around this. Walk us through it.”

Adopting Ben’s strategy was a foregone conclusion, once the sheer audacity of it wore off. That had taken a few hours, a glass of spotchka and Cerium’s comforting presence in their private quarters.

After nearly a year of watching Ben work a room, run circles around the guardians who were supposed to be ensuring that the kid had a real youth this time— it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the coordination of a confrontation would be the teen’s brainchild.

Because Ben was a marvel.

He knew Obi-Wan Kenobi had had a reputation as a silver-tongued negotiator, but it was another thing entirely to watch the kid verbally waltz around the Mos Espa mayor’s stumbling majordomo. The Twilek never saw it coming, absolutely flabbergasted as Ben neatly pointed out the flaws in his arguments and offered rebuttals the man had no chance of countering. Boba wasn’t even sure where Ben had found the data for his arguments, but he didn’t question it; plausible deniability, and all that.

Ben had given him back Cerium. If left to his own devices, he would have wasted even more time holding a grudge against the one woman he had loved all those years ago, bitter and unwilling to yield. Ben had cut to the heart of the matter, just by sensing her emotions on the tapestry. He had saved them both from further heartache and misunderstanding, and that alone— having Cerium in his arms again— it had changed everything.

And then there were the walkabouts.

Boba had insisted on foregoing a litter, but it was Ben who really made the most of it.

“The majordomo and his cronies, and the top crime families— they all have the advantage of proximity to the people of Mos Espa, whereas you are in the palace,” Ben had explained patiently to Boba and Din, who had been dead-set against letting Ben out to walk about the city alone. “You’re a big, scary face trying to lead with respect from the palace of an ancient monster. Getting out among the regular folk, meeting moisture farmers— that’s how w- you’ll win the people over. You don’t have to reform crime, or put heads on spikes; you need the people to support you. And you need to know their struggles, so that you can bring them onside.”

“Ben. This is a good idea. But I do need to remind you. This is a crime syndicate. Not a democracy.”

“My point still stands."

Which was how Ben discovered the Mods. In fairness, it wasn’t Ben’s idea to swear the Mods into House Mereel; not that Boba would admit that to Din.

However, it was Ben who thought to reach out to the outlying communities, leveraging Cerium’s knowledge of the current political and economic landscape, and so they discovered the extent of the Pyke Syndicate’s reach, the depth of the struggle between the moisture farmers and the native Tuskens. It was thanks to Ben— who hesitantly asked Boba and Din to teach him Tusken sign, in between training with Grogu, and running about Mos Espa— that Cobb Vanth, sheriff of Freetown, and the Tusken tribes who roamed the Dune Sea, kept Boba apprised of the Pykes’ movements through the desert.

And so it was hardly surprising when the people of Mos Espa began to view Ben, and subsequently Boba and his gotra, as theirs to protect.

It was a brave slave who attempted to warn Ben when an unknown Mandalorian suddenly appeared in town and seemed to be stalking the teen. The slave got the fright of their life when mild and friendly Ben suddenly whipped out a karking lightsaber and disarmed the unsuspecting Mando, chastising Axe Woves for poor manners, of all things.

And then hired the karking bastard.

And then he kept hiring Mandos, stating “if you’re going to stick around and wait to challenge or follow my buir and me, you might as well earn your keep.”

This karking kid.

So of course it was Ben who developed the strategy for taking on the Pyke Syndicate once and for all. All Boba had to show for it was the idea of offering to the Tuskens arms and ammunition to take their justice on any who escaped from the fight by fleeing into the sands.

It was all because of Ben. The demure diplomat with a keen analytical mind, deftly bolstering Boba’s good ideas and softening his bad ones, building him and Fennec up until they both realized one day that they were actually not-terrible at this. So unassuming, it was easy to forget how terrifyingly competent Ben could be. So painfully young, it was easy to forget what he’d lived through. So clever and careful with everyone’s lives, it was easy to forget how horrifically reckless he could be with his own.

So endearing, it was easy to forget who he also was.

That Boba’s unofficial majordomo and diplomatic wunderkind, his nephew who charmed the pants off everyone he met, was also a Jedi.

A Jedi who, in the span of a year, managed to leech thirty years of festering trauma and carve out a space in Boba’s sad little heart of stone. A Jedi in danger of losing that part of himself, amidst the demands of a culture that never had much fondness for Jedi to start with. A Jedi who, despite everything, Boba would see be knighted someday, even if he had to bash a few buckets together to make it happen.

Jango would hate it. And maybe that was partly the point.

“Are you okay, my love?” Cerium’s inquiring smile derailed this train of a thought. He quirked a smile, pulling her closer and watching the lamplight dance across her lovely features.

“I think so.”

“Best anyone can really hope for,” came her amused reply, settling into his shoulder with a yawn.

Kix reread the message for the third time. Eidetic memory be damned, he wanted to be sure he read that right.

He glanced up at Rex and Wolffe’s inscrutable expressions. “He’s undermining the ability of the Mos Espa families to ally with the Pykes against the gotra… by bankrolling a slave rebellion.”

Rex and Wolffe grimaced. “Skywalker had to learn it from somewhere,” Rex shrugged.

“Except that this has General Kenobi’s fingerprints all over it,” countered Kix, frowning at the data pad again. The sheer creativity of the plan, designed to achieve multiple objectives and right a grievous wrong... “The only thing missing is the self-sacrifice play.”

“There are too many there who won’t let him,” Wolffe pointed out. “And he's not that far removed from Melida-Daan, like he was during the war. He hasn’t fooled himself yet into thinking that giving himself up will spare everyone else. Although… I’ll bet that none of his guard are truly ready to run with him. They keep forgetting what he is. Din keeps forgetting that he's not only a Mandalorian.”

“He's a Jedi.”

Kix dropped his gaze back to the data pad, not really reading the words this time. No one said anything for a long moment.

Kix knew they were waiting for him to make a decision. He had been holding off on this moment for months now, anticipation and dread in equal measure. Clones had been made for the Jedi, and the Jedi were theirs, but what if--

What if--

Ben needed someone who could keep up with him, not that he knew it yet.

What if he got Force exhaustion, and the Mando medics didn’t recognize the signs?

Kix sighed.

Fuck it.

“Make for Tatooine.” Kix didn’t dare look up as fire raced up his neck and into his cheek, and the heat doubled as two gnarled hands patted his shoulders.

"Sure thing, vod'ika." To his credit, Rex didn’t sound nearly as smug as he could have.

"What if... what if he doesn't--"

"He will." Wolffe’s eye-roll was definitely audible. "Trust me, he will."

Mand'alor still alive and well, latest attempt a confirmed failure. Fett's majordomo is confirmed Force Sensitive, with training. Pykes are ready to eliminate the threat. New orders?

He stared at the message for a long time, contemplating the options and their implications. He glanced up at the lieutenant, awaiting orders.

"Tell our asset to fall back into reconnaissance. The time for direct action has passed; let us see how the new daimyo and his Mandalorian friends-- and the Force Sensitive-- fare against a consolidated enemy."

"Yes, sir."

Chapter Text

Grogu had not fully appreciated how hard it must have been to be Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

During the Clone Wars, he had been too little to appreciate much more than the sanitized versions of heroic feats that trickled into the crèche. Back then, everyone wanted to be Master Kenobi. Or… the other one. Grogu had idolized Master Kenobi, like everyone else.

He hadn’t known about the hardships, the visions, the grief.

Here and now, Ben’s destiny had changed, no longer made for infinite sadness. But if anything could have changed with the time travel, Grogu desperately wished that it had been the visions.

He'd witnessed a few already, most too enigmatic to amount to much, and a few that Ben had refused to share, the blue tattoos bright against a crimson face. But as Grogu sensed a disturbance, he opened his eyes, drifting down to the cushion as he watched Ben. The teen still floated about a foot off the ground, rigid in his meditation pose, his normally neutral expression a mask of pain and horror. His eyes rolled under the closed lids, then suddenly snapped open as he fell out of the air, landing a heap on the ground.

Ben! Grogu leaped forward, patting him gingerly as the teen picked himself up. What happened?

Vision. Bad one, Ben replied through the bond, pale and slightly sweaty. I just... give me a second. He stumbled off to the fresher, and Grogu tried to ignore the sounds of retching. Presently, he returned, still pale but more resolute.

Will you tell me?

The future is not set, Ben responded instantly, and Grogu dug a claw into his ankle in retribution.

I know that.

It's... buir. He might get hurt-- badly. And I don't know that we'll get there in time. I didn't see him die, Ben added quickly, but-- it was an ugly fight.

Did you see with who? Pykes?

No. No one I recognized. Not a Mandalorian, either. Ben sighed, then began pulling on his armor. Grogu watched, mulling this revelation over. Mandalorians are both predator and prey, he said finally. We know this.

I know. Can you tell that I’m not wearing the back plate, with the cloak? Ben turned this way and that, glancing in the mirror.

Grogu sent back a negative, then added, is it a good idea to leave off armor, if you might be walking into a fight to save buir?

All the more reason, Ben replied grimly, checking his weapons— knives stashed in boots and on his hip, across from his saber. Extra clips for his sniper on his utility belt. If I have to fight, I can’t be hindered in my range of motion.

Well. Uncle Boba will appreciate being proven right. Grogu kept this thought to himself as he watched his brother’s sure fingers glide over his weapons, as though reassuring himself of their presence. Once again, he did not envy his Ben’s glimpses of the future, or his ‘bad feelings’. I think buir will be distracted enough by the sight of your armor.

Ben quirked a small smile, glancing down at the beskar. I do like this color, he admitted, tapping at the gold-orange of his chest plate, edged in thick bands of green. The kar’ta in the center had also been painted green, and the sigils on his shoulder plates in a bright crimson. Buir’s reaction to the red Mudhorn had drowned them all in waves of joy-pride-love in the Force, even as he coughed and gruffly said “looks good, kid.”

Will you tell him? About your vision?

Ben hesitated, his tattooed face faltering at the thought. I… don’t think so. He’s— not— he’s not really listening to me, Ben said in a rush, flushing slightly at the blasphemy. Not anymore. If I told him I saw something, or had a bad feeling, he’d just lock us down until the threat passed, even though that’s not how that works. He doesn’t think I can handle myself. You saw what happened when I asked about the Darksaber, and the title.

Grogu winced. That had been bad. Ben’s disappointment and mortification in the Force had been choking, before it suddenly vanished under iron-clad shields and a carefully neutral expression.

Do you want me to tell him?

Grogu suddenly floundered. Did he want buir to know? What he wanted was for nothing bad to happen, but that wasn’t realistic. And Ben was right. I don’t know. I trust you.

Ben grimaced. I don’t know what I can say or do to prove myself, Ben went on, pulling on his gloves, clipping his helmet to his waist. So the least I can do is not make it worse by giving him a reason to sideline me.

Grogu’s heart ached. He didn’t fully understand— and he probably never would, not for decades to come— but Ben’s heartache tore at him. From a distant, borderline neglectful Master to a parent who loved him almost too well— it had to be hard. Knowing who Obi-Wan Kenobi had once become, it was hard to imagine anyone underestimating the capabilities of Ben. Especially when he’d already done so much in this time.

But there wasn’t much Grogu could do about it. Except change the mood.

Picking up his third-favorite plushie with the Force, he lobbed it at the back of Ben’s head. It bounced, the squeaker hidden inside giving a perfectly timed “squeee!” as it fell.

“Hey!” Ben turned, then catching Grogu’s hopeful grin, his expression slid from annoyed to rueful to mischief in a heartbeat. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

An excellent plushie fight later (which Grogu absolutely won, thank you), they had wandered down to the hangar, spotting buir and Aunt Cerium over by a ship. They were frowning, speaking in low tones that trailed off as Grogu and Ben approached. Aunt Cerium’s frown cleared instantly into a delighted smile, arms open to catch Grogu as her launched himself from Ben’s arms. Nothing against Ben and his beskar, but Auntie Cerium was much softer.

The best cuddles.

Buir’s frown remained under his helmet, as he nodded at Ben, who cocked his head. “What’s going on?”

Auntie Cerium sighed. “I want to make some textile deliveries in Mos Eisley. And your father needs to meet with Peli about a ship. But our delightful Mando guard complement is being difficult about it.”

“You want to leave without a guard.” Outwardly Ben appeared calm, understanding, but in the Force his signature tightened with something uncomfortably close to panic.

“I don’t need a guard,” buir grumbled, and the bond flashed with resentment before Ben raised his shields. Grogu stifled a sigh, and tapped on the shields, waiting impatiently for Ben to look at him and open the bond once more.

We could offer to go. Two Jedi accompanying them?

Ben felt conflicted. I think… I will let Fennec and Axe know, and tell them to give us a thirty-minute head-start before tailing.

And you’re still not going to say anything?

I can’t try to change the future. Buir needs to get out of here. Telling him will just make him feel worse. He’s a Mandalorian, he’ll be ready for any danger anyway. And he’ll have us. But Grogu could feel a waver in that confidence, a seed of doubt.

“We can help you give them the slip. But we’re coming,” Ben stated out loud, firmly. His expression wasn’t quite a dare, but for a moment it looked as though buir would call the whole thing off.

“Fine.”

“Good. Then let's get going. Grogu, hide under Aunt Cerium’s cloak.” He glanced at Aunt Cerium, gave a little wink, and stepped back, his expression suddenly growing thunderous.

“Stars, buir— I said I already meditated! Why can’t you just listen to me?” he said loudly. A few Mandalorians glanced over, curious.

Buir jerked back slightly, stunned. “What—”

“You know what, fine! I’ll go meditate again! If you need me, I’ll be in my quarters. Happy?” Ben whirled around, his cloak twirling dramatically, and he stalked out, pointedly not looking at anyone.

“What… the kark just happened?” buir said.

Grogu peeked up from under her cloak; Auntie Cerium had her composed expression locked down, but her signature danced with hysterical laughter in the Force. “That was a diversion, Din. Part one, if I had to guess.”

“So... he didn't mean it?"

“No, Din,” Cerium softened, patting his arm consolingly. “Just an act.”

“So… now what?”

Buir ducked as an explosion rocked the hangar, then straightened as they all registered the deafening throb of something badly mimicking music, pulsing from the corner where the Mods worked on their bikes. It ricocheted off the high rough ceiling of the hangar, bouncing into every corner and filling the room with an incredible din.

Every head in the vicinity whipped around to see the young enforcers rocking their heads to the beat (if it could be called that). Mandalorians and palace workers all began to converge on the Mods, waving at them to turn off the music. They waved back, feigning blissful ignorance.

“Let’s go.” Grogu felt Cerium jump slightly, as the voice of Ben sounded in his ear. He stood in the shadow of the hatch, having stolen past them without their notice. Buir and Cerium hurried up the ramp and into the cockpit. As the ramp closed, a bellow rang out from the hangar.

“TURN THAT RACKET DOWN OR SO HELP ME THE FIRST ONE I CATCH WILL BE SCRUBBING THE RANCOR PIT WITH A KARKING TOOTHBRUSH FOR A MONTH—“

Cerium chuckled at Ben’s startled expression, pulling Grogu out from under her cloak. “Don't let him fool you, Boba is living his best life as patriarch of this madhouse,” she smiled knowingly, as she settled into a seat, checking the delivery bags around her. “The grumbling is mostly an act.”

Ben shot an incredulous look at Grogu, who merely cooed with mischievous delight.

Mos Eisley had not changed since Grogu’s last visit. At all. One and two-story dwellings blended into the landscape, the monochrome broken by the occasional banner from a vendor’s stall. Its inhabitants milled about, in no particular hurry and yet desirous of not lingering under the brutal heat of the twin suns, which only grew in intensity as the morning pressed on. Ben, Grogu, and Aunt Cerium left buir arguing with Peli over ships in hangar 3-5, and accompanied the weaver as she delivered her orders to excited customers.

Ben’s comm pinged, and he glanced down at it. “Buir is going to test the second ship, he’s going to Freetown. Won’t be back for at least an hour and a half.” Perched on Ben’s shoulder, he glanced at his brother.

Too far away if something happens.

Ben sent back a pulse of grim acknowledgment.

“How far out is our guard?”

Ben visibly startled, glancing at Aunt Cerium as she rolled her eyes, shifting the parcel under her arm. “My abilities are nothing like yours, but I don’t need them to know that it’s the right call. Besides, I got a feeling while I was weaving this morning.”

“… they’re twenty minutes out,” Ben finally answered, snagging the parcel from her and tucking it under his own. “I got a feeling too.”

Aunt Cerium hummed, her bright blue eyes on the street as she asked, “you didn’t stop us.”

“Trying to change the future sometimes just ensures that it happens.”

Cerium paused, and looked up into Ben’s carefully neutral face. She patted his cheek gently. “That’s a heavy burden.” Then continued on. Grogu glanced at Ben, trying to understand, but gave it up as he clocked the teen’s thoughtful frown.

The morning passed easily, filling the gaps between deliveries with meaningless chatter and gossip that Grogu tuned out, until he felt Ben’s attention sharpen.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” Cerium smiled warmly.

“How… how did you know when, ah, your feelings for Boba were more than just as friends?”

Grogu perked up, now interested.

Cerium hummed, turning to her nearly empty satchels and flicking through them, to spare the blushing teen. “Fairly quickly. He was so mysterious and confusing— didn’t really chat, you know, and always kept the helmet on— but he kept making time for me. He’d decided that I was a priority, and that— I was a priority to very few people then. Of course, then he took his helmet off, and the view was pretty good.” She chuckled at the strangled sound Ben made.

“But I think what you’re really asking is how I knew when Boba was the one. I think— my situation was not unlike yours. I had people who I supported with my shop. And I had people who wanted me to make certain choices because it impacted them directly. Unfortunately for Boba and I, I trusted the wrong people. They cost me years of happiness, and I blame myself for that. But the challenge is that I couldn’t leave what I did at the time, not without immense guilt, and he couldn’t exactly stop working either. I wanted to, in a heartbeat, and that's how I knew. Duty held me back, but it broke my heart to do it. I lived with a hole in my chest for five years.” She glanced back at him, her smile wry. “Not something I’d recommend.”

“Maybe it’ll turn into a family tradition,” Ben aimed for lighthearted, but the other end of the bond resembled a fortress, with reinforced gates, and Grogu didn't even bother with knocking. “I’ll be Mand’alor. Can’t exactly toss that aside for love.”

“The right person won’t ask you to,” Aunt Cerium countered gently.

“I just… haven’t seen many success stories, to feel like I’ll know if I’m doing the right thing. My Master… well, attachments are dangerous for Jedi. It can lead to Falling. Knowing how to have a relationship and not get obsessed to the point of attachment— they didn’t exactly teach that at the Temple.”

Aunt Cerium hummed. “And your father doesn’t strike me as someone with a great deal of experience, either.”

“Not to mention that he’s dedicated to chasing off anyone even remotely interested,” Ben snickered. Grogu was starting to lose interest in this conversation, and gain interest in a stand selling roasted meat across the way. He couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, and his interest in the topic extended only as far as his brother and father’s happiness was concerned. And buir seemed to show no enthusiasm for the topic.

Aunt Cerium got a funny look on her face. “Is there someone that you’re interested in?”

Yes.

Ben threw Grogu a sharp look, color rising in his cheeks. “Possibly. It’s complicated. I’d like to— but I’m not sure if he’ll— it’s complicated.”

“Anyone I’ve met?”

Not yet.

Ben threw him another dirty look.

The petite weaver merely smiled again, reaching up to pat his cheek once more. “I think that you know how to put duty first, better than most. And the right person will understand and accept that. They won’t ask you to choose. Any time you need someone to talk to, my door is always open. No matter what.”

“Thank—” Ben didn’t finish the sentence, as his eyes went wide and he pushed her down, pulling his saber, but not fast enough—

A blaster bolt blitzed out of nowhere, the red streak blurring towards them—

Grogu reached out a claw, concentrating, harnessing the energy, and the bolt went wide, slamming harmlessly into the stone wall of a building. Blue plasma shot out like a beacon from Ben’s lightsaber, and he took up a defensive stance, batting away and redirecting the shots that suddenly flew thick and fast.

“We need to move!” Ben shouted, switching to a one-handed grip as he unclipped his helmet and jammed it on. “Axe and Fennec and the others are a few minutes away. We need to get to cover.”

Aunt Cerium had gotten back to her feet and pulled a blaster from somewhere, calmly firing back. “I defer to your judgment.”

“Follow me,” Ben began moving slowly towards a low wall, crouching behind it and pulling his sniper. “Grogu, can you reach for them and throw some people around? We need to know who we’re dealing with.”

Grogu’s eyes fell closed, and he reached out in the Force, feeling for signatures far too close for comfort, bleeding with fear and malevolent intent. He pulled, and with a startled shriek, several Pykes went flying into the middle of the street, colliding with a hearty clunk.

Suddenly, a staccato of blaster fire rose from behind them, and several Mandalorians roared overhead, throttling their jetpacks as they rushed the enemy. Aunty Fennec dropped over the side of the wall and joined them, crouched down.

“You do realize that this is going to set you back, on being able to go anywhere by yourselves,” she commented drily as she lined up a shot.

“I am aware, Fennec,” Ben snipped, eyes focused on the sights of his rifle. “I realize that my foresight to have backup arrive will go completely unrecognized, as usual.”

Aunty Fennec rolled her eyes. “Anyone injured?”

“No, we’re fine. Another point that will go unrecognized,” Ben complained, straightening as the blaster fire suddenly stopped. Grogu clambered up onto his shoulder. “Buir’s not back yet, though. We should go secure the ship we brought, in case anyone else gets ideas.”

“Good call, telling us to follow,” Axe nodded at him as they converged in the middle of the street. He nudged one of the bodies with his boot. “They’re getting more bold. Cerium, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your shop was bombed about fifteen minutes ago.”

Cerium staggered, caught under the arms by Fennec. “My fibers, my looms,” she breathed, horror-struck. Axe bowed his head, acknowledging her loss.

“Let’s get you back. Fennec?”

“Yah, I’ll take one squad and head back. C’mon Cerium, Boba’s losing his mind right now. You two need each other,” she said kindly, half-carrying the weaver as the protective detail fell in around them. Axe shook his head, and turned back to Ben, who gestured towards hangar 3-5.

“Ship’s in 3-6. 3-5 was full with the two ships,” Ben said out loud. Grogu felt him tap the bond. Okay?

Grogu didn’t have a chance to answer. Ben suddenly staggered, just as Cerium had. Axe caught him under the arm, and Grogu held onto the edge of Ben’s helmet for dear life.

“Kark, I should have checked you myself,” Axe growled, his panic-anger-determination bleeding everywhere. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s not that— it’s buir. I— he needs help. Can you hail him over comms?” Ben’s voice sounded thin and high through the vocoder. Axe was silent for a long moment.

“No.”

Ben swore, the bond saturated with panic for a long second before he locked it away again. Grogu had no such qualms, mewing his distress for everyone to hear. That was his buir. He needed him. And if he was hurt, Grogu needed to get there and save him.

“He went to Freetown. I’ll start there. Meet us when you can.” Ben reached up and grabbed Grogu, tucking him into an arm before sprinting off to hangar 3-5, Axe shouting behind him.

“Get back here! You need backup!”

“Doubt it,” Ben muttered, as he skidded into the hangar and leapt into the open cockpit of the N-1 starfighter that Peli had tried to sell buir earlier. Grogu couldn’t find himself to feel bad as Axe continued to yell over comms, as Peli squawked from her office at the sudden firing of the engines, as the ship rose into the air and streaked through the atmosphere for Freetown.

Not if the backup couldn’t keep up.

Din put the freighter down in the flats just beyond the town.

Freetown looked much the same as it had six months ago when he stopped by, with Grogu and Ben. He felt a slight pang for leaving his sons behind; he knew they worried. They all did.

But the flight, the solitude he hadn’t known for some time now, refreshed his soul. This had been his life once, and he would not trade his sons for anything, but the momentary step back into an old life helped.

The freighter was decent, a solid buy. It needed work— a weapons system, reinforced cladding— but every ship would. And this could comfortably house nearly a dozen, if he ever needed that capability.

Better than the N-1 would.

He’d stared at the little starfighter in silence as Peli had rattled on about its capabilities.

“Peli, this is not what we discussed.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I think you don’t know what you want, Mando! This baby is a speed demon, and a rare vintage ship—”

“That’s not the type of mid-life crisis I’m having, Peli. I need a ship with multiple bunks and seats.”

She’d been deeply reluctant to show him the freighter, but he was sold.

He disembarked, pleased but confused to see someone who was not Cobb Vanth approaching him.

“If you wanna park your starship, you gotta do it out there in the flats,” the man said, and Din stopped short.

“I’m looking for Marshal Vanth.”

The Deputy scoffed. “I don't think you heard what I said.”

Why was law enforcement always like this? “I heard you,” Din retorted evenly, letting a little menace drop into his voice.

“I’ll take it from here, Deputy,” Cobb had sauntered up behind the Deputy, a knowing grin hidden. He waited, pointedly for the Deputy to mosey away reluctantly, and tilted his helmet at Cobb, who smirked. “He’s new.”

Din shrugged, revising his earlier though. Marshals were fine— Cara and Cobb, specifically. It was only the rest of them that were a problem. “How have you been?”

Cobb shrugged, gesturing towards the bar. "More careful. Where are the kids?”

“Mos Eisley. Just taking the ship for a test flight, figured I’d stop in.”

Cobb paused, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t running away, are you, Mand’alor?”

Din sighed. “Just a test flight.” Movement caught his eye, and he glanced across the street to the med clinic, where a familiar brunette glared at him fearlessly, hands on her hips. “See Thenia’s still my number-one fan.”

Cobb chuckled, pushing into the bar. “She’s still mad at you for taking the armor. We’ve patched things up— mostly— but I think she’ll hate you for a while yet.”

“Has… there been a need for armor?” Din asked cautiously, sitting down as Cobb poured himself a finger of spotchka. “Your reports to Ben didn’t mention any problems.”

Cobb stared speculatively at Din over the rim of the glass, before tossing the drink back. “And there haven't been. Until yesterday. Came across a… transaction, out near the evaporators. Left a few in the sand, and kicked a small chest of spice into the wind. Don’t think the Pykes will take kindly to that.”

“Ben might be able to send a squad out here, at least until things blow over—“ Din began, trailing off as Cobb waved him down.

“We’ll be fine. We’re tougher than a tick on a bantha’s ass out here, and not worth the effort, neither. We can handle what they throw our way. Plus, I’ve got my deputy.”

“Yes, the jumpy one,” Din noted drily, smiling beneath his buy’ce as Cobb laughed.

“Not everyone can be a Mandalorian.” Cobb’s smile fell as the Deputy in question ran into the cantina suddenly, flushed with panic.

“Someone’s walking in from the desert, Marshal.”

Cobb stood up instantly, Din a second later. “Get everyone in their homes, Deputy. Mando, let me handle this,” he shot at Din, who frowned.

“At least let me back you up,” he urged.

Cobb sighed, stepping very close to Din. “I’ve seen your hands, friend,” he murmured quietly, his lips barely moving. Dini stilled, his stomach in his boots. “Let me handle this, okay? You can stand there and intimidate, and call your squad in if you want, but you let me do the talking and the shooting, all right?”

Din nodded, unable to reply. He’d— he’d try to hide, had thought he’d hidden it well enough. Cobb sighed again, patting his shoulder, before loosening his blaster in its holster and stepping out into the bright twin suns. Numb, Din followed.

He could do this. He could. He’d do it Cobb’s way, but if needed, he could fight.

A humanoid in a broad hat and long duster stood at the far end of the street. The hair on Din’s neck prickled as the humanoid looked up, revealing a Duros with a breathing apparatus. He looked familiar, but Din couldn’t place him, someone he’d heard about but never worked with.

But reputable enough to be a danger. Din felt the silence of the town as acutely as he had the music in the hangar this morning, deafening in its own way. Even the wind had stilled, breathless with anticipation as the Marshal, the Mand’alor, and the bounty hunter stared at each other.

“Cobb Vanth,” the rumbling bass of the Duros broke the silence, and the bounty hunter tilted his hat at Din without taking his blood-red eyes away from Cobb. “And the Mand’alor.”

Cobb looked nonplussed, an act that wasn’t totally sold, given the tense posture of his body. “And who might you be?”

“Whatever Fett is paying you, we’ll match,” the Duros ignored the question. “And all you’ve got to do is stay put and let things play out.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Cobb replied, offensively polite with that folksy charm. The memory finally hit Din, as he stared at the Duros.

Cad Bane.

“I’d be careful where I was sticking my nose, if I were you,” Bane menaced, his pointed teeth bared.

Cobb’s eyebrows rose. “Is that friendly advice, or a threat?”

“Fett can’t control the entire planet, even if he’s got a pack of Mandalorian dogs to do his bidding,” Bane nodded at Din once again. “Fett’s a cold-blooded killer who worked for the Empire. He’s only in it for the money, not for the people. And as for the Mandos, they’ll leave when they’re not getting paid anymore. Your security is an illusion. And the Jedi majordomo won’t be able to save you all. Not when he’s dead.

“You let the spice run, and you’ll get paid.”

Din froze, his mind short-circuiting with fear and rage. That’s what he wants, he tried to tell himself, but the protective fury was overriding common sense.

Cobb tilted his head. “I don't think so. We ain’t letting our people be poisoned and murdered by the the spice trade any longer. Best leave, while you still can.”

Bane didn’t answer for a long moment, as though waiting for Cobb to suddenly change his mind. “You should have never given up your armor,” he growled finally, brushing aside his duster to reveal the silver glint of a blaster grip.

Din inhaled slowly, his own hand on his blaster, praying that his misfiring nerves didn’t fail him now. His children’s safety was on the line, not to mention Boba’s, and the whole gotra, and Cobb—

Bane pulled his blaster, Cobb a half-second behind, and Din long after that. But Bane’s shot went wide, barely clipping Cobb in the shoulder, as he turned to fire at Din. He’d obviously thought that Din would be a greater threat, and rushed his shot at Cobb.

It was a momentary reprieve, but only a moment. Bane was clearly an excellent shot, and had already landed a few shots on Din that the beskar luckily caught. Din had to get in close, brawl if needed. Bane would be too good to fight at a distance, where he’d find the gaps in his armor.

He leapt off of the porch, launching into the air with his jetpack. It would get him to Bane faster—

“Fuck!” Din muttered quietly, as Bane engaged karking rockets on his boots and took off into the sands. Behind him, Thenia had already burst out of her clinic, falling to Cobb’s side. He’d be all right, but out of this fight.

It was down to Din.

He raced after the bounty hunter, trading shots. The Duros was good, too good, and a wiser Din would have fallen back, called for reinforcements. But his blood was singing through his veins in a way it hadn’t for over a year now, and he chased the high as much as he chased the bounty hunter, eager for a hunt of his own.

The Duros suddenly cut the rockets on his boots, dropping to the ground and aiming at Din’s chest. Din couldn’t help the cry as the shot connected, missing the chest plate and slamming deep into his stomach. Fiery pain exploded, and he lost control of his thruster, dropping heavily to the ground. His leg buckled as he slammed not into soft sand, but hard rock. Bane was already standing, circling away from a ledge; they’d stopped near the edge of a canyon. Din needed to even the odds— he fired his whistling birds, taking advantage of Bane's distraction to close the distance and tackle the Duros.

But Bane writhed in his grip, punching at the blaster burn in his stomach, and Din loosened his grip with a grunt, felt the white-hot burn of a vibroblade slashing at his kute, the armorweave taking most of the hit but the blade’s edge scoring him on his arms, legs, and torso. The Euros moved like a serpent, eeling out of his grip and gaining some distance to land a few more shots with his blaster-- none vital, but it hardly mattered as pain punched through each hit. Dark spots danced in Din’s vision, and he knew his haggard breathing was betraying him via his vocoder. He staggered upright, but Bane kicked him in the chest, dropping him hard. His kute felt damp from blood and sweat, sticking to his body.

“Jedi, clones, Mandalorians— they’re all the same,” growled the bounty hunter. “Once you figure one out, the rest are easy.” He set his boot under Din’s back, and rolled him off the ledge of the canyon.

Din blacked out before he hit the ground.

Chapter Text

Ben didn’t know what to do.

This was only true from a certain point of view; in one respect, he knew exactly what to do. And he was doing it— maxing a stolen star-fighter across the atmosphere, sunk deeply into the Force, letting it guide him while tersely communicating with Axe, the only call he’d accept right now.

He knew he had to rescue Din, his buir, and it would require violence to do it.

But beyond that, he didn’t know what to do.

What to do with his brother, who was a writhing mass of panic-fear in the Force. He couldn’t even physically hold him, as the child was tucked into the rear seat meant for an astromech. Now and then, he would send a pulse of reassurance-comfort down the bond, as effective as a towel in stemming a flood. But it was all he could spare, channeling the rest of his focus in the Force on the ship, the comms, and following the nudges from the Force.

For just a moment, he wondered if this is what it had felt like to be a Jedi knight. Painfully, incredibly alone, with the fate of others on his shoulders and no one but the Force at his side. Everyone in his life either too young, or too non-sensitive to keep up, to understand— or understand that they’d never fully understand— what it meant to be a Jedi, how to keep up and still let him do what he did best. To rein in his worse tendencies, but let his strengths shine. It hurt to give them all the slip and go it alone, to know that when the fight with the Pykes came-- and it would, sooner than they wanted— he would have to do it again, or risk being bogged down by those who cared more than they understood. The thought ached, and he pushed it away. He’d been through worse. He could handle it.

He had to.

The Force nudged him, sending him slightly south of the town. The maps showed a canyon, and Ben’s stomach clenched. The tactical advantage of a canyon was not in his favor. What was buir even doing out here?

The comm buzzed, as the Force provided.

“Finally got in touch with Freetown, alor,” Axe reported without preamble. “Cobb got shot in the shoulder, but was well enough to take the call as the medic worked. A Duros bounty hunter walked in from the desert, offered a deal from the Pykes. Cobb turned him down, the Duros got the first shot before he went after the Mand’alor. Alor chased him out of town about twenty minutes ago. No one’s seen him yet.”

“Copy that. There’s a canyon just south of town— I’ll land there and start searching.”

There was a brief sigh. “Just do me a favor and turn your vambrace tracker back on? We’re ten minutes behind you, and that’ll help us catch up faster once we land.”

With a thought, Ben flicked the tracker back on. “Done. Ad’alor out.” He ended the comm and touched down, using the Force to ease the process. “At least I didn’t crash it,” he muttered, opening the hatches for himself and Grogu and leaping out. Grogu landed gently on his shoulder, his claws gripping his shoulder and the edge of his helmet.

Ben considered asking Grogu to help sense, then gave it up and scanned the ground as buir had taught him. There was a struggle here. It went over the edge— but buir has a jet pack. There’s blood on the ground too— but it could be anyone’s.

Refusing to jump to conclusions felt an awful lot like grasping at straws, as his bad feeling worsened. There are two in the canyon. One is buir. The other must be the hunter.

You don’t have your jet pack, Grogu commented suddenly, the first coherent thought in the past thirty minutes.

I have the Force, Ben reminded him gently as he pulled out his saber, so hold on. He sprang over the edge, leaping from boulders to boulder to slow his fall, before landing slightly on the canyon floor. He moved forward, noting blaster marks on the walls. They looked old-- local training grounds, he realized. The canyon turned ahead, and he cast his senses.

Buir was around the corner, weak in the Force. And the keen mind of the hunter, waiting.

A trap.

If he sprang the trap, he could get buir killed. But buir didn’t have much time. And Ben had only guesses as to what the hunter wanted.

Ben set Grogu down on a boulder. I’m going to confront the hunter. Stay hidden for now.

He stepped out, immediately blocking a blaster bolt with his saber as the brilliant blue snapped to life. “That’s quite the negotiation opener,” he called, blocking two more shots as he advanced. He would not, could not think about the fact that Din lay unconscious against a rock about twenty paces away, blood pooling beneath him into the dust and rock. His helmet on the ground beside him.

His face bare for all to see.

“I knew you’d block it… Jedi,” the gravelly voice of the Duros echoed in the canyon, ricocheting up the walls. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again— Jedi, Mandalorians, clones— you’re all the same. Once you figure one out, the rest are easy.” There was a long pause, and Ben’s attention was pulled from his buir as a humanoid in a large hat and long duster emerged from behind the boulder. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen a Mandalorian Jedi before. That’s close enough.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m rather decent at defying expectations,” Ben returned evenly. “What do you want.”

“Remove your helmet.” The Duros turned his blaster to Din’s head. “Or he dies.”

Thinking fast, Ben activated the comm before removing the buy’ce and setting it down, saber still lit. “What do you want?” He repeated.

“Your surrender and cooperation. My employer wants you.”

Ben cocked his head. “I can’t imagine the Pykes want me alive.” The Duros made an inarticulate, gravelly sound that might have been a chuckle.

“I’ve got more than one employer, kid.”

“Right. I can’t imagine the Imperial Remnant is very happy with me right now, either.” Not when there was a team at the palace, fresh from their recon of Mandalore, waiting to provide the full story of how they destroyed a cloning facility buried under mountains of glassed rock.

The Duros considered him for a long moment. “You remind me of another mouthy Jedi I used to fight, back in the day. The Empire got him in the end, too. Now drop the saber.” He tossed a set of Force-suppression cuffs at Ben’s feet. Ben considered them for a moment.

If he gave himself up, he might be able to escape later. But the cuffs would make it much harder; and the fact that the Duros had them at all meant that he knew how to handle Force Sensitives. There was no guarantee that he’d let buir live, either.

But refusing meant that buir would die, a reality too impossible to contemplate.

“I don’t have all day, kid,” growled the Duros. “And neither does your— hrrrk!”

Ben gaped in alarm, as the Duros threw a hand up to his throat, scrabbling at it as though he couldn’t breathe, and battled away the shots that the Duros fired in his direction. “What is wrong?” he shouted, as the Duros dropped the blaster, two hands at his throat now. “Let me help you, what—”

He gasped, as the bond surged. He hadn’t noticed it, but now as he turned to look down at Grogu, who had come out of hiding and held out a claw, the emotions were unmistakable. Fear. Anger. Hate. “Grogu, no! Stop!” He extinguished his blade and dove for his brother, who batted him away with a swipe in the Force. Ben went flying, barely managing to land on his feet.

Grogu, don’t do this. Buir wouldn’t want you to go down this path. Please, Ben pleaded through the bond, not daring to approach again. We’ll save him, but not like this.

The maelstrom of emotion that blasted from Grogu in the Force paused, subsided. The Duros dropped to his knees, coughing, and Ben gingerly moved forward, scooping up his brother, who was now crying. Ben could only spare a moment for him, sending love down the bond, before he threw out his own hand, using the Force to hold the Duros fast, whose hand had crept towards his dropped blaster. The Duros tried to wriggle free, to no avail. Ben drew a steadying breath, hating that he could not simply take a moment to process Grogu's use of the Dark Side, to comfort him, to just think. There was never enough time, and it felt cruel, that time travel had not given him this one grace.

“What’s your plan, kid?” the bounty hunter growled. “You’re a Jedi. You’re in the middle of nowhere. Your parent’s dying. You can’t hold me forever, and you won’t kill me.”

Ben hesitated for a moment. Letting the next few seconds play out felt like condoning the action— but then, there was a reason he was a Mandalorian Jedi, and not just a Mandalorian.

“No,” he agreed. “I won’t kill you.”

The sound of the blaster shot ricocheted through the canyon, and Ben let the body drop to the dusty ground, meeting Axe’s helmed gaze with a nod. In the next breath, he and Grogu sprinted to buir’s side.

“Oh, no,” Axe murmured as he dropped to their side, whipping out a med scanner. “Bring the stretcher!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Grogu had already clambered onto buir’s chest, a clawed hand at his bare throat. Ben’s own felt thick with grief and horror, nauseated by the copper tang of blood in the air, and he swallowed it down, buried it all in the necessity of the moment. “Grogu is healing him as best he can, but he can’t do anything for the blood loss. We need to get him back to the palace as quickly as possible.”

“The town medic is waiting for us above,” Axe nodded. “She can keep him stabilized until we get to the palace, treat whatever the kid can’t.” He grabbed Din’s helmet, pulling Ben out of the way as the team brought the stretcher and carefully lifted buir and Grogu onto it. He stared into the empty visor. “Must have removed it to prevent alor from calling for help. I killed him too slowly.”

Ben didn’t answer, jamming on his own helmet and kneeling to retrieve the Darksaber from where it lay abandoned in the dusty gravel of the canyon. The saber hummed in his hand, and he— just couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about assuming the mantle like this, about buir’s broken Creed and broken body, about any of it. Axe seemed to realize this, not commenting as Ben silently followed him out of the canyon and into the Gauntlet, barely acknowledging the salutes of the verde around them. He mechanically answered the questions of the medic from Freetown, sat silently as the Alderaanian woman set a bacta IV and threatened his buir to keep living or else. Someone handed him Grogu, who had passed out from overexertion.

And it took a long time before the numbness wore off and he realized that he was back in his quarters, facing Cerium, who gently pulled his buy’ce off and set it aside before opening her arms with an understanding, tearstained smile.

And Ben tipped forward and broke.

Din woke to the sensation of stickiness.

He’d been sweaty before, grimy— even muddy after that memorable fight with the Mudhorn, where the mud seemed to permeate his kute and linger for months after. But never sticky.

And then the cool air on his face registered.

He opened his eyes to find himself in his quarters, on his bed. A tube in his bare arm, covered with neat tape. His armor neatly stacked on the stand across the room. And Ben watching him, fully armored minus his buy’ce, his expression painfully inscrutable.

Din opened his mouth to speak, and began coughing. Ben crossed the room in an instant, helping to prop him up with pillows and handing him a glass of water before taking the chair beside the bed with practiced ease.

Too practiced.

“How long was I out?” he rasped. He felt physically unhurt, but exhausted from the coughing fit.

“Two days. You were in the bacta tank for most of it,” Ben murmured, gesturing at him to drink some more, but Din paused, wanting to get the worst of it out of the way.

“Am I dar’manda?”

Ben's silence stabbed Din right in his aching chest.

“From a certain point of view— yes,” Ben finally answered, his voice achingly gentle. “But the team I sent to Mandalore has returned. They found Keldabe. And the entrance to the Living Waters. When you’re well, if you wish to go—”

“Are you okay? And Grogu? What happened?” Din interrupted. He couldn’t think about the state of his soul right now. Couldn’t think about the choices that led to it, couldn’t think about whether he even deserved his armor. He had never failed so thoroughly in his life, and he could not think about it right now.

“Grogu is okay— he over-exerted himself trying to heal you, but our training has improved his stamina, so he’ll be fine,” Ben spoke quickly, as if hoping to keep Din from panicking. He patted the bundle slung across his chest. “I wasn’t hurt. And Cobb’s making a full recovery; the shot barely caught him. The Force guided me to a canyon outside of Freetown; you were unconscious. The bounty hunter… removed your helmet to prevent you from calling for help. I engaged him; Axe arrived and killed him, when I refused to do so in cold blood.

“You broke multiple bones, and had internal bleeding, plus damage to your internal organs. Grogu healed most of it, but he couldn’t help the blood loss. Thenia, the medic from Freetown, has been overseeing your care. You were in the bacta tank for nearly two days, after she finished the surgery.”

“She helped me?” Din blinked, surprised. Ben’s mask of composure broke as he shot Din a flat look.

“She’s a medic, buir. She took an oath. Of course she helped you.”

And— there was something in that, a layer that Din couldn’t parse, but the flavors of bitterness and grief were strong. “Ben—”

“You know, medics and Jedi aren’t that different,” Ben interrupted, his stormy-blue eyes oddly bright. “They take oaths, live by them. Care for others as best they can. They have lines they won’t cross. Lines that sometimes conflict with their other oaths. And they do their best to fulfill all vows.”

“Ben—”

“And I failed, buir. I failed you. I had a bad feeling, and I didn’t say anything. Because I was taught to not put stock in it, and I didn’t want you to forego something you wanted to do,” a tear slipped down, passing the blue tattoos on its lonely trail towards his chin. “You were so eager for an escape, and I was so tired of being underestimated, that I thought I could handle whatever the bad feeling meant. And I failed—”

“This is not on you,” Din declared, as forcibly as his tired, dry voice would allow. “Ben, it’s not on you. You are not responsible for everything that happens, good or bad. I chose to not turn back when the bounty hunter ran. He led me into a trap, and I let him. That’s on me.”

Rivulets of tears now streamed from both eyes, and the teen barely blinked as the contents of a nearby table rattled slightly.

“Why did you do it, buir?” Ben’s broken tone cut Din to the marrow.

“Ben’ika… I’ve told you. You are my child. I would give my life to protect you. And he was going to kill you.”

“But I don’t want you to— I don’t want you to die for me. I still need you, buir. You’re the only one who’s ever wanted me. I… I can protect myself. But I— I don’t love me as well as you do.”

Tears started in Din’s eyes, as he beheld his heartbroken son. He reached for Ben, and the teen folded, burying his face in the bed as arms wrapped around Din’s blanketed waist. Boba had been right, of course he’d been right. Ben needed a guide more than a shield. And Din didn’t know the first thing about being a guide for anyone, but he would learn. He would be what Ben needed, he must. There was no honor in breaking his son’s heart like this, for the sake of his own pride.

His son was not a child, had never been— and there was a special kind of grief in acknowledging that this one wish would go unfulfilled. But Ben still needed a parent. He needed someone to believe in him, and lift him up. Din needed no fine motor skills or preternatural reflexes to do that.

“Ni ceta, Ben’ika,” he lifted a heavy hand to stroke the copper hair splayed out on his bed as Ben cried into the blanket. “I am sorry that my eagerness to shield you from danger and the ugliness of the galaxy looked like distrust and a lack of confidence. I know you are clever, careful, and powerful. You have shown over and over that you can take care of yourself. I only wanted to let you be a carefree teen. But that’s not you. I’m sad that you didn’t get that time, but I can’t undo what’s been done.

“You’re not just stewjon’ad, or mando’ad, and I forget that sometimes. I want to do better. I will do better, I promise.” Tired fingers petted the copper braids as he let the teen cry as long as needed, longer than he’d ever been allowed as a young verd. And perhaps that was the starting point. Perhaps Ben really could be the start of something new for the mando’ade, something that turned “weakness” to “strength,” something that wasn’t quite like he'd known growing up, but better, stronger— by embracing Ben as he truly was. The Manda had chosen Ben; perhaps it was time to have faith. It was a shame that he’d had to lose his soul to realize it, but maybe that too was the point.

Ben stiffened suddenly, and a second later there was a knock at the door. “It’s Boba and Axe,” Ben sat up, wiping harshly at his tattooed cheeks. Din tried to raise a hand to gentle his motions, but gave up as the trembling limb fell back to the bed, exhausted. “That’s blood loss, buir,” his son added, watching the hand. “You’ll get your strength back.” He stood and crossed the room, making to lift the helmet from the stand.

“Leave it,” Din called softly, “and let them in.”

Ben’s eyes did that med-scanner thing, then he nodded and opened the door. Boba stepped in first, followed by Axe. They both glanced in Din’s direction before quickly averting their eyes.

“Mand’alor,” and Din jolted as he realized Axe was addressing Ben, “the squads are ready for you to address.”

Ben nodded, hand falling to the Darksaber that Din finally noticed on his hip. He glanced at Din, then at Boba.

“I’ll keep him company,” Boba nodded. Ben nodded, carefully passing the sling with Grogu tucked into it over to Boba, shot a smile at Din, and followed Axe out. As the door slid closed, Boba sighed, pacing towards Din’s bed with his gaze firmly trained on the floor.

“You can look,” Din said softly as Boba sat down with a grunt, shifting his gaze to the window. The older man shook his head.

“I don’t have the right.”

“Are you not my ori’vod?” And the question had the desired effect, as Boba’s head shot around before he realized what he was doing. A multitude of emotions flitted across his face before he scowled.

“You little shab.”

Din managed a small smile. “Perks of being kih’vod’ika. What have I missed?”

Boba shrugged, a multitude likely glossed over in that little motion. “How do you feel.”

“Tired. Soulless. Like my kid’s the Mand’alor.”

“Join the club. Minus the kid part.” Boba leaned back, resting his hands in his lap. “Cerium’s been taking care of the kids. Keeps her mind off the shop. And tomorrow.”

Din frowned, suddenly uneasy. “What happened to the shop? And what’s happening tomorrow?”

(5 minutes earlier)

“Woves.”

Axe checked his speed down the hall, glancing back at Fett. “You need something?”

“Ben’s in Din’s quarters, if you’re looking for him.”

“That’s where I’m headed,” Axe refrained from a raised eyebrow as Fett gestured at him to proceed, and fell into step with him. Something had shifted in the past two days, and he was not going to fuck up this this fragile progress. “He called for the verde to be assembled in the training room downstairs to address them.”

Fett grunted in acknowledgment. “Fennec’s got eyes on the leadership in Mos Eisley. If this gamble pays off, it’s going to change everything.”

“Yes, it will,” Axe sighed, trying not to rub at the tension growing in his temples. They had planned for this extensively, but the surprise attacks in Mos Eisley, Freetown and Mos Espa had shaken some, almost as much as the near-fatal attack on Djarin. Ben would have to reassure the verde that he was perfectly capable of leading, even though this had been his brainchild from the start. Which reminded Axe of his other headache.

“What is it.”

“I’m struggling with who to assign to Ben tomorrow. I can barely keep up, and I’ve been training and working with him.” He wouldn’t admit it, but he was exhausted. There was no sitting on Ben to make him rest, if one couldn’t karking catch the kid. Even his usual traps were ineffective; Ben had successfully weaponized the Mods against all comers, leveraging their gambling addiction to wage all sorts of mayhem, in order to avoid things like sleep and food. “My younger verde are faster, but inexperienced— they don’t know how to work around, predict, complement someone like Ben.”

“What you need are a squad of clones,” Fett smirked faintly, staring at Axe. “They’re the only non-Force Sensitives who could keep up with the Jedi. They were bred and trained for it.”

And it was a stunning mark of how far they’d come that Axe’s first response was to smile.

“Yeah. Maybe Grogu can pull a few of those out of thin air?”

Fett snorted. “That’ll be the day. Bonus points if it’s a medic.”

Axe shrugged. “A vod can dream. Hey, I wanted to apologize for the surveillance team dropping the ball on Cerium’s shop. How is she holding up?”

Fett held up a shaky hand. “She blames the Pykes, not you. It’s a major loss, but she’s not one to get angry and vengeful. She leaves that to me.”

Axe snorted, then straightened as he knocked on Djarin’s door.

In a way, he’d always considered Ben the true Mand’alor, tried to keep that thought front-of-mind. But Ben was personable, charming, snarky and downright sassy. The moments when that side of his personality fell away and the grim, hardened leader shone cold and clear still stole his breath away, as it did now when the red-eyed Mand’alor opened the door, acknowledging them with a formal nod. He kept his eyes on his alor, firmly avoiding the bare-faced mando’ad in the bed. It was horrific, what had been done to Djarin, and he could not go there right now. Not on the eve of battle.

At least Ben seemed calmer now, as they walked silently to the training rooms. The masked grief, the panic of being suddenly thrust into the position he’d been asking for, had vanished. Still too painfully young for this, and Axe thanked every star in the ka'ra for giving the kid nearly a year to adjust, even if he deserved more.

But as they entered the room, and saw the seated mando’ade who fell silent at their approach, Axe was reminded that reality rarely met desire eye-to-eye. There should have been ten times the number assembled. They shouldn’t even be on this planet—

“Verde,” Ben nodded at them curtly. Faces, some bared, some covered, all focused on Ben.

“Tomorrow is the day. The Pykes will attack, and we will hold them at the outskirts of Mos Espa. Our friends among the unfree are ready. Now we must do our part to support them, and eliminate the Pyke threat once and for all.” He queued up a display on the holo-projector, and launched into the presentation, pointing at the locations of various squads and where the soon-to-be-Freed would join the fight. Ben paused as he shifted the projector’s display to show the fights that would occur elsewhere on Tatooine.

In the silence, someone snorted.

Ben stilled, his stormy-blue eyes scanning the group. “Something to add?” The mando’ade glanced at each other, tense.

“This isn’t how mando’ade fight,” a verd in the back finally called out. “Your ignorance shows in your so-called plan. You will stain our honor. Why should we listen to one who barely wears a full set of armor?”

The uproar was silenced immediately as Ben raised a hand, staring at the verd who objected.

His expression could have melted beskar, so icy and intense that it burned hotter than a star. Axe almost pitied the fool who questioned him.

Almost.

“Have you ever watched a vod die?” His voice was deceptively soft, an arctic chill that sent a shiver throughout the room. “Held their hand, comforted them as they screamed for mercy?

“Have you ever held a child’s hand as they died, slowly, with no pain relief because your supplies ran out months ago?

“Have you ever watched child soldiers die by the dozens around you, and still gotten back up to keep fighting?

“If you have, I’m sorry that we have that in common. If you haven’t, then I suggest you sit down and let me ensure that this remains a single battle. I do not wish to see my fourth war before I’m twenty. If you wish to challenge me, then say so and let’s be done with it. But I am still the majordomo and the lead for this assault. If you wish to not fight and forfeit your pay, there’s the door.”

Dead silence echoed uncomfortably in the room.

“I am not perfect, nor am I an expert,” Ben sighed suddenly. He gestured at the display. “And this is not solely my plan. This is based on training from the very best, a kriff-ton of recon and research, and personal experience in guerrilla warfare and insurrection, with the goal of preserving as much life as possible. The enslaved of Tatooine have long earned their right to have a hand in their own emancipation, and I think any enslaved mando’ad would resent someone taking that right away from them. Our teams are there to support. I am always open to improvements and suggestions. But I’d like to get through the whole presentation before we do so, because this is a multi-part effort, and any changes must be weighed by their impact on dependent and consequent actions.” He waited for a beat, meeting Axe’s eyes briefly. Axe nodded, failing badly to stifle his heart-sickness under the grim focus needed in this moment.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know, or had even forgotten— but Ben’s facade of upbeat charm, keen intellect and wit, masked all too well a tragedy of an adolescence. It was too easy to disregard, because imagining someone with that kind of trauma just… functioning, superlatively— it defied comprehension.

And it was ironic, because Mandalorians were not known for underestimating Jedi, and yet they did time and time again with Ben.

Axe stifled a sigh, and mentally reviewed his roster of verde once more as Ben continued with the debrief. Then wondered if it was worth the effort. Ben was going to leave them all in the dust tomorrow anyway.

Chapter Text

Boba could not remember ever finishing a battle annoyed.

Not that he’d been in many large-scale battles. But he learned quite quickly in this one that there was little fun in being the figurehead.

He barely got to kill anyone!

Fennec got to kill the leaders holed up in Mos Eisley. The Mandalorian squads controlled the fight, decimating the Pykes on the outskirts of the town. The Freed took their revenge across the planet. The Tuskens waited in the sands for any escapees.

Boba, relegated to a show of force atop Skir’ika, barely fired his carbine. And the one massive droideka that he attempted to take on— Ben destroyed it first!

That little besom.

What was the point of running this family if they did all the fun work for him?

Boba handed the reins over to the trainer, patting the beast’s rough hide before leaving the enclosure, his mind still on the fight. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Ben’s squad was missing. At least he’d had one Mandalorian at his back— wearing clone trooper gear, of all things. The verd’s covert must be pretty desperate if they were outfitting with clone trooper gear.

He mentally congratulated Axe in finding someone who could keep up with Ben’ika. And then wondered when Woves had become Axe.

Verde were trickling in, directed to the kitchens or the makeshift med-bay in the throne room. They nodded respectfully at him as he passed them. It was a remarkable shift, and it would give Kryze an aneurysm if she found out. The thought brought a tiny grin to the corner of his mouth. News on Kryze’s whereabouts had dropped to a trickle lately. She was at the top of Ben’s agenda once this business was over.

As long as she didn’t end up here. Boba would definitely kill her.

He paused, at loose ends and wondering where his wife had gone. She’d been so anxious before the fight, he thought she’d be waiting for him at the entrance—

Something bumped his boot, and he looked down.

“Missy. What is it?”

The brightly-painted MSE droid chirped at him, then looped around and began leading him down the hall.

“I know where my vod’s room is,” Boba grumbled. “It’s my kriffing palace. What do you mean, visitors?” Boba quickened his pace, his frown deepening. He’d explicitly closed the palace to any guest fool enough to visit during the fight today. There should be no guests. “Rex and Wolffe? Who the kark are Rex and Wolffe?”

He slammed open the door to Din’s room without preamble, bursting in with a hand to his carbine, when it suddenly fell away and he stuttered to a stop, dumbfounded.

Din sat in bed, his face bare. Cerium sat next to him, her small basket of fibers at her feet and a drop-spindle in her lap. And in two chairs beside her, two old men sat comfortably. One had cropped silver hair, impressive mutton-chops, a nasty scar that bisected a cybernetic eye, and a scowl to rival Jango’s. He was feeding a very happy Grogu macarons from a large bowl in his lap, seemingly uncaring of the crumby devastation that the child was wreaking. The other was bald, with a truly spectacular white beard, and a shit-eating grin that Boba had never seen on his own face.

He didn’t know his face could make that expression.

“Boba!” Cerium called for his attention, beaming brightly, but Boba couldn’t tear his gaze from the older men.

His brothers.

“You’re still alive?” he blurted out, then flushed as Rex (because of course it was him, he’d know him anywhere, even still—) burst into laughter, startling Char who was curled up in his lap. Wolffe’s scowl deepened. Cerium jumped up, darting across the room to drag him closer and into a chair.

“Might say the same for you, ori’vod’ika,” Rex shot back, his bushy beard quivering as he continued to laugh. At Boba’s groan, Wolffe, who looked like he was considering punching Boba in the face (and then Boba remembered Ponds, Wolffe’s batch mate, that regret had haunted him for years—) grunted, and settled for whacking him over the back of the head. Fennec materialized behind Boba, standing in the doorway and laughing at him as his brothers picked on him.

Him. Daimyo of a whole gotra. No respect around here at all.

Cerium stood up, offering her seat to Fennec before sitting down in Boba’s lap. He inhaled the sweet spice of her hair as he tried to wrap his mind around the sight of two long-lost brothers.

(Would they even consider him a brother? Rex had called him ori’vod’ika, he had’t heard that in thirty years—)

“How is this possible?”

Wolffe turned a raised eyebrow on Din, who cowered slightly. “You didn’t tell him, ad’ika?”

“I wasn’t going to get in the middle of family… stuff,” Din mumbled. Cerium patted his shoulder kindly.

Rex snorted. “Story-time, then. We found Din’ika through Cara Dune. We spent a few months with him on Nevarro, before we went searching for Kix.”

Huh. Boba would not have guessed that. “You know Dune?”

Rex shot him a look, and it was so painfully familiar. “Who do you think trained the Rebel shock troopers?”

Fennec snorted, and Boba rolled his eyes. “She told you about the kid?” He didn’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, it felt dangerous for anyone to know about the Jedi out of time. On the other hand, it was Rex and Wolffe. He hadn’t seen them in decades, but he knew them, like he knew himself, a realization that had taken far too long to sink in. He knew that they knew what it meant to have Obi-Wan Kenobi alive again, even if he wasn’t the same one they’d known. Their first loyalty had always been to the Jedi. Boba had never understood it. But now, with two Jedi under his roof…

He was beginning to.

Ka’ra help him. Jango would be livid.

“At first, I didn’t believe her. Figured she’d clocked too many cage fights, was seeing things now. Luke and Leia saw General Kenobi die. They saw Vader do it. But then she said he was cadet-aged—”

“And I said that kind of Jedi nonsense had to be true,” Wolffe finished, smirking under his rather impressive mustache—mutton-chop combo. “So we came, helped everyone adjust for a bit.”

“You did more than that, buir—” And Din’s mouth slammed shut as Boba’s jaw dropped open.

“My brother adopted you and you didn’t tell me?”

“Let me guess, you adopted him as vod,” Rex chuckled. “And I’ve adopted the boys as bu’ade. And that’s not even adding Kix to the mix—”

“Your family tree looks more like a fucked-up shrub, boss,” Fennec cackled, and even Cerium managed a poorly stifled laugh at that.

Absolutely no respect.

“Anyway, then we left to find Kix,” Rex resumed the tale. “Ben’ika got a feeling, sent us all the kriffing way to Ponemah Terminal. Kix had gone missing at the end of the war. Turns out the Seppies had cryo-frozen him. We found him in a wrecked ship. Once that was sorted, we started traveling, til we heard that our ori’vod'ika was planning to deal with the Pykes and emancipate a karking planet— a Kenobi plan if I ever heard one. So then we had to come,” Rex added, watching with delight as Boba rolled his eyes again.

“So Kix is… young?” Boba tabled trying to process this all right now. He was dirty, tired, and now deeply confused. Cerium, bless her, kissed his cheek sweetly.

“That’s right. We’ve reversed the rapid aging, but that’s a story for another time.”

Deeply confused.

“So where is he?” Boba glanced around, expecting Kix to pop out of a closet. He jumped slightly as Dusty leaped onto Din’s bed, butting him right in the chest in her demand for pets.

That shit-eating grin slowly spread across Rex’s face once more. “Kix is exactly where he’s supposed to be.”

(Ninety minutes earlier)

The dust rose in a small plume around Ben as he straightened from where he landed, tugged at his tabards, and glanced around, sighing. He’d lost his squad.

Again.

This time, he couldn’t even call for them. His only comm had been embedded in his buy’ce, which he’d handed off to a squad member, preferring to suffer the wrath of buir and Axe than get shot. It needed more modifications to accommodate his vision and ability to sense in the Force than they’d had time to complete before the fight. Plus it wasn’t like Jedi wore helmets, Ben reasoned to himself. He’d been practicing his non-apology speech in between firefights.

The Jedi didn’t have a lot of things that the mando’ade insisted on. Backup (now missing), armor (helmet abandoned), multiple weapons (surely two sabers counted). But as of this morning, he was 3/5 of a Jedi knight, his Trial of Insight passed by virtue of coordinating the solution to the problem of Pyke encroachment, Mos Espa crime family disloyalty, and planet-wide abolition of slavery. Or so Boba told him; Ben was inclined to agree.

But the point remained that he had no comm, and now no squad. He ran a hand over the tabards again, the gesture soothing. Boba had pressed them on him this morning, gruffly calling a late birthday present before stomping off, while Cerium kindly lingered long enough to help him put them on. The armorweave bands of cloth were a comforting homage to his first family, and— as Cerium helpfully pointed out- provided additional coverage against blaster-fire without the restriction of beskar plates. The green edged in gold made a nice inverse to Ben’s green-trimmed gold plates. With a saber on each hip, Ben felt more like a Mandalorian Jedi than ever.

If such a thing was possible.

The tug between the two cultures pulled taut in moments like these, and he felt keenly the eyes of his verde watching his every move. Waiting to see if he could be ruthless, if compassion would cripple him.

There was not much room for compassion in this fight, though. The Pykes fought without mercy, and asked for none. They were woefully unprepared for the resistance they met in Mos Espa, and startled by the insurrection arising in the districts of the city. Emotions roiled in the Force in every direction, and it took all of Ben’s experience and training to tune out the fear-panic-anger-hatred-vengeance-joy-determination, and focus on nudges from the Force as the fight evolved.

And yet the Force had not warned him to stay with his squad, had urged him onward-onward, and now he was alone.

Facing a rather sizable group of Pykes, who had dug in, holding this quarter against all comers. Many dead littered the ground, mostly Pykes, but there were Freed and wounded Mandalorians among them as well.

And that, pounding bolts powerful enough to to take down a Gauntlet into the side of a building, would be ones of the anti-aircraft droidekas that he’d heard about in the comms chatter, right before he took off his buy’ce.

Ben might have bitten off more than he could chew.

The Pykes had encircled him, buying time for the droideka to turn and get Ben in its sights. And this is why Rex and Wolfed had insisted on this exercise, he thought ruefully, tapping deep into the Force as he whirled and blocked, looking for an opening to get out. He could jump, but like as not he’d be sniped out of the air. And that droideka would be ready to fire any moment now—

A staccato of blaster-fire erupted from the alley, and the Pykes scrambled, not expecting to be attacked from their flank. It bought Ben the time he needed to get out of the center, and he worked his way towards the newcomer.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Ben called, utterly relieved by the sudden arrival. “I was starting to think I’d have all this fun to myself!”

The newcomer snorted even as they worked their way towards Ben, carbine firing away. “Looks like there’s enough to go around. Where’s your backup?”

Ben nodded at the staccato of distant blaster fire that emanated from the alley behind the stranger. “They got a bit tied up.”

“And you got too far ahead. Sounds like you need someone who can keep up.”

At that, Ben chanced a glance at the newcomer, trusting the Force to guide his next block of incoming blaster fire. The accent sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place the Force signature. “If you’re up for the challenge.”

“Oh, I’m up for it.” There was something in the tone of that response, and Ben blushed, but the newcomer pressed on, “what's the objective here?”

Seizing on the somehow less-dangerous topic, Ben refocused. “We need to clear this street, and get to the massive droideka tearing up the main road. Then after that, the second droideka. We’ve kept the fight to the outskirts of town, and we need to keep it that way.”

“Got it. Familiar with the sword-and-shield?”

“Yes, actually,” Ben answered, surprised. It wasn’t a Mandalorian tactic; he’d learned it from Wolffe. “I need to get over to the droideka to disable it.”

“I can help with that.”

Ben blinked at the confident reply. He felt further flummoxed as the newcomer swapped the carbine for two blasters and slid behind him, seamlessly dancing around his blocks, picking off targets left and right. It was nearly effortless, the way they progressed up the block, clearing targets.

“You’re quite good at this,” Ben remarked, as they began to close in on the droideka.

“Lots of practice,” came the amused reply. “I like the face paint.”

“They’re tattoos, actually,” Ben blushed. Why was he blushing?

“Cultural thing?”

“Yes. Trying to keep the culture alive,” why were they discussing this right now?

“Good for you,” the newcomer sounded genuine, a smile in their voice, and it took a moment to realize the clacking sound was not the tinny ring of durasteel or beskar.

“Your armor is plastoid.”

“It is,” the amusement was clear. Ben risked another glance over his shoulder at the newcomer. The armor was mostly the grey of mourning, with deep blue accents, more royal than the Death Watch colors. He saw a flash of a red logo on the shoulder guard, but couldn’t get a clear view. Moreover, that was not a Mandalorian buy’ce. Familiar, but in the haze of combat Ben couldn't place it.

“I don’t think I caught your name.”

The Mando laughed, firing off a few more rounds at the remaining Pykes. “I didn’t toss it, mesh’la. But here—” they pulled a couple of small round balls off their utility belt, and rolled two slowly towards the massive droideka. The balls passed through the ray shield, coming to a stop directly beneath the droid. With a sizzling snap, they activated, frying the droideka’s shields. The massive droid shuddered and sparked. “That’s the ray shield taken care of. Go get ‘em, mesh’la.”

Ben blushed, but took off at a sprint, leaping high onto its top, and began slashing, jumping clear as the device exploded.

“Well, that went well! Thank you for the assistance, mysterious stranger,” he grinned at his backup, who laughed, and the sound sent shivers down his spine— good shivers.

“You really do flirt with everyone.”

Ben gaped, letting the Force guide his movement to block an errant shot while his brain came back online. “Manners are not the same as flirting,” he fired back. “Why does everyone think that?”

“Because,” the stranger continued firing around him, and they were good, nearly all of their shots connecting, “that wasn’t manners just now.”

“I, well— I am certain that we have never met,” Ben flushed, scrambling to regain the upper hand in the conversation, “so I am not sure how you could possibly know whether I flirt with everyone.”

“So I’m special, mesh’la?”

“I— oh,” and in fairness, he had fallen face-first into that one. “You are impossible, aren’t you?”

The stranger laughed again, pausing their firing to grab a detonator and toss it; Ben seized it in the Force and pushed it further to land behind the cover that the Pykes were using to snipe anyone seeking shelter. “Would you rather me bow and scrape to the ad be’alor?”

“Stars, no,” he hated that. “This is actually quite refreshing.” He moved forward, feeling the stranger’s presence at his back, and it was— grounding. Reassuring. This mysterious, teasing stranger was solid and steady in the Force— and, if Ben wasn’t mistaken, very much projecting his interest, muted by a warm support. It was… a lot, to feel from a stranger, and yet the Force was vibrating with right-right-right. “Just surprising. You seem to know me, and I still don’t have your n— get down!”

He flung himself at the stranger, knocking them down as he threw up a hand to redirect a rocket aimed at them. The weapon veered up, streaking towards the sky, and Ben rolled off the stranger, snagging the stranger’s carbine. “Cover me?”

“Gladly,” the stranger recovered swiftly, sitting up and blasters firing as Ben lined up the shot and pulled the trigger. In seconds, the rocket exploded, the blast scattering like a firework.

“Nice shot,” the stranger sounded impressed as Ben jumped back and reactivated his saber, blocking shots as they fell into sword-and-shield again. The compliment went down like a sip of spotchka, warming his chest, and he needed to calm down because that was how people got shot. He didn’t even know this being’s name; for all he knew, this was an Imperial spy, playing along. But even as the thought began to bloom in his mind, it withered away under the weight of the Force, which felt weirdly insistent about the rightness of this moment, of their collaboration. “Where’s the other droideka?”

“To the left, but—” the Force pulled, “we need to go right first.”

“Okay.” To Ben’s surprise, the stranger didn’t argue, merely following as Ben moved forward.

A crowd of Freed, poorly armed but full of determination, were faring badly against a team of Pykes. And Ben probably should have told the stranger what he planned, but— impulsive Obi-Wan, as always— he leapt into action, crossing the small square in an instant to disarm the attackers. He was engaging the third Pyke, who was rapidly giving ground and attempting to flee, when he remembered that he had left the stranger totally exposed. With a flash of guilt, he dispatched the Pyke and turned, looking for the stranger— to find them organizing the Freed, gaining them better cover and arranging firing squads.

Huh.

A squad of Mandalorians rounded the corner, jumping into the fray. The next few moments were sheer chaos, as the Pykes found themselves utterly overwhelmed, and an exhilarated Freed broke cover.

And Ben found himself once again back to back with the stranger.

“Miss me?” The stranger quipped, firing shots as Ben blocked incoming bolts. Ben couldn’t help a laugh.

“Careful, you’re the only one who’s kept up. You might just find yourself with that job permanently.”

“Good,” the sincerity bled freely through the amusement, and Ben blushed again.

“The, ah, droideka—”

“Lead the way,” the stranger gestured, and Ben took off. The stranger easily kept pace, not even breathing hard as they rounded a bend and the remaining droideka came into view. Boba and Skir’ika were there, the rancor roaring and hammering away at the ray shield.

“I don’t remember droideka’s being that big,” muttered the stranger.

“It’s an anti-aircraft model,” Ben supplied. “Happen to have any more of those detonators with you?”

“Droid poppers? Plenty,” the stranger pulled two more off, rolling them slowly before resuming his cover fire. The shield failed with a sizzle as the detonators exploded, and Ben leapt into action, narrowly avoiding the rancor as he sliced up the droid. He leapt clear as the droid began to explode, turning towards the stranger when an aggravated voice called behind him.

“OY! That one was mine!”

Ben turned because, shrugging with a grin at an outraged Boba, who shook his head and guided Skir’ika away from then wreckage of the droideka. Around them, the Pykes began fleeing, the Freed and the Mandalorians hot on their tail. Ben watched, sensing rather than seeing the stranger sidle up alongside him. It was— comforting, to have someone right there. Someone who could keep up, made good company, a reliable shot at his back. It was strange, and exciting, and grounding all at once.

“How’s your arm?”

“My—” Ben extinguished his blade and looked down at his arm, noticing the pain for the first time. “Oh. Just a light graze. Mobility is fine.”

The stranger holstered their blasters, reaching into a belt pouch. They pulled out a bandage. “Here, let me.”

“Oh—” Ben faltered, flustered and pleased by the attention, “it’s fine, really. And bacta and Stewjoni don’t really—"

“It’s not bacta,” they interrupted, swiftly wiping the graze before applying a salve and applying the adhesive. “And you’ll be busy with debrief and the leadership business once this is done. Better to treat it now.”

“You are a pushy, mysterious stranger,” Ben smirked, still somewhat bemused by the Force’s absolute mirth. “You’d make a great medic.”

The stranger snorted. “You think so?” Task complete, the stranger’s helmet met Ben’s gaze. “Do you have a helmet?”

Ben grimaced. “I left it with my team. It was hindering my ability to fight. I didn’t have time for all of the modifications it needs. My team is probably looking for me,” he added guiltily. “I should probably get to the comms center.”

The stranger nodded. “I’ll walk you there.”

They walked a little ways in silence, and Ben was relieved to find it as comfortable as the banter. He had to stop, repeatedly, as various fighters and local citizens approached or called out to him, but the stranger never complained, patiently waiting for Ben to finish, occasionally doling out medical care when needed.

Ben desperately wanted to know the stranger’s name, but held back. His buir’s covert did not give out names easily, and Ben would not ask. The curiosity burned all the same.

“So when did you join us?” he asked instead. “I don’t remember you from yesterday’s briefing.”

“Just got in today,” came the breezy reply, and Ben couldn’t help the eyebrow raise.

“And you just decided to jump into a fight?”

“Good thing I did, I think,” the stranger replied mildly. Ben couldn’t help the slight bristle.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the cover, but I was doing all right on my own,” he pushed back, hating himself a little as he did it. The stranger had only wanted to help. They didn’t know how much everyone around him underestimated him, with the exception of Boba and Grogu. Even buir had only recently come around, and that was good, but—

“Not what I meant. Your squad wasn’t there to organize those Freed while you engaged the Pykes. Verde who can keep up with you, get the job done that much faster, instead of forcing you to hold back to their level.”

“I— yes, that is true,” Ben faltered, stunned a little. He slowed down slightly as the comms center came into view. “But it’s not fair to expect them to keep up. I have the Force to help me. I’m not sure how you managed it.”

To his surprise, the stranger chuckled. “Guess I’m just special, mesh’la.” Ben blushed, allowing a grin to escape.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it—”

“Mand’alor, you’re needed at the comms center, the Freed leaders have called in,” one of the Mandalorians interrupted, stepping in front of Ben with a salute. The comfortable post-battle haze vanished abruptly, as the Mando addressing him eyed the newcomer with a dubious head tilt.

Right, duty.

Ben turned to the newcomer, ready to apologize, and found them glancing over at the triage area. “Looks like they could use some extra help,” they commented lightly. It was a kindly offered out, and Ben hated to take it.

“That would be appreciated,” Ben said, feeling oddly bereft at the prospect of parting ways with this mysterious stranger. He lingered for a second longer, reluctant to just walk away but uncertain of what else to say.

Him, uncertain. What was wrong with him?

They seemed to pick upon the lingering, tilting their helmet in that universal gesture of amusement. They pulled a ration bar from a belt pouch and handed it to Ben. “Eat that. I’ll catch up with you later, mesh’la.”

Well. They couldn’t have all the fun.

Feeling unusually cheeky (and relieved), Ben flashed them a grin and winked. “Promises,” he teased, then turned and followed the aide to the table, peeling it open to take a quick bite.

Mujaberry.

Ben smiled.

Ben had known that the battle wouldn’t be the end of the hard work done today— he was probably the only one who knew from experience that the battle was only the beginning, and possibly the easiest part of this process. For the daimyo and the mando’ade, the work was mostly done, barring some renegotiations over business with new local leaders and business leaders, and some security work as the dust settled. For Ben though, the real work lay ahead, and the next four hours proved it as his squad led him to the secured clearing where he had assigned a team to coordinate comms and movements. As much as his mind wanted to linger on the stranger, Ben focused on the debrief, called the local leaders of the Freed, coordinating resources and answering questions. They had planned for this transition, but Ben learned long ago that no plan survived contact with the enemy, and this was no exception.

The second sun had set when Axe found him in the comms center. The older man scowled at him.

“You’re still here?”

Ben had reserved his best behavior for the Freed. Therefore he felt at liberty to level an unimpressed eyebrow at his second.

“Believe it or not, transitions do not handle themselves. And this was my idea.”

Axe rolled his eyes, signaling at a verd to step in and take over. “Your buir has been trying to escape his quarters and come find you for the past four hours, since Fett returned to the palace. For all our sakes, go home.”

Ben rolled his jaw, grabbing his buy’ce in a huff. “That’s a cheap blow.”

Axe grinned slowly, and the other Mandos chuckled. “I can go lower if you want. There are some people waiting there to see you, too.”

Ben snorted. The exhaustion of the day was starting to nip at the edges of his mind, and the idea of dealing with anyone— even buir— sounded like a reason to flee, not hurry home. “Sounds like a reason to escape. I’m going, I’m going,” he added, as Axe made to cut off an escape attempt and bodily haul Ben into the palace himself. He climbed into the waiting speeder, and it was probably rude to not chat with the driver, but he didn’t have it in him to make idle conversation.

He wondered if the stranger had found their covert or whoever they were meeting here; if they’d found a bunk for the night. He flushed at the abrupt left turn that his thoughts took, jamming his helmet on.

It could have been hours or minutes, Ben couldn’t tell, but in the space of what felt like a breath, he was at the door of his buir’s quarters, coding himself in and removing his buy’ce to set on the table. It took a second before the smiling faces registered.

“Rex! Wolffe!”

He practically ran to them, before remembering himself, to offer his forearm— only to be pulled into a hug. He melted. “I— I can’t believe you’re here.”

“It’s been too long, Ben’ika,” Rex’s grin was clear in his voice, and Wolffe’s grunt belied his own joy at the reunion. “You’ve gotten taller. And armored— good. That’s…” he trailed off, staring at Ben’s chest plate, his Force signature wrenching with love-grief.

“Yeah,” Wolffe tapped at the chest plate with two knuckles. “Two-twelve gold.” He glanced up into Ben’s startled face, his own softening. “Good choice, Ben’ika.”

“It just… felt right,” Ben whispered, slightly overwhelmed.

Rex coughed, shook his head. “Force osik. Anyway,” he continued, summoning a smile, “figured it was time to come. And it’s been even longer since we’ve seen our ori’vod’ika.”

“Oh, kark off,” came Boba’s grumbled reply. Cerium, perched on his lap, laughed, as did Fennec from where she lounged at the foot of buir’s bed, feeding Grogu and Char bits of jogan.

“But, if you’re here—” he stepped back, his brain struggling to connect the dots, “then, does that mean that—” he looked over Rex’s shoulder. “Oh. Hello, there.”

The mysterious stranger was already watching him, and Ben could now see the medic logo on his shoulder guard. He’d removed his helmet, and sweet Force—

“Hello yourself,” the stranger’s grin was slow and unmistakable, and Ben just knew he was blushing terribly. The resemblance to Boba, Rex and Wolffe was undeniable, but Kix looked young enough to be Boba’s son, not much older than Ben. And there was no getting around the fact that Jango must have been a handsome man. Glossy, ink-black hair fell in a mop of short, little curls about his face as his bright golden-brown eyes lazily examined Ben beneath that devastating smile.

Ben… was in deep trouble.

“It’s Ben, right?”

“Mand’alor, actually,” buir interrupted, his content demeanor vanishing as he picked up on the vibe building between the Kix and Ben. He shifted slightly, trying to loom as much as he could from the bed. Ben shot him an exasperated look, earning an unrepentant helmet tilt. Ben turned back to the young man, whose eyes twinkled.

“Just Ben, is fine,” he managed a smile again, floundering slightly under the man’s obvious interest. “And you’re Kix, aren’t you? The mysterious stranger. You hadn’t mentioned your name earlier.”

Kix shrugged slightly. “Didn’t want to distract you.” That rang a little false in the Force; the flirting had certainly been distracting. Far more likely that Kix enjoyed being a bit of a tease.

Which, for Ben, was a bit of a shocking turn of events. It appeared that he’d be in for a taste of his own medicine, now.

Kix continued, seemingly unbothered by Ben’s visible struggle to summon a fitting verbal riposte, “Seems I have you to thank for Rex and Wolffe finding me.”

“Oh, that’s not— that was the will of the Force, I had very little to— anyway, I wanted to thank you for jumping in when you did. It was, um, nice, fighting with you?” Ben flushed, actively willing the floor to swallow him as signatures around the room sparked with amusement-- and annoyance, from Din’s bed. “And I wanted to introduce myself, ah, again, as a fellow person out of time. I know how disorienting it can be. I mean, that’s not to say that every experience is identical, of course. But, ah, if you ever want to talk— or not, of course— I’m, ah—“

“I just finished with your buir, if you’re free to grab some food,” Kix smiled as he stowed his med-scanner, and Ben blinked. “I did say I’d catch up with you later.”

“He—” began buir.

“Yes,” Ben cut across hurriedly. “I’m available. I mean free. I mean—”

Kix grinned, absolutely unconcerned with their audience as he approached, offering his forearm in greeting. Ben gripped it, his brain short-circuiting at the warmth and firmness of Kix’s arm where the plastoid vambrace gapped. He was holding his arm for far too long, and couldn’t let go, as though an electric current had bonded them together. He was in deep, deep trouble—

“You always this easily flustered?”

Buir made a strangled sound.

“Kix,” Rex sighed heavily. “Get out of here, before you get stabbed.”

Ben grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the room, not daring to look back at his buir as Kix’s fingers laced with his. “There are meals to-go in the kitchens if you want food,” Cerium tossed after him, her delight and warm support in the Force almost staggering. “The dining hall is a makeshift med-bay, so you’ll have to find somewhere else to eat.”

The door hadn’t quite slid shut when Fennec’s irritated-amused voice echoed into the hall. “No, Din. You cannot just stab every being who looks at your son—”

Mortified, Ben pulled Kix down the hallway faster. Buir had been on a rampage for the last three months, as more mando’ade arrived; after the first ill-advised attempt by a young verd to ask for a spar, buir had loomed behind Ben every chance he got, scaring off anyone who dared shoot him an appreciative look. The overprotective parent routine had netted buir his own admirers— not that he cared— and for the most part Ben didn’t mind having buir deter would-be suitors, but now— now, it was just embarrassing.

“Ben!”

Ben stopped dead at the threshold of the kitchens, to see the Mods lounging and eating, though they abandoned their food as a dozen eyes zeroed in on his hand.

Oh, no.

“Is that them?” Drash demanded, and Ben fought for calm.

“I— I’m sure I have no idea what you’re—”

“Are you Kix?” Skad cut in, staring at the Mando.

“I am,” and Kix sounded way too amused as he leaned forward and grabbed two small sacks of food.

Skad turned to the others, grinning. “Pay up, mudscuffers.”

Ben was mistaken. He was embarrassed before. Now, he was truly mortified. Maybe he could throw himself into the rancor pit and convince Skir’ika to eat him. With a sound resembling a dying massif, he went to pull his hand away— and found himself getting tugged down the hall, led by Kix.

Getting swallowed by a sarlacc was looking pretty good right now.

“So—”

“Please don’t—”

“Does this happen to you a lot?”

Ben ventured a glance at Kix and quickly regretted it, so distracted by the smile that he nearly hit a wall. Thankfully, Kix didn’t seem put off by his father’s outrageous behavior, or the presence of a betting pool.

“Ah, no, actually. Generally, most are put off by the overprotective parent or the creepy-Jedi aura to warrant a betting pool.” He glanced about, and tugged Kix down the side passage. The North Tower would be least likely to be occupied, generally recognized as Ben— and Cerium’s— hiding place, when palace life got to be too much. They’d squirreled away some cushions and blankets in a chest there. “Bets are normal around here, but on me, that’s just— I am going to put so much sand in their beds—”

“And you’ve been talking about me.”

“I— well, I’ve talked about Rex and Wolffe, and their travels, and you might have come up—”

“Enough for a betting pool,” Kix grinned at Ben’s stunned expression, and squeezed their entwined fingers. “I don’t mind.”

“I— well you certainly know a lot about me,” Ben countered, trying to gain something resembling the upper hand in this conversation.

“Yep,” Kix affirmed cheerfully. “Been following your exploits.”

Ben blanched as a sudden realization hit. “Oh my Force— please tell me you haven’t been looking at the holos that Grogu sent Wolffe—”

“My favorite’s the one with the plushie frog perched on your head—”

Ben groaned, trying to pull away to head for the throne room. Maybe he could mind-trick Skir’ika into eating him.

“Nah, stop that.” Kix tugged him back, and squeezed their interlocked fingers. “I put up with a fair amount of teasing, too. But I don’t mind. We just had a good fight, you’re still holding my hand, and we’re about to eat real food. That’s worth a little teasing. And possibly a stab or two from your buir.”

And then Ben really ran into a wall, and Kix laughed, and it was worth the pain and embarrassment, to hear that sound and be pulled into the welcoming warmth of Kix’s side.

Ben’s new goal— to run concurrent with the plans for the reconstitution of a government for the mando’ade, a sustainable return to Mandalore, and the plus-up of their fleet and financial resources— was to make sure that buir never got a chance to stab Kix for real.

Totally doable. No pressure whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Axe had seen some weird shit since meeting Ben. Case in point, the Gideon Ship Incident.

So, the arrival of two elderly clones and a cryo-frozen one, didn’t really faze him much.

Ben’s hard pivot from exclusively focused on majordomo matters to Mandalore did, however.

Privately, Axe was deeply grateful for Kix's presence. Finally, someone who could keep up with the Jedi. Axe felt his own head spinning as the kid mapped out strategies for accepting recruits from the Freed population, farming, building new infrastructure, and funding lines for all of this. Axe was no slouch, but his childhood education had not prepared him the way Ben’s evidently had, and no amount of caf helped him keep up. Only Kix, Rex and Wolffe seemed to fully understand Ben’s big vision.

Which was fine. Axe preferred marching orders, anyway. His current one was to work with Rex and Wolffe to whip Ben’s protective detail into shape.

Rex had devised a training course for Kix and Ben to run through. Axe currently stood on the balcony of the South Tower with the squad that Ben had left in the dust in Mos Espa, observing the training.

Or, at least they were supposed to be observing the training.

“Are we sure they’re together?”

“You kidding me? Look at that.” The verd pointed down the pair. Kix had just tossed Ben, and had him pinned, his mouth to Ben’s ear. Whatever he was saying had Ben’s cheeks flaming like the twin suns, and Ben hesitated for a moment before bucking his hips and throwing Kix off, who laughed and scrambled up for another round. “That is for real.”

“No shit. What I mean is, are they official?”

Axe swallowed a sigh. Might as well let them get it out of their system. All things considered, it had calmed down since Kix’s arrival. Just prior to the fight in Mos Espa, Axe had had to ban the game kriff, marry, kill; everyone’s answers were the same for each question and after the third verd landed in med-bay, Axe had had enough. These past few weeks were the first time in months that he hadn’t put someone on desert duty for attempting to proposition the Mand’alor. Whatever Kix and Ben were doing, he prayed to the ka'ra that they wouldn't fuck it up.

“Planning to throw your buy’ce in the ring again, Klahr?”

“Fuck you, Awaud. I’m just saying. Have they sparred?”

“Are you serious—“

“Courtship spar! I just wanna know. There’s kriffing, and then there’s relationships.”

“Keep talking like that and you’re gonna find sand in your bed again. His love life’s none of our business.”

“I’m just saying. Knives, or it didn’t happen.”

“Maybe they don’t know about the knives. He’s a Jedi, and he’s, well—“

“Yeah. Bet the Cuy’val Dar didn’t cover courtship if they only saw them as meat droids. Talk about dar’manda.” The conversation tapered off as they watched the pair start the course again, and Axe made a mental note to talk to the older clones about courtship.

He would not be bringing that up with Din. If Axe was reading the beskar right there, Din would still prefer for his son to not be interested in anyone. Although— Axe glanced down at the pair again. Thinking back on conversations and far-off glances, he privately felt that Din likely lost that battle months ago. Even if they were still fumbling through the awkward dance that so often preceded such pairings, there was a sense of inevitability around the pair. Axe had much bigger fish to fry than worrying about the Mand’alor's romantic status.

Like helping Ben convince Bo-Katan to stop pouting in her palace in Kalevala, and do something. And what to do with the four thousand Freed who had approached the palace in the last two weeks, asking to join the mando’ade.

“How the kark does he do that?” the verd’s voice held undisguised awe, as Kix sprinted in full kit across the sand, diving to his knees and firing stunners at the target, while Ben flipped into the air over his head, landing between shots to slice the targets in half. Kix then rolled to standing, the pair falling into Sword-and-Shield as they pressed forward.

“Genetics and training,” Axe answered, eyes still on the pair racing through the course. “They were genetically engineered to keep up with a jetii. Faster, stronger, smarter, higher pain tolerance— you name it. And the clones trained from the moment the Kaminoans popped them out of tubes until the day they deployed. No games, no holidays, just training. And only the best survived.”

It was still an abomination, but Axe wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for blaming the clones for the crime, now that he understood exactly what they’d endured.

There was an appalled silence, broken only by the murmur of voices and quiet laughter below as the pair breezed through the exercise like it was a date. “So how are we supposed to level up to that?” a verd asked finally, sounded defeated.

“You adapt,” the authoritative baritone of Rex sent a small twitch through the squad as they turned to look at the clone. Axe blinked, impressed that the old man had managed so many steps up to the top of the tower.

Right. Super-soldier genetics.

“I once worked with a squad that had genetic mutations, ones with desirable traits, but they couldn’t effectively function in a normal squad,” the old clone continued. "They called themselves the Bad Batch. Four troopers, capable of disabling an entire clanker base because they learned how to use their strengths to cover each other’s weaknesses.

“You don’t have Kix’s genetics. But you do have unique skills. You’ll learn how to complement each other, and in this way, you’ll learn how to work with Kix, and keep up with a Jedi. It’ll be hard work, especially as his abilities continue to develop; at his peak, he'll be able to leap the length of a starship, jump from the sands below to the top of this tower, vanish from plain sight, pull a gunship out of the air with a thought. But you’ll be able to keep up. Because you’ll know each other better than yourselves, and work as a unit to do more than you could alone."

Skepticism and defiance crept into the shoulders of the squad, but Axe personally couldn’t wait. These bucket-heads needed to get their osik together so that he could finally stop nursing an ulcer over Ben’s safety. Ben was a Jedi, but he was also young, and the first legitimate Mand’alor in generations. He wasn’t sure he could handle the smug expression Bo-Katan would wear, if anything happened to Ben.

Kix’s presence didn’t fully eradicate all friction— but he did have a knack for diffusing tensions. Sometimes unintentionally.

Axe had entered the throne room with Boba, their conversation forgotten as they spotted Cerium, doubled over on the throne, her fingers tightly gripped the stone arms of the throne, keeping her from falling out of it. Fennec was crumpled beside her, breathless. Boba launched forward, Axe hot on his heels until they both stopped abruptly in the middle of the throne room.

The women were wheezing, as tears rolled down their faces.

“Sarad’ika, what is wr— are you laughing?”

Cerium burst into a fresh round of breathless laughter.

Beside them, Kix frowned, looking highly offended. “It’s not that funny,” he chided. Boba rounded on him.

“What the kark happened?”

“Some Mando was too deep in his cups, started making a pass at Cerium— even with Fennec right there,” he added, as Boba’s expression went murderous instantly. “I stepped in— and, well—”

“He— he—” gasped Fennec, winded by the effort to not laugh, “he asked Kix if it was weird that his step-mom was really hot.”

And Axe couldn’t quite manage the sympathy necessary in this moment to console a horrified Boba, whose jaw dropped open. “His what?!”

Cerium howled with laughter, Fennec collapsing beside her. Axe joined them.

The topic of knives and courtship, which he delegated to Rex and Wolffe, reminded Axe of another pressing issue.

Armor.

Plastoid would not cut it. It was a travesty of a kit, lovingly maintained but incapable of stopping much. It disgusted Axe that it had been issued at all. What was the point of armor if it couldn’t protect the wearer?

Axe consulted with Boba to source material from the palace treasury, then with the armorer. Of course, it was only once he’d arranged for a final meeting, that he realized his fatal error.

He hadn’t consulted Kix, first.

“No.” The young man's expression was dangerously blank, not even looking at the armor stand.

Axe waved down the armorer, who looked in danger of being deeply offended, and Axe did not have enough caf in his system to handle that today. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I’m not handing over my armor to wear this.” He gestured at the beskar’gam on the armor stand.

“Kix, can you help us understand why you don’t want more sturdy armor?” Ben’s tone was gentle, but Axe could see that Kix didn’t want gentle right now. He was angry, barely velveting the claws that itched to lash out. Axe had gravely miscalculated.

“Well, for starters,” he gestured at his own kit, “this kama makes my ass look fabulous.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m serious—”

“And secondly, it’s mine. It’s the same armor that every one of my brothers received. If it was good enough for them—”

“You deserved better, kid,” Axe interrupted, the frost of his stern frustration melting slightly with compassion. “You all did. And we can’t fix the past. But you’re here now. And from this point forward, we can make sure you’re better protected.” Axe mentally kicked himself; of course Kix would feel possessive over his only armor set, his connection to his vode, even if it was plastoid. If asked the same, Axe probably would have shot the questioner in the face.

“Vod, you don’t have to get rid of your set,” Kix turned suddenly as Boba spoke, eyes wary as Boba continued. “You can honor the vod’e with a good armor stand. Maintain its condition. But I think they’d want you to take the best chance at staying alive.”

Axe knew by the flash in Kix’s eyes that he’d hit the mark dead-on, and stepped back to let Boba and his brothers take the lead. Rex’s rheumy eyes were soft with compassion as he shuffled forward.

“You can’t know that—” Kix’s uneven voice caught in his throat. His eyes bored into Boba’s, and they were Boba’s eyes, and they weren’t, the grief so much brighter, fresher in the younger expression. He wasn’t yet weighed down by a full lifetime of injustice and hazard; his wounds were raw.

“Not like you would,” Boba said softly, telegraphing his move as he gripped the young man’s shoulder, but Kix didn’t pull away. “But I’d like to think that they’d want you to take what should have been yours all along. I can’t undo what Jango did. What I did. But I want to make it right. It’s your choice, Kix. No one will force this on you, I’ll make sure of it. But you have a chance at a long life now, and we just want you to be safe, vod. Safer than plastoid can offer.”

Axe sighed, as the fractious moment dissipated. If trauma could be bottled into fuel, they’d be able to fly to the Unknown Regions and back ten times over, on just what the occupants of this blasted palace had experienced. It was a karking wonder that they were organized at all, and not at the bottle from dawn til the second dusk.

Then he glanced at Ben, took in the colors of the Jedi’s armor. Green. Red. Orange-gold.

Duty. Honor to parents. The vengeance of persistence, of a life well-lived.

Axe felt his own shoulders square up.

Din knew this was coming, and yet he still felt shocked when Wolffe cornered him in the family quarters.

Deep down, he knew he was being unfair, unkind, ungrateful even. But as usual, he needed a slap upside the buy’ce to figure it out.

And so his buir would deliver.

“Din.” The cybernetic eye pinned him in place. “Sit down."

Din sat.

“It’s come to my attention that you have a problem with Kix.”

Din took a breath, then another. “Ben is too young. He’s only eighteen—“

"Try again.” Wolffe's flat tone cut his argument at the knees. “What’s the real problem here? I don’t think you actually hate Kix, by the way, but Ben cares about your opinion.”

Ben. Din didn’t think he had weaknesses, until he had children. He deflated immediately. But how could he articulate the massive snarl of emotions that roiled in his chest?

“I’m— I’m afraid for him,” he began hesitantly. “He’s been through so much, he’s finally happy, and now— Ben told me that he still needed me, because he doesn’t love himself as well as I do. What if he falls for someone who won’t love him as he deserves? Or, what if—”

“What if someone loves him better than you can?” Wolffe finished gently, now smiling slightly. “Ad’ika, you can’t do that to yourself. Or Ben. Or Kix. It’s a different love. Ben still needs his parent. Kix is a companion. You’re a teacher, a role model.

“Din’ika, I can’t explain how incredible the love of a Jedi is. It’s limitless, no matter how many they love, deeper and wider than the greatest oceans of the galaxy. My general treated us all like sons. Nothing was too big or too hard. After I lost my eye, the Kaminoans wanted to decommission me— put me down like a droid. That’s all I was to them, to the Senate. General Koon fought for my prosthetic eye and physical therapy. Grogu, Ben— they are the same. Their capacity for love is limitless.”

“I want him to be happy.”

“Then let him be happy. Let them both be happy. Kix has spent his entire life being equated to a living droid, made for only one thing. We never thought we could have things like this.”

At that, Din’s heart plummeted. He knew a thing or two about being objectified, about deprivation. “Ni ceta, buir. I will do better.”

Wolffe nodded, then tilted his head. “What else is eating at you?”

Din opened his mouth, closed it. Pulled off his helmet. Wolffe’s face fell in compassion and understanding.

“C’mere,” the old man hauled Din in for a hug, holding him tightly even as Din’s shoulders began to shake. “I’ll go with you.”

“To the Waters?” Din mumbled into the old man’s shoulder, his breathing ragged.

“Mhmm. Whatever you need. I told you. Can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Din had no words, but Wolffe didn’t seem to need them, grounding him with his tight embrace against the strange lightness that lifted Din’s chest.

Maybe they would all be happy.

Hard to believe otherwise, with his buir holding him so tightly.

Falling in love with Ben was scarily easy.

The feeling of inevitability had lurked in the back of Kix’s mind as they had approached Tatooine, setting a buzz in his skin that reminded him of a looming battle. But then something strange happened as he jumped in to cover the lone Jedi, surrounded by Pykes on the outskirts of the desert city:

Everything quieted.

It was as though something locked into place in his chest. The feeling of displacement, of loneliness vanished as Ben turned that devastating smile on him. It wasn’t the kind smile of a General, separated by rank and age and Code. This was Ben. And Kix’s hunch proved correct, as they fell into a seamless tandem. It was somewhat inevitable that it would end like this— or perhaps begin, as days turned into weeks and Kix fell more and more for the sweet, sassy, painfully clever Jedi.

How could he not?

Ben was a marvel. He’d always been impressive, and Kix had to stifle a chuckle when the young Jedi stroked a bare, tattooed chin in thought, because there were glimmers here and there of who he had once become— but Ben was different now. His confidence no longer had that edge of brittleness, as though trying to convince himself and others that he had it all together. He was more open, more vulnerable now. Less patient too, more prone to sharp quips that pushed Kix’s ability to keep a straight face. And adorably oblivious, in ways that made Kix want to kiss and strangle him at the same time.

They’d been touring the palace, about a week after the chaos of the Mos Espa battle had subsided, and the plans to travel to Mandalore had begun. Kix had engineered a break with Axe’s help, and dragged Ben out of there for a breather. Getting any time alone was nearly impossible, and Kix could be patient— but with Din interrupting any moment that wasn’t occupied by Mandalorian business, it left Kix turning to unlikely allies for assistance.

Axe was happy to help. “With you here, the rest of these idiots can stop getting distracted by trying to hit on the Mand’alor,” he’d groused. “And you’ve convinced the others that he’s as mando’ad as he is Jedi. They were worried about the celibate thing. So whatever you need, let me know.”

They hadn’t even kissed yet, but Kix would happily let implications lie if it got him to his goal.

Meanwhile, Ben remained completely oblivious, grateful for the time alone but confused as to why a break was occurring at all.

There had been a lull in the conversation, when Ben glanced at him, sizing him up before blushing, coughing, and then inquiring politely, “are you…. taller, than Boba?”

Kix broke into an evil grin. He’d completely forgotten about that. “The perils of being an unaltered clone for Jango means… no special engineering. Including height. We’re all six feet… except for Boba.”

“Oh no,” Ben groaned dramatically. “Have I just created a monster?”

“Nah, you just reminded me of how we were all taller than Prime. We were all waiting for the chance to rub it in Bo’ika’s face.” Jesse would have loved it. Kix paused, glancing up and down at Ben. “How tall are you?”

“Five-foot eleven inches. Buir hates it because we’re the same height now. And med droids say I’ve got another inch or two before I’m done— why are you smiling like that?” Because Kix’s expression had gone impossibly soft. He couldn’t help it.

“You’re taller now. That’s really, really good, Ben’ika,” Kix curled his hand into a fist, so as not to reach out and draw the Jedi in for a kiss. He was handsome, and healthy, and happy, not weighed down by the grief of war. How could Kix be anything but drawn to Ben? It was a karking miracle that the Jedi was still single when Kix arrived. “I’m so glad, mesh’la. That’s— as a medic, I can't tell you how happy that makes me.”

“You’re welcome?” Ben gave a bemused smile, before blushing and then stammering something about the rancor pit.

Their little walks became somewhat notorious, which led to several instances of sand being loaded into the beds of both Mods and Mandos. It was something of a game, for mando’ade and the Mods to try and sneak a holo of the pair walking, without getting caught. A pretty dumb game to play with a Jedi, but it caught on like wildfire. Ben turned red as a reek each time, the beads in his hair clinking gently as he shouted at various offenders. Kix just laughed, knowing the novelty of the game would wear off soon enough.

Because Kix followed Ben everywhere now.

At first, it was the pragmatic option, to learn the ropes. And he was there for Ben, not the Mandalorians. But it quickly became something of a catchphrase among the mando’ade; wherever Ben went, there Kix followed. And it was fortunate, because it conferred a bit of delegated authority to Kix (that, and respect for Kix’s ability to keep up with the Jedi and occasionally sit on him to rest). His requests for medications, supplies, and fresh fish for the Stewjoni went fulfilled without question by those sent off-planet on hunts.

Kix had been glued to Ben’s side for about a month when one ambitious squad brought back a small tank, packed with fish and aquatic plants. Kix had watched with pride and amusement as Ben circled the aquarium, stunned. “What is this?”

“Baar’ur said you need fish. Now you can farm them,” the alor'ad’s pleased-with-himself expression wilted slightly under Ben’s frown.

“That’s very clever, but there’s not enough there for everyone to eat. I’m not seeing how this will be worth the water.”

“The tank’s got a filtration system, so it recycles the water. No need to take from the local supply,” the verd pointed out. “And this is just for you.”

Ben stiffened, then spun around to face Kix. “This is too much,” he protested, ignoring the stifled chuckles.

Kix settled into medic-mode. He’d anticipated this. “No, it’s not.”

“I do just fine with dried—”

“Would you make a Wookiee eat dried meat if you could get him fresh? Would you make a Trandoshan eat vegetables?”

“That’s different, I do fine without fish—”

Kix glanced about pointedly, taking in the smirking faces of the assembled squad, Axe, and his brothers. He turned back to face Ben’s exasperated expression, his nose scrunched up adorably.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m a medic. And I think you’ll find that on this issue, I outrank everyone.”

At that, Axe signaled to the team, who carefully lifted the tank and began moving in the direction of the kitchens. Kix stood still as Ben drifted towards him, seemingly accepting defeat. And yet determined to have the last word, Kix bit down on a smile as a familiar obstinacy bloomed in the Jedi’s face.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but this is too much for just me,” Ben said softly, his stormy blue eyes wide and serious. “I really am fine with dried fish.”

“Ben, you never ask for anything,” he countered, “and your people want you healthy. I want you healthy. The squad found a way to sustain a small population of fish for as long as you stay on Tatooine. Is that really so bad?”

Ben deflated. “I must seem very ungrateful,” he mumbled. Kix took a chance, grabbing Ben’s hands and squeezing it briefly.

“Anyone who knows you, knows that’s the furthest from the truth.” He smiled more broadly as Ben blushed, shifting his grip to tangle their fingers together.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Oh, are you not enjoying a taste of your own medicine?”

“I never—”

Kix tugged them towards the kitchens, choosing not to glance over at Din who was definitely glaring at him. “Sure you don’t.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, grinning at the spluttering Jedi. Ben’s eyes dipped to his mouth, then back up to Kix’s eyes and away, blushing furiously.

Kix wanted, but he would wait. Ben was worth waiting for. And the Order’s Code was no small thing to set aside.

“C’mon. The cooks might need some pointers on preparing fresh fish.”

But it wasn't just attraction. Once, that might have been enough for Kix, a flash-in-the-pan dalliance to enjoy and leave behind. But Ben— Ben captured his heart by being so unfailingly kind. He was a friend, as much as anything else, and Kix, still unmoored by the loss of so many brothers who had anchored him his whole life, clung to this friendship with both hands.

Ben found him once, up in the North Tower, staring into the twin sunset. The tears had mostly dried into salt trails on his cheeks when Ben silently sat down next to him. They sat together, just breathing, Ben’s steady exhalation a sharp contrast to the stuttered staccato of his own.

“Today’s the anniversary of the Umbara campaign.”

“I know.”

Of course he did. He wasn’t Kenobi, but of course he would know.

“Today’s the day that— Krell, he made us—”

“I know.” Ben’s gentle, calloused hand slid into his, holding it gently as he continued to stare into the sunsets. Kix waited for the platitudes, but none came, just a squeeze. And he realized abruptly that Ben understood.

Understood that for Rex, it was a thirty-year-old tragedy. Understood that for Kix, it hadn’t been two years yet. Then, there had been little time to mourn, rushed from one campaign to the next. Now— grief was a luxury he could afford. And Ben understood this.

And so they remained in silence, hand in hand, until the second sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and with it any lingering doubt that Ben was it for him.

So Kix followed Ben everywhere, becoming such a familiar sight soon enough that everyone drew their own conclusions and accepted them as the pair that they, technically, weren’t yet.

Kix just hadn’t expected acceptance from Din.

He had his head and arms fully in the supply cabinet six weeks after arrival when the door to the med-bay slid open. “The Mand’alor’s meditating with his brother,” he called out, voice muffled slightly by the supplies.

“I know.”

Startled, Kix slammed the back of his head on the shelf above. Cursing, he pulled his head out of the cabinet and craned it around the door, gazing warily at Ben’s parent. “Oh, uh… did you— need something?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

Kix was halfway to a chair when he realized that he didn’t actually have to obey the command, but he finished the motion, sitting at the desk across from Din.

For a long moment, Din’s black visor started at him impassively, and Kix couldn’t help the flood of memories that surged forward under the scrutiny of that stare. The Vode had feared the Kaminoans most, but the Cuy’val Dar had the power to fail a vod, to get them reconditioned or decommissioned, and some had abused that power more than most—

And then Din took off his helmet.

Kix blinked. Din had never taken off his helmet in front of Kix before, and Kix had tried to respect that, tried not to feel anything about it.

He realized he was gaping, and shut his mouth.

Unexpectedly soft brown eyes surveyed him. “It’s come to my attention,” the raspy voice of his not-boyfriend’s parent began, “that you and your Vode did not have mando’ad parent figures on Kamino, and so did not learn the courtship rituals.”

Kix gaped again. “…no. We didn’t.”

Din nodded, pausing for a moment. He had a habit of speaking sparingly, Kix had noticed, his words deliberate and to the point. It was a hilarious counterpoint to Ben, who could prattle with the best of them, and Grogu, who didn’t speak at all.

“Traditions vary by clan, and my tribe had its own version, but it must begin with a declaration of intent,” Din continued. “A spar, usually. If the courtship involves participants of different authority, the one who has less authority must initiate, so that there is no abuse of power. If the recipient is interested after the spar, then a gift may be given. Knives are traditional, but not mandatory.”

“And— if the gift is accepted?” Kix prompted.

“Then you’re together,” Din sat back, and Kix marveled at his calm. Kix was very certain that Din hated him. This conversation was throwing him for a loop, and a small part of him waited for the boot to drop. “And if you both decide to make the relationship permanent, then there is the riduurok. An exchange of vambraces, traditionally, through it could be other pieces of armor, and the vows. There is no need for witnesses, usually, but Axe tells me that a Mand’alor’s riduurok is a bit different. Witnesses are needed, since the spouse becomes Riduur’alor, or Rid’alor.”

Kix nodded, meeting Din’s level gaze. “Why are you telling me this?”

Din quirked a small smile. “Because you care about my son. In ways that he needs, that I can’t meet. He deserves someone who cares about him the way that you do, and you deserve support in trying to care for a Jedi. That’s where I come in.”

Kix’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you hated me.”

“It’s my job to protect my kid, and it’s getting increasingly harder to live up to that promise. I want to protect my son from getting his heart broken by anyone again. But he doesn’t need protection. He needs guidance. I realize that now. And you’re not just anyone, Kix. You care about him, too. So I will guide you as well.”

“Oh,” Kix breathed. “I… don’t know what to say.”

Din shrugged. “No need. I should have been more welcoming when you arrived. N’eparavu takisit.”

Kix nodded, trying to process this sudden change of heart. “So… what now?”

Din tilted his head as an eyebrow raised. “I just spelled it out for you.”

“Right, spar.” Kix jumped up, glancing about for his helmet, before turning back to Din. “Wait, did you need any actual medical care?”

“No,” Din rose more slowly, sliding his helmet back on. “Just a moment without Ben attached to your hip.” Kix blushed as Din shooed him away. “Go on, I’ll close up the med-bay.”

“Vor’e—”

“N’entye,” Din waved him off. “Never for family.”

Kix set off down the halls, wondering if he had just been informally adopted by his not-boyfriend’s father.

As it turned out, Ben did not want to spar.

“Normally, I’d say yes, but it has been a really long day,” Ben mumbled from where he had melted into the cushions. They were closeted up in the North Tower, watching the suns set. Well— Kix was watching the sunset. Ben had flopped face-first onto a couch and flatly refused to move, so Kix had settled on the other side of the couch, relaxing into the cushion and content to sit with his fingers tangled with Ben’s. “No one on my staff wants to go to Kalevala with me, and plans for exploring the Living Waters are a literal trash-compactor fire. And meditation hasn’t been, ah, restorative lately.”

Kix frowned, rolling his head on the cushion to face Ben. “Bad feeling?”

There was a pause, then a huff into the seat cushion. “Sometimes I forget that you kind of already know me. Yes, a bad feeling, but it’s elusive, indistinct. Something happening elsewhere. Grogu’s not sensing anything, but our connections to the Force are very different, so…” he trailed off, shrugging into the cushion. “Sorry I’m not good company right now.”

Kix squeezed his fingers. “I think by now you know that I don’t expect to be entertained,” he teased. “Maybe spar tomorrow?”

“Of course. We’re training tomorrow.”

Blithely oblivious as usual. It never failed to amuse Kix, even as it tested his patience. He wondered how Cody had fared, having a general who was usually brilliant except for the moments when he was exceptionally dim.

“I want to spar, Ben. With you. Outside of training.”

There was a long pause. “My buir talked to you, didn’t he.”

If Ben hadn’t still been holding his hand, Kix would have grown nervous. As it was, he realized that it was the Jedi who was nervous. He gave their tangled fingers a squeeze.

“Yes. And I hope that I have a chance. But I understand the Order’s rules are hard to let go of. So if you need more time—”

Kix remained still as Ben scrambled up abruptly on the couch, sitting bolt upright next to him.

“That’s not an issue. Well, not really. I’ve had some time to work through that.” But an anxiety flitted through Ben’s face, and Kix remained silent, waiting patiently. “You know I’m not him, right? Your general?”

And there it was. “He wasn’t my general,” Kix replied gently, reaching over from where he reclined on the sofa to push a wayward lock of hair out of Ben’s face, watching with a faint smile as the Jedi blushed. “Worked with him a fair bit, but not mine. I know you’re not him.”

“And that’s… okay?”

Kix’s gaze went soft as his hand drifted down to hold Ben’s cheek. “The things that made him a great person still hold true with you. He held the lives of the men entrusted to him very dearly, and did everything in his power to keep them alive while achieving the objective. He treated us like people, when the rest of the galaxy saw us as meat droids. He was compassionate, caring, inquisitive, and very sarcastic. A bit old for my taste then, though.” He laughed as Ben made an inarticulate sound. “But you are… brighter. Not so burdened and haunted. Looking back, I think the General knew he was holding onto something that was already dying, loyal to the Republic for all its flaws. You— you’ve got the fire and clear vision to build something new. Let all that rot and corruption stay dead. I deeply admired General Kenobi, and would have followed him into glory. But you— you make me happy to still be alive.”

And he remained still, letting Ben choose to close the distance and kiss him, tentatively at first and then melting into it. Kix hauled Ben onto his lap, holding him close as the passion kindled between them.

“We’ll take this at your speed,” Kix mumbled mid-kiss, shivering as Ben laughed into his lips.

“Are you sure you can keep up?”

“You are a brat,” he pinched Ben’s side in retaliation. “I’m trying to be gallant.”

“And it’s very sweet. Very respectful. I’ll tell all the girls how you were a perfect gentleman—”

Kix shut him up with a kiss, thanking his enhanced genetics for allowing him to go so long without breathing. It was with no small amount of glee when he finally let go of Ben, who took a few moments to suck wind. He pulled his dagger off of his belt, carefully presenting it to Ben, who sobered immediately.

“This was Fives’s knife. Rex gave it to me to carry. I want you to have it.” He knew, as Ben accepted it carefully, what that simple dagger meant to him. He watched as Ben clipped it to his waist, then reached into his boot, withdrawing a slim blade.

“This has been mine since Melidaan,” Ben supplied, voice soft. “One of the few things I have from that time. I want you to have it.”

It was barely more than a shiv, but Kix slid it into his knife holster with care. “I’ll make a holster that fits it better,” he promised. Ben didn’t respond, pressing him back into the cushions as their lips met once more.

It wasn’t exactly as Din had described— but then again, they weren’t exactly traditional Mandalorians. It was almost more fitting this way.

He’d found someone who could truly understand what it meant to feel so displaced in time, to grieve all those lost while embracing the promise of this strange future. He knew that there was still a part of Kenobi’s past that they would have to face. They would have to talk about Anakin some day. But for now—

For now, only the future mattered.

The thing about having a Force-Sensitive son, meant that Leia was rarely surprised by the arrival of other Force-Sensitives.

Ben, occupying himself with a data pad while Leia hunted for yet another nanny, shot off of the couch and into her lap nearly a full minute before the knock at the door. “There’s someone new, Momma,” Ben whispered, solemn and wide-eyed. “Powerful.”

“Are they nice, or mean?” Leia already knew who was coming, but she indulged this moment with her own powerful son.

Ben stilled for a moment, before sighing in relief. “Nice.”

“Then let’s greet them properly,” she set him on his feet and stood as the door swooshed open. “Ezra. Long time, no see.”

The blue-eyed Jedi sported some truly wild hair, a full beard beneath which an impish grin peeked. “Senator. Or should I say General?”

“Just Leia is fine,” she smiled. She’d missed Ezra’s antics. “This is my son, Ben.”

Ezra beamed at him, dropping to one knee as Kix had. Leia’s heart squeezed; it wasn’t often that people got on Ben’s level. “Hi Ben. Those are some good shields you've got. Do you practice often?”

Ben’s eyes widened. "You're a Jedi?”

“Yup.” Ezra reached into his robe, and pulled out a curious hilt. Ben frowned at it.

“What did you do to it?”

“Improvised,” Ezra winked at him. “I can show you later, if your mom says it’s okay.”

Ben looked up at Leia, those soulful eyes now pouting. “Grownup talk?"

“Got it in one, love. To the couch,” and the boy slouched away as Ezra stood up. Leia took in his outfit once more, before gesturing to a chair. “You know, you could pass for a pirate or a soothsayer with this outfit.”

“That’s fitting. I need a new alias, since you killed mine, Huttslayer,” Ezra grinned as he sat down, and Leia couldn’t help rolling her eyes, biting down on her own smile.

“What do you need, Ezra?”

The Jedi sobered instantly. “A favor.”

Leia shook her head. “I’m not saying I won’t help, but the New Republic won’t dedicate resources to rescue Ahsoka and Sabine from beyond the edge of Lesser Space. It's all I can do to convince them that Thrawn is back and a credible threat. I can’t pull my resources from that fight.”

Ezra nodded, the stunning blue of his eyes dimming for moment before the first part of her response cycled back. “But you’ll help?”

“I might be able to,” she tapped at her data pad, summoning a holo display of the galaxy. She zoomed in on the Outer Rim. "Are you familiar with Tatooine?”

Ezra shrugged. “Not really. Haven’t been back since Maul tricked me into going there to find Master Kenobi. They had an old score to settle.”

Leia blinked, her mind reeling. What was it with Tatooine and the strange web of coincidences that surrounded that dustball?

“Right. Well, word on the ground—” from Rex, but Leia would take it one revelation at a time, “is that former bounty hunter Boba Fett has taken over, and recently routed the Pykes and the other crime families by engineering a massive slave revolt. There are now thousands of Freed, and more importantly for your task, a large company of Mandalorians there."

Ezra frowned. “Mandalorians working for Fett?”

“Not just Mandalorians. The Mand’alor, too.”

“Kryze?”

“No. A Force user, allegedly.”

“Man, I’ve missed a lot,” Ezra muttered, stroking his beard as he contemplated the map.

“I need to go to Tatooine, secure the New Republic’s jurisdiction in Tatooine space. You should come with me. If anyone’s going to rescue a Mandalorian, it's a Mandalorian. And maybe the Force user will help.”

“Is Ben coming?” Ezra shot a smile at the boy curled up on the couch, his nose in the data pad. Leia followed his gaze, some prickling of the Force crawling up her arms and into her chest.

“Yes. I think he will.”

Chapter Text

It vaguely astounded her, how much the monotony soothed.

After a lifetime of violence and struggle and the uncertainty of opportunity or even survival, the numbing constancy of grey skies and brilliant rolling hills of velvet green were a strange balm on a heart scarred by resentment and regret. The comfortable malaise shrouded her like a thick fog from the bright burn of reflection. She could just exist, beholden to no one, rising and eating and simply being, day after day.

In the numbness, Bo-Katan Kryze didn’t have to feel. Didn’t have to think.

It was easier this way.

Reeves’ departure had cut deep. She’d been faithful to the last, standing by her as Bo-Katan’s forces dwindled away, and then—

— and then Reeves stood there, as the others escorted her at blaster-point from her own cruiser onto a Gauntlet, silent as one final mutiny sunk Bo-Katan’s dreams for good. And there was nowhere left to go, but back to Kalevala, which stung at first, buried in inches of dust and memory— but the familiarity soothed, letting her sink into the drab comfort of monotony.

In the numbness, visions of glory, thoughts of betrayal and sabers and usurping Jedi couldn’t touch her. Where misty gray and undulating hills of viridian stretched into eternity. Where days could slip unnoticed into months without announcing their grim progress.

She couldn’t summon the interest to even glance out the window when the sound of an incoming ship gently buzzed the dripping transparisteel windows of her hall. The house droid managed the needs of the castle so it didn’t concern her much how it got done, as long as it didn’t interfere with the numbing consistency of her day.

And so she found herself lounging on the seat of her father, her armor digging into his pacifist cushions, when the doors of her hall were flung open with a violence unseen these days.

“Bo-Katan, of Clan Kryze,” a young voice pulsing with authority called, its inherent command echoing off of the stone struts of her hall.

Her jade eyes narrowed at the disruption.

The boy had grown. Tall as his parent now, with more breadth to his shoulders than before. Copper hair not unlike her own spilled over them and down his back, adorned with braids and beads. There were more blue tattoos, ones that summoned ancient memories of her own ba’buir, and—

Armor. And two sabers.

“Mand’alor,” she drawled, not bothering to sit up straight. “Djarin, is it now? You’ll have to come back another time, as you can see I’m very busy.”

The Jedi stopped a good ten feet before her, looking almost disappointed as he surveyed her sprawled pose. Bo-Katan took the opportunity to inspect his entourage. Din Djarin stood in the back, next to an old man who looked uncomfortably familiar. Half a dozen others she did not recognize filled the middle of the phalanx. Axe Woves, that shabuir, stood on the Jedi’s right. On his left, stood an unfamiliar mando’ad in gray and deep blue armor in an unusual design, complete with kama, teal vambraces and a medic’s symbol on his shoulder guard. Whoever they were, they were clearly not happy to be here, positioned close to the Jedi with a hand on their utility belt, conveniently close to their blaster.

In fact, the entire group save the Jedi bristled in offense at her tone. It distantly amused her, in the way all emotions did nowadays, like a faint echo.

“I realize that wallowing is very time-consuming, but I think you’ll make time in your schedule for this,” the Jedi replied, irritatingly calm and easy in his posture.

Abruptly, those faint emotions flared to life, their burn very real. “Wallowing?” she hissed in outrage.

He tilted his head, those too-familiar stormy-blue eyes surveying her more thoroughly than a med-scanner. “What else would you call this? Retirement? Your bid for power has failed, and here you sit, while the mando’ade work to rebuild.”

“It was never about power,” she snapped, impatiently tamping down the niggling discomfort of the lie. “It was always about Mandalore, and its power. Its glory. Its heritage.” Which was true, from a certain point of view. It was never only about her power.

“Good,” the Jedi nodded firmly. “Because Mandalore needs you now."

“Me?” She scoffed. “No, you don’t. What do you really want? Kalevala?” Perhaps she could leverage something from this, after all.

Djarin only smiled thinly. “I need both. Your skills, and your land.”

“What for? I thought you were dedicated to restoring Mandalore,” she sneered.

“I am,” he remained annoyingly unfazed. “But relighting the Great Forge of Keldabe won’t feed anyone. And I’ve got four thousand mando’ade who want to touch green grass for the first time in their lives. They’re willing to learn to farm, and fabricate. I have the resources, I just need the land.”

Bo-Katan stared. “Where did you pick up four thousand recruits?” She asked, interested in spite of herself.

“Made some new friends.”

Unimpressed with that answer, her gaze slid almost instinctively to her former second.

“He liberated Tatooine,” Axe replied.

“I didn’t,” the Jedi’s cool demeanor slipped for the first time. “I merely orchestrated the support so that they could liberate themselves. Of the five thousand who approached us, four thousand wanted to become mando’ade, and another thousand wanted to leave Tatooine and support our efforts without joining, preferably on a planet with greenery. We have mechanics refurbishing our fleet, would-be mercenaries and hunters and armorers apprenticed for training, and a new fighting corps— but we need sustainable food sources. Space for fabrication until we can relocate it to Mandalore. I can take them to Phindar, or Nevarro, try Concordia if I must. But you need this as much as I do.”

Bo-Katan stared at the little Mand’alor. He’d done it. Actually done it. She glanced at his entourage, taking in the clan markings, the unfamiliar designs of what she could now assume were new familial groups. He’d managed to unite them, and rebuild their numbers. It was galling, incredible, humbling, humiliating— and he had her trapped. If she snubbed him, she’d show herself to be as self-centered as he claimed, dar’manda for turning away in Mandalore’s moment of need, as those zealot Children had done. If she agreed, she’d be putting herself under his authority— the outsider Jedi, a meddler out of his own time.

And as her eyes snapped back to the young man, she realized that he knew exactly what she was thinking. That shab’la little osik.

She’d never liked Kenobi.

She slowly sat straight, squared her shoulders, and saluted him as she gritted out, “what would you have me do, Mand’alor?”

Ben blinked his eyes open, sighing as he returned to himself on his meditation mat.

He’d known, as soon as he settled on his mat for morning meditation, Grogu yawning as he followed suit, what he would see; the same thing he’d seen for over a week now. Kix cleaning his kit in the corner, Axe stumbling down the hall outside in search of caf, and the rest of the palace had melted away as he sunk into the Force, feeling its energy everywhere, infinite—

— a raven-haired young man, steeped in rage and hate and pain, staring at the burning ruins of a large building as rain sizzles against the flames, which illuminate the bodies that surround him— and then a different fight, himself but much older, an orange saber raised in Soresu against the same young man, still filled with rage and pain, but not yet hate— still reachable, not too far gone yet— a hand of help outstretched—

Ben glanced at Grogu, who remained floating in his meditation, then down at his saber.

That kyber was blue. But his vision showed an orange saber blade, nearly the same color as his armor. Which meant something would happen to his current saber.

Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side, Ben chanted in his head, shoving away the moment of panic with an emphasis he dared not label as desperate. He should be more concerned about the young man in the vision, anyway— but the orange blade had burned his retinas, and he wandered the hall for the kitchens, aching for a soothing cup of tea.

His meditations had been… eventful, since leaving for Kalevala a month ago. Wisps of possible futures flickering in and out, but the one with the young man and the orange blade had become a constant. He’d done his best to shield from Grogu, knowing that the young Jedi was having too much fun on this trip. He’d hoped that returning to Tatooine would cause the visions to subside, but they only added to his troubles, prominent among which was his buir and vod.

He knew that the monotony of palace life itched for them.

They had spent over a year traveling together, and Din had roamed for years before that. Ben could sense that urge to travel flare within his parent on occasion, but Din had always set it aside without ever acknowledging it. At first, it was the recovery from Gideon’s torture that kept him in place on Tatooine, relearning coordination and adapting his skills along with helping Boba secure his gotra. Then it was the regency, helping Ben unite the various mando’ade who began showing up at Fett’s palace. Then it was recovery again, after Bane’s attack. Buir’s guilt after that had squashed any desire.

But Ben had not missed the way buir’s whole demeanor shifted as the cruiser slid into hyperspace. Nor Grogu’s coo of delight. They were adrenaline junkies, simply put, and Ben couldn’t fault them for it.

And it was cruel, in a way, that Grogu had finally found the Force Sensitive companion he’d yearned for, only for Ben to immediately become bound by duty. They’d never roam itinerantly together, discovering the galaxy and earning a living along the way.

Ben couldn’t quite reconcile that problem without simply letting them go, as a Jedi would, but they were Mandalorians, and aliit simply didn’t work like that. He had a duty to Mandalore. And Grogu understood, of course he did, he was a Jedi— and yet Ben desperately wished he could have a second copy of himself, who could be more fully immersed in the family that had chosen him, while the first fulfilled his duty.

But Grogu and Din now had Wolffe, who had officially adopted Din after he was submerged in the Living Waters. Maybe Ben could find a way to help them feel free to roam again. It would not be fair to tether them to Mandalore and his efforts there, by dint of being family. And it would be better to give his blessing in some way, rather than have them stay and grow resentful, or simply just leave one day.

Mandalore… Ben had not had a moment to process the dramatic transformation that the planet had suffered since his mission. Busy with countless meetings and arguing with Kryze via holo over the Kalevala settlement, the visceral pain of witnessing Mandalore’s devastation had sat like a neglected lodestone in his stomach, held at bay for a more convenient time.

And now he had the vision of the angry young man and the orange saber to add to the mix.

He barely registered that he’d entered the kitchens, too distracted by the tea and his thoughts to notice the immediate audience awaiting him.

“Ben?”

Ben startled hard, nearly dropping his mug of tea as he turned to face the questioner.

An entire table of mando’ade, including Rex and Axe, sat with their eyebrows in their hairline, while Kix swiftly slid in front of him, blocking their view. His golden-brown eyes raked Ben with the efficiency of a med-scanner, then plucked the mug from his hands and tugged him back into the hallway.

“What happened? Please,” he added, as Ben bit his lip, hesitating.

“Vision.”

“Osi’kyr,” Kix swore, shaking his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have slipped out for caf.”

Ben sighed, abruptly exasperated. “I am capable of functioning on my own, thank you. Not that I don’t love your company, but I can survive a few moments on my own. Managed a whole seventeen years so far, actually—”

“All right, mesh’la,” Kix chuckled, but his eyes remained serious. “What did you see?”

“It— it’s so stupid, it shouldn’t be bothering me— but I keep seeing myself, fighting a young man who needs help. I’m older, and I have an orange saber.”

It took Kix only a half-second to realize, his expression falling.

“Oh, Ben’ika—”

“I shouldn’t be afraid, shouldn’t be attached to my saber,” Ben cut over him, shaking his head. But Kix shook his own.

“Your saber is your life.”

Ben startled. “How did you know that?”

Kix opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider his words, before saying, “I heard it often enough. Especially around the padawans. Commander Tano once had hers stolen, caused a huge mess in Coruscant trying to get it back.” He shifted uneasily before hurrying on, “point is, I know how important it is to you. Especially since you brought it with you.”

Ben nodded, feeling the warmth of Kix’s kov’nyn as a balm on his heart. Master Qui Gon would have met such a confession with admonishment, even if kindly delivered. Kix’s simple understanding made it easier to process the future loss. Still, the idea of losing the one piece of his old Jedi life that he still possessed—

“Let’s get some food and tea, before visiting hours start,” Kix gently jostled him out of his thoughts. “Have you made any progress in appointing a replacement majordomo for Boba?”

“Not yet,” Ben managed a real smile. “I was hoping the Force would provide, but it’s been mum on the subject.”

Kix snorted. “Imagine that.”

The Force did provide; just not the way Ben expected.

Imagine that.