Chapter Text
Jaster doesn’t know how to explain how awareness returns to him, but where there had been nothing, there is now something. He is vaguely aware of being horizontal and then he’s tipping forward, and he has no control over his limbs. He can’t stop it.
He can’t see, even when he blinks his eyes open. He can barely hear. There’s a muffled, “Oh, dear,” and then he’s caught before he falls on his face. The same voice adds, “True beskar’gam is heavy.”
Jaster’s response who are you is garbled as his tongue and mouth refuse to cooperate.
“I don’t know who you are,” the voice says. They shuffle awkwardly, Jaster in their arms, and then they lift Jaster, which is an impressive feat given that he is dead weight and in his full armor except his helmet. They set him down on what might be a bed or table. Some kind of flat surface, at least. “And I don’t know how long you’ve been here. But, however long you’ve been a…guest of Clan Vizsla, you’ve been frozen in carbonite. I have heard the recovery can be unpleasant. I expect you can’t see and won’t be able to for a few hours, if not an entire day. I’m not even sure if you can hear me.”
Jaster still can’t manage words, but he manages to tap his fingers against his rescuer’s arm. His rescuer pauses and Jaster taps again.
“One tap for yes, two for no,” his rescuer says. “Can you hear me?”
Jaster taps once.
“That’s something at least. Are you a friend of Clan Vizsla?”
Jaster taps twice.
“I figured, given the whole carbonite trophy thing, but I thought it was best to check. I’m currently raiding the Vizsla vault. I will admit, I didn’t expect to find a person here. You can stick with me until you have your bearings, and I promise no harm will come to you. Once you’re recovered, I can drop you off anywhere you want to go, within reason. I assume from your armor, you’re Mandalorian?”
One tap. Jaster is glad there was eventually a question in there. He enjoys the sound of his rescuer’s voice, and he enjoys it more as his hearing settles, but not being able to speak makes this seem like too much of a one-sided conversation. The questions, even if they’re simple, allow Jaster to participate.
“This…” Jaster’s rescuer traces the mythosaur sigil on Jaster’s left shoulder. “This is the sigil of the True Mandalorians.”
It isn’t a question, but Jaster taps once anyway.
Jaster’s rescuer breathes out slowly. “Alright, then. You’re missing your helmet and your weapons. I’ll make sure to find those before we leave. I’ve already picked out the ship I intend to take when I leave. I should get you situated there in case we need to make a quick exit. Uh, assuming you want to leave with me.”
Jaster taps once.
“I—” embarrassment seeps into the sentient’s voice. “I’ve been terribly rude. My name is Obi-Wan. I’m an enemy of Death Watch. I’ve been dismantling bases and destroying strongholds. I can’t believe you were frozen in carbonite in your armor. Vizsla’s an asshole.”
Jaster taps an emphatic, yes.
Obi-Wan laughs. It’s a pleasant sound. Jaster closes his eyes so he can focus fully on the sound and not his slight panic over the fact that he can’t see. Once he closes his eyes, his body takes it as a cue to relax. Jaster isn’t sure how long he’s been in carbonite, but it wasn’t true sleep. He is tired.
He shouldn’t sleep. He’s in danger, he isn’t at full capacity, and he’s been found by a stranger. He isn’t sure how to keep himself awake.
“Let’s get you to the Firespray,” Obi-Wan says, and it’s generous of him to say we when they both know Obi-Wan will have to do the literal heavy lifting.
It’s slow going until Obi-Wan stops pretending Jaster can help and simply lifts him in what Jaster has heard referred to as a bridal carry. It can’t be comfortable, or easy, and Jaster wonders what species Obi-Wan is that he doesn’t do much more than grunt as he lifts Jaster in his full armor.
The next time Jaster is set down, there is more give beneath him. Some kind of mattress instead of a hard surface.
“You’re in the bed in the main quarters,” Obi-Wan explains. “I assume you want to keep your armor on, but this should be at least more comfortable than the antique desk. I have a few trips to make to the vault. I’ll keep an eye out for your helmet and your weapons. And then we’ll head out, I guess. We’re on Concordia, by the way. I, uh, I guess you can’t say anything back. Will you be alright on your own?”
Jaster would feel more comfortable if he wasn’t experiencing carbonite sickness and if he had a blaster in his hand, but neither of those are likely to happen in the next few minutes. He taps a yes and then does his best to make himself comfortable. The sooner Obi-Wan can begin making his trips, the sooner he’ll be done, and then they can be out of here.
Here being the Vizsla vault on Concordia. It isn’t that difficult for Jaster to figure out how he ended up here. When Montross betrayed him, Jaster wasn’t killed. He must have come close if he can’t remember being frozen in carbonite, or maybe part of his sickness is difficultly remembering. Regardless, he was taken by Montross and at some point passed on to Tor Vizsla. A trophy. It makes Jaster sick. Once he can speak, he’ll ask Obi-Wan where Tor Vizsla is. And then maybe Jaster can reintroduce himself to the world by killing the cowardly bastard.
And then he’ll find Jango.
Jaster’s chest aches as he thinks about his son. How long has Jaster been missing? Does Jango think he’s dead? Is Jango dead?
Jaster cannot answer any of these questions right now, and they only heighten his anxiety. Somehow, he falls asleep, between one worry and the next.
#
When Jaster wakes up, he sits upright and reaches automatically for a weapon. He’s pleased when his fingers curl around a blaster pistol. The grip is familiar, and he knows it isn’t simply a model he’s accustomed to. It’s his blaster.
At the foot of his bunk is his helmet, and Jaster has a moment of relief that’s followed by an even deeper wave of relief, because he can see.
“Thank all the ancestors and the Ka’ra,” Jaster says softly. He can see. He can move. He has his armor and his weapons.
He’s comfortable enough, safe enough, to slide off his bed. He was wrong earlier, calling this a bunk. A bunk implies a narrow sleeping berth with another stack above or below it. This is a proper bed, space enough for at least two people to fit comfortably. Jaster clips his helmet to his belt, because he doesn’t want to be without it.
Jaster moves through the ship until he reaches the cockpit. Jaster’s entire body is exhausted, as though he had a brutal training session, but he won’t give up his armor. He no doubt needs to eat and rest more, but he is healing. There’s no denying that.
“You’re awake.” Obi-Wan doesn’t turn his chair to face Jaster.
It means Jaster only has a view of the high-backed pilot’s chair. He can see Obi-Wan’s hands, pale skin, elegant fingers, as they tap on the console. Long brown sleeves slide down to show thin wrists.
“I am,” Jaster says. “And feeling much better. I believe I owe you my thanks.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Obi-Wan’s hands pause their fidgeting as if he’s uncomfortable.
Jaster is immediately intrigued. An enemy of Death Watch, someone with no scruples over raiding and stealing, but Obi-Wan is uncomfortable with Jaster’s thanks. Or, with the concept of Jaster being in his debt. Does he recognize Jaster? Is he also a true Mandalorian? Jaster moves so he can get a better look at his rescuer.
Humanoid, male, with red hair that is long enough to brush his ears and a matching beard. His eyes are soft, a blue that almost melts into gray. His brown robe is too large and bulky, but Jaster can see a glimpse of vambraces peeking out from beneath the sleeves.
“You have armor,” Jaster says.
“Not like yours.” Obi-Wan glances at Jaster and then looks away even though there’s nothing to stare at but space. “Some, though.”
“You’re an enemy of Death Watch,” Jaster says. He watches Obi-Wan closely to see his reaction. The man nods and Jaster pushes a little more. “You recognized the mythosaur. Are you an ally of the True Mandalorians?”
Obi-Wan’s eyes tighten at the corners, and his lips thin out, barely a reaction, but Jaster sees it. Obi-Wan fiddles with the console as if anything has changed in the past minute.
“How long have you been in carbonite?” Obi-Wan asks, and Jaster has a bad feeling about this. “And, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”
“You don’t recognize me,” Jaster says. He supposes that answers whether or not Obi-Wan is allied with the True Mandalorians. Unless, of course…how long has Jaster been in carbonite? Obi-Wan’s reaction—it’s unsettling. And Jaster won’t get any answers without giving a few first. The last memory Jaster has was of Korda VI. He gives Obi-Wan the year.
“Sith fucking hells,” Obi-Wan says. The color drains from his face, and Jaster looks him over again. Beneath the beard and the heavy weight of responsibility, Obi-Wan is young. In his twenties, maybe early thirties, but Jaster suspects that’s the beard’s influence and isn’t actually true.
“How long?” Jaster asks.
“Twenty years,” Obi-Wan answers.
Twenty years. Jaster’s legs feel weak and this time it has nothing to do with carbonite sickness. Twenty years. Enough time that Obi-Wan flinched at the mention of True Mandalorians. Enough time that Death Watch has apparently found a foothold again. Why? Because Jaster was thought dead? Did something happen to Jango in the past twenty years? Myles?
“My name is Jaster Mereel,” Jaster says.
Obi-Wan looks like he regrets swearing earlier, because now he has no way to express his horror. He didn’t recognize Jaster Mereel’s armor or his face, but he clearly recognizes the name. Obi-Wan drags a hand down his face. He somehow looks ten years older and ten years younger afterwards.
“You have heard of me,” Jaster says.
“Mand’alor Mereel,” Obi-Wan says. “You were supposed to be Mand’alor the Reformer. I studied the Supercommando Codex in school. I—” He looks away. “Korda VI. You were reported dead.”
“I don’t remember much,” Jaster says. “I thought I died, but apparently not. You…studied Mandalorian history in your classes?”
“I—” the subtle wince is back. Obi-Wan is clearly distressed and trying to hide it. Jaster notes the dark circles under his eyes, proof of sleepless nights, and the tremor in his hands, proof of some kind of nerves. “There is really no good way to lead into this. You’re—you aren’t lying to me? You truly are Jaster Mereel?”
“Where is my son?” Jaster asks. “Where is Jango Fett?”
“Shit,” Obi-Wan says.
#
Jango is missing, presumed dead. Jaster’s only hope, and hope is all he has to cling to, is that Jango isn’t dead, the way Jaster hadn’t been dead. It’s a slim hope. Especially when taken into account with what else Obi-Wan told him.
Galidraan. The slaughter of the True Mandalorians. The rise of the New Mandalorians. How Death Watch continues to limp along and cause trouble. It didn’t even take twenty years for everything Jaster worked for to crumble and fall.
Obi-Wan, Jaster learns, is a Jedi. He learns this after Obi-Wan hands Jaster the darksaber, another trophy kept in the Vizsla vault and then goes to his knees. He tells Jaster that his grandmaster, Yan Dooku, led the Jedi strike team on Galidraan and that Obi-Wan will act as a stand-in for the Jedi Order.
He kneels and then he tips his head back to bare his throat, and Jaster has a moment to think the man is unfairly attractive before it registers that Obi-Wan is inviting Jaster to behead him.
Jaster is furious. He is hurting and terrified, and he has a rage inside of him that he hasn’t felt since his days as a Journeyman Protector when his own brethren committed the abuses they were supposed to stop. But Obi-Wan has done nothing to warrant Jaster’s temper or his retribution.
Obi-Wan found him, saved him, and Jaster won’t repay that kindness with an execution. If Jaster is ever face-to-face with Yan Dooku, it might be a different story. But Yan Dooku’s crimes are not Obi-Wan’s.
“If the Jedi are at war with Mandalore, why were you on Concordia?” Jaster asks.
Obi-Wan is back in the pilot’s seat, and while Jaster misses the view of the man on his knees, this is better. Obi-Wan rubs his throat, as if he’s wondering why Jaster didn’t remove his head. Obi-Wan rubs his skin until it’s red, and Jaster can see faint scars that stay stubbornly white. He knows that kind of scarring, and Jaster can’t help his flare of anger. Electrical burns. That they’re on Obi-Wan’s neck…
Slavery.
Obi-Wan once had an electroshock collar locked around his neck.
Obi-Wan opens his mouth. Closes it again. He rubs his beard this time. “After Galidraan—” Obi-Wan glances at Jaster as if he’s expecting a blow—“There were only two factions left, Death Watch and the New Mandalorians. At the request of Duke Kryze, the Republic intervened and sent Jedi to Mandalore. A very long story short, the New Mandalorians are in power, their pacifism means they rely on outside help to keep it, and no one likes Death Watch.”
Jaster is going to need access to the holonet sooner rather than later so he can begin to figure out what all happened while he was in carbonite. “That doesn’t answer why you were on Concordia.”
“Hmm.” Obi-Wan seems to come to some kind of decision, because he sits up straighter. “The Sith have returned. With the Republic aiding the New Mandalorians, there was some concern the Sith might reach out to Death Watch and offer their support in taking over Mandalore if Death Watch would in turn support them against the Jedi and the Republic.”
“The Sith?” Jaster repeats. He was presumed dead, his son might be dead, his people have been defeated, broken and scattered and on top of all that, one of the greatest foes of the galaxy have returned. “Carbonite isn’t looking so bad.”
Obi-Wan laughs, too sharp at first as if it’s startled out of him. But it softens into something more genuine, something pleasant. It makes him look younger, and Jaster is even more confident that he is mid-twenties at most. It makes Jaster feel slightly guilty at the way he stares at Obi-Wan’s mouth and then his throat. He imagines Obi-Wan sinking to his knees for a better offer than willing execution. Another kind of sacrifice, perhaps, soft eyes and curved lips and—
Obi-Wan clears his throat. His cheeks are dusted pink. “I’m sure I’ve given you a lot to think about. Let me know what your next steps are. Like I said earlier, if it’s within reason, I can drop you off somewhere.”
“It’s been twenty years since I was last seen, and you’ve indicated that all my allies are dead,” Jaster says. He wants to smooth away the frown in Obi-Wan’s forehead. “Yes, this does require some thought. But I can think as well from the pilot’s chair as the bed. Would you like some rest?”
Obi-Wan looks like he might fall asleep the moment he shuts his eyes, but he shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He catches the look of disbelief on Jaster’s face and smiles. “Truly, I am fine. You should sleep or reflect or whatever you need. I’ll be here.”
“I know the ship is on autonav, but I would feel better knowing you slept for at least a few hours,” Jaster says. “I am the Mand’alor. I can make it an order.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, surprised, and then another charming blush spreads across his cheeks. “You aren’t my Mand’alor,” he says softly, as if he doesn’t want to offend.
It’s wishful thinking, but Jaster wonders if Obi-Wan is looking for Jaster to push back. He can’t help but reach out, and he pushes Obi-Wan’s sleeve up until his vambrace is showing. “You wear armor.”
“Some,” Obi-Wan says. “But I never swore the Resol’nare.”
“Did you study that in your lessons as well?” Jaster asks.
“No. I heard it mentioned—never mind. If you’re sure, I’ll bunk down for a bit. I’ll set an alarm, so don’t worry about waking me up. If the proximity alarm goes off, I should hear it but—”
It’s instinct, and a bit of selfish desire, that makes Jaster press his fingers to Obi-Wan’s lips to cut off his rambling. Obi-Wan goes still at the touch, and his gaze flies up to Jaster’s face. There is something vulnerable in his eyes, something fragile in how still he holds himself, as if Jaster has the power to shatter him into a thousand pieces.
“Would you rather bring a pallet in here?” Jaster asks.
Jaster doesn’t move his finger so Obi-Wan nods carefully rather than speaking.
“Go, then,” Jaster says. “Bring back a pallet, a pillow, a blanket, and some rations. Make two trips if needed.”
Rather than bristling at the orders, Obi-Wan seems settled by them. He nods again and Jaster reluctantly pulls his hand back. Obi-Wan lingers only for a moment before he pushes himself out of the chair and heads out of the cockpit.
Jaster takes the vacated pilot’s chair. He allows himself one moment to think about Obi-Wan’s lips, how they were soft and yielding against his finger, and then he turns his thoughts toward the present and what in all the hells he’s supposed to do now.
#
Obi-Wan—the Jedi—curls up on the pallet as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He is asleep in minutes as if, after deciding to trust Jaster, he trusts him completely. Jaster isn’t sure if the Jedi is foolish or a good man.
Possibly, he’s both.
Jaster takes his time alone to sift through his memories. He is as certain as he can be that he has them all. The fact that he can’t remember what happened on Korda VI after being shot down is likely due to trauma or injury, not any lingering carbonite sickness.
He doesn’t want to leave the cockpit so he’s glad when he finds a datapad and a stylus. The datapad is unlocked. Jaster makes a list. He needs to learn more about the aftermath of Korda VI, and he wants a Mandalorian’s take on Galidraan. He wants to find out what happened to Tor Vizsla and what happened to Montross. He needs to find Jango and any other True Mandalorians there might still be.
Which reminds him. He unclips the darksaber from his belt. He doesn’t ignite it, even though he’s curious, because the cockpit of a ship in space is not the time to play around with plasma swords. But. He has the darksaber. It’s a symbol of his people. An important one. He had been Mand’alor, and he likes to think he was a good one. This weapon would have legitimized him in the eyes of those who still clung to tradition.
After twenty years presumed dead and his people dead or scattered, is this weapon enough? He wonders if the Jedi will teach him how to use it. He adds it to his list. And then, he corrects himself in his head. Not the Jedi. Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan was honest when he told Jaster what the Jedi did to his people. But Obi-Wan isn’t Jaster’s enemy. At the moment, he’s Jaster’s only contact.
Jaster looks at the sleeping man again. Boy, Jaster’s mind suggests, at the sight of long lashes and the way Obi-Wan’s hands clutch his own tunics as if desperate for something to hold. He is young, especially when Jaster feels ancient even without counting the years in carbonite. But Jaster is wary of thinking of Obi-Wan as a boy, especially with the less than wholesome thoughts he has as he looks Obi-Wan over.
The Jedi tunics do nothing to flatter or show off his figure. It means Jaster is left to wonder what he looks like under his robes, if his form is as solid as the billowy fabric implies or if Obi-Wan is all lean muscle as he drowns in his clothes. Jaster is a big man. He sprouted up as a child and then grew into his height, putting on muscle through daily discipline and then a life as a Journeyman Protector. He has the strength to wear full beskar’gam, and he’s mobile in it.
It's too easy to imagine joining Obi-Wan on the pallet. Jaster would be able to curl around Obi-Wan with ease. He could use his larger frame to protect and shield Obi-Wan. Would Obi-Wan accept it as a thank you for his help thus far? He didn’t want Jaster’s words and, from what Jaster can gather, his raid on Vizsla’s vault means he has no need of credits.
Jaster entertains himself with thoughts of how he could thoroughly thank Obi-Wan for his assistance. He’s pleased to note that his cock is working just fine after extended time in carbonite. He doesn’t have the privacy to pop his codpiece off, nor does he feel like he can leave the cockpit, but that’s fine. Jaster is old enough that he doesn’t need to bring himself off every time he has a pleasant thought or two.
He enjoys the desire that pumps through his body, and he spins out scenario after scenario until a quiet noise directs his attention to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan uncurls, stretching out, and his eyes flutter as he begins to wake. The noise is a small one, repeated as Obi-Wan chases his stretch. His toes reach for one end of the mattress and his hands reach for the other. He is long, Jaster notes idly. The twist and pull of his tunics suggest that he doesn’t have the breadth of chest or thighs to make it proportional. Long and lean, Jaster thinks, pleased with his observation.
Obi-Wan’s eyes open and stay open. Immediately, that blue gaze lands on Jaster. Obi-Wan’s cheeks are pink, rosy with sleep, but as Obi-Wan’s gaze skitters away, Jaster wonders if it’s something else as well.
“Pleasant dreams?” Jaster asks, and he can’t help his smile as Obi-Wan reaches for the blanket and drops it into his lap as he sits up. “If Jedi do something so common.”
Obi-Wan laughs, and it’s a warm, pleasant sound. He runs his hands through his hair, but it leaves his hair even more disordered than it had been before. “Jedi dream. We are sentient beings. We simply have access to powers most others don’t.”
“They don’t train dreams out of you? You are a monastic order, are you not?”
Myles would mock Jaster for his questions, for thinking about history and culture when he’s in the situation he’s in. But Myles isn’t here. It’s Jaster, twenty years past anything he knows, and this charming Jedi who seems willing to talk. Jaster will sate his curiosity for as long as Obi-Wan will indulge him.
Obi-Wan’s lips twist into a brief frown, and it spoils the peace from his sleep. “The Jedi are a religious order. Or, we’re supposed to be. There has been a shift, a gradual one, but, uh, Galidraan caused a change that even we couldn’t avoid noticing.”
Jaster’s chest is tight at the reminder of his people’s deaths and his son’s disappearance, but it’s nothing compared to the guilt Obi-Wan feels. Perhaps, when he learns more, Jaster will summon enough fury to match Obi-Wan’s guilt, but not today. “There were repercussions for the Jedi?”
“Yes. But not the right ones.” Obi-Wan presses his lips together, too late to take the words back. He sighs and shifts into a stretch, as if he’s determined not to be idle as he speaks. “The Jedi acted rashly. They took the Senate’s orders, and they didn’t think beyond their mandate. It was shortsighted and it was wrong. And we committed a terrible crime. It should have been a moment for introspection. We should have made reparations. Instead, the Senate tightened their hold. They limited the number of Jedi allowed on missions. They seized more power in determining what those missions were. The Jedi are supposed to be a religious order, who offer aid and comfort to the galaxy. Instead, we are a branch of the Republic, deployed as the Senate sees fit.”
Jaster raises his eyebrows.
Obi-Wan doesn’t flush this time, as if he isn’t ashamed of his emotions. He clenches his jaw and meets Jaster’s gaze evenly. “What the Republic values and what the Jedi value don’t always line up. Our relief missions become fewer and fewer. It’s negotiations.” Obi-Wan scoffs. “The Republic wants Jedi and their lightsabers to sway planets to their cause. I know firsthand what happens when the Republic doesn’t think a planet’s struggles are worthy.” Obi-Wan rubs his right knee. “Mandalore received nothing after Galidraan, except the Republic’s promise that they would keep Jedi from such action in the future.”
“Even though the Republic is the one who deployed them.”
Obi-Wan lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. His lips twist into a smile too cynical for someone so young.
“And now you’re in the Mandalore system, dismantling Death Watch out of penance?”
“I’m not quite that altruistic,” Obi-Wan says. “The New Mandalorians can’t fend Death Watch off themselves. I needed a long-term mission and stomping on Death Watch seemed like a good one. It’s the Republic’s way of saying that if you’re the right kind of Mandalorian, you’re safe. It’s bantha-shit, but—” Obi-Wan shrugs again. “Have you thought about what you want to do?”
“I want to find my son,” Jaster says. He has a list of objectives, but Jango is the most important. “You should come with me. I need a guide and you need a mission.”
Obi-Wan’s lips curl in amusement.
But Jaster doesn’t wait for a snarky comment. He’s had plenty of time to think. “You say your order wants a strong Mandalore because you worry about the Sith threat. Death Watch needs to be destroyed, I agree. But you are assisting the New Mandalorians, because you have no other options.” Jaster dangles the darksaber hilt from his fingers. “I was Mand’alor. With this, I can be Mand’alor again. If you want a strong Mandalore, then you need the Haat Mando’ade.”
“Hmm,” Obi-Wan says. “I can bring it up to the Council. Whether they agree to let me take on the mission is uncertain. Either way, this ship and everything on it is yours. Except me, of course.” Obi-Wan smiles as if he’s making a joke, as if there isn’t a part of Jaster that wants to pin Obi-Wan to the pallet and claim.
Jaster smiles as well, but it’s slow, something that hints at everything he wants. It’s enough for Obi-Wan to freeze, like a startled animal which knows it’s caught the attention of something bigger. Jaster’s smile spreads, because the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes is shock, not fear.
“We should eat something,” Jaster says. “And then you should comm your Council.”
“Yeah.” Obi-Wan’s gaze lingers on Jaster as if he’s waiting for something else.
Jaster grins and heads for the small galley.