Chapter Text
Myles was sitting next to Jango, as he always did these days, cutting spice with stars knew what substance in the exact proportions they were meant to. It had been more than two months since either of them were last beaten, and the guards had yet to notice either of them exercising at night.
Not that they had anything like enough rations to sustain the kind of movement they really wanted to engage in, but it kept the nightmares at bay, and routine was good. So they did one exercise every day, as best they could, on a three week cycle, which helped them to number their days. Exercise, Remembrances, eat their rations and drink their water, then one blanket on the floor, curl up together, and one blanket on top of their cleaved bodies.
Once a month they got a sonic, if the guards didn’t forget, which they often did.
They’d nearly escaped twice, but they’ve been biding their time since then. Only one of their guards seemed to have two braincells to rub together, and he was the one to watch for.
Myles had fully eight different highly refined plans for escape, each requiring a slightly different opening, but he was absolutely ready, should that opening occur.
And then it did.
Sort of.
Except he and Jango got to just sit back and watch the spectator sport of a SuperCommando mowing down slavers, and comment on it, like it was a sparring video back home.
Eh, that might have been the spice, actually.
On a day just exactly like all the rest, all of the sudden the ship jolted and very clearly magclamps had grabbed the freighter.
“Pirates! Pirates!” One of the guards screamed just before a laser cutter started making a brand new hole in the cargo bay door, ironically, over the small docking door.
“Huh,” Jango said, staring at the laser cutter.
“You! Mandalorians! We’ll give you your freedom if you fight off the pirates!”
Myles immediately shoved his manacled hands toward the guard who was running toward them.
“I don’t have the key!”
“Get the key, idiot!” Jango growled at him, standing up as more of their guards rushed in, arguing whether it was a pirate or a purrgil.
“Right, yes, a purrgil with a laser cutter,” Myles muttered underneath his breath in Mando’a.
“Look again, beloved. That’s a light-sword,” Jango murmured back in the same language. “It’s the wrong color, but it’s definitely a light-sword.”
Myles turned and looked. “Huh. You figure it’s a Jedi or a Not-Jedi? Nobody else knows how to make them, right?”
“Could be a trophy,” Jango mused as the guards panicked around them, roundly not producing a key for the mag cuffs on their wrists. “Plenty of those around. Jaster had some in the archive.”
Jango sat back down and Myles followed. If they weren’t going to free them, it was better to be closer to the ground when the shots were fired.
Then the outline of the new door was finished, and the blue blade of the light-sword disappeared.
Then the door was kicked in, and Myles grinned. It might not spell the end of their stint as sold chattel, but it least it was creating unholy havoc.
Myles heartily approved of unholy havoc being rained down on his enemies. He preferred to be the one doing the raining, but in a pinch he didn’t care, so long as he could watch.
Neither pirates nor purrgils emerged. But a heart-and-soul-as-fuck SuperCommando filled with duty, justice, lust for life, and humorously, lust for peace, did.
“Dibs,” Jango quietly called.
“We’re married. Your dibs roll over to me,” Myles reminded him.
Jango rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I was calling dibs for us. Mmm, look at them go. I think it’s Tarre Vizsla.”
“Banthashit. Their sword is the wrong color,” Myles pointed out while their rescuer batted away blaster bolts with one hand and fired with another. “Never knew a light-sword could be a long range weapon. That is fucking fantastic. Beautiful form, too. Love the kama.”
“Very Dha Werda Verda feel, with the sleeves, don’t you think?” Jango mused.
And then there was quiet, and the warrior looked over to them. “Is one of you Clan Fett, House Mereel?” they asked in Mando’a.
Jango sighed and obviously was about to start getting maudlin again. Myles spoke up before he could.
“Yes. We both are. Myles Skirata,” he said pointing to himself. “Jango Fett,” he said, pointing to Jango who wasn’t sure if perhaps the Manda had abandoned them, and thus they weren’t properly of any clan or house.
But now really wasn’t the time for philosophical conversation, Myles didn’t think.
“Oh! Alor Skirata, so glad to see you are alive after all. And you, Mand’alor Fett. Hands on the table, please,” the rescuer said, his grammar and word choice a bit… odd. And it was all in a Kalevala accent.
“Please tell me Kalevala didn’t mount this rescue,” Myles said, putting his hands on the table and holding Jango’s down when he looked about to say something maudlin and philosophical and gesture with hands near a light-sword. “You’re not House Kryze, are you?”
“Stars, no,” their rescuer said, carefully slicing their cuffs off with a laser sword. The sound was eerie, but he was happy to have one used for such a noble purpose. But fuck the plasma was hot that close to his wrists. The molten metal was also tricky and burnt him on the way past, but he swallowed the pain. There would probably be bacta very soon. Which was just as well, because they had other injuries that hadn’t healed well.
“Give us your blasters and we’ll help you kill these assholes,” Jango proposed, and Myles saw right through him, but at least it took his mind off the pain. They could just as easily grab blasters off the already dead guards near the door, was the thing.
Instead of pointing this out, their rescuer just went with it, and when he was finished cutting Myles free, shifted and offered his left hip to him with the blaster in the holster, just as he was starting to cut Jango free. To Jango, he offered his right hip.
“Aw, Beautiful, you can court us. I promise we’ll be sweet,” Jango said, grinning.
Myles rolled his eyes. “Let’s kill these assholes first and discuss courting later, yes?” he offered, perhaps somewhat short tempered as he breathed through the pain.
“Oya!” their companion called, and if Myles wasn’t mistaken, he was heartily amused by them.
It was quickly done, and they looked through every room, cabinet, and crawlspace, but there were no slavers left.
Jango had grabbed the key for the cuffs on his way through and Myles was pulling off the weapons belts of two of the guards while their rescuer calmly and in a very high Coruscanti accent in Basic instructed the rest of the slaves to grab their things and evacuate to the front of the ship and close the blast doors behind them.
And then they were running through the freighter, hopping through the slightly cooled molten metal rimmed-door and their supercommando rescuer was directing them to both go to the cockpit and strap in, as they followed after securing the boarding door.
“Quickly, now!” they admonished, throwing themselves into the pilot’s chair and strapping in. “Brace for impact!”
Fuck, that was an impact, alright.
And then they were in hyperspace and Myles couldn’t stop laughing.
“Ow,” Jango groaned.
He’d been in the smaller jumpseat behind, and there was less padding, for all that the safety restraints were the same.
Myles unbuckled himself and pulled himself together. “We owe you a debt, warrior.”
“You really don’t,” they replied, and definitely, their word choice was grounded in Basic. No native speaker constructed a phrase like that. Mando’a was a distant second language for them. “But we can discuss that all later, once you’re clean and sober again. For now, follow me. The sonic is this way, and I did have an extra pack just in case, even though I was only told the Mand’alor had lived.”
Myles sauntered out with Jango just behind him and paused as the warrior ducked into the rack room and came back with a midsized travelling pack, which he handed to Myles.
“There’s another already in the sonic. I can get food ready for whomever is waiting their turn, but do take your time. Should have everything you need in the packs, including bacta, but there’s more for later if it’s needed.”
Myles opened the refresher door. It wasn’t huge, but they’d make do. “Eh, we’ll both fit.”
“Are you sure?”
The warrior sounded scandalized.
Jango smirked. “We’re married. It’s fine.”
“Oh! Yes, of course,” the warrior replied, and Myles just bet they were blushing under their helmet. He could always tell, when he didn’t have his helmet on.
“Just because we’re married, doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a third,” Jango pointed out, leaning against the wall, because Jango was as subtle as a demolition hammer-jack. “Especially for you, Beautiful.”
Myles sighed and clearly got the attention of their supercommando. “Jan’ika. Maybe try the seduction when you’re clean? When we’re both clean?”
“Yes. Do take a sonic. Take two. Take three. Then we can discuss whatever you’d like,” the warrior agreed.
Jango was grinning, and not moving from his spot leaning against the wall. “You’re not creedbound, are you? Not that it matters, Beautiful.”
Myles rolled his eyes.
“No, I’m just not interested in smelling you right now, ‘alor,” the Kalevalan SuperCommando deadpanned.
“Called it,” Myles said, grabbing his spouse and shoving him in the refresher first.
Jango just laughed and Myles followed him in, closing and locking the door behind them.