FIC: Hukaat'kama ~ Star Wars Prequels ~ Jango/Obi-Wan ~ Mature ~ Chapter 3/6
Title: Hukaat'kama
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Warnings: Asexual!Jango, AU, hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, established relationship, mentioned drug addiction and withdrawal, mentioned slavery, mentioned genocide, canon-typical violence, Mandalorian culture, Jedi culture, non-binary clones, grief, angst, Kamino is the worst, Jango's questionable parenting, mention of reconditioning, hopeful ending
Summary: Five times someone threatened Jango for Obi-Wan's sake.
A/N: This chapter is a...little rough. Jango's suffering from a rather severe case of mental dissonance; part of him recognises Obi-Wan as safe and someone he loves, but another part of him despises jedi and wishes them all dead. Including and especially Kenobi.
Related, Jango is more than a little apathetically suicidal, once he can think straight. He doesn't make any attempts, but he also just doesn't care; take care of yourself, and if you need to skip out this chapter, I promise the next one will be better. (Although, these morons take their time about actually talking to one another.)
This was originally going to be Anakin, but it occurred to me that he's more likely to threaten Jango on Padmé's behalf, and since Quin got relegated to 'distract Obi-Wan so Dex can threaten his suitor' last time... (If you thought that comm call's timing was suspicious, congrats, you get a virtual cookie. ;)
Jango had been feeling ever so slightly off since he'd got to Coruscanta. He preferred not to travel so far into the Core-being so close to the accursed jetiise made his blood boil-but Tyranus had insisted that Jango be there to keep an eye on Zam, somewhat drily adding that the senator they were meant to assassinate had a habit of foiling attempts on her life.
Jango had expected that to mean he was meant to finish the job if Zam failed, but Tyranus had been clear: If Zam was caught, he was to kill her and not be seen. Especially by any jetiise.
It should have been simple-Jango liked Zam well enough, but he had learnt about the dangers of getting sentimental about any partners on Galidraan, and he knew better than to go near any jetiise, knew very well what monsters hid behind their calm façades-and it was simple, even when jetiise ended up involved, right up until he caught sight of one of the jetiise through his scope, and pain made his vision go white.
Jango woke slowly, feeling safe and warm for the first time in...
Well, since the last time he'd slept curled up with his cyare, almost two months before he'd seen the job posting for one of the jetiise-former jetiise, according to what Obi-Wan had told him, when he'd asked; and Jango had known his cyare was hiding something related to Vosa, but he'd decided it could wait to ask about until they could see each other in person again, because Obi-Wan was a lot less able to talk his way out of answering questions when Jango could physically pin him down-who had been at Galidraan.
Wait, cyare? I don't have a cyare, haven't had anyone to hold in my heart since Galidraan.
His head throbbed, and he couldn't stop from letting out a grunt.
"Udesii," a familiar voice murmured, and fingers dragged along his forehead, a soothing cool following the touch. "Ni olar, gar morut'yc."
Jango relaxed back into the warm body pressed against his back, let the familiar voice and touch soothe him. He was safe. Obi-Wan was there and he was safe.
"Kalevalan," he heard himself mutter, the shape of the word a reflex in his mouth, the same thing he always said in response to that familiar voice speaking his first language. Even though Obi-Wan's Mando'a had started sounding less and less Kalevalan as they spent time talking to each other, slipping into Mando'a whenever Obi-Wan's buir or one of his friends were nearby.
The chest at his back shook, low laughter curling out into the air above them, and Jango had missed this, had missed his cyare. Had spent the past ten years reaching out across his cold bed for someone who wasn't there, reaching for a comm he didn't have to call a number he couldn't remember, taking holos of Boba starting to talk and to walk and being so very engrossed in a book that Jango had known was someone's favourite, but hadn't been able to remember who, hadn't known who he was taking the holos for.
"Knight Kenobi," a voice snapped, sharp with that warning tone that baar'ure everywhere seemed to have mastered.
Kenobi is the name of one of those accursed jetiise. He's related to some of those who were at Galidraan, has Haat Mando'ad blood on his hands by proxy.
I want to wrap my hands around his throat and watch as he suffocates.
"Master Che!" his cyare choked out, and he sounded terrified.
Jango didn't realise his head felt like it had split open, until the comforting darkness of unconsciousness was taking the pain away.
Jango woke in a rush, choking against the sensation of cold metal around his wrists, giving a yank and feeling muscles pull, rip, tear, like the sensation of the fresh ingredients for spice, getting under his nails and under his manacles, drying to dust, too potent, can't get clean without-
Darkness took the sense-memory away.
Jango woke all at once, struggling to keep his breath even, to keep anyone from knowing he was awake.
There was something around his wrists-soft and smooth, like silk or leather-holding them tight.
Was he a prisoner?
He was on something soft, though, nothing like any of the cages or prisons he'd ended up in. And they usually preferred metal manacles, not whatever soft thing was holding him now.
They should have used metal.
He squinted one eye open.
The room he was in was dark and unfamiliar, nothing at all like his rooms on Kamino or the bunk in Slave I. The walls were pale, too hard to tell the exact colour in the hint of warm light glowing from a sconce on the wall across from him. There was another source of light, too, the same warm glow, close to the ground under what might be some sort of door.
Something shifted, and Jango snapped his head around to look, his heart giving a lurch at the sight of his cyare, slumped in a chair. His hair had got so long-gone was that ridiculous short cut that his buir had insisted he wear for his padawanship, something about tradition; Jango had loved to tease him about it, loved the way he'd scowl and huff, but he'd loved the sensation of the soft hairs against his hands, more-and he'd grown a beard. It was reminiscent of his buir, doubtless something he fussed over every morning to ensure it looked just right, the same way he'd always used to fuss over his braid, slapping at Jango's hands any time he suggested helping him rebraid it.
(He never meant it, not after the first time, after Obi-Wan explained the significance, that it was something that tied him to his buir, a physical show of his pride and approval. But Jango had still teased, because Obi-Wan's cheeks would flush and he'd duck his head to hide a tiny smile, and Jango had always loved his cyare's little, helpless smiles, the ones that he could have made a real attempt to hide, but he never did, because he loved Jango, trusted him with his heart, the same way Jango had entrusted his own heart to his jetii.)
Grief choked his breath, made it impossible to do more than gasp, because where is his braid, when did his hair get so long, when did he grow a beard, where was I?
Obi-Wan jerked in his seat, eyes snapping open, always so very aware of Jango's emotions, even when he was hiding himself behind the blank face of his buy'ce, like he could feel the way Jango's heart jumped and startled where he held it safe.
"Jango?" Obi-Wan asked, and he sounded worried, but wary, and he shifted in his seat, moving forward just a little, and Jango could see too-white bandaging around his throat.
Warm skin under his palms, rip it and shred it and kill the jetii.
Jango jerked back, as far from his cyare-his heart, his guiding star, what had he done-as the cloths around his wrists would let him get, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see past tears, past the horror of Obi-Wan's throat under his palms, squeezing tight-
"Jango!" Obi-Wan shouted, and a warm forehead pressed to Jango's own, familiar and loved and Jango had tried to kill him.
"Ni ceta," Jango gasped, choked, sobbed. "Ni ceta, ni ceta, ner kar'ta, ner Ob'ika."
Light flared through the room-warm light, even so bright, nothing at all like the cold sterility of Kamino-and there were others filling the room, too many voices, and Obi-Wan was pulling away.
What had Jango done?
Jango's eyes caught on a slim cylinder, attached to a belt; a jetii'kad, weapon of demagolkase, murdering his people, their blood in the snow and they laughed and laughed as he hit his knees and sobbed because-
"Get it out," Jango snarled, pleaded, sobbed, because there was something in his head that had made him choke his cyare, made him want to lurch out of this bed and use any weapon to hand to spill the blood of Obi-Wan's family. "It's in my head."
The darkness of unconsciousness was a blessing.
When Jango woke, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, remembering the sensation of Obi-Wan's throat against his palms, cold hatred and a wish to murder one of the most important beings in his life, rows of identical faces turning to shoot each other on his order, the hateful grins of Kyr'tsadiise as they beat adiike and he just stood there and watched.
"Jango?" his cyare whispered, and a hand covered his.
Jango flinched away and closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze out and trail down the sides of his face. "Dar'manda," he rasped, and he was. Obi-Wan had spent two years helping Jango repair the tattered remains of his soul, and he'd spent the last decade shredding it to pieces.
"No. Jango, this isn't- You didn't know what you were doing."
But he had. He'd sold his genetic code to give life to millions of ade, and then ordered them to beat on each other, had sneered at and mocked their attempts to connect with him, stood back as they were tortured and killed and didn't care.
"Obi-" He started, but then he stopped, choking on a name he didn't have the right to speak. "Knight Kenobi," he said, instead, and his cy- the jetii let out a sound like he'd been stabbed.
Jango had done this, had done the very thing Jettster had warned him against.
Dar'manda. Oath breaker. Demagolka.
"My ship," Jango made himself say, because Obi-Wan deserved to know what he had done, what he had become. "The last planet I visited, you need to go."
"I'll go when-" Obi-Wan started, and Jango knew that tone, knew exactly how little could put a dent in his cya- in this jetii's stubbornness.
"My adiik's name is Boba," Jango said, and Obi-Wan choked off his own words with a sound like Jango had stabbed him again, because Jango knew his weak points, knew exactly how to get him to listen, to let go. "And the others," he added, just in case. "They need you."
"Jango," Obi-Wan breathed, and it sounded like Jango had just ripped out his heart and crushed it.
(Whatever had been in his head had been a fool; attacking Obi-Wan would never have broken him, but ade...)
"You need to go," Jango said, monotone.
The noise that Obi-Wan let out reminded Jango of the hum of jetii'kade and the thundering of blasters firing.
Of the silence when he was the only one left standing.
A forehead pressed against Jango's, and he flinched back, hated himself for the quiet noise of dismay that his cy- that the jetii couldn't completely muffle.
Obi-Wan withdrew, and Jango didn't need to open his eyes to know he was curling in on himself, hiding shaking hands inside opposing sleeves and smoothing out his expression so no one could see his heart breaking as Jango twisted the knife. "I'll see you when I get back," Obi-Wan said, and he'd got better at hiding the emotion in his voice, or Jango had just lost any skill at reading him, because he sounded even and calm.
Jango waited until he'd heard the door closing behind his c- the jetii, and then he smiled and said, "There's nothing left of me to see," in Mando'a.
Jango Fett, Mando'ad and dar'Mand'alor, was truly and finally dead.
Jango didn't know how long he'd been lying there, kept alive by nutrient and hydration lines because he refused to touch the food they brought him, and the jetiise refused to let Jango die on their watch, or to let him go to find some deep hole to die down.
He thought, briefly, about pretending to be better, eating and sitting up and smiling at the baar'ure who had taken such good care of his c- of Obi-Wan for so long. But, he knew they would know, that he could school his face, but he couldn't breathe enough life back into the remains of his soul to convince them that he wanted to live.
Obi-Wan would take care of Boba, would protect all of the clones, would take Priest and Reau's heads, like Jango should have done the moment they arrived. Obi-Wan would be the buir they all deserved, that Jango had failed to be.
Dar'manda. Demagolka.
The door opened, and Jango didn't bother to look, assumed it was one of the baar'ure, probably come to check on his drips, perhaps attempt to goad him into a conversation.
"Fett," someone said.
Jango recognised the voice-had heard it plenty of times, when Vos comm'd Obi-Wan while they were together, or because the Kiffar happened to be in Obi-Wan's vicinity when Jango had comm'd-but he'd never actually met the owner in person, and he didn't bother to acknowledge him now.
Chair legs scraped over the floor, loud in the silence, and Jango had heard enough about Vos to suspect he'd done it on purpose.
"So," Vos said, voice just a little bit sharp, "about, oh, three, four months after you went off to kill Obes' lineage aunt-"
Ah, that was what Obi-Wan hasn't been telling him. Except, Jango knew that, already.
...had he known it back then? He didn't think so. Doubted he would have been half so ready to go after part of his cy- of Obi-Wan's jetii family. Lineage.
(All of the jetiise were Obi-Wan's family. Just like all of the Haat'ade had been Jango's family.)
"-and fell down a black hole for ten years," Vos continued, without care for Jango's meandering thoughts, "Jinn found himself some new kid, declared he would be his padawan, got himself stabbed and died, and Obes took on the kid."
Jango closed his eyes against the tears he was too tired to try stopping. Oh, Obi-Wan.
"He's been looking for you," Vos added, voice getting sharper. Angrier. "Almost getting himself kriffing killed on missions, but refused to come back to Temple right away, because just maybe he'd found a hint that you were still alive."
Jango's chest ached, and he wondered if maybe he shouldn't have taken bounties when he got bored, or Kamino got to be too much. If it mightn't have been kinder to leave his cy- to leave Obi-Wan thinking he was dead, that he'd finally tripped over a bounty he couldn't bring in.
"For ten years," Vos said, and the words fell like a slaver's whip against Jango's skin.
"What do you want from me?" Jango rasped.
"I want you to get the kriff out of that bed and give a damn," Vos snarled.
"Why?" Jango asked. "What does it matter?"
"He kriffing loves you, you-!"
"Why?" Jango asked again, and Vos was silent.
There was a quality to the air in the room, something heavy and sharp, like breathing in shattered glass when your lungs can't expand all the way.
"I have no soul," Jango said, and couldn't quite find the energy to hate how hushed the words came out. "There's nothing left for me."
There was a sharp crack, and then the bed shifted on either side of Jango and Vos snarled, "Look at me, Fett."
Jango opened his eyes and immediately flinched back, bile climbing his throat.
He'd never seen Vos in person, only ever through the blue shades of holos, but he was relatively certain Obi-Wan would have mentioned that his best friend's eyes were acid yellow, brighter than the qukuuf crossing the bridge of his nose. Especially since Obi-Wan had told him that, when a Force user's eyes went that colour-or bloody red, in those species that naturally had yellow eyes; Kiffar didn't-it usually meant they had become a dar'jetii.
Like his lineage dar'vod had done.
"You think," Vos snarled, low and dangerous, "that you have no soul? I Fell. I lost all of my memories and Fell. And Obi-Wan kriffing Kenobi, took one look at me, exactly like this, and smiled. He convinced the Council to let me into the Room and meditated with me for almost two days."
Vos straightened back from looming over Jango and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. And, when he opened his eyes again, they were brown, but there was still a promise of danger in them, of a predator barely leashed. "Obes has spent ten years looking for you, Fett," he said, icy and uncompromising. "You owe him at least as much of your life in apology. Or, Force help me, I will stop caring if he's proud of me, and I will make certain you regret every hurt you ever inflicted on him.
"Do I make myself clear?" Vos finished, and his eyes were still brown, but Jango was certain it was a near thing.
He nodded, jerky but honest.
He was dar'manda, was a demagolka, but he still... He still loved Obi-Wan. And, if Obi-Wan still loved him, if he still had room for Jango in his life...
"Get up," Vos ordered, and pointed towards a darkened doorway as Jango struggled to sit up for the first time in...
Kriff, how long had he been lying there?
"Fresher; you reek."
Jango very carefully removed the needles for the nutrient and hydration drips, flipping the dam on both so they didn't drip all over everywhere, and went to clean himself.
There was fresh clothing waiting for him when he got out, jetii-style tunics, and Jango had the leggings on and was shrugging into the inner tunic when he found one of the tiny, perfect little patches that Obi-Wan was always adding to his own and Jango's clothing when they needed mending, and he realised that Vos had brought him his cyare's clothing.
It wasn't the first time he'd ended up dressed in Obi-Wan's clothing-there had been a time or six when they'd had to fumble about and get dressed in a hurry, and it hadn't mattered who was wearing what, beyond the fact that Obi-Wan was a bit taller, and Jango a fair bit broader, although, it seemed that Obi-Wan had filled out a bit, in the past ten years-but Jango hadn't had anything of Obi-Wan's in ten years, because anything that might have been on Slave I was...
Actually, he didn't know what had happened to the change of clothing and the three robes that had been on his ship when he left to hunt Vosa. He was...reasonably certain he'd given Obi-Wan's forgotten 'pad to Boba, without really understanding where the spare had come from, and he remembered tossing the boxes of tea early on, baffled by why he would have had them, since shig was the closest thing to tea that he would drink, and only if there was no way to get any caff.
Someone pounded on the door. "Fett? You good in there?" Vos called, and his tone was hard, but Jango suspected he wouldn't have asked at all if he didn't care.
Jango reached up and rubbed at the tears leaking from his eyes-apparently, the Ka'ra would have tears as payment for his many crimes-and managed to croak out, "Yes," then finished shrugging into and securing Obi-Wan's tunics.
The fabric was comfortable and easy to move in, worn and well-loved, with a tiny patch rubbing against the inside of his wrist, and Jango caught the edge of the sleeve between forefinger and thumb so he could finger it, calluses catching on already-fraying edges, and he knew that Obi-Wan worried at the patch when he wore this tunic. Had probably had to replace it a time or two; he didn't get rid of tunics unless they were beyond saving, or he'd outgrown them, Jango knew.
Vos cast him a considering look, then snorted, nodded, and turned towards the door out of the room. "Food. Come on."
Jango hesitated in the doorway, feeling uncertain of his welcome-he'd attacked at least one jetii already; would he even be allowed to leave?-and Vos waited him out with unexpected patience. A few jetiise walked in sight of Jango's door as he dithered, and plenty of them glanced at him, but none of them said anything, to him or to Vos. So Jango shuffled out of the doorway, clinging to Obi-Wan's little patch, and tried not to look too nervous as Vos led him down the hallway. Even if he knew every jetii they passed could probably feel his nerves.
Vos took him to a refectory, chivvied him through picking food, even though Jango didn't feel particularly hungry, and then led him back out of the room, away from the half-full tables, and through a few halls to one of the massive openings that Jango knew, from Obi-Wan's descriptions, must lead to the massive garden at the centre of the Jet'yaim.
Vos didn't take him into the garden far, stopping under the reaching branches of some sort of flowering tree with purple leaves and white flowers, where there was just enough space for a group of maybe four adult human-sized beings to sit together between the trunk and a swiftly-moving stream. Vos sat, his tray hovering over him for a moment, before floating gently down into his lap. "Sit," he ordered.
Jango sat. And, when Vos' eyes narrowed on him, he started picking at his food.
He ate what he could stomach, then set his tray to the side and lay down, closing his eyes against the glare of the sunlight filtering through the purple leaves.
Jango must have fallen asleep. Because, when he opened his eyes again, it was almost dark in the garden. Vos had turned up an electric lantern at some point, and it was humming quietly between Jango and the jetii, whose eyes were closed and face relaxed in the same way Obi-Wan had often looked when he was meditating.
"You're going to start seeing a mind healer tomorrow," Vos said, apparently not actually meditating.
Jango wanted to ask why, but he was fairly certain he knew, since he'd just spent Ka'ra only knew how long not wanting to live.
"Master Che and Obes found some sort of compulsion in your head. Dark," Vos added.
Jango frowned. A compulsion?
I attacked Obi-Wan, he remembered, and swallowed down bile and rage.
Someone had made him want to attack his cyare. Had made him want to kill his cyare.
He closed his eyes, took a moment to breathe, to remember that it hadn't worked, that Obi-Wan was still alive, was just headed to Kamino to get Boba and all the other clones. He'd be back soon, probably spend a couple hours yelling himself hoarse because what had Jango been thinking?
"Oh," he said. "Is it gone?" Please let it be gone.
"Should be, but the mind healer is going to doublecheck."
Jango nodded.
They were quiet again for a long while, before Vos finally sighed and stood. "Come on, I'll take you back to the Halls."
Something in Jango's chest gave a twang. "Not Obi-Wan's flat?" he asked quietly, and tried not to wince at how pathetic he sounded.
Vos snorted. "Obes' padawan has a crush on that senator you were after; even I am not so cruel as to leave you to suffer Skywalker's spoilt banthashit alone."
Jango sighed and nodded. He would like to meet Obi-Wan's ad-padawan-but that is, perhaps, something that should wait until Obi-Wan was back.
And Obi-Wan will be back. With Boba. And Jango will see the mir'baar'ur and...try to get his head on straight. To be better, for Obi-Wan, and for Boba. And for the rest of his clones.
Chin up, Jan'ika, Jaster's voice whispered, and Jango had to close his eyes and breathe for a moment at the realisation that he hadn't heard that memory-hallucination of his buir's voice in...so very long.
He is dar'manda, and he might never see his buire and Arla, but that's no reason to give up; if he can make Obi-Wan smile again, can be the buir Boba deserves, can be there for whomsoever of the clones might want anything to do with him, that is what he will do.
"Vor'e," he whispered to Vos' back.
"Don't break his heart again," Vos replied.
Jango thought of the millions of clones he'd just sent his cyare to find-an army for the Republic and the Jet'tsad-and winced. "I won't leave him again unless he makes me go," he settled on.
Vos was quiet for a too-long moment, shoulders tense, and then he said, "He won't."
Jango smiled and let it hurt, because he knew his cyare, knew the old scars carved into the flesh of his heart, and he had done too much wrong in the last decade.
"He loves you, you know," Vos said as he palmed the control for what was apparently Jango's room door.
Jango nodded and replied, "That doesn't mean he'll forgive me," and then stepped into his room and palmed the control on the inside to close it before Vos could figure out how to respond.
There was a cloak tossed over the back of one of the visitor chairs, nearly black in the low light, and Jango reached out and touched the heavy fabric, staring down at it for a long moment, before picking it up and bringing it to his nose.
The tunics Vos had brought him didn't smell of Obi-Wan, had clearly not been worn since they'd been put through the wash, but the cloak smelt heavily of his cyare; old flimsi books and singed fabric and tea.
Jango hit his knees and curled over the fabric, whispering, "Ni ceta. Ni ceta," and knowing, deep in his heart, that forgiveness was not something he could, or would, deserve.
And yet, his Obi-Wan, his guiding star, was sure to grant it. Because he was, as he had always been, far too good a man for Jango.
Chapters 1) Satine Kryze 2) Dexter Jettster 3) Quinlan Vos 4) Alpha-17 5) Cody (CC-2224) -1) Kaminoans Glossary
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