FIC: Somewhere Between Sunrise and Sunset ~ Star Wars ~ Jango/Obi-Wan ~ Teen

[batsutousai]

Title: Somewhere Between Sunrise and Sunset
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Warnings: Alternate Universe, Asexual!Jango, Obi-Wan Left the Order, Mandalorian!Obi-Wan, the Senate are the bad guys not the jedi, Jedi-positive, Galidraan massacre mention, mentioned transphobia and speciesism (by an OC who's never seen), slavery mention, mention of non-consensual drug addiction, drinking alcohol, Obi-Wan isn't an alcoholic because he has the Force (sure thing, Obes), mentions of canonical character deaths
Summary: Jango goes for a drink after a job, only to stumble across a conundrum of a being: A human in beskar'gam, marked with the New Mandalorian crest.

A/N: For day 6 of JangObi Week, the prompt is fix-it AU. I also gave myself a challenge to write only ace!Jango for this week.
Look, no one was specific about what we had to be fixing.
Blame for this idea shall be lain at the feet of bureau-pinery for this (nsfw, please don't click the link if you're underage/in a public space) image of Jango and Obi-Wan in beskar'gam. No sex in the fic, just loved the idea of them both in beskar'gam. *ok hand emoji*

This is, technically, past-Obitine, but because it's Jango's PoV, it's never clarified, so I didn't bother tagging. There's also a part which is intended as past platonic!Jango&Myles, but if you, personally, are reading it as romantic... *shrugs* To each their own.

'Canon' pulls from a bit of The Clone Wars, a lot of Jango Fett: Open Season, with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention from Jedi Apprentice. Jedi Corps information pulled from Legends, with some tweaks.
Timeline-wise, this takes place a few years after both Obi-Wan & Qui-Gon's mission to Mandalore, and Jango gaining his freedom. (My personal calendar has Jango freeing himself and killing Tor while Obi is on Mandalore; canon hasn't said otherwise, so, I do what I want.) So, Obi-Wan is 21 and Jango is 30.
Mando'a and a single word of Ryl/Twi'leki are hovertext for those on computers, and translated in the separate glossary for everyone else. (Most Mando'a is either an insult, a proper noun, a part of armour, or otherwise something that doesn't have a direct translation in English. The only long sentence is an introduction.)

Sorry for the lateness in posting this. But, given how few people interact on LJ/DW, and my own schedule, posting to these two sites is not among my priorities. If you want to see more timely content here, INTERACT.

-0-o-0-

Jango had just finished a job and was trapped at the little, rough-looking space station while Slave I got a go-over by a proper mechanic, rather than Jango's own slap-dash attempts to keep the ship in one piece. The pay from the job had been more than enough to cover any repairs, as well as restocking his own supplies (including the medical supplies he was dangerously low on, after the mark had turned out to have friends), with enough left over to drink away his lingering aches.

Which was how he found himself standing in the middle of the station's dimly-lit cantina, staring at another in beskar'gam. He'd almost turned right around and resigned himself to another night on the Slave, having no interest in speaking with another Mando'ad-or, worse, some chakaar wearing stolen beskar'gam; them he would have to fight, or forfeit what little honour the jetiise and Kyr'tsad had left him with-but then he'd recognised the symbol on their left bes'marbur: New Mandalorian.

"Are you going to stare all night?" the New Mandalorian asked without turning to look at him, clearly more interested in refilling their shotglass with the bottle that had been left on their table. Their accent was Core-prim, which seemed like the sort of hut'uunla nonsense their sort would go for, and they were the same pale-skinned human (or near-human, to be fair) that all New Mandalorians seemed to be. Their hair was darker than the pale blonde most New Mandalorians seemed to sport, but he couldn't tell the exact shade, between the poor lighting and his buy'ce's HUD.

"You are aware what you're wearing," Jango couldn't stop himself from asking, and minded his inability to walk away a lot less when the words came out acidic.

The New Mandalorian sighed and turned to face him, revealing pale eyes and a scattering of freckles across their nose and cheeks. "Is it the beskar'gam, or the aliik?" they asked.

Jango blinked at the easy use of Mando'a; he'd thought the New Mandalorians had given up their language, along with every other part of the Resol'nare.

Although, given this was a New Mandalorian in beskar'gam, perhaps they weren't as dar'manda as the rest of their ilk.

"The both together," he admitted.

The New Mandalorian tilted their head to the side and shrugged, then turned back to their drink, gloved fingers curling around the shotglass. "Maybe I'm doing it to piss the duchess off," they said, before knocking the whole shot back in one long swallow, throat bobbing.

Jango didn't bother muffling his nasty laugh at that; it would certainly serve the laandur dar'manda, having Mando'ade belying her pacifism to the whole of the galaxy by wearing her symbol and committing violence.

He actually sort of liked this one, which wasn't something he could say of many beings, these days. Still, he'd survived more than enough betrayals to be cautious, so he didn't remove his buy'ce as he slid into the unoccupied side of the New Mandalorian's booth.

The other raised an eyebrow at him. "You know, it's rude to invite yourself to a table without even giving your name," they said, and the primness of their tone made Jango want to shoot them.

"Jango," he grunted. "He/him."

The New Mandalorian blinked, opened their mouth, hesitated for just long enough for Jango to notice, then replied, "Obi-Wan, he/him."

That wasn't a Mando name, so far as Jango knew. Which wouldn't have meant much a decade before, but was definitely notable now.

"Speaking of aliik," Obi-Wan said, casting an obvious gaze between Jango's blank bes'marbure.

Jango bared his teeth behind the cover of his buy'ce. "My entire house was wiped out by Kyr'tsad and the jetiise," he bit out, because it was as good a reason as any for why he'd never repainted the kyr'bes, after stripping the paint Galidraan's former governor had used on his beskar'gam when he'd displayed it in his treasure room.

Obi-Wan stared at him for just a beat too long, and then he rasped, "Republic Senate."

"Me'ven?" Jango asked, confused at the apparent non-sequitur.

"Kyr'tsad and the Senate," the New Mandalorian said, pouring another shot with a hand that shook, just slightly. "Or do you regularly blame the blaster, instead of the hand that wields it?"

"What are you trying to say, utreekov?" Jango demanded. "The jetiise-!"

"Were ordered by the Senate to send thirty beings to take out 'terrorists' who were wearing beskar'gam," the shab interrupted, a grim gleam in his eyes as he sat the bottle back down against the tabletop lightly enough, it didn't make a sound. "They didn't fact-check, didn't suggest the jedi investigate, just told them to go."

"I didn't see any jetiise stopping to investigate," Jango snarled back, refusing to let himself be moved by what was clearly some sort of jetii-apologist.

"Soon as the ships dropped out of hyperspace over the planet, they got a message from the governor that the 'terrorists' had killed children," the shab replied, tone flat. "There's a recording of the message on the Republic holonet archives. The Senate used it to vindicate the massacre, even as they turned around and slapped more restrictions on what the Order could do without Senate approval." And then he knocked back the shot.

Jango stared at him, his mind filling with an uncomfortable buzzing sound.

He couldn't-

That wasn't-

But he'd...he'd seen them. They'd approached with jetii'kade lit, had been moving fast, even over the snow; Jango had landed closer to camp than them, but they'd still almost beat him. They'd been spoiling for a fight.

Almost like he could read Jango's whirling thoughts, the New Mandalorian pulled out a mini 'pad from a belt pouch, typing in a quick search string on the holonet tab that was open, scrolling down a page, and then tapping an audio file:

"Jedi!" came the voice of the hut'uunla governor, the one who had pissed himself at the sight of Jango, back for his beskar'gam, and died sobbing for a mercy he'd never deserved. "Please, you have to hurry! They're killing women! Children!"

"We're not here to start a war, gov-" the voice that had haunted Jango's nightmares replied, and he couldn't help but flinch away from the 'pad.

"What are you looking for, photographic proof?! Is this how the jedi serve the Republic's member worlds? I say, they're killing children!"

"Governor!" a new voice called, and rage washed through Jango at the sound of Tor Vizsla, right there, recorded for the whole galaxy to hear. "They're packing up! Vhe- The Mandalorians, they're going to get away!"

"Send us the location of their camp," that jetii ordered. "We'll stop them."

The screen of the 'pad flickered, indicating the audio file was finished playing.

Jango wanted to go back in time, wanted to kill the governor and Vizsla again, make them hurt even more. They blamed the deaths of children on the Haat'ade. As if a single one of his people could ever have hurt a child.

The sound of glass scraping along cheap vinyl had him refocussing on where the New Mandalorian was sliding the refilled shotglass across to him, his expression grim. Not gleeful, like so many of Jango's enemies would have been, or pitying, like a bleeding-heart New Mandalorian should be.

It was that, more than anything else, that had Jango yanking off his buy'ce and setting it aside so he could down the alcohol in the same unhesitant manner he'd seen the other do twice.

It burned the whole way down, like the absolute worst of the starshine Kahura had so delighted in tormenting them all with.

"It's not tihaar," Obi-Wan said, just a hint of humour in his voice, "but it's the closest you can get out here."

Jango coughed, and then laughed, ragged and rough, and flashed his tablemate a too-sharp grin. "If you're trying to get me to like you, New Mandalorian, you're doing fine."

Obi-Wan's own laugh was quiet, a little rough from the abuse the alcohol must have been doing to his own throat, but warm. Friendly in a way that Jango hadn't heard since before he went to demand payment from a man who had been working with his enemies the whole time. He motioned with one hand, and a young, purple Twi'lek in far too little clothing brought over another shotglass, giving them a bright smile as they cocked a hip and pushed out their near-flat chest, a silver necklace gleaming at the hollow of their collarbone in the low light.

Jango made a point of ignoring them, uninterested, while his companion smiled, eyes very clearly staying above the collarbone as he said, "Arni, Feen." And then he raised his eyebrows. "Does your uncle know you've misplaced your dress?"

The Twi'lek groaned and drooped, muttering something under their breath that Jango didn't catch, although he did understand the jabbing motion of their lekku to be an insult.

Obi-Wan made a motion with his hands that looked close-or, as close as one could get, with only hands-to what Jango was near-certain was the lekku motion for peace. "My lips are sealed. But please go put it back on; it's rather cold in here."

"You are my least favourite customer," the Twi'lek informed him, and held out a hand.

Obi-Wan chuckled, the sound quiet, but warm, and dropped a credit chip into their hand. As they flounced off, lekku bouncing along behind them, he shook his head and said, "Her aunt and cousins all work at one of the clubs in the lower levels. She wants to join them-hates working up here, apparently-but the station owner has some sort of bullshit rule about only Twi'leks born female being allowed to work there." He made a disgusted face and poured some more of the alcohol into both the original shotglass, and the new one.

Jango made his own disgusted expression; gender rights and progressiveness in the galaxy at large too often seemed to start and end with humans or those near-humans who could pass. One of the things he missed most about the Haat'ade, was how they simply never had that problem; everyone pulled their own weight-gender or species be damned-and if you or your partner(s) became pregnant-or adopted-it was left to you to decide how long you needed to keep yourselves off the mission roster, for the safety of parents and children.

Obi-Wan motioned for Jango to pick a shotglass, and he grabbed the original one-he'd already drank from it, might as well-and they tapped them together, then both swallowed them down.

"Hm," Obi-Wan said, a rasp to his voice. "I think the clean glass makes it worse."

Jango snorted and took his turn to pour them each a new shot. "You never did explain how a New Mandalorian ended up in beskar'gam," he pointed out, feeling looser from the alcohol already, and quite content to not think about anything that related to Galidraan.

"Didn't I?" Obi-Wan mused, sounding way too posh for as much alcohol as he looked to have drunk already.

Jango raised his eyebrows at him and took a sip of his drink, only to wince and cough at the burn that spread through his entire mouth and trickled down his throat.

"Yeah. Goes down better all in one go."

"Thanks for the warning," Jango rasped, and knocked back the rest of the glass.

Obi-Wan chuckled again-Jango was starting to like that sound, which meant he was well on his way through tipsy; strong stuff-and knocked back his own shot, then set it lightly against the tabletop and placed a hand over the top, a silent sign that he was done for the moment. "Kyr'tsad ramikad didn't need it any more," he said, once Jango had poured himself another drink.

Jango raised his eyebrows again, watching the New Mandalorian over his glass, and doing his best not to grimace at the Kalevalan accent to his Mando'a. "Fair, but not an answer."

The man sighed, long and a little more dramatically than Jango thought was strictly necessary. He muttered something under his breath, too quiet for Jango to catch without the audio enhancer of his buy'ce, then shook his head and said, "I was part of Satine Kryze's protection detail during the ransacking of the palace and through to the New Mandalorians retaking the capital. We...became close, and she said she wanted me to stay with her. Didn't realise that meant as a chair decoration, until after she'd started enforcing her demilitarisation reforms. We argued, I left."

"Why not scrape off the aliik?" Jango asked, because he made it sound like he wanted nothing to do with the dar'manda and her 'ideal Mandalore'.

Obi-Wan pressed his right hand over the mark, something hard in his pale eyes. "I gave up everything for Satine," he said, and Jango was a little surprised to realise he didn't sound bitter. "This aliik, this beskar'gam, this is all that I am, now. If I allow myself to find shame in any of it, then what am I?"

Something clenched around Jango's chest, almost too tight to breathe, and he stared at the Mando'ad across from him, this man who proudly wore the symbol of a hut'uun on his shoulder, and yet, somehow, was more mandokarla than anyone Jango had known since Jaster died.

"Anyway," Obi-Wan continued, picking up the bottle and pouring himself another shot, "like I said, it pisses Satine off. Pretty little former-guard-turned-arm-candy running around shooting slavers and picking fights with speciesest scum the galaxy over? While wearing her symbol of pacifism?" He smiled, flashing teeth, and there was something about that smile-about every single piece of him that Jango was learning-that drew him in in a manner that he hadn't felt since Myles. "Last time I comm'd the palace, she screamed herself hoarse. It was unexpectedly cathartic."

This, something seemed to be whispering, just barely in the range of his hearing, this is the sign you have been waiting for, Mand'alor.

It sounded like Jaster.

"Bet it would be better in person," Jango found himself saying, his voice rough from the alcohol, from the embers of his own spirit, trampled low under the boots of genocide and slavery, but still warm enough to catch alight.

Obi-Wan snorted. "I'm not sure I'd make it back out without an army at my back; she may be a pacifist, but that just means she prefers chains, to the switch." He touched his throat, something flickering across his face, something that made Jango think of the weight of manacles and the sensation of spice-dust forever coating the back of his throat.

"What if I had an army? Mando'ade willing to take up arms and oust the dar'manda duchess from our planet, send her back to Kalevala, where she can have her peace," he spat, then washed down the taste of the acidic word with another shot of the alcohol.

Obi-Wan's smile was crooked, almost wistful. "I'd love to see that Manda'yaim."

Jango held his arm out, over the table, watched Obi-Wan hesitate, uncertain, before reaching out and clasping his hand around Jango's forearm, his grip strong. "Ner gai Jango Fett, Aliit Mereel. Ni Mand'alor be'Haat Mando'ade."

Obi-Wan's pale eyes widened, and his hand spasmed around Jango's kom'rk, tips of his fingers pressing tight into his kute. "You're supposed to be dead," he breathed.

"I'm not," Jango replied simply.

"Oh, I can see that," Obi-Wan said, and he sounded like he believed Jango, just like that. Which wasn't something he ever would have expected from someone who had never met him, who hadn't seen him before he lost everything.

Perhaps it was because of that belief-or perhaps it was because the part of him that had been reaching for any hint of the life he had lost, had found a match in the other man-but Jango found himself admitting, as he withdrew his arm, "In a way, though, I think I was. It is...difficult, to lose everything."

Obi-Wan stared at him, just for a moment, and then he smiled. Not a happy smile, but one that reminded Jango of watching Montross fly away, while he held Jaster's corpse in his arms. He placed his hands on the tabletop, flat and almost purposefully spaced, and said, "Mand'alor Fett, I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. And, until three years ago, I was a jedi padawan."

Rage slammed through Jango, that familiar rush of hate-murderer-kill singing through his blood, and he found his Westars in his hands, pointed across the table at the jetii, fingers pressed almost to firing against the triggers.

The jetii didn't move, just kept looking at him with that smile, the one that said, 'I have seen such a wonderful future, but it is one that I cannot enjoy'.

Jango didn't know if it was that easy acceptance of his fate, or the mandokar he'd already observed filling the man, or just the simple reminder of ’I gave up everything' and 'until three years ago', but he eased his fingers off the triggers of his Westars, slowly lowered them to the table and let them rest there, his hands pressed flat overtop of them.

The-former-jetii's eyes widened, just enough for Jango to catalogue his surprise at the stay of execution. He didn't move, hands kept carefully where Jango could see them, where he could watch for any jetii magics, any attempt to defend himself.

Jango somehow doubted the former jetii would defend himself.

"You left," he said, a sharpness to his words that he wasn't certain he could soften, even if he tried, "for Kryze."

"Yes."

"And you cannot return to the Jetii'tsad."

"Ah."

Jango couldn't help the way his hands twitched over his Westars.

The (former?) jetii blinked, slow, and cleared his throat. "I...believe the Council will accept me back. If not as a member of the knights, then in one of the corps."

"I do not know what that means," Jango interrupted, because if there was so much as a chance that this man would return to being a jetii-

Well, he...didn't actually know what he would do. Shooting the one who had reminded him who he was-who he should be-seemed far more hut'uunla than Kryze's 'pacifism'.

"Th-the corps?" the jetii-former jetii-said, looking...almost surprised for a moment, before closing his eyes, his mouth twisting with a grim smile. "No, why would you know about the corps?" he murmured, almost as though to himself. "We owe Manda'yaim much, but the Senate would never let us repay it."

Jango frowned, confused. Again, Ob- the former jetii was laying blame at the Republic Senate's feet. For Galidraan. For...the inability to repay a debt?

He opened his pale eyes, met Jango's frown without flinching. "The Order is broken up into different specialities, not unlike any society. The knights-the diplomats and warriors-are the ones best known. But we also have the education corp, which is in charge of teaching jedi younglings, keeping the archive useable and up-to-date, assisting with Senate archival materials, and managing teams of learned beings, who go out into the Republic and beyond to help bring those who need it up to sufficient education standards. Be that due to natural disasters, being-made disasters and wars, or mass slavery."

What.

"The medical corp runs the healing halls in all the jedi and jedi-adjacent temples-well, those we-they are on speaking terms with-manages free clinics in the lower levels of Coruscant and the poorer areas of a few other Republic worlds, and makes up half of the disaster response teams. Which used to mobilise for...uh, pretty much any massive-scale disaster they could get to in time to offer assistance, but now only mobilises at the direction of the Senate."

What.

"The explorer and pilot corps are the other half of the disaster response teams. The pilot corp is in charge of keeping public hyperlane maps up to date-namely, keeping tabs on space debris that might endanger unwary travellers, or changes in large astral bodies that can upset the pull of gravity in any given system-and exploring and mapping wild space. The explorer corp focusses more on exploring newly discovered planets or areas recently discovered on established planets."

What?

"And the agricultural corp, which will join up with the explorer corp, sometimes, to learn more about new flora, but mostly assist with community gardens on Coruscant, or revitalising worlds that have become too damaged for...whatever reason, to agriculturally sustain the population."

Jango's mind flashed to the deserts left by the Dral'Han, the scars of devastation that divided Mando'ad from Mando'ad, and the whole of their people from the rest of the galaxy.

'We owe Manda'yaim so much,' Obi-Wan had just said. Like he acknowledged that the Jetii'tsad bore the blame, like he-maybe even like they all-believed they should step up, should repair the damage they had done.

Obi-Wan swallowed, glanced away. "I, actually, when Duke Kryze requested jedi assistance on planet, Mas- my former teacher and I were asked, by the head of the AgriCorps, if we could take samples of one of the devastated zones. Since we were the first jedi to be allowed in Mandalorian space since the Excision. They were hoping to use the data to devise some sort of treatment plan, something to pass along through the darknet, if the Senate still wouldn't let us- wouldn't agree that a jedi team could go."

...the Jetii'tsad wanted to heal Manda'yaim. To the point that they would stoop to less-than-legal methods to do so. Would use the first chance given to them, to study the damage done, and offer their findings...free? As an apology?

Where were the demagolkase of the Dral'Han? The thieves of children sneaking through the night? The disdainful crowd standing above the Haat'ade and judging them criminals at a glance?

Jango left off his Westars and reached for the alcohol instead, but Obi-Wan finally moved, pressing his hand down over the top of the bottle; easy enough to avoid his hold, if Jango really wanted.

"I don't think," Obi-Wan said quietly, "that more alcohol would be particularly wise, Mand'alor."

The use of his title-unwished for, discarded-felt like a slap across the face. "Jango," he snapped, before he could think better.

Obi-Wan-not 'jetii', not 'New Mandalorian'-drew in a sharp breath and withdrew his hand. "Jango," he whispered.

Something curled through Jango, something warm and unfamiliar, a wanting that reminded him of the close-knit friendship of the Grunts, his ori'ramikade, but somehow more.

Belonging, he caught himself thinking, and couldn't say why that was the word that had come to him, nor why it felt so right.

He cleared his throat, pushed away the questions of why Obi-Wan felt important, the uncertainty regarding age-old foes, the lurking shadow of the Republic Senate that had only ever seemed an inconvenience, never before so akin to an enemy. Instead, he curled his hands around his Westars, slow, and slipped them back under the table, into their holsters, and said, "You think the Jetii'alore, they would send you to one of their corps."

Obi-Wan was watching him, brow wrinkled together tight above the line of his nose, his hands still so carefully spread over the tabletop. He swallowed, nodded, and agreed, "Yes. It's not...against any rules, leaving the Order. Technically. But, I was a padawan, a student, and my former master..." He shook his head, mouth curling with a bitter little smile. "He'll never take me back, not this time."

There was a story there, Jango could tell, something cut deep and painful. And he thought-watching the way Obi-Wan kept his fingers spread, remembering how he hadn't even twitched when Jango had aimed at his head-that he would tell Jango, if he asked. That he would rip off scabs, dig a blade back into old scars, and bleed for him. Like some sort of penance for his ancestors' actions.

"You were not at Galidraan," Jango said, certain, because he didn't think he would have forgotten the colour of his hair-more clearly red, to the naked eye, than it had been through his HUD; not a common colour in the galaxy-nor the starmap of freckles tracing across his cheeks.

Obi-Wan licked his lips and shook his head. "No. I have been told that my grandmaster-my master's master-was."

So, penance for his ancestors' crimes wasn't that far wrong.

Jango...didn't quite know what to do with that, so he set it aside-he always set aside Galidraan, save for his anger, and he knew it wasn't healthy, but he no longer had Myles or Silas or any of the Haat'ade there to remind him that letting fester the wounds of the mind, was no better than letting fester those of the body-for later consideration and demanded, "Would you? Return to them?"

Obi-Wan stared down at his spread hands for a long moment, his expression as unreadable as a buy'ce, before he looked up and met Jango's stare, his own lit with such shereshoy, and said, "Nayc."

It was so much easier to ignore the knowledge that this man had been a jetii, when he’d said he would not return to them, and Jango felt himself grinning, lips peeling back to bare teeth. "Then it doesn't matter."

Obi-Wan's mouth twisted down, eyebrows wrinkling inwards, and the expression was so familiar, Jango could almost hear Myles' voice mixing with Obi-Wan's when he said, "Ignoring the past-"

"Don't," Jango snarled, because he didn't need to be lectured by kriffing ghosts.

Obi-Wan held up one hand in a show of surrender, the other picking up the bottle and holding it out as an offering.

Jango accepted, letting Obi-Wan pour him another glass and knocking it back, grateful.

Obi-Wan silently watched him pour himself another shot, then asked, "Can I ask? Why you haven't taken Manda'yaim back?"

Jango grimaced and knocked back the drink, then dropped the shotglass back to the table a little too hard, the sound of it loud in the silence between them. He stared at it, uncertain how to respond to the question, if he even wanted to.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, fingers twitching where they'd returned to the tabletop, still kept visible, like he thought Jango needed the reminder that he wasn't a threat.

(To his shame, Jango wasn't certain that he didn't need the reminder.)

"Kyr'tsad's leadership is in shambles, started falling apart even before we stormed the palace in Sundari. Satine and her ministers seem to think they're gone, but..."

Jango snorted, derisive; he'd made the mistake of thinking Kyr'tsad defeated before, and Jaster had died for it. Just like with Tor Vizsla, he would believe them gone only when he'd seen the remains of the bodies, left for the maggots and scavengers.

"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed quietly, with a sigh that sounded threaded with grief, and Jango grimaced at the reminder that the other man had so clearly cared, once, for the hut'uunla dar'manda that claimed a station that didn't exist, and wouldn't have gone to her, even if it had. "If you had come, if you had returned when they started falling apart, before we stormed the palace, before Satine claimed her title, maybe even a little bit after that, before the reforms, they would have flocked to you, those who call themselves New Mandalorians."

Jango snorted again. "Would they have?" he had to ask, the words full of spite, because he'd failed as Mand'alor, had been struggling with rage and grief and detoxing from spice, while the New Mandalorians were finishing what had remained of Kyr'tsad, with Vizsla dead by his hand.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said, and he sounded like he believed it, like it was fact instead of supposition.

Jango couldn't say what expression he wore, only that Obi-Wan's eyes flicked off to the side, uncomfortable or in some misplaced attempt at respect.

"So many of the clans who swore to Satine," Obi-Wan said quietly, eyes still averted, "only did so because the alternative was worse. Kyr'tsad, they attacked schools, hospitals, parks, anywhere that would result in excessive amounts of collateral, would scare people into compliance. Like they really thought fear was the way to bring Mando'ade to their side."

Jango remembered Vizsla grabbing him, threatening his birth buir with his death if he didn't give Jaster up; remembered how they'd scared the nearby village into compliance, taking what they wanted instead of paying for it fair; how Vizsla had kept talking-mocking Jango, deriding Jaster, using poison that disabled instead of killed-instead of just finishing him off during their last fight. "Fear and hatred were the only emotions Tor Vizsla was capable of inspiring in others," he muttered.

Obi-Wan snorted, and when he glanced back, eyes meeting Jango's again, they gleamed with a mean sort of humour, something Jango never would have expected to see from a jetii, former or otherwise. "Yeah, well, they took that lesson to heart, seemed like. Satine, she was a hard sell to a lot of the clans we spoke to, but at least she wasn't murdering children, wasn't setting bombs just to watch bodies drop. And, well, so long as I wore beskar'gam, didn't pull out my light-" He paused, eyes tracking quickly beyond Jango.

Jango twisted in his seat, glanced over and slightly behind him to find an older Twi'lek approaching with a rather impressive kitchen cleaver in one hand, the young lady who had brought the extra shotglass half hidden behind them, her expression uncertain.

"Everything okay over here, Ben?" the older Twi'lek asked, eyes full of threat as they stared at Jango.

"We're fine, Yuned," Obi-Wan replied, his tone light and easy. "Just an old misunderstanding between our clans. Settled now, isn't it, Jango?"

Jango shrugged. "I'll take your ba'buir's head, if I see him again," he said, casting a quick glance at Obi-Wan, before looking back at the Twi'leks. "But, no, we won't be having any problems. Ben," he couldn't help but add, just a little pointed, because that was not the name Obi-Wan had given him.

"I've never actually met him," Obi-Wan said, almost musing.

That surprised Jango, given how willing Obi-Wan had seemed to have been to take the punishment due his ba'buir. Grandmaster. Whatever.

Obi-Wan shrugged in response to the surprised look Jango couldn't stop himself from shooting his way. "My ma- buir doesn't get along with him, I guess. Any time there was a rumour he was going to be around, he'd find an excuse to drag me off planet. His best friend told me they'd butted heads a lot when he was younger." He looked past Jango, to the Twi'leks, and said, "We really are okay; sorry if we scared you, Feen."

"I wasn't scared!" the younger Twi'lek snapped, stepping around the elder and crossing her arms over her chest. "I just didn't wanna have'ta worry about cleaning the seats!"

Obi-Wan must have made some sort of face, for the lekku of both Twi'leks curled in embarrassment, and the elder shifted the cleaver slightly behind their back. "Pays 'ta worry about you, Ben," the elder said in a voice that almost sounded chiding. "You don't have so good a track with other Mandos, yeah?"

Before Jango could actually ask, Obi-Wan sighed and explained, "Couple of Kyr'tsad ramikade heard word of a Mando'ad haunting the station, I guess, came looking to recruit."

"Dead?" Jango asked.

Obi-Wan smiled, and while it looked pleasant, on the surface, there was a glint in his eyes that spoke to something dark and hungry in Jango's soul. "Very."

Jango shot him an approving grin, flashing teeth. "As they should be."

He thought Obi-Wan's cheeks might have darkened, but he was distracted by the elder Twi'lek letting out a chuckle. "Alright, I hear ya'. You gonna actually order food 'ta go with your rotgut, or you done for the night?"

"It really isn't my fault that Shiri took offence to my drinking habits," Obi-Wan insisted, sounding so very put upon.

The Twi'lek let out a loud, full-bellied laugh, and kept on laughing as they walked away. The younger Twi'lek leant forward-in a move that Jango was near certain was intended to show off her cleavage through the cut-out in her dress-and waved a finger at Obi-Wan. "You know the rules. So, watcha having?"

Obi-Wan let out a long sigh. "Oh, whatever Yuned has on the grill tonight is fine for me. Jango?"

Jango raised an eyebrow at the Twi'lek. "Something with meat."

"Nerf steak?" she offered. "Comes with a side of sprouts."

"That's fine. Medium-rare."

"Sure. You want another bottle of swill, or something more top-shelf?" she asked Obi-Wan, a teasing note in her voice.

Obi-Wan snorted. "It's all swill when you start watering it down, my dear."

"It all tastes watered down, once you've burnt away your tastebuds," the Twi'lek retorted without missing a beat, and then turned and flounced off.

Jango turned back to Obi-Wan and raised an eyebrow, not completely certain what to ask after first.

Obi-Wan sighed, slumping slightly as he poured himself another shot from the near-empty bottle. "Incidentally," he said, sounding pained, "it's very hard to explain Force tricks to beings who don't know you used to be a jedi." Then he knocked back the shot.

Jango grimaced at the mention of the other's former life. Given the general mood towards jetiise in the outer rim fell somewhere between thinking they were spacer's stories and wanting to kill them just to be able to say you had, it wasn't really a surprise that Obi-Wan would keep his past a secret. "Why 'Ben'?" he asked, rather than asking for clarification on Force osik.

"Ah. You may have noticed that I have a rather...non-standard name."

Jango shrugged, grabbing the bottle to pour the last of the alcohol into his own glass as Obi-Wan reached for it. "Human Republic standard, you mean," he said flatly.

Obi-Wan hummed. "Maybe? I'm more familiar with jedi naming standards than the rest of the Republic, and w- they're as diverse as Mando'ade. Well, as diverse as Mando'ade used to be," he corrected, a hint of bitterness in the words.

Jango saluted him with his shotglass, then downed the contents. "Kriffing pale-skinned, human-centric hut'uune, the lot of them," he rasped past the burn of alcohol.

Obi-Wan hummed. "Well, my name definitely isn't Kalevalan, and it's pretty notably not any other variation of Mando."

Jango nodded, because he'd noticed that himself.

"Satine and I were technically undercover, for a few months, gathering the support of those clans who hadn't declared sides, and Satine insisted that meant I needed a name that stood out less. She picked Ben, and I never really saw the reason to stop using it, given how unusual my birth name is."

Jango very pointedly scoured 'Ben' from his mind; he wouldn't be using anything that dar'manda 'duchess' picked, not when Obi-Wan had made a point to give him his birth name, instead. Which, actually... "Why give me your name?" he had to ask.

"Ah." Obi-Wan ducked his head forward, hiding a bit behind the tangled mess of his hair. "The Force was...insistent."

Force osik. He should have guessed. "They know you well here," he said, which wasn't quite a question, but he didn't know how to ask Obi-Wan to come with him, to help him take back Manda'yaim. He...mostly sounded like he was against the New Mandalorians, but he'd also helped to put them into power, so would he even want to be part of tearing it down?

Obi-Wan shrugged. "It's a small station, few enough regulars that it's easy to learn names and faces, make a good impression with the right people so they're willing to protect you if a bit of heat follows you home. Out of the way enough that pirates and slavers only stop when they're desperate, easy pickings, but not so far from a few of the systems with a heavy criminal presence, that I chance running out of fuel if I can't refill before something ends up exploding or catching fire."

Jango snorted. With a good ship, and waving around his loyalty to the hut'uunla dar'manda, most of the galaxy's scum would find it less work to send a few threats to Manda'yaim; no wonder Kryze had been screaming last time Obi-Wan comm'd her.

"It's also close enough to a couple different high-stakes sabacc casinos to switch out whose money I'm stealing regularly, so they don't put a bounty on my head."

Jango choked, eyeing Obi-Wan's perfectly innocent expression. "Sabacc."

Obi-Wan shrugged. "Explosions and fires and resettling former slaves is expensive."

Ka'ra, this man might actually be more mandokarla than Jaster was.

Kriff. That just made Jango want him fighting by his side that much more.

Their food arrived-both steaks, and Jango wasn't certain if that had just been easier for the kitchen, since Obi-Wan hadn't seemed to care what he got, or if the nerf steak had been the option 'on the grill'-accompanied by two tall glasses of a pale ale. The Twi'lek took the empty bottle and the two shotglasses with her, apparently without expecting any more credits?

The steak was unexpectedly good, spicy enough to put some Mando businesses to shame, and Jango couldn't quite help from letting out an appreciative noise.

Obi-Wan grinned at him, something almost heated in his gaze. "Benefit of being a regular," he said with just a hint of smugness, "is you get to teach the cook how to make proper food." And then he took a bite of his own steak and gave an appreciative hum.

Something about the sound spiked heat through Jango's blood, so much warmer than the spice of the food, and he found himself blurting out, "Come with me to Manda'yaim," before he could think better of it.

Obi-Wan blinked, and then said, "Of course, Mand'alor."

Again, his title felt like a smack to the face, or a punch to the gut. A reminder of the weight falling back on his shoulders, that others would follow him only because Jaster's ori'ramikade had once trusted him, had let him lead them to their own deaths.

Jango stared down at his steak, his appetite gone, and reached for the nearer glass of ale; he'd intended to get drunk enough to ignore his aches, and he'd thought he'd been well on his way, before his table partner had kept dropping informational bombs on him that shocked the alcohol from his system.

The ale was, as warned, rather obviously watered down.

"I've...offended you?" Obi-Wan asked, sounding so very confused. "I may technically be a member of House Kryze and the New Mandalorians, but I follow the Resol'nare as best I can; if my Mand'alor asks, of course I'll answer."

'My Mand'alor.' Something about the words curled warmth through Jango's chest, settled against the old chill of a body-strewn, snow-covered valley, eased the old ache that Jango had got so used to, the easing was a shock.

But, at the same time...

He snorted, bitter. "You know what happened the last time Mando'ade answered my call," he said, and the words came out sharp, brittle.

Obi-Wan almost seemed to stop breathing for a moment, before he let out a too-sharp laugh, brittle in the same way Jango's words had been, and it startled Jango into looking up and meeting those pale eyes, something familiar in them, loss and failure and the weight of lives depending on you. "A little over a month into my stay on Manda'yaim," he said, the words laced with a bitter sort of humour, "Tor Vizsla agreed to peace talks with Adonai Kryze. The duke. Adonai, he was hesitant, but my master, he pushed him to agree, insisted that, surely, no one would be so dishonourable as to attack a peace summit. Even a group that were clearly intent on terrorism."

Jango sneered. "Jare'la. Vizsla had no honour."

Obi-Wan smiled, grim. "Adonai made his daughters stay in the palace, set me and some other guards he trusted to protect them, while he, my master, and his ministers went to talk peace. Kyr'tsad had planted a bomb, killed Adonai and almost his entire government in one blow, then took the survivors prisoner. My master escaped after a week, but only because they hadn't been prepared to hold a jedi master. They'd hoped they could use him as a bargaining chip to draw Satine and myself out of hiding," he added, apparently guessing that Jango would ask why Kyr'tsad would have even bothered trying to keep a jetii prisoner.

Jango shook his head. "So Vizsla tricked some utreekov'yc jetii. Congratulations to him."

Obi-Wan sighed and shook his own head. "Jango," he said, and the sound of his name, instead of his title, eased something in Jango's chest, "Vizsla liked setting traps, because he was a coward who knew he couldn't take anyone on in a fair fight. That's not something to blame yourself for; I can't imagine any true Mando'ad would ever blame you for your opponent using underhanded tricks because he was scared of you."

That was...not a way Jango had ever thought of the events on Galidraan. Or on Korda VI. Or even Concord Dawn, when Vizsla had held a child hostage and burned an entire field of crops-how many had starved, that winter, for his actions?-just because he was too afraid to face Jaster in a fair battle. Even when Jango had cornered him three years ago, he'd kept looking for ways to escape, had used poison to weaken Jango. (As if Jango hadn't already been weakened by years of slavery and an unwanted spice addiction. He knew he should have given himself time, recovered, but he hadn't wanted to lose his advantage, or the solid lead on Vizsla's whereabouts.)

"Rumour is that Vizsla's dead," Obi-Wan added, not quite a question, but...

"He is very dead," Jango promised with a dark smile, remembering the remains the dire-cats had left to rot in the sun, the proof that he'd finally managed what had been his dearest wish since he was eight.

"Then Kyr'tsad no longer has him giving directions," Obi-Wan said with a shrug. "And they and the New Mandalorians all think you're dead; the only one who could set a coward's trap would be you." He tilted his head to one side, pale eyes passing over Jango in a considering manner. "And you wouldn't."

Simple. Like it was fact. Like Jango was a, a good man, a good leader.

For this man, for the sirensong of mandokar threaded through his words, shining out from his eyes, Jango thought that, maybe, he could be.

Five months later, Jango would stride into the throne room of Sundari's palace during a council meeting, Obi-Wan just a step behind him, each wearing one of the others' kom'rke, and Jango's own clan symbol having replaced the New Mandalorian mark on his riduur's bes'marbur.

"You can't just-" a guard in flimsy armour would say, as they and another stepped forward, their pikes raised.

"Ben?" Kryze would call, standing from her throne, sounding surprised.

"Satine," Obi-Wan would reply, perfectly cordial, because he might be capable of swearing like Hutt-scum-which had been an unexpected discovery, and Jango delighted in finding ways to make him lose his filter-but his default setting was diplomacy. Jango blamed the jetiise.

The guards would stop in recognition of a member of Kryze's house, and Jango would repay them with stunners, instead of shooting to kill.

"Who are you?" one of the ministers would demand, only them and Kryze standing steady, while the others ducked behind furniture to hide, like the hut'uune they were.

(Obi-Wan would have warned him, of course, that Kryze wouldn't back down, wouldn't give in to fear. 'She won't use violence,' he would murmur, head ducked down, like he was ashamed of his past with the dar'manda, or ashamed of himself for betraying the head of his house, 'but she probably has a stunner on her person, and she was still wearing kom'rke when I left.'

'Hypocrite,' Jango would reply, sneering, and would alter his plans to accommodate the possibility of the dar'manda putting up even so minor a fight.)

Jango would reach up and pull off his buy'ce, trusting Obi-Wan's Force osik to keep him safe if someone took the opportunity to fire on him, and say, "I am Jango, Clan Fett, House Mereel. And, last I checked," he would continue over the sounds of gasps and whispering among the hiding ministers, "I am still Mand'alor."

Kryze would raise her chin and meet his eyes and say, "Mandalore has no need of a king."

Jango would smile in response, flashing teeth, and tell her, "My riduur requested a bloodless coup, Kryze, but do not think me unwilling to commit violence on the behalf of my people. If your head is necessary to free Manda'yaim from your tyranny, I assure you, I will place it on a pike out front."

Kryze would turn to Obi-Wan, and call, "Ben," in the most heart-wrenching voice Jango had probably ever heard.

"My name is Obi-Wan, Satine," Jango's riduur would reply, his voice kind, but firm. "Clan Fett, House Mereel; I stand with my Mand'alor."

The dar'manda would droop, defeat in every line of her body, and Jango couldn't have guessed that it would have been so simple to drag her from her unearned throne. But, then, perhaps he should have; he knew well the warmth of Obi-Wan's love, the way his belief in one left them feeling like they could do anything, would give anything for the chance to bask in his adoring gaze.

Jango had defeated Kryze the moment he'd won Obi-Wan's loyalty; winning his heart had only been the shackles around her wrists.

The only minister out in the open would point a shaking finger between Jango and Obi-Wan, would snap, "He's a jetii!"

"He is Mando'ad," Jango would correct, unbothered.

(It would have taken months-nightmares and fights and too many occasions when Obi-Wan would do something and Jango would find himself aiming one of his Westars at his head, while Obi-Wan just watched him, no judgement in his eyes, no move to defend himself-before Jango had been able to face Obi-Wan's past as a jetii without wanting to shoot something.

In many ways, admitting to himself that he had fallen in love with Obi-Wan, would be the point when he started to believe the jetiise were not the true villains of history, but it would still take years-years with his riduur's gentle love, a mir'baar'ur's help, and the Jetii'tsad sneaking fifteen members of their AgriCorps into Mandalorian space, under the Republic Senate's nose, to finally heal the devastation of the Dral'Han-before Jango would be willing to extend goodwill to any other jetiise.)

The minister would scoff, would sneer at him, and say, "You're no better than the duchess, both of you falling for the same pretty face." They would cast an unimpressed look at Obi-Wan, then pull something out from behind their back, saying, "My uncle was right about you," before the glowing black blade of the Dha'kad'au would rise above the hilt they'd revealed.

"Pre, what are you doing?" Kryze would breathe, horrified.

"Saving Manda'yaim," the minister would say, turning towards her and raising their hands, so clearly ready to strike her down.

Jango would shoot them, twice, in the head, while Kryze would fly across the room, landing safely in Obi-Wan's hold. Because his riduur might love him, might disapprove of Kryze's actions, but he would never hate her, would never wish her dead; promising a bloodless coup, that he would banish Kryze to Kalevala to live out the rest of her life in peace, had been an unexpectedly easy concession, with Obi-Wan's kom'rk around Jango's forearm.

"Anyone else?" Jango would ask, while Obi-Wan calls the Dha'kad'au to his own hand. (He would be the one to wield it, never Jango, although they would fight about it. But Jango would always trust blasters more than any other weapon, and Obi-Wan actually had training in using kad'ause, would quickly prove himself to be a terror with the weapon of his former life in his hands.)

There would be no further arguments, no attempts to assassinate Jango or Obi-Wan; it was a coup that would go down in Mando history as the single least bloody change of power.

Kryze would lead those New Mandalorians determined to follow her back to Kalevala, would retain her title of duchess there. And, while she would never allow herself or her people to be drawn into violent conflict, she would answer to Jango, would send diplomats and lawmakers and medics to round out Manda'yaim's populace, and Jango, in turn, would set patrols to guarding Kalevalan space, keeping the pacifists safe from pirates and slavers.

Obi-Wan would settle far more happily into a life as the Mand'alor's riduur, than he ever had Kryze's pet protector. He would fall easily into the position of lead diplomat, when conversing with trade partners or allies, oh-so-pleasant as he talked them into concessions they wouldn't have made for anyone else. And, when he was bored, Jango would wave him off with a platoon of Mando'ade also itching to cause some mayhem, and they would go to war with criminal elements travelling too close to Mando space, or hunt down rumours of slave rings and free dozens of beings from the shackles and bombs weighing them down.

Jango would finally find self-forgiveness in the freedom of his people as they rediscovered their culture and history, as they began to reclaim the devastated zones of their planets, with the help of the jetiise. He would learn to offer a hand of alliance, if not quite friendship, to the Jetii'tsad.

And, one day, when a face he recognises from Galidraan steps into his court, hand-in-hand with the elder sibling he'd thought had been murdered when he was eight, and Arla says, "They found me, half-mad, in an abandoned Kyr'tsad facility. They had no idea who I was, but they helped me all the same, got me to a mir'baar'ur, stayed with me despite attempts to kill them. And, when I told them my name, they offered to bring me home," he wouldn't immediately reach for a weapon.

"And so they did," Jango would force past the emotions choking his throat.

Arla would shake her head, and say, "No, Jango. I was already home. But that doesn't mean I didn't want to see you again. And, well, I was hoping for your blessing."

"My blessing?"

"Yes. It seems that falling in love with former jetiise is a family trait."

Jango would blink, huff out a slightly disbelieving sound, and then look at the jetii-former jetii-who he had once watched murder Haat'ade. They wouldn't look as monstrous as he remembered them, would look worn-down, defenceless in a way that spoke to an unwillingness to defend themself, rather than someone lacking the ability to defend themself. They would remind Jango of Obi-Wan, in the moments when he had lost control and aimed a weapon at him. But, the way they kept hold of Arla's hand, the warmth in their eyes when they glanced at her, that would remind him of a different facet of Obi-Wan.

So he would smile and say, "You have it," with far more honesty than he ever could have imagined himself capable of, in regard to approving his elder sibling's marriage to a jetii.

But, then, before Obi-Wan, he couldn't have imagined wanting anything for jetiise, save their deaths.

Forgiveness, he had learnt, came in the strangest of forms.

.