From This Point Forward - TenderLittleSprout (2024)

Chapter 1: The Most Important Question

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 circ*mstances 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 banthash*t—

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 2: Beloved Children of the Force, My Ass

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 duch*ess 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 set the child down on a boulder, then 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 amusem*nt. 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 sh*t 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 3: The Newest Foundling

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 co*ckpit. Fennec threw herself into the backseat and gave a low whistle. “Wow,” she murmured. “You’ve really got the weirdest sh*t 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 circ*mstances 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. sh*t. 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 sh*t 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 co*ckpit. 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 amusem*nt. 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 4: Running a Family is More Complicated than Bounty Hunting

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 circ*mstances.

“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, f*ck.

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 f*ck— 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.”

Banthash*t. “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 f*ck, 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 f*ck, 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 5: Training the Commander

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 circ*mstances 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 6: Missy

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 co*ckpit. He nosed the ship out of the port, leaving Glavis behind as they entered hyperspace. He’d be back soon, anyway.