Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Boba and Fennec were in the Ops Room mulling over a staffing proposal—because no matter what it looked like, being a successful daimyo required much less sitting-on-a-throne-eating-fruit and much more strategic workforce alignment than most beings would ever know—when the comm lit up with a connection request from Din.

He’d been gone a few weeks on one of his training runs for Grogu, which usually combined hunts for Boba, errands for Kryze, and a few low-level Republic bounties. Din had hoped that he’d be able to avoid any more involvement in politics once Bo-Katan was established on Mandalore; as Boba had suspected, it hadn’t been that easy. Apparently Din had won Kryze over through his normal practice of more or less embodying every Mandalorian virtue, and she was understandably unwilling to let him return to his pre-Darksaber state of blissful ignorance regarding Mandalorian politics.

None of this would have mattered, except that despite their rocky beginnings—and the fact that Kryze hated most of his other friends—Din actually liked her now. To be fair, it had required a convoluted and improbable string of joint adventures, including: saving a child from a giant raptor, nearly drowning in a holy Mandalorian cave lake, nearly dying to stop Imperial-remnant villainous banthashit courtesy of Moff Gideon’s unsettling Mando fetish, and encountering a literal mythosaur.

It would have stretched credibility as the plot of a holodrama; Boba wouldn’t have believed that a fraction of it actually occurred, except that things like that just happened around Din, who was so used to it by now that he rarely noticed his life was in any way unusual. Also, Din had sworn never to lie to Boba, and Boba would believe that the three moons of Tatooine were made of blue-milk cheese before he’d accuse Din of breaking his word.

(Honestly, Boba was about eighty percent convinced that Din was at least a little Force-sensitive; his luck, both good and bad, was just too ridiculous for it to be natural. Also, he was far too good in bed, relative to his level of experience, to not be unconsciously leaning on some kind of sexual empathy.)

Regardless, somewhere between escaping deadly peril in a beskar mine and working together to stop an actual Separatist plot (despite the Separatists having been conquered by the Empire decades previously), Din had mentally moved Bo-Katan Kryze out of the “temporary ally” category and into “friend,” and that was that; Boba would never be rid of her unless one of them broke things off with Din. Since Kryze was not actually stupid and Boba would rather jump back into a sarlacc than give Din a reason to leave him, he was just going to have to cope. Fortunately, she was keeping quite busy trying to make sure her second go at the throne was more successful than her first, so Boba’s patience wasn’t tested much.

(And no, Fennec, it was not because Boba was jealous. He was even a little sympathetic to Kryze, at least in theory. Living your life among backstabbing shabuire (motherfuckers) just did not prepare a person to experience Din Djarin’s loyalty; it was like waking up one morning to discover that a few important laws of physics had changed slightly in your favor. An amazing privilege, but it made you question all your previous assumptions about the way the world worked. He’d gone through it, himself, and knew how unsettling it could be. That still didn’t mean he wanted to actually socialize with the woman; he’d ignored enough snide anti-clone commentary to last several lifetimes.)

Anyhow, Din could be extremely stubborn towards authority but was a soft touch when it came to his friends, so after several weeks of increasingly delicate negotiations with the new Mand’alor—and turning down several different offers from several different people to help him block her comm frequency and/or fake his own death—Din had reluctantly agreed to be part of Kryze’s Council of Advisors, as long as she promised not to make him attend the council meetings.

Or live on Mandalore.

Or attend any diplomatic events.

In fact, as far as Boba could tell, Din’s official government duties mainly consisted of long comms with Kryze herself, during which she complained about how recalcitrant and infuriating Mandalorians were (extremely, as three generations of Boba’s family line could attest), and Din did maintenance on his weapons and armor, made sympathetic noises, and occasionally made one of his “common sense” suggestions that were objectively unlikely to work and yet worked anyway.

Occasionally, Kryze also sent Din out on diplomacy missions thinly disguised as mercenary jobs. She’d insisted on providing him a ship with actual living quarters and cargo space; she’d even gotten him to use it by giving him a guilt trip about how much healthier it would be for Grogu to be able to sleep in a bunk and eat real food on long trips.

It was a nice ship, one of the pristine MandalMotors jobs that someone had stashed somewhere before the war. Din—who could be deeply, delightfully petty sometimes—named it Alii’nar, which could mean “duty” but Boba knew in this case should be translated Family Obligation. He’d then taken it straight to Mos Eisley, where he’d spent a week with Peli Motto Jawa-rigging it into near unrecognizability.

Boba knew what he really wanted, and was accordingly still putting feelers out for another pre-Empire gunship like Din's lost Razor Crest. It had proven absurdly difficult to find one in good enough condition to be safe, but he was still trying—not to one-up Kryze, but because it would make Din happy.

(And anyway, if he had wanted to to one-up Kryze, he wouldn’t need to use Din to do it; nobody in his family had ever tried to turn Mandalorians into pacifists).

Din had gone comms-silent a few days before, as was normal during the tricky part of a hunt; they’d been expecting him to report in soon, so Boba thought nothing of accepting the request and putting it through on the holotable.

As always, something tense in Boba’s spine uncurled at seeing his lover looking safe and unmarred in the pilot’s seat of his ship. “It’s good to see you, cyare,” (beloved) he said warmly. “How’s the hunt?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted—”

An excited squeal cut Din off from outside the holocam’s range, and then Grogu appeared on Din’s lap with a speed and trajectory that indicated one of his Force-flips.

“Bo!” he said, reaching his little hand toward the holo.

The first time Grogu had called him that, Boba had felt a pang in his chest so sharp he’d looked down to make sure he hadn’t been stabbed without noticing. Now, after a few months of repetition, he was almost used to it.

Din chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “Can you say hi to Boba? Like we practiced. Su cuy.”

“Soo… coo,” Grogu said, then looked rapidly from Din to Boba, looking for approval.

“Great job!” Din told him.

“Su cuy’gar, little one, It’s good to see you too,” Boba said, knowing he was wearing what Fennec liked to call his “besotted dewback face” and not caring in the slightest. “You’re doing great with your words! Are you being good for Buir?”(Dad/parent)

He grinned, tiny needle-like teeth on display. “Bu!” he agreed.

“He’s supposed to be eating right now,” Din said, his voice fond. “But he jumped clear across the deck when he heard you.” He stroked the wispy hair on the top of his son’s head. “Though I reckon I understand the impulse.”

Grogu held something vaguely flipper-shaped up to the camera. “Bo nom,” he said firmly.

“Also he found the box of freeze-dried frogs you left in the galley,” Din added.

Grogu crammed the flipper into his mouth with an unsettling crunch.

“While this is simultaneously horrifying and adorable,” Fennec said, stepping forward into holo range, “I’d like to hear more about the hunt. Did the lead on Takodana pan out?”

They’d sent Din out chasing a rumor: a spacer’s story of a lost Separatist ship, carrying some great treasure for Count Dooku. None of them really expected to find anything except perhaps some crash debris, but if there was any chance that a ship full of Sith artifacts or experimental weaponry was out there, it was better off in their hands than with one of the Imperial remnant factions.

Din leaned forward and flipped a switch, causing the image to waver and fuzz before stabilizing. He’d turned on the encryption circuit. “I found the cruiser.”

Boba went cold. “Intact?”

“Crashed, but not destroyed,” Din said. “Went down in the middle of the desert on some skughole planet in the Western Reaches. There’s a lot of droids and tech there—no power, but if we want to mount a salvage op we’ll want to be very careful, maybe bring some ion cannons.”

“Was that Dooku’s special cargo? Droids?” Fennec crossed her arms, skeptical.

“No.” Din sighed. “I—Boba, I’m sorry, but I need to talk about something pretty personal. Do you want to, um… would you rather speak privately?”

“Why would Dooku have wanted anything to do with Boba?” Fennec said, shooting Boba a worried look. “He was just a kid when that ship crashed.”

“It’s not Boba specifically,” Din said, voice soft and careful. “It’s about his buir.”

“Oh,” Boba said. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” Horrible possibilities started presenting themselves to his imagination. Had the Separatists gotten hold of some of Jango’s blood? Or worse—Boba thought of a grave in the red earth of Geonosis and shuddered.

“Just go ahead, Din,” he said, trying to brace himself for the worst. “I don’t mind if Fennec hears.”

She stepped closer, nudging him supportively with her shoulder.

Din took a deep breath, bracing his shoulders in the way he did when he was about to do something unpleasant. In his lap, Grogu frowned, his ears drooping as he picked up on his father’s tension. He patted Din’s hand. “Bu?”

“It’s okay, kid,” Din said, cuddling him. “I’m just nervous. I—Boba, the cargo is a person. He’s in cryo, has been this whole time. I couldn’t find any records of who he is, but—he looks—I think you might have a brother.”

Boba stared. “You think I might have a brother,” he repeated. “One brother.”

“I know it’s probably a shock,” Din said, his shoulders tilting anxiously.

Pressed against his arm, Boba could feel Fennec trembling with suppressed emotion.

“It’s just, he looks a lot like you,” Din continued. “And even more like the holos of your buir I’ve seen. He looks like he’s in his twenties, though, so maybe Jango didn’t realize? He’d have been pretty young when…”

Fennec made a peculiar noise, like a malfunctioning kettle. “Boba,” she said. “Does. Does he not know?”

“Of course he knows! We talked about—” Boba stopped, an awful realization sinking over him. “Oh, dank farrik.”

“Boba?”The little blue figure of Din on the holotable was very still. “What are you talking about? What don’t I know?”

Boba gave in to the impulse to rub at the incipient headache brewing in his right temple. “Cyare,” he said. “Do you remember when I asked you how much you knew about the Clone Wars? And you said that you knew ‘everything you needed to know’ about them?”

“Of course,” Din said, wary. “And I appreciate that you didn’t bring it up again. I don’t like to talk about that.”

Fennec had stepped out of range of the camera and had buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Boba sighed. He had committed a lot of crimes over the years. He probably deserved this.

“I’m the last person to criticize you for not wanting to dwell on your Clone Wars-related childhood trauma,” he said. “However, we might have moved on from the topic a little prematurely. That’s on me; I should have verified my assumptions.”

“Wait,” Din said. “Are you saying you already knew about your brother?” He stiffened, horror written in every line of his expressive body. “Oh, Boba. Have you thought he was dead all this time?”

Din was so kind, his heart as pure and shining as his armor. Boba tried very hard never to make him feel ashamed of not knowing things; after all, it was hardly his fault that he had lost two homes to war as a child and been forced to live in hiding.

At the same time, Din’s first family had been killed in the Clone Wars. Din had heard Kryze and her sidekick call Boba a clone to his face, even call Jango his “donor.” Boba had made a clone joke to Din directly on Morak.

If he didn’t know, then what in the stars had Din thought they were all talking about that whole time?

“Din, I’m a clone,” Boba said, making a vague gesture at his own face. “From the Clone Wars. Which were called that because the entire Grand Army of the Republic were clones.”

“Clones of Jango Fett,” Fennec added, helpfully. You almost couldn’t hear her laughing anymore. “Fett wanted a son, so he asked for one clone to keep.” She gestured at Boba with the air of a used-speeder merchant who was assuring you that the motivator on that model was fine, actually. Boba resisted the impulse to elbow her in the kidney.

There was a long silence.

“Whatever poor bastard you’ve got in that tank is more than likely a clone trooper,” Boba continued, when he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. He wasn’t going to worry that this revelation would make Din reject him. He wasn’t. Not after everything they had been through. Din had more than earned Boba’s trust, and it would be an insult to doubt his constancy. “Probably some kind of prisoner of war. I doubt he ever met me; depending how old he is, he might not even know I exist.”

“…so in a way,” Din said slowly, “he is your long-lost brother.”

Boba opened his mouth to deny it, the way he had over and over throughout his life, but something stayed his tongue.

He was happy with his new, post-sarlacc life. With his own House, the Fett gotra. With Fennec and Santo and the Mods, his vassals and his allies. With Din and Grogu, settling deeper into his scarred, weary heart with every sunrise.

For a long time, Boba had been haunted by the clone troopers. It had felt like the galaxy itself was taunting him, that he’d been cursed somehow: Buir’s face, but never the soft look in his eyes when he smiled at his son. Buir’s voice, but never the tenderness in his tone when they were alone together. His father’s form, echoed millions of times over, to remind Boba that his father’s love was gone forever.

Now, Boba’s face and voice were only his. Now, there were fewer and fewer people who remembered how the GAR had looked under their helmets. Now, with no way to know if any clones were left, Boba was haunted by their absence.

“My brother?” Boba said. He was a little surprised to find that he liked the way that felt. “I suppose he is, at that.” He saw Din relax, and felt his own body ease in response. “Can the pod be moved? Can you bring it home? He’ll have stasis poisoning, after so long; I’d prefer not to wake him without medical care available.”

Din’s smile was so apparent in his posture that Boba could read it right through his helmet. “I suspected you might say that,” he said. “We’re already on our way. Should get in day after tomorrow.”

“Well then,” Boba said. “I suppose I need to make sure the med droid has a module for stasis sickness. And get a guest room ready.”

By the time the Alii’nar entered the system, Boba had changed his mind four times over which room to offer the trooper, paid an exorbitant fee to obtain three different stasis modules for the med droid, and worked himself up into something of a nervous frenzy wondering what would be worse, if the man had never heard of Boba Fett or if he was one of the ones who hated him for what he had done to the Endurance.

He’d already cancelled court for the day, so he headed out to meet Din’s ship at the small landing pad behind the palace, emerging just in time to see the suns’ light flash off his armor as he stepped through the door. He was holding Grogu in the crook of his arm, his body loose and his movements easy; just seeing him made everything feel right, as though his simple presence could prevent anything terrible happening.

Halfway down the ramp, Grogu catapulted himself into Boba’s arms. Boba caught him and held him up above his head.

“What’s this?” he asked, in mock surprise. “Flying already? Have you learned the Way of the Rising Phoenix? Where’s your jetpack, ad’ika?”(Little One)

Grogu giggled, kicking his little feet in delight. “Up! Bo, up!”

Boba swooped him through the air obediently, the way generations of Mandalorian parents had done for their children. The way Jango had done for Boba until he’d gotten too heavy.

(He’d been heartbroken when Buir admitted that his back was no longer up to the game. At least Grogu would probably stay small enough to play jetpack for a long time yet. He always did his best to make a jetpack noise, even though his mouth wasn’t quite the right shape; it was precious.)

Din watched them, positively radiating contentment, until Boba brought Grogu in for a “landing”—a cuddle and one of Grogu’s sweet, clumsy Keldabe kisses. He leaned in close to embrace them both. “It’s good to be home,” he said softly. “We missed you, didn’t we, buddy?”

“Bo,” Grogu said emphatically, clinging to the edge of Boba’s chest plate with his little claws. Boba cupped the back of his head in one hand, trying to shift the child so his body was nestled against the less-armored parts of him. “Neh! Neh Bo!”

“Yeah, buddy, your Bo,” Din said. “Though you gotta share him with Buir, okay?”

“Bo bu,” Grogu said, grabbing on to Din’s cowl with his other hand.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Din said. “He can be our Bo.” The tone of his voice made Boba want to weep, or laugh, or sweep him off to bed, or something else dramatic and inappropriate. “Cuun Bo, can you say that?”

“Coo Bo,” Grogu echoed, and Boba loved them, so much that it felt as though his chest would crack open from the pressure. To keep them safe, he’d do anything he had to; he’d burn a thousand worlds and salt the ashes.

“Ner cyarese,” he murmured. My beloved ones.

Boba wasn’t entirely sure how the Force worked, but he tried to focus on how much Grogu had come to mean to him and sort of aim it in his direction, like he was shooting a missile. Made of feelings. A feelings missile.

What the hell, it wasn’t like Boba was the Jedi in this family.

It seemed to work well enough, though; Grogu’s ears perked up and he made an excited trilling noise.

“Yeah, kid,” Boba told him. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“We’re all glad,” Fennec said, emerging from the palace just in time to catch his words. “Boba’s been a nervous wreck since you commed the other day. That poor kid in the tank already owns more outfits than a Corellian madam.”

“They only ever had uniforms and armor,” Boba muttered. “We can return whatever he doesn’t like, I just wanted him to have options.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, cyare,” Din said, reassuring. “It’ll be a comfort, to know his ori’vod (big brother) is looking out for him.”

Boba shrugged. “I’m trying, anyway.” He let himself bask for another few seconds before reluctantly detangling himself from his little family; there was a rescued prisoner in cryo who needed medical care.

The stasis pod containing the trooper had been designed for portability, and Din had found a grav-lift on the cruiser that made it fairly easy to maneuver it into the freight elevator and up to the rooms that Boba had turned into a medical suite. It was downright luxurious by Tatooine standards, having both a bacta tank and a med droid as well as plenty of supplies, a large stash of Tusken herbal remedies, and three salvaged biobeds, one of which was large enough for two standard humans or Krrsantan. One day, Boba hoped to find an actual medical professional to hire, but they weren’t exactly thick on the ground on Tatooine.

(Not for the first time, he reflected that the New Republic would get a lot farther in their attempts to expand on the Rim if they sent along some doctors or environmental engineers instead of X-wing patrols issuing traffic citations. Perhaps he should ask Din to pass a message along to the Huttslayer next time Skywalker commed to check in on Grogu.)

They set up the pod in one of the private treatment rooms. While the med droid downloaded the pod’s records, Boba peered through the thick transparisteel window in the lid. It was definitely one of the clone troopers, armorless but still in his blacks. Under the layer of frost from cryo, he looked like Boba had looked in his mid-twenties; probably thirteen or fourteen, then.

“I don’t recognize him, but he looks old enough to be from one of the early batches,” Boba said. “That cruiser crashed right before the end of the war. He must be good, to have survived that long. Or lucky.”

“That’s… honestly pretty unsettling,” Fennec said.

“At this point, that might as well be our family motto.” Boba said, a wry twist to his voice.

“Is that what you looked like when you were younger?” Din was glancing back and forth between the window and Boba, looking fascinated.

“More or less,” Boba said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “My hair was longer. Looser curls. I used to braid it back, though, for the helmet.”

“It sounds pretty,” Din said, tilting his head like he was imagining it.

“Oh, yeah,” Boba said, absolutely not letting himself make any of the sarcastic comments about trading in for a younger model that crowded behind his teeth. “I was a real pretty-boy. Pity I didn’t manage to get out before the sarlacc ate it.”

Din flinched, guilt in the slump of his shoulders. “Boba, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know, I know you didn’t.” Boba sighed, cursing himself for letting his issues spill over onto Din. “That wasn’t fair.”

Din reached out, but waited for Boba to take his offered hand before pulling him in close, tucked against his side. Boba wondered if Din realized that he always held Boba and Grogu on his off side; it was such a protective posture, Din’s armored body a shield and his dominant shooting hand free. It felt safe in a way that Boba had almost forgotten.

He leaned against Din’s pauldron, the beskar cool and soothing against his cheek. “I’m sorry, cyare. Fenn’s right, I’ve been letting this whole thing get under my skin.” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “I’m worried he won’t like me, of all the ridiculous things. The troopers never did like me much, but I never cared before.”

Din’s arm tightened around his shoulder, and he made a low, unhappy sound.

“They had good reasons,” Boba assured him. “I was a little asshole to them before Buir died, and afterward I only got worse. After what happened on the Endurance…”

“You were a child,” Din said, always so much kinder than Boba deserved. “You were alone and grieving and in over your head, and the people who should have helped you took advantage of your trust.”

Boba’s eyes stung, and Grogu let out a sad little noise, reaching across Din’s chest plate toward him. Boba took him, the wriggly little weight of him always a comfort. “I’m okay, ad’ika,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the fine hair on top of his little head. “Just a sad memory.”

The med droid beeped. “Analysis complete,” it said.

Boba stood up straighter, though he didn’t step out of Din’s half-embrace. “What’s the verdict?”

“The patient has been in stable cryostasis for approximately twenty-eight point three standard years,” the droid said. “Prognosis upon reviving: chance of immediate death, seventeen percent. Chance of stasis toxicity syndrome, ninety-eight percent. Chance of severe stasis toxicity syndrome, eighty-four percent. Symptoms of severe stasis toxicity syndrome include, but are not limited to, temporary loss of hearing and/or vision, permanent loss of hearing and/or vision, aneurysm, stroke, cardiac arrhythmia, dizziness, drowsiness, confusion, cognitive impairment, skin ulcers, frostbite, numbness or tingling, neuralgia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, dry mouth, and death.”

“Dank farrik, Boba, you’ve got to get this thing a bedside manner module,” Fennec said.

“Yeah, probably,” Boba said. “Droid, what course of treatment provides the best prognosis for the patient?”

“Recommendation: remove patient from stasis using fifteen-hour five-stage protocol. Provide intravenous medication for reduction of pain and anxiety beginning in Phase 1-B. Add intravenous nutrition and hydration beginning in Phase 3. Additional recommendation: provide familiar audio inputs to the patient throughout revival protocol. Suggested audio inputs include: music, running water, bird song, speech by friend and/or family member, verbal encouragement. Prognosis of complete recovery of pre-stasis function within one standard year: thirty-eight percent. Prognosis of partial recovery of pre-stasis function with a functional impairment level of mild to moderate or better: eighty-seven percent.”

“The patient is a genetically modified trooper from the Clone Wars,” Boba said. “He should have improved healing; I uploaded the parameters to your memory banks yesterday.”

“Recalculating,” the droid said. “Amended prognosis of complete recovery: eighty-three percent. Amended prognosis of partial recovery with mild functional impairment or better: ninety-eight percent.”

“I guess even the long-necks were good for something,” Boba muttered. “All right, droid, proceed with the recommended protocols.”

“Shall I play a recording?” the droid asked. “Recommended track: ’Soothing Rainstorm.’”

“Kark, no,” Boba said. “He’ll think he’s on Kamino and panic. I’ll stay and read to him or something.” He reached out again, tracing the familiar features through the viewport. “After all, he’ll definitely recognize my voice.”

Chapter Text

Cold.

Everything hurt, and it was dark, and it was so cold.

He had to move, he had to—he—

He was burning he was freezing he was burning he was—

Everything hurt.

He had to get up. He had to run.

His body didn’t work.

He had to—he had to tell them—

He was so heavy, why was he so heavy—

He had to warn the Jedi. He had to—

“…agitation. Increasing dosage by ten...”

It was dark.

His armor was missing. He was lying on his back, stripped down to his blacks; they’d taken his armor. He’d been going to warn the General about the time bombs ticking down inside his brothers, but then there had been the droids.

He’d fought, he’d fought as hard as he could but there were so many of them, there were so many and they took him and they hurt him and then everything went dark and now… now he was…

He didn’t tell he didn’t tell they couldn’t make him tell—

Everything hurt. Why hadn’t they killed him? Was he already too late? Force, please, please let him not be too late—

He heard something. He thought he heard something. Were they coming back to finish the job?

“…Werda Verda a’den tratu, Manda’yaim kandosii adu… ” (…we are the rage of the shadow warriors, the noble children of Mandalore…)

Someone. Someone was here. Someone was… singing?

“ca’tra nau tracinya… (…light the night sky in flame…) gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a.” (Our vengeance burns brighter still.)

Not singing, exactly. Chanting.

It was fading in and out, oddly muffled, but that was a brother’s voice. That was the war chant they’d all learned as cadets. A piece of the culture that the clones had made for themselves, the same way they made everything else they owned: carefully assembled out of cast-offs, kept secret from outsiders, passed down from brother to brother. Bits of Prime’s language, things they’d learned from the trainers, gestures and battle-sign repurposed to hold other meanings. Small rituals and beliefs, picked up and shared and added to, theirs in a way few other things were.

There was a brother here, a vod—someone who would understand. Kix sagged in relief. They’d found him. They’d saved him. Jesse? No, not Jesse. This one sounded… older.

Kix tried to say something, but only managed a painful croak. The brother stopped his song.

“Droid! I think he’s waking up!”

Kix groaned. Tried to move—no, it hurt, it hurt. What had happened to him? Was this some new Seppie weapon?

“I know it hurts. We’re taking care of you, just let the med droid work and it’ll feel better soon.”

Kix wasn’t with the droids anymore. His brothers had found him. A brother was with him, comforting him. It would be all right—if it was safe to sing their songs, it was safe here. The brother would make sure of it.

There was something so comforting about his voice. He wasn’t Rex, but he sounded like Rex, or Commander Cody, or the Alphas. The older clones, the leaders and teachers. The elder brothers: ori’vode. They all sounded just a little different from the others, little quirks of accent that came straight from the Prime.

His voice scraped jagged in his throat. “O—ori’vod?”

The brother stopped talking mid-sentence.

No, no, don’t leave don’t leave—Kix tried to feel for him, his limbs clumsy and desperate—why couldn’t he see anything, where was he, where—

A hand caught his and held on. Warm. Safe. Familiar. A brother’s hand. “Easy there, vod.” His voice was shaky.

Scared, Kix thought. Relieved. This must be a brother who knew him, to be so worried.

“You’re gonna be all right,” the brother said, rubbing Kix’s hand. “Just take it easy and let the medicine work. You need to rest.”

“P-please,” Kix managed, clutching at him. “I found—there’s danger. Our brothers. The J-jedi. We have to—have to warn them, have to—we need the General. He’ll help. He’ll know how—please—”

“It’s okay,” the brother said. He sounded funny. “We… we know. We’ll tell him.”

“My General,” Kix said. “S-skywalker. Tell him. Tell—”

“We will,” the brother said. “You… you just rest, vod’ika. (little brother) Rest and get better. You did good, you delivered your message. We can take it from here, we… we’ll do everything that can be done to help them. You don’t need to do anything else right now but heal.”

“Promise,” Kix gasped. He could feel unconsciousness looming like the waves of a great sea, but he had to be sure.

“I promise, vod,” the brother said. He held on to Kix, tight and strong. Safe. “I swear it.”

Kix tried to thank him, but before the words made it out of his mouth he was already sinking again.

Kix drifted.

He wasn’t sure how many times he slept and woke, but any time he swam into consciousness he was always greeted with his brother’s hand in his, his brother’s voice speaking soft reassurances.

You’re safe here. You can rest here. I’ve got this watch, vod.

He had a distant feeling that he should probably be more worried about his situation—where was he? What was wrong with him? Where was everyone else?—but it was hard to muster the energy when he was so very tired, and so very sore, and his brother was there to keep him safe.

Kix was warm.

For a while, that was all he thought about—all he cared to think about. It was wonderful; no aching chill anywhere, finally, finally. And… and he didn’t hurt anymore. Honestly, he felt better than he had in a long time; even the lingering twinge in his bad hip that would usually have been bothering him after lying on his back for so long was silent.

Slowly, his senses started to register things beyond the absence of cold and pain. He was lying on something firm but yielding, conforming pleasantly to his back. He was covered with a blanket; where it touched his skin it was so, so soft. He could hear a muted click and whirr that felt natural and right to hear—an infusion pump, he thought.

That thought drew his attention to his own hand. He twitched a little, and felt the pull of adhesive tape and the dull tug of a needle.

Huh. Looked like he was the one being infused.

He opened his eyes, and felt his jaw drop at the sight of a pair of large green ears, barely visible in the soft gray light.

“General?” His voice came out in a rough squeak. Why would—General Yoda was supposed to be on Kashyyk, why would he possibly—

The owner of the green ears frowned and held a tiny, clawed finger up to its mouth. “Sssssssssss,” it hissed. Kix felt a little spit hit his cheek.

Okay. That was… not General Yoda. It was a lot smaller than General Yoda. And cute. Also, Kix hadn’t ever served under him but he was pretty sure that General Yoda didn’t make a habit of sitting on injured troopers’ chests while they were asleep in medbay and shushing them.

He made a questioning noise, though he tried to do it quietly. The little green being—could it be a baby General Yoda? It looked like a baby General Yoda—smiled at him, and pointed to one side.

Kix turned his head, taking the time to appreciate how much it didn’t hurt, and saw a man in rumpled black robes sitting in a chair beside Kix’s bed. His head was sunk forward, chin resting on his chest. He was asleep. He… he was holding Kix’s hand.

The memory came back to him in a flash. This must be the brother who had stayed with him through the pain and the cold and the dark. The steady voice, the safe warm hand. Ori’vod.

When Kix had woken up before, he’d been in the middle of the song. How long had this brother stayed at Kix’s side, just in case Kix needed him? How many of their songs had he sung, just in case Kix could hear?

The brother was bald, and Kix could see scarring on his face and scalp; the room was dim, so he couldn’t be sure, but they looked like some sort of burn scars. Fire, maybe, or corrosives. Maybe he was here for treatment, too.

Regardless, he was going to kark his neck six ways to Benduday sleeping like that. Kix wondered if he should wake him, but he looked exhausted, and the pale light in the room looked like the first stretches of dawn. If Ori’vod was like the other older vode—and from what Kix had experienced so far, he was very like them—he’d probably not go back to sleep if Kix woke him now. Too close to daybreak, too tempting to try to get a head start on whatever responsibilities he had.

Kix would let him rest a while longer.

The small weight on his chest shifted—seriously, the Yoda-baby was tiny, it couldn’t weigh more than a DC-15—and Kix felt a soft tug as little claws tangled up in his hair.

“Careful, buddy,” Kix whispered. “Don’t get yourself stuck.”

The baby looked at Kix with wide dark eyes, then turned to look at the sleeping brother, then back to Kix.

Kix chuckled softly. “Yeah, kid,” he said, keeping his voice as low as he could. “We look the same, don’t we? That’s because we’re brothers. Vode.”

Little ears perked up. “Vo?”

“That’s right. Vode.”

The baby grinned, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. Carnivore teeth, like Commander Tano. Kix made a mental note to make sure this outpost was feeding it the right sort of rations; Ahsoka had tried to live off GAR standard when she first joined the ship and had wound up halfway to a serious vitamin deficiency before they’d straightened it out.

“Bo vo,” the baby said, sounding very satisfied.

“Sure,” Kix said. “Close enough.”

The baby yawned, little face scrunching up adorably.

“You tired? You can take a nap if you want,” Kix offered. “It’s still early.”

“Nu,” the baby said, nodding. “Bo nu.” It climbed onto Kix’s pillow and nestled down into the space between his head and his shoulder, one hand still wrapped up in his hair. “Vo nu.”

Whatever that meant. Natborn tubies were so weird. Though, honestly, the actual General Yoda wasn’t always the most understandable, so it kind of made sense that the tubie version wouldn’t be, either.

“Sure, kid, whatever you say.” Kix agreed. A nap sounded good, actually. He did feel tired. And kind of floaty, still, though in a nice way. Like he was wrapped in fluffy clouds that were keeping away any bad stuff.

Heavy medication, probably. Which wasn’t exactly good, but not really bad, either; if Kix needed it, then it was encouraging that whoever ran this outpost was both willing and able to give it to him.

The Yoda-baby's presence was oddly soothing: like having a hot-water-bottle on his shoulder, if a hot-water-bottle made tiny, adorable snores next to his ear. Kix tried to hold still so he wouldn’t wake either of his sleeping companions.

He’d sleep some more, too. Just for a while.

Kix slid slowly into consciousness on the rocking waves of Ori’vod’s voice.

“…but Hod Haran smiled, knowing that Mythosaur could not go back on their bargain. Sure enough, when the sun went down and the moons rose, Mythosaur took off his armor, save for the smallest piece, and tied it into a bundle, and Hod Haran took it to the Children, so that they might study it, and learn its secrets. Five nights they did this, as Mythosaur had promised.

“As the last night drew to a close, the Children came to Hod Haran, and begged them not to take Mythosaur’s armor away, for it still had many secrets they had not learned. And Hod Haran grew angry, for the bargain had been struck, and it would sully their honor not to follow its terms.

“’No,’ said Hod Haran, ‘I shall not break my word to Mythosaur; no fortress can withstand when its foundations are laid with dishonor.’

“‘We will not let you take it,’ said the Children. ‘And you cannot stop us, for you are but one, and we are many.’”

A shrill noise interrupted the story. “No!” A high voice, familiar. “Ba!”

“That’s right, ad’ika, that was very bad of them,” Ori’vod said. Kix squinted; yes, that was the Yoda-baby, perched on Ori’vod’s lap and looking up at him with rapt attention.

He was doing voices for the story, Kix realized. Hod Haran, whoever that was, sounded a lot like a brother, while the Children had a sort of drawling, affected accent that reminded Kix of the more annoying Senators. He tried to stay very still; he wanted to hear the end of the story, now, and thought that Ori’vod would probably stop if he realized that Kix was awake.

“So Hod Haran cursed the Children,” Ori’vod continued, his voice picking up the storytelling cadence again, “whose selfishness would cause them to dishonor their vow. And for two days, the Children barred their gates against Hod Haran, and would not open them.

“But just as the sun rose on the third day, one of the Children came out of the city through a secret way, carrying the bundle in her hands.

“‘My kin have allowed their fear to swallow their honor,’ she said. ‘But I know that you speak truth, and so I have returned the armor to you, that you might keep your vow to Mythosaur. I am only sorry I could not do it sooner.’”

“‘Ah,’ said Hod Haran, ‘but what shall become of you, when the others learn what you have done?’

“‘I do not know for certain,’ the Child replied, ‘though they will be angry, and will punish me; but that does not change what I should do.’

“’Then come with me,’ said Hod Haran, ‘and carry the armor to Mythosaur yourself.’

“‘I will,’ said the Child, ‘although Mythosaur has been our enemy, and he will surely devour me; my clan would have stolen from him, so it is my duty to make it right.’”

The baby made a sad noise, ears drooping, and Ori’vod rubbed the top of its head. He spoke the Child’s lines in his own accent, but soft and high like a cadet before their voice had broken.

Kix should try to remember this story to tell to his brothers, later. The cadets especially would probably really like it, with a hero that sounded like them.

“So the Child walked with Hod Haran through the desert,” Ori’vod continued, “across the winding ways to the cavern where Mythosaur hid, for without his armor he was vulnerable. As they drew near, Mythosaur called out, in a voice like thunder, that caused the Child’s heart to tremble in her chest: ‘Hod Haran, why are you so late in returning my armor to me? For our bargain was for five nights only, when the sun had set and the moons risen, and it has been three days since.’”

The baby was hanging on Ori’vod’s every word; honestly, so was Kix. Mythosaur’s voice was impressively deep and rumbly, firm like one of the Commanders when they really meant business. Kix wondered what batch Ori’vod was from. He seemed like he was probably an officer.

“The Children acted with dishonor,’ Hod Haran said, ‘and would have stolen your armor from you in their fear. But this one would atone for the cowardice of her clan, and stole it back to return to you, even though you have been her enemy.’

“And the Child stepped forward to the mouth of the cavern, and knelt on the sand, and though she trembled with fear, she lifted up her voice to say what must be said.

“‘Mighty Mythosaur,’ she said, ‘my clan has committed a grievous harm upon you. They tried to steal your armor, in violation of the agreement between you and Hod Haran. I accept the debt of their dishonorable acts. I knew that I should steal back your armor and return it to you, but I was afraid, and did not act as quickly as I should have. I accept the debt of my cowardice. For the harm that my people have done unto you through their action, and that I have done to you through inaction, I accept the debt. Ni ceta, oh Mighty One; I kneel before you for judgment. I beg that you will accept back that which is rightfully yours. And further, I offer you my own life, in payment, if that is what you deem just recompense.’

“Then Mythosaur looked at the Child, and said to her: ‘Truly, the Children have been my enemy, for they have hunted me, and I have slain them. But you have acted with honor, even when it would not save you, and that is no small thing. I accept your penance, but I will not demand your life for it.’”

The baby perked up, letting out a happy coo, and Ori’vod smiled.

“So Mythosaur came forth from the cavern, so vast that he blotted out the sun,” he said, holding up his arms as though to illustrate how big. “His mighty tusks were as long as a fallen veshok tree and as sharp as the finest spear, but his skin was soft without his armor, save only for the smallest piece. ‘Because you have acted with honor,’ he said to the Child, ‘you have proven that you deserve to wear my armor, and to know its secrets. Henceforth, you shall be called Goran, the Armorer, and I shall be your ally, and will stand at your side against your enemies. Now, show me what you have learned.’

“So he took Goran into his cavern, and touched the rock with his talons, and where he touched, sacred beskar came forth from the earth. And Goran took the beskar, and lit the forge-fire, and shaped for herself a suit of armor, as the Children had learned to do.

“And Mythosaur looked upon her work, and saw that it was fine, though there was one thing missing; for Mythosaur had held back the smallest piece of his armor, which lay above his heart.”

The baby squeaked, excited, and reached up to tap the middle of Ori’vod’s chest.

“That’s right,” Ori’vod said, laying his hand on the spot. “That’s where it goes. You’ll have to show Buir later, elek?” (yes)

“Lek!”

Ori’vod smiled. The scars were intimidating, but under them his face was so kind. “So Mythosaur reached up, and took the smallest piece of armor from his body, and placed it in the hole above Goran’s heart.

“‘This is the last secret,’ Mythosaur said. ‘For the heart of the armor must be worn with honor, and without honor, a warrior will easily fall.’ And Goran forged Mythosaur a new iron heart from sacred beskar, and ever afterward they wore each other’s hearts in their armor, protected by their vows to one another. And the Children who would have stolen Mythosaur’s armor forever had a hole above their hearts, and did not understand why they could never gain the victories they desired over their foes. But Goran and her family grew strong, and prospered, and ever afterward painted Mythosaur on their armor, to remind them that their protection would only ever be as strong as their word.

“This is the story of how Hod Haran gave the Mando’ade the secrets of Mythosaur’s armor, and why the kar’ta beskar reminds us that we must always honor our word. This is the Way.”

“Way!” the baby echoed, bouncing in Ori’vod’s lap. He picked it up and held it up above his head, beaming as it giggled and kicked its tiny feet. He was one of the brothers who had dimples.

Kix echoed his smile; whatever ordeal had given this brother his scars, it was good to see him so obviously happy here. Kix wondered if the Yoda-baby was Ori’vod’s commander, or maybe if Ori’vod had been seconded to help look after some of the Jedi tubies.

The thought of the Jedi seemed to break through some kind of wall in his mind, and the soft cloud of good drugs melted away as Kix remembered his mission in a searing flash. He didn’t think he made any noise, stricken afresh with horror, but the baby spun around to look at him, which made Ori’vod look over, too.

“He’s awake? Vod, are you all right? Can you understand me?” He stood up quickly, scooping the baby onto one hip, the chair clattering on the floor behind him.

Kix wanted to answer, but… the chips. The Jedi. His brothers.

“Vo!” The baby was reaching toward Kix, one little hand outstretched.

“No, ad’ika, he doesn’t need any more healing right now,” Ori’vod said. He moved closer, taking Kix’s hand in the one that wasn’t holding the baby. “You’re all right, vod’ika, you’re safe. Can you try to match my breathing?” He took a long, exaggerated breath. In, out.

Kix tried, though it was a struggle, the air snagging and jerking in his chest.

“Vo ow,” the baby insisted, trying to wriggle free. “Owwie!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ori’vod said, his voice catching. “It—it’s not that kind of owwie. You can’t fix it the same way.”

Kix finally wrestled his breathing under control. He was scaring the baby, he had to keep it together. He knew how to compartmentalize, he’d trained for it. He could do this.

“I—I’m okay,” he managed, panting. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to s-scare you.”

He held out his other hand, shaky though it was, and the baby hurled himself out of Ori’vod’s arms, landing with a soft thud on the mattress beside Kix and curling up between his arm and his side. Kix curled his arm around its little back, his eyes burning, and looked up to where Ori’vod was watching them. His face was creased with concern, and Kix felt a pang of guilt for shattering his peaceful moment with the baby.

“Sorry,” he said again.

“Nothing to apologize for, vod. Far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned the right.” Ori’vod squeezed Kix’s hand. “You feeling a little more clear? You were in bad shape, the med droid had you dosed up pretty good while you were working through the stasis sickness.”

The cold. The dark. The way nothing had made sense, how muffled his hearing had been, how weak he still was.

“Kriff,” Kix said. “That explains a lot.” He took a few more deep breaths, trying to settle the lurching in his guts. He tried to sit up, but his muscles wouldn’t hold him; he collapsed back against the pillow with a groan.

Ori’vod and the Yoda-baby gave him remarkably similar glares.

“I need to make my report, sir,” Kix said, trying to find some professionalism. “I have high priority intel for the Jedi High Council. I need to get in touch with General Skywalker ASAP. May I please speak to the commanding officer of this outpost?”

Ori’vod’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose that’s me,” he said. “But—”

“Please, sir,” Kix interrupted. “Please, I have to say this. This message must get to General Skywalker!”

The baby perked up next to him. “Lu?”

“His dad,” Ori’vod said, and the baby drooped, crowding a little closer to Kix.

“Sir—”

Ori’vod cut him off with one raised hand. “What’s your name, vod?”

“CT-6116, sir. Kix. CMO, 501st Legion.”

“Kix. I’m very glad to meet you.” He sounded like he meant it. “Look, I’m not the best with diplomacy, but I like to hear it straight when there’s bad news, so I’ll do you the same honor. All right?”

Kix nodded, stiff and terrified. Bad news. It seemed like that was all they’d gotten for months, now.

“You are currently on Tatooine, in the palace formerly owned by Jabba the Hutt,” Ori’vod said, measured and clear like he was leading a debriefing. “It is currently owned by me. You are my welcome guest, and I will do anything in my power to aid you in whatever way you may need.” He set his jaw, squared his shoulders up a little; Kix recognized the posture. He’d seen it in the mirror, preparing to tell a brother that he couldn’t do anything more to help him.

“You were captured by Separatists and put in cryostasis to be delivered to Count Dooku. The ship you were on had a hypernav accident and crashed in the Western Reaches, where you were recovered about a week and a half ago and brought here.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “You were in stasis for over twenty-eight years,” he said quietly. “I—I’m so sorry, Kix.”

Too late. Everything that happened, how he had fought and run, how close he had gotten—and he was decades too late.

“My brothers?” he asked, shaking. “The—the Jedi?”

Ori’vod reached out and touched the baby’s shoulder. “Little one,” he said gently. “Do you want to go somewhere else for a while? You don’t have to hear this. You can go play with Ba’vodu Fennec while Kix and I talk, and come back later.”

The baby looked frightened, ears low and eyes huge, but shook its little head, curling its claws into Kix’s shirt. “Owwie.”

Ori’vod sighed. “It’s not your job to fix every hurt in the galaxy, kiddo.”

A stubborn scowl.

“Fine, it’s your choice, but you will go meditate with Buir afterward,” Ori’vod said. “Take it or leave it, we don’t need any more telepathic night terrors.”

The baby seemed to think it over for a moment, then nodded.

“All right then.” Ori’vod squeezed Kix’s hand. “I will tell you about the end of the Clone Wars, and the Fall of the Jedi.”

Chapter Text

Despite having lived through them, Boba had never really truly thought about the sheer volume of deeply fucked-up things that had happened since the Clone Wars. The Jedi, the Empire, Mandalore, Alderaan… when you tried to put it all together in a high-level summary, the last few decades had been almost ridiculously horrible for everyone who wasn’t a high-ranking Imp. He hated to have to tell Kix the story; it felt so cruel, not to let him have at least a bit of time to recover from his ordeal before giving him such shattering news. But it had been obvious that he wouldn’t wait; as soon as he’d metabolized enough of the drugs to remember it, he’d been desperate to finish his mission.

And kark, if that wasn’t a kick in the teeth. To know that a clone had discovered the Sith plot before it happened, that Dooku’s men had only barely stopped him before he’d managed to warn the Jedi. To have confirmation that the rumors Boba had heard over the years were true; the clones hadn’t betrayed the Jedi at all, but had been forced to do what they had done, turned into Palatine’s puppets.

Boba had always wondered. He’d not had that many interactions with the GAR, but from what he knew, the clones had been almost fanatically devoted to the Jedi; they’d spent their entire lives being trained to be, after all. The entire army, turning that quickly? It had always seemed off. Suspicious.

Boba would never consider himself a fan of the Jedi Order, but he didn’t hate them anymore, either. Even in the darkest times, when he’d been grieving and consumed with rage over losing his buir, he hadn’t wanted to kill all of them, only Windu. Whichever supposed crimes they might really be guilty of, they had more than paid for it; the massacre of their children was a stain on the galaxy that would never be cleansed.

Boba tried not to think of it much, especially now that Grogu had come into his life. The thought of a whole Temple full of children like him, sweet and bright and innocent and kind, slaughtered in their home by men wearing Boba’s face…

Boba hadn’t really been Mandalorian since he was ten, had lived outside the culture for all the decades since, but he was still Mandalorian enough to have absorbed their strongest cultural values. Harm to children, especially as an act of war, was the most loathsome crime to his father’s people: their greatest taboo, the unforgivable sin. They even had a word for one who would commit such acts: demogolka.

It was no secret, or at least it hadn’t been to anyone with any familiarity with Mandalorian culture before the Kryzes’ rise to power. Palpatine must surely have known. Boba wondered if that was part of the reason the Sith had chosen Jango for their template. Clone a Mandalorian, who had once been betrayed and sold into slavery. Turn those clones into slaves themselves. Force them into committing the most repulsive act any true Mandalorian could imagine, on people they had been raised their entire lives to serve with loyalty and devotion. It went far beyond ruthlessness or even simple cruelty; it was pointed, personal. A visceral, profane violation.

Had they known? Had their minds been aware of what was happening, trapped and powerless to stop their bodies from carrying out the Order?

Boba shuddered, sour bile rising in the back of his throat, and he forced himself to stop that train of thought before he lost control of his mental shielding. Grogu didn’t need to be exposed to those emotions.

At least Boba had managed to gloss over exactly which battalion had led the march on the Coruscant Temple, one of the few small mercies he’d been able to grant. Neither Kix nor Grogu needed to know how close they had come to meeting in a very different, horrible way.

The 501st Legion. Kix had sounded so proud to be attached to it, his trust in his general—General Skywalker, who’d died in the first wave of the Purge, whose son now walked around like a ghost, spending his life scrabbling in rubbish heaps looking for scraps of his people—so apparent in his voice.

It had probably pleased Palpatine to no end to corrupt that, to see the 501st become Vader’s Fist. The better something was, the more pleasure he’d taken in ruining it.

The longer Boba talked, the paler Kix grew, his expression fixed and his grip on Boba’s hand getting steadily tighter. Grogu was practically buried in Kix’s blankets, just the trembling tip of one ear showing. Boba wished he’d stood firm and not let him stay.

There was more to tell—of course there was—but Boba couldn’t do this any longer. Kix had the main points; anything else was just details.

“Vod’ika,” he said, his voice coming out rough. “That’s enough for today. Give yourself a chance to process before you go looking for any more horrors.”

“How—” Kix’s voice broke. “How am I supposed to process this? They’re all dead!” He sobbed, loud and painful. “They’re all dead, and I could have saved them. I could have saved them, if I hadn’t—if I’d just—”

“Hey, hey, no, easy,” Boba said, his gut twisting in sympathy and guilt. “Come here.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and lifted Kix to rest against his shoulder, holding him close and rubbing his back like Buir used to do for him when he woke crying from bad dreams.

Kix stiffened, then sagged into the embrace, knotting his hands weakly in Boba’s robes and weeping into his neck. Grogu moved closer, pressing into the space between them; Boba could feel the warmth of Grogu’s head near his armpit and the tiny prickle of his little claws as he dug one set of them into Boba’s robes. He moved his arm lower so that it encircled Grogu, too.

“You did the best you could,” Boba said, trying to project confidence and truth in his voice and emotions. “You did everything you could. This plot was in the making for decades before you were even alive, and you still found them out, Kix. They needed an entire cruiser full of droids to stop you. None of your brothers would blame you for not being able to fight your way singlehanded through a whole cruiser after being tortured, you know they wouldn’t. And I may not be an expert on Jedi, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t either.”

Kix just kept crying, desperate and painful, and Boba held on as best he could, giving him what he had to offer: a familiar touch, a familiar voice. It went on long enough that he started to grow worried; it was easy to dehydrate on Tatooine at the best of times. He stirred, a half-formed thought rising of calling the med droid to check on Kix.

Kix made an awful sound, gripping Boba’s robes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t tear. “Don’t leave,” Kix begged through his sobs. “Ori’vod, please, don’t—don’t leave me alone.”

Boba froze, feeling awful, and tightened his arms around him. “I won’t,” Boba said, his own face wet. This poor kid was going to break his heart. Boba stroked his hair. “You aren’t alone, I won’t abandon you. You’ll always have a place with me, as long as you want one. I promise, vod’ika, I swear it. Ori’haat.” (I swear it's true.)

Kix wept and clung to him for a long time. When his sobs finally tapered off and he grew quiet, Boba relaxed his hold just a bit, rubbing Kix’s back.

“You want to lie down?” Boba asked gently. “Cuddle with the baby? He’d like that. He’s real taken with you.”

Grogu made an agreeing noise.

Kix took a deep, hitching breath. “If I do, will… will you still stay nearby? Please? I’m sorry, I know you must have duties, I just—” he broke off, his shoulders heaving. His voice was painfully small, thick with tears, his weakened body still trembling in Boba’s arms; before Boba even realized what he was doing, he’d kissed the top of his head the same way he did with Grogu.

“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, wanting nothing more in the world than to somehow help his brother not to hurt so. “I’ll have to step away for just a few minutes; you need some water, and I want the med droid to give you a scan. I’ll leave your door open when I go, and I won’t leave the med suite. As soon as I’m back, I’ll stay in the room with you until you’re feeling better.”

Kix’s hands tensed before he relaxed them, letting go of Boba’s clothes. “All… all right. Thank you.” He rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve.

Boba helped him lie back down, making sure he was comfortable against the pillow and pulling the blanket smooth. Grogu lost no time in spreading out on Kix’s chest, one big ear over his heart. It was something he did when he wanted comfort; Boba was oddly touched when Kix laid a shaky hand protectively over the child’s back.

Boba stroked Grogu’s head, trying to aim his feelings at him again: how much he loved the child, his confidence in the safety of the palace, his fierce determination to put himself between his family and any threat. How anyone who wanted to get to Grogu would have to get through not only Boba, but Din and Fennec and Santo and the Mods and the rancor as well. He was never sure how much Grogu understood, when he did this, but the child let out a little sigh and relaxed some, so he hoped that it had helped.

“His name is Grogu,” Boba said. “He has the Force.” He didn’t call him a Jedi, didn’t mention Skywalker Junior or Tano or the whispers he’s heard of Bail Organa making safe spaces in the Rebellion for clones who got away. There’d be time enough for all of that later, when Kix wasn’t so shocky and traumatized.

Kix sniffled. “Hi, Grogu,” he whispered, his voice wavering. “I—I’m really glad to meet you.”

Grogu patted him, making a soothing little noise. Kix pulled the blanket up to cover him, careful and protective the way that the clones always had been with those younger and smaller than they were.

The thought of those gentle hands, raised in violence against children just like—

No. Boba threw that thought into a deep corner of his mind and layered more shields on top of it. He couldn’t afford to break down now; he was needed. “Watch him, kid,” Boba told Grogu. “I’m going to get him some water, back in a minute.”

He bolted into the fresher and let himself sag back against the door as soon as it closed behind him, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looked like hell, face mottled and sticky, horror still shadowing his reddened eyes.

They had all been ugly criers, he remembered.

He wished Din was there; everything always felt more manageable when Boba could feel Din’s presence beside him. But Din was in Freetown, taking care of some business on Boba’s behalf so that Boba could stay in medical with Kix.

They’d thought that it would be an easy day. The droid had projected that Kix would stay unconscious at least another forty hours; today had been meant to be a chance for Din—and Fennec and Santo, who were downstairs running a session of court—to get some pressing gotra business done, so that Boba could spend however much time was needed on his private affairs without inviting too much scrutiny. Boba had planned to spend the day doing datawork and reading aloud to the trooper, in the hopes that his voice would be calming to the unconscious man.

It was a good plan. They just hadn’t accounted for Grogu.

Since Din and Grogu had come to live with Boba, the three of them had developed something of a bedtime routine. It was highly domestic, even cliched—a special blanket, a toy, stories and a lullaby. At least one of them present, though Grogu liked it best when they were both there. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary; Grogu could and had slept under any number of conditions of varying child-appropriateness. But Boba had decided, somewhere between the sarlacc and the palace, that he was through limiting himself to the bare necessities. Grogu had not had an easy life. If it made him happy for the Daimyo of Tatooine to sing him to sleep at night, then that was what he would have.

Besides, it wasn’t as though it was any great sacrifice. Boba liked bedtime; it felt strangely healing, to be trusted with such a thing. Boba Fett, Notorious Bounty Hunter, would never have been caught tucking a baby into bed with his little stuffed bantha, or telling him stories, or singing him to sleep with the same songs his own father had sung to him. But Boba Fett, Head of His Family, treasured every opportunity.

Din would offer up stories of his own, sometimes, but more often he preferred to listen, tender and radiant and looking between them as though he could hardly believe it was real.

When they were away on missions, Din had told him, Grogu would fuss at bedtime until Din played him a recording Boba had made of himself singing the Foundling’s Lullaby. When he’d heard that, Boba had been forced to mute his external comms until he was able to regain his composure.

Somehow, Fennec still knew. She teased him for going soft for days afterward, though always with a warm look in her eye that said she was happy for him.

The Foundling’s Lullaby had a simple tune, as was appropriate for the sleep-deprived mind of a new parent, and a meter that was well suited to rocking or bouncing a child. The words were deeply Mandalorian, a string of promises to a foundling: to protect them, to teach them, to give them a home and help them grow.

“Ke nuhoyi, ad’ika,” it began. “Gar morut’yc.” Sleep, little one, you’re safe here.

Boba hadn’t been a foundling, but his father had been; Boba had always wondered if perhaps Jaster Mereel had sung it to Jango, and that was why Jango had sung it to him.

When he’d left Kix’s room to sleep—convinced by Din, Fennec, and the med droid that Kix wouldn’t wake up and need him overnight—he’d left the recording playing quietly, hoping it would comfort any part of Kix that was aware through the drugs and stasis sickness.

Jaster to Jango, Jango to Boba, Boba to Grogu, now Boba to Kix, albeit under very different circumstances. It felt right.

Grogu himself had been notably well-behaved all evening, which should in retrospect have been their first clue that he was up to something. He’d meekly allowed himself to be tucked up into his little hammock and told a bedtime story (a sanitized version of one of the jobs he’d done with Ventress and Vos, which was one of Grogu’s favorites; Boba wasn’t sure if Grogu had known Vos before or he just liked to hear about Jedi). He’d only needed his lullaby sung twice before he’d closed his big eyes, cuddled his bantha, and gone peacefully to sleep.

Or at least, he’d looked like it.

What he’d actually done, apparently, was wait until Din and Boba were asleep, go downstairs, infiltrate the medbay without alerting anyone, and Force-heal Kix in the middle of the night.

Boba had woken in the small hours and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. He’d eventually left their bedroom without turning on any lights and gone downstairs to check on Kix; sometimes he had justifiable concerns (or, as Fennec called it, “hovered like an overprotective mother tooka”) and needed to check on things.

He’d found Grogu curled up and snoozing on Kix’s pillow, claws wrapped up in his curls, and Kix’s monitors showing normal, healthy sleep.

He’d sent a message to Din’s comm letting him know where they were before pulling up a chair next to the bed. At least he’d be able to spare Din the panic of waking up to find Grogu missing. Boba would have panicked himself, if he hadn’t been so focused on not waking anyone up that he’d gone straight out the door without verifying that the little lump of blankets in the hammock slung between their bedposts still had a child in it.

It wasn’t that he was upset that Kix was healed, or that he’d woken; it was just that Boba hadn’t quite been ready. He’d thought he’d have more time to get used to seeing his face—Boba’s face—Buir’s face—looking so young, unlined and unscarred, bringing back what felt like every memory Boba had ever tried to suppress.

No matter. Kix was awake, now, and he needed Boba to hold it together for his sake, so that was what Boba would do.

He splashed his face with water, then caught some in a cupped hand to drink. The water in the palace was cool and tasted sharply mineral, pumped up from a secret aquifer that was the real reason the location had been continuously inhabited for so long. It was blessedly unlike the water on Kamino, which every clone could attest tasted funny even though the longnecks insisted their desalination process was scientifically perfect.

Boba dampened a clean cloth, then sent the med droid in to check on Kix while he gathered up a few other supplies. He worked as quickly as he could, not wanting to leave Kix alone too long, though he knew Grogu was very comforting when he wanted to be. There was considerable debate around the palace as to whether it was Jedi magic (Boba), emotional manipulation (Fennec), some kind of survival trait of his species (Krrsantan), or simply everyone loving Grogu because he was the most perfect and adorable child who had ever existed in the galaxy (Din, who cut a terrifying figure in his beskar’gam but was the most sweetly doting father Boba had ever known.)

Whatever the truth, Boba hoped that it was helping Kix cope with the morning’s revelations. He wouldn’t have wished a shock like that on anyone, but he also knew how much worse it was to know that something terrible had happened but not what. At least this way, Kix only had to cope with a single horror instead of every one his mind could conjure up.

He got back to Kix’s room just as the droid was finishing its scan, which confirmed the success of Grogu’s clandestine healing expedition. Physically, Kix was well-healed. He’d need treatments to build up his atrophied muscles and get his organs used to digesting food again, but his prognosis was excellent.

“Well, ad’ika, I guess you got your way after all,” Boba said, gently tweaking the tip of one of Grogu’s ears.

“No ow,” Grogu said, radiating smugness. He patted Kix with a proprietary air; Din would be happy to learn that he’d already managed to pass on the Mandalorian adoption instinct.

Boba really hoped Kix would turn out to be one of the clones who had never heard of him. Grogu would be inconsolable if his new friend refused to live under the roof of a—under Boba’s roof. And the more that he interacted with Kix, the more that Boba thought he’d be inconsolable too.

Jii ner aliit cuy gar yaim, as the Foundling’s Lullaby said. Now my family is your home. Boba hoped that it would hold true for Kix the way it had for Boba, and his father, and his—and Grogu. That Kix would want to stay here, even after he knew the truth.

“I brought midmeal,” Boba said, setting his supplies down on the bedside table. “Or part of it, anyway. The rest will come up from the kitchens after peti’nuhoy—that’s the rest break at midday, when both suns are at their peak.”

He handed Kix the damp cloth. “Thought you might want to wipe your face off,” he said. “Then you’re to drink at least one of these hydration packs now, and another one in an hour.” He lined them up on the side of the table closest to Kix. (They were meiloorun flavor; that was Boba’s favorite, so he figured there was a decent chance Kix would like it too. Same taste buds, after all.) “Droid says no solid food yet,” he continued, “but it wants you to try to drink at least half of this over the next couple hours.” He held up a refeeding ration—a bland but nutritious protein slurry that was safe and gentle on deprived bodies—and set it down next to the hydration packs.

“That’s a specialized supply,” Kix said, tilting his head curiously. Boba remembered that he’d said he was a medic. “You’re well-equipped here.”

Boba shrugged. “We need it often enough to keep some around.” He hadn’t necessarily intended to get into the abolition business when he’d made his move on Fortuna, but he hadn’t not intended it either. He’d heard enough from his father about his years enslaved on a spice freighter that his grudge against both spicers and slavers was worn-in and bitterly personal.

Boba shook off that train of thought before his reaction could upset Grogu, and handed the child a strip of jerky before opening a box of mujafruit juice for him. (Grogu didn’t have the fine motor skills to handle the straw yet, and it had only taken one Force-induced juice box explosion for Boba to learn his lesson.)

“Our lunch will be up in a bit, but here’s a snack to tide you over,” he said.

“Ray!” Grogu said cheerfully, his best attempt at “vor’e.”

“Good job on manners,” Boba said. “Kih’parjai. You’re welcome.”

He took the cloth back when Kix was done with it, tossing it into the laundry bin in the corner. He pushed the button that would raise the head of the biobed, then picked up the hydration pack, inserted the little straw, bent it to a convenient drinking angle, and handed it to Kix, keeping his hand on it until he was sure Kix’s hold was secure.

Kix raised an eyebrow at him. “Thanks, ori’vod,” he said dryly, then took a slow sip from the hydro pack.

Boba realized that he’d just very obviously done the same thing for Kix as he’d done for the baby, and winced. “Sorry,” he said. “Habit.”

“It’s fine,” Kix said, rolling his eyes. “I’m used to it. You must be from one of the command batches, they all get broody and overprotective with injured vode.”

Boba flinched before he could stop himself.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Kix said. His voice had gone tight, and Boba saw him glancing anxiously between Boba and the door. “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Don’t leave me alone. Boba could practically hear the words hanging in the air between them. He could take the out, he knew; Kix wouldn’t protest if he changed the subject. But the thought of taking advantage of Kix like that soured his stomach. It had been one thing to respond when Kix was delirious and frightened and calling for his lost brothers; now, it would be deceptive to let him continue to assume that Boba was one of them. And it wasn’t as though Boba could continue to hide his identity indefinitely; Kix would learn it sooner or later. If Kix hated Boba for his crimes against the vode, it was better to learn that now, rather than after they’d all had time to get… attached.

After all, no fortress can withstand when its foundations are laid with dishonor.

“I will tell you,” Boba said quietly. “You deserve to know. But before I do, I want to make one thing clear.” He laid his closed fist over his heart. “I vow that for as long as you wish it, you will find shelter in my home and food at my table. You are part of my clan, and these things are yours by right. At the same time, you will never be compelled to remain here, and if you wish to leave, I will provide you the means to do so. You do not, and will not, owe me anything in exchange, save that you do not betray our secrets to those who would seek to do us harm.”

Kix stared at him, his eyes wide and serious. “Of course I won’t betray you,” he said. “But you’re scaring me, vod. Where’s all this coming from?”

“Experience.” Boba tried to smile, but he could feel that it was a puny, twisted thing. “I’m not usually very popular with the vode. For good reasons.” He focused on his breath, trying to stop the tremble in his hands. “I’m not from a command batch. The truth is that I don’t have a batch at all. I am like you, but not. I was cloned on Kamino like you were, and lived there as a child, but I was not altered like the other vode, and I did not live among you.” He forced himself to meet Kix’s gaze. “I am a clone of Jango Fett, but I am also his son, made as part of his payment for donating his genes for the army. My name is—”

“Boba?” Kix cut him off, his expression blank with shock. “You’re little Boba?”

Boba couldn’t help glancing down at himself. “Well. I was.” He rubbed at the scar on his jaw. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember if we… met, before,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” Kix said, “but I was pretty close with Captain Rex. He said you used to spend time with his batch, sometimes, back on Kamino. And then after what—after the Endurance… people talked.”

“Yes,” Boba said, bleak. “I imagine they did.” He took a step backwards, keeping himself out of the path between Kix and the door. He knelt on the floor, ignoring the fiery burn in his bad knee. He kept his back straight, his open palms laid on his thighs, and met Kix’s eyes, even though he wanted to hide his shame.

He had never done this before, but he knew how. He had thought about it for a long time, what he would do if he ever had the chance.

“I have committed a grievous harm upon your clan,” he said, translating the ritual words into Basic to be sure Kix would understand them. “One of your vode was killed by a trap I laid for the man who killed my father. I accept the debt of his life. Many more were killed or wounded when I caused the Endurance to crash. I accept the debt of their suffering. I brought an enemy into your clan’s stronghold, and she killed many vode as they lay wounded and helpless. I accept the debt of their lives.” He was crying again, he noticed distantly. He thought Kix might be too, though his vision was too blurry to know for sure. “I let Aurra Sing abandon an escape pod of cadets, knowing that it might mean their deaths. I accept the debt of their fates. I failed to stop Aurra Sing from sh—” his voice broke, and he forced it back. He had to finish. “From shooting your brother P-ponds. I accept the debt of his life.” He was almost through. “For the harm that I have done to you and yours, through action and inaction, I accept the debt. I kneel before you for judgment, and will accept whatever penalty you deem just recompense for what I have done.” He bowed his head, the final gesture of the ritual apology; baring one’s neck, in case the person you had wronged demanded your life as forfeit. “Ni ceta, (I kneel; the most serious Mandalorian apology) Kix.”

He felt scoured out, anguished at the memories of what he had done, but there was relief there, too: of setting down a thirty years’ burden, of exhaling a too-long held breath.

There was a long silence. Boba forced himself to wait.

“They didn’t die,” Kix said at last.

“What?”

“The cadets,” Kix said. “In the escape pod. The Jedi found them. They didn’t even have time to get hungry.”

“Oh,” Boba said. Another sob caught in his throat, and he heard Grogu make a sad noise. He probably should have taken him somewhere else before he did this. He just hadn’t been thinking straight, sleep-deprived and worried and guilty, terrified of how much he was starting to want what he was almost certain to lose. “I’m glad. Thank you for telling me.”

Kix swore. “Boba, get off the kriffing floor,” he said. “You don’t have to, to kneel to me, kark, and definitely not for something Aurra Sing did. What the kark did the longnecks put in your tube to make you so dramatic?”

“I—nothing,” Boba said. He felt dizzy. Kix hadn’t told him to leave. He wasn’t yelling at Boba, hadn’t called him a murderer or a traitor. Was he actually going to let Boba earn his forgiveness? He felt almost sick with hope. “I told you, I was unaltered. An exact copy of my father. It was part of his contract.”

“Then it’s all Prime’s fault,” Kix said. “Though I guess that does explain some things about Fives.” He sighed. “I thought I told you to get off the floor. Do not make me ask your baby to pick you up with the Force.”

“Bo up,” Grogu said, holding out his hand with a hopeful look at Kix.

Kix shook his head. “Not yet, Commander. Only if he doesn’t get up by himself.”

Boba clambered to his feet, unsteady and aching. “You never said what you want me to do to atone,” he said.

“You don’t think saving me from cold storage and torture droids is enough?”

He didn’t do that to make Kix forgive him. He did that because Kix was his—was a brother, and he didn’t deserve to be hurt anymore. “No.”

“Just get over here, di’kut. (dumbass) You’re upsetting the baby.”

That spurred him to action, and he stumbled over to the bed, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes, desperately trying to bring up the mental shields that his father had taught him. Grogu was still sitting on top of Kix, looked up at him with sad eyes and drooping ears. “Bo ow.”

Boba bit back a dismayed sound, not wanting to make things worse. He’d been making one bad decision after another all day.

“I’m so sorry, cyar’ika,” (sweetheart) he said. “I shouldn’t have done this in front of you.” He held out his arms, afraid that Grogu wouldn’t even want him near, not when he’d hurt him with his unshielded feelings.

Grogu made a cross little noise, then jumped into his arms the way he always did. Boba held him close, letting him cling to his robes and push his head into the crook of Boba’s neck, taking deep, snuffly breaths. It was something he did to calm down when he was upset; they suspected that his species had sharper senses than humans did and the scent of familiar people was comforting.

“Bo,” Grogu said, muffled. Boba felt a thick wave of feelings hit him like a slap; love calm calm cookies love calm safe jetpack safe love, warm and messy and precious. He shuddered under the weight of it.

“I think he forgives you,” Kix said. “Damn, he’s a little powerhouse, isn’t he? I felt that.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Boba murmured, turning his face to kiss Grogu’s dear, wrinkled head; the ghostly aftertaste of Grogu’s favorite cookies was still sweet on his tongue.

Grogu blinked at him, obviously sleepy after what must have been the Force equivalent to shouting at the top of his lungs, for it to have gotten through to Boba so clearly. It was humbling, to feel something like that directed at you from someone so pure and bright. Boba didn’t deserve it, but oh, how he wanted to be worthy.

“He loves you a lot,” Kix said. “Pretty good character reference.”

Boba swallowed hard. “He’s a child.”

“So were you.”

Boba looked up, startled. “What?”

“You’re unaltered,” Kix said. “So you age like a natborn. You were, what, eleven when the Endurance went down?”

“Twelve.”

“So like a six-year cadet,” Kix said. “Barely more than a tubie. Kids that age can barely keep their bunks clean, let alone make complicated moral decisions.”

“I knew what I was doing,” Boba said. “I wanted revenge for my father. I didn’t intend to hurt anyone else, but I should have known what was going to happen. It was obvious that it was never going to be anything but messy.”

“Obvious to you now, sure,” Kix said. “But I repeat: you were a child. With a tiny child brain and a child’s understanding of the world, and nobody to teach you any better except a bounty hunter that even the other bounty hunters thought was too unstable to work with.”

“My father used to work with her sometimes,” Boba said. “She said she wanted to help me get justice for his murder. I trusted her.”

“Which, true, was not a good decision on your part,” Kix said. “But understandable, given the circumstances. And you paid a high enough price for it in the end.” He shook his head. “Sit down,” he said, patting the edge of the biobed next to his hip. “It’s making my neck hurt, looking up at you.”

Boba sat.

“You know the thing about the Endurance we talked about the most, after a while?”

Boba shook his head.

“How karked it was, that the Republic sent a child to adult maximum-security prison over it, and nobody said anything, because that child was a clone.”

Boba shuddered. “The—the Jedi did,” he said. “Windu. The one who killed Buir. I found a recording, years later. He testified to the court. Argued for mercy, because of my age and the extenuating circumstances. It made me so angry.”

“Why?”

“It just—it felt like gloating. Self-righteous. It happened in battle, but he still—he killed Buir right in front of me and left me there with his body. He knew I was there; he’d seen me. I was on Geonosis for over a day before I made it back to Buir’s ship and got off planet. I had to bury him with my own hands. But his murderer was the one who would grant me mercy?”

“I understand why that would piss you off,” Kix said. “Kark, Boba.”

“I’m sure it was Buir’s fault,” Boba said. “He’s the one who accepted a contract with a Sith, after all, and it was Dooku who started the whole thing by trying to execute those Jedi. But I was just a kid, and Buir was all I had. I loved him more than anything in the universe, and then in seconds he was just… gone.”

“Not gone,” Kix said. He sounded solemn, and kind, and like he understood. “Merely marching far away.” He touched Boba’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said. “You should have had your brothers. I’m sorry you had to go through that without us. And I don’t think that you need my forgiveness, but if you want it, it’s yours, Boba. I forgive you. You owe me no debt.”

“Oh,” Boba said. He felt a little dizzy, his fingers cold. “So you—you don’t hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, ori’vod.”

“You can still leave if you want to.” It was important, for him to know that.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to leave,” Kix said. “I want to stay here. With my dramatic, overprotective brother and his weird magic baby and whoever else lives here.”

“Mostly criminals,” Boba said, in the spirit of full disclosure. “I mean, they aren’t bad people. But. Technically, I run a crime syndicate. So there are crimes.”

Kix shrugged. “I always thought I’d make a good outlaw,” he said. “Maybe a pirate.” He shifted over toward the far edge of the bed. “Here, lean back next to me,” he said. “We could both use some skin contact.”

Boba eyed the narrow strip of mattress with suspicion. “Why?”

“It releases good hormones,” Kix said. “Part of our standard protocol for trauma was to get the troopers to sleep in groups after battles. Trust me, it’ll help.”

“I—-all right.” He had to turn on his side, but he was able to wedge himself between Kix and the railing on the side of the bed.

Kix tugged him closer, wrapping an arm around him and encouraging Grogu to settle in between them. “There you go, vod,” he said. “Just relax. We’re going to be all right.”

Kix was solid and warm beside him, familiar, safe. It felt like Boba had known him forever.

And he didn’t hate Boba. He forgave Boba. He said that he wanted to stay.

Jii ner aliit cuy gar yaim, Boba thought.

“Kix?”

“Yeah?”

Boba breathed. In, out. He’d had and lost millions of brothers without ever knowing them. But now, somehow, he had another chance. “Will you tell me about our brothers?”

Kix squeezed him a little tighter. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

Kix fell asleep again after lunch, and within about ten minutes had shifted around to drape most of his top half over Boba, like Boba was a combination of a body pillow and Grogu’s stuffed bantha. Boba rested his hand on his brother’s back, the slow tide of his breathing a constant reassurance.

“Vo nu,” Grogu said, from on top of the cabinet. He’d gotten increasingly fidgety over the last hour or so; Din was still in Freetown and Fennec meeting with the Worker’s Guild, so Boba had encouraged him to burn off some energy practicing his Force jumps.

“Elek, kaysh nuhoyi,” Boba said. “Yes, he’s sleeping. Ba’vodu Kix will need to sleep a lot while he’s healing.” He looked down. Kix wasn’t as broad in the chest as Boba, but like all the clone troopers he was heavy, dense with muscle even after his time spend in stasis. “It looks like I’m stuck here for a while, though.”

Grogu giggled.

“Do you think you could float my datapad over from the table?”

Grogu’s ears perked up. “Lek!” He reached out his little hand, brow furrowing with concentration, and the datapad rose off the table and floated over to the bed. Boba grabbed it from the air as soon as it was within reach.

“Jate, Grogu. Ori’jate,” he said. “Very, very good. I can tell you’ve been working hard at your lessons. I’m sure Al’baji (Head Teacher) Luke will be very proud the next time you see him.”

After some careful shifting, Boba was able to free his arms enough to use the datapad. He opened a new document and recorded the names of everyone Kix had spoken about while telling stories about his brothers, earlier. The clones had not fared well, under the Empire, but Boba had been the best hunter in the galaxy before the sarlacc, and there had been enough Imperial bounties posted for clone deserters that he thought there had to still be some pockets of survivors scattered around. He’d never tried to find them for his own sake—he couldn’t imagine he’d have ever been welcome—but he’d do whatever he could to try to reunite Kix with as many other brothers as possible.

And then there was the issue of the Jedi.

Kix’s stories had been full of them, though mostly references in passing to which Generals his various brothers had served under. A few, though, had come up again and again; Kenobi, and Anakin Skywalker, and Ahsoka Tano.

Kenobi and Skywalker The Elder were both long dead, of course, but Din was in sporadic contact with Skywalker the Younger for Grogu’s sake. Boba thought that Kix would probably like to meet him. The kid might like meeting Kix, too; Boba had always enjoyed running into other hunters who had known Jango and had memories to share. And Boba thought he remembered that the first Jedi Din had met, the one that had sent him to Tython, had been a Togruta. Of course, Tano hadn’t been the only female Togruta in the old Order, but it was worth a shot, especially given Din’s strange (probably Force-related) luck. Boba sometimes felt that he could draw the name of any sentient in the galaxy at random out of a bucket and Din would have a friend of a friend of an old client who owed him a favor and knew them somehow. It certainly came in useful at times like this.

He sent Din a quick message.

When you were looking for a Jedi to train Grogu, did you meet one called Ahsoka Tano? Togruta woman, she’d be a couple years older than I am.

The reply came in less than a minute; Din must be in the cantina, which housed the best network signal in Freetown.

Yes, we met her on Corvus. She was the one who told me Grogu’s name. Do you need her for something? I don’t have her comm, but I think she stays in touch with Skywalker. I could ask him to pass a message along.

Boba hesitated. He wanted to tell Din everything that had happened, but he wanted to do it in person, where he could reach out and touch him if he wanted to, could bury his face in Din’s shoulder if things got to be too much. But that wasn’t possible at the moment, and he didn’t want to waste time.

I’ll catch you up when you get home, he finally wrote. Short answer: our guest is awake and served with Tano and the older Skywalker during the war. I think he’d like the chance to reconnect.

That’s great news! I’ll send Skywalker a message as soon as we’re done talking. How were things with our guest? How are you?

Tell him our guest’s name is Kix. Tano will probably recognize it. And I’m… good. I think I’m good. I told him who I was, and he wasn’t angry.

He paused, and added one more line.

He called me ori’vod.

The answer came almost immediately. Ni me’dinui gar briikasar, cyare.

Boba’s heartbeat fluttered at the words. I share your joy, he’d said. So close to the words from the riduurok (marriage) vows: we share all. Boba was insecure in his relationship; they led complicated lives, and he was happy to wait as long as it took for Din to be ready for such a step. But that didn’t prevent him from dreaming of it, sometimes, thinking of how it might feel to hear such a man swear himself to Boba and mean it.

I would share everything with you, he wrote back, and sent it before he could talk himself out of it. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, shocked at his own boldness. Sometimes, when it came to Din, Boba felt like a youngling again, fumbling and nervous and new.

Din’s reply popped up, a single word.

Darasuum, it said.

Forever.

Joy hit him like a blaster bolt, so sharp and sweet that Grogu made a questioning little noise from the cabinet.

“It’s okay,” Boba assured him. “I’m just happy. I’m talking to your buir.”

“Bu! Soo coo!”

“I’ll tell him,” Boba promised.

I’ll let you get back to business, he wrote. Grogu wanted me to tell you su’cuy. Come by when you get home, if you can. I want you to meet my vod’ika.

As fast as I can, Din replied. Give Grogu a kiss from me. And I can’t wait to meet our new vod.

Before he realized what he was doing, Boba had sighed. Dreamily. Like a lovelorn teenager on one of the terrible holodramas that Krrsantan had gotten them all addicted to.

Boba shook his head, wryly amused at his own emotional excesses, and pulled up a different messaging account. If he wanted to find more brothers, he needed to send the message through someone they would trust.

Boba knew the perfect person. And she owed him a favor, or at least she had once told him she did.

He took his time crafting the message; the comm code he had was a single-use dead drop, heavily encrypted and as secure as extreme paranoia could make it, so he’d only have one chance to be heard. The final draft was deferential in a way Boba rarely was. It stung his pride a little, but pride was not more important than family.

At least he knew the message would go directly to Leia Organa, and not her smirking jester of a husband.

To the Huttslayer:

The last time we spoke, you said you owed me a favor. I told you that there was no debt between us, and you said, “there is if I say there is.”

I did not intend to ever call in this marker, but I find myself facing a situation that I believe only you can assist me with.

I have recently found and rescued a clone trooper who was placed into cryostasis by Separatists near the end of the Clone Wars. The serial number assigned to him on Kamino was CT-6116, but the name he has chosen is Kix. He served as the chief medical officer of the 501st Legion, on the Republic cruiser Resolute under the command of General Anakin Skywalker and Commander Ahsoka Tano.

While I know that the reputation of the 501st under Imperial command was a terrible one, I assure you that Kix was placed into stasis before the Jedi Purge, and remembers the Republic and the Jedi with fondness and loyalty. It caused him great pain to learn of the events that transpired during the rise of the Empire, and of the length of time that had passed since his capture. He misses his brothers very much, and fears that he may be the last surviving clone trooper.

I am aware of past rumors that the Rebellion would provide aid to clones who deserted the Empire. If this is true, I hope you will permit me to give you my thanks for freeing my kin from their slavery to Palpatine.

If you are able to contact any surviving clone troopers, or any other beings who may have known Kix, I would ask you to tell them that he has been recovered, and that he would dearly love a chance to connect with them. He would particularly be glad to hear any news of the brothers he was closest to, Commander Rex (CT-7567) and Lieutenant Jesse (CT-5597) of the 501st, of any other clone medics, and of any troopers who either served in the 501st, or under General Kenobi in the 212th Battalion.

I understand that I have earned little trust from the Rebellion or my father’s other descendants, and will gladly make whatever arrangements are necessary to enable Kix to see some of his brothers again while they still live. Additionally, as the head of Clan Fett, I welcome any Fett clone, or spouse or child of a Fett clone, to contact me at the attached communication frequency. I currently make my home on Tatooine, outside of Mos Espa, and have sufficient resources to host many guests, should any of my lost clan members wish to visit Kix or myself here.

If you require independent verification of my identity and actions in recent years, you may feel free to request them from Al’verde Din Djarin, Senior Advisor to the Mand’alor. Al’verde Djarin may be contacted through the Mandalorian embassy. If you would prefer unofficial channels, Luke Skywalker can assist you.

Thank you for taking the time to consider my request. May justice ever flow from your hands with the righteous fury of the sandstorm.

Respectfully,

Boba Fett

Aliit’alor, Clan Fett be Mereel (Head of Clan Fett, House Mereel)

He sent the message. She would agree, or she wouldn’t; it was out of his hands, now.

He flipped back over to his normal messaging account and opened the conversation with Din. He should probably warn him that he might get an official enquiry from Alderaani royalty, and maybe also ask him to put out some feelers with his Mandalorians to see if they could track down Clan Skirata; old Kal had adopted clones left and right, surely some of them were still around.

Before he could write anything, a new message came through. Finished up here, it read. Heading home.

Boba smiled. Drive safe, he replied. We can’t wait to see you.

Everything else could keep until later. For now, things were quiet in his palace, and everyone he cared for was either nearby or on the way. He leaned back against the pillows, and watched his brother breathe.

Chapter Text

The next time Kix woke, he felt warm and pleasantly drifty. He was fairly comfortable; something about his pillow was strange, but not strange enough to be worth the trouble of investigating just then.

He could hear someone talking.

“—a good idea in the long run, I’m just saying there’s no reason to disturb him by doing it now.” A vod, the Prime accent, roughness like he’d had caustic inhalant damage; Ori’vod—no, Boba.

The brother who’d been kept apart. The brother that Prime wanted to keep. The brother who had watched batch after batch start out younger, catch him up, outgrow him. The lucky one who had grown up with a father and been treated like a person. The unlucky one who had no batchmates, who lost Prime and ended up alone.

Little Boba. Finally grown, and treating Kix like a brother, long lost and dearly missed. Missed, because they were the only ones—

No. He wasn’t going to think about that. He couldn’t do anything about that, right now; better to focus on what was before him. He firmly pushed the thought of his other brothers to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later.

The strangeness of Kix’s pillow resolved into comprehensible sensation. Body heat, the rise and fall of breath, the faint smells of sweat and something resinous and spicy: soap, maybe, or some kind of skin cream. Kix was lying on top of Boba’s chest.

It was comforting. Secure, in the way that it felt secure to take the field with cover and good sightlines and a stout wall at your back. Little Boba had grown up surprisingly broad, packed with the kind of functional muscle that came from hard, consistent work. Usually it was only heavy gunners and the like who bulked up like that, but Kix had always found them reassuring, like their mere presence was a sort of mobile defensive position.

“It won’t take more than two minutes.” Another voice, one Kix didn’t recognize. There was a mechanical distortion to it, like the speaker was wearing a helmet. He wasn’t a vod, though; this voice was lighter, with one of those nondescript spacer’s accents. “And besides, isn’t he about due for latemeal? I can go chase down some more meiloorun hydration packs, if you want. I think there’s another case downstairs.”

Boba sighed. “He’s just been through so much,” he said. “And he asked me not to leave him. I don’t want him to wake up and think I broke my word.”

“I don’t think getting up for long enough to move to a different bed in the same room counts as ‘leaving him,’ Bo. Especially if you wake him up first so you can explain.”

It slowly occurred to Kix that he might be the person they didn’t want to wake. In which case, he should probably let them know that he was awake already, so Boba could stop his fretting. He seemed to have the same overprotective big-brother anxiety that all the CCs had; it was Kix’s duty as a medic to make sure he didn’t burn out.

“Hey,” Kix said, his voice rusty with sleep and the remnants of his crying fit earlier. Boba froze underneath him, and Kix poked him gently in the side. “Vod. Boba. Gonna introduce me?”

“Sorry,” said the second voice. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” Kix said. “I probably needed to move anyway.” He started to sit up, then groaned as the muscles in his back protested. Immediately, he felt himself gently lifted and settled back against his pillows. He blinked sleep out of his eyes and squinted, trying to get a good look at the visitor.

“Kix,” Boba said. “This is my partner, Grogu’s father. Cyare, this is my brother Kix.”

Kix peered up at the man. Shiny, was his first thought, before his brain kicked in and translated what he was seeing; Mandalorian armor, unpainted and polished to a mirror sheen. It was gorgeous; Kix was a little jealous. Wearing armor like that, a man must feel invincible.

“I like your armor,” he said, then winced. He must still be medicated; he was usually at least a little better at this kind of thing. “I mean, hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Had he missed the man’s name? Wait, surely his name wasn’t Cyare, was it? Kix wasn’t what you’d call a Mandalorian expert, but he was pretty sure that was some kind of pet name. On the other hand, Kix had known plenty of brothers, deadly in the field, who’d chosen names like “Sweetheart,” so who knew.

“Thanks,” possibly-Cyare said. He reached up and disengaged his helmet seal with a hiss, then took off the helmet. Boba startled a little; Kix wasn’t sure why.

The man looked like a pretty standard human, with a tired expression and kind eyes. “I’m Din Djarin,” he said.

Kix relaxed. Okay, just Boba’s cyare, then. Good to know.

“You can call me Din, or Djarin,” Boba’s cyare continued, “whichever you like. It’s good to see you doing better. Boba was worried.”

Kix nodded, detecting a possibly ally. “I’m getting the sense that he does that a lot.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying it like that,” Boba said. “Risk mitigation is important for a man in my position.”

Kix wondered what exactly Boba’s position was. He remembered him, standing solid as a mountain, saying you will find shelter in my home and food at my table. Saying you are in the palace formerly owned by Jabba the Hutt. It is currently owned by me. Saying I run a crime syndicate. Kix very much wanted to hear the full story of how this had come to be.

Boba’s cyare—Din—smiled at Boba, the expression soft and affectionate. “Your brother is an excellent alor,” (boss/leader/clan chief) he said. “You should be very proud. He’s strong and honorable, keeps his word, protects his people, works tirelessly for the good of his clan—”

“Okay, enough,” Boba said, sounding mortified. “You’ve made your point. You don’t have to talk me up to him, you aren’t my protocol droid.”

“If I was your protocol droid, it would be a lot worse, oh Undying One,” Din said, with a teasing grin that showed off a dimple in one cheek.

Boba groaned, theatrical. “Don’t even start,” he said. “I made a deal with Fennec; she’d stop trying to make me use a litter if I’d let the droid do the title thing.”

“I know.” Din rested a gloved hand on Boba’s shoulder, looking fond. Kix could feel tension running out of his brother’s muscles at the touch.

Good. Din was definitely a potential ally in ori’vod-wrangling.

“So,” Kix said, “as I was waking up, I think I heard something about latemeal?”

As he’d suspected, that triggered a flurry of activity; within half an hour, he’d been rechecked and topped up with medication and settled on one side of a new, double-width biobed. Din left for a few minutes and returned with a large, delicious-smelling crate.

“The droid said you can have some bone broth along with your ration and hydropacks,” Boba said, lining the packs up on Kix’s bedside tray before adding a double-handled ceramic mug wafting savory steam. “It’s not the most hearty, but at least it tastes like food.” He hovered at Kix’s elbow, looking like he was only holding himself back from opening the hydropack and putting the straw in by sheer force of will.

“Eat something, ori’vod,” Kix said, waving at the folding table where Din had unpacked the crate. He didn’t recognize the foods—he’d spent the vast majority of his life living off protein cubes and nutrient gels—but they smelled amazing. “Let me live vicariously through you until my organs finish thawing out.”

Boba went, though he kept shooting Kix anxious little glances until Kix picked up his refeeding ration and started sipping it ostentatiously. It tasted of nothing, but at least it was an inoffensive nothing. Kix drank it at a steady pace, focused on getting it out of the way as soon as he could without pushing his recovering body too far. He watched the others as they ate, curious about Boba’s current life.

He’d changed so much since the last time any of the vode had real contact with him, when he’d been an object of horror and rage, fascination and sick pity. The debriefs from the Endurance survivors had been hot items on the underground vode info-swap channels; everyone wanted to know how, wanted to know why. Rex had been even more interested than most; Rex had always been tight with Cody’s batch, and Cody’s batch had been the only clones aside from Skirata's Nulls and a few of the Alphas that Boba Fett had been allowed to spend much time with on Kamino.

“He was so angry,” Commander Tano had said, the one time Rex and a few of the other officers had gotten her to talk about it. “And so sad. Like he was burning himself up from the inside out. I had to keep my shields really high while I was around him, or it hurt.”

That was the kind of thing everyone had said; he was angry, he was bitter, he thought of nothing but revenge. But some of the witnesses were sympathetic, nevertheless.

He seemed lonely, the cadet group young Boba had infiltrated had said. We thought maybe he’d lost his batch.

He denied being my brother, but he still shot to stun instead of kill, one of the troopers from the Endurance claimed.

I felt bad for the kid, honestly. The natborn officer who’d been taken hostage along with Tracker and Ponds. He kept saying he didn’t mean for things to go like that. He was obviously in over his head and didn’t know how to get out.

“Still, he did do the right thing in the end,” the Commander had said, sighing. “Maybe this will teach him to make better choices.”

She had still been very young, so they’d waited until she left before letting themselves roll their eyes. They hadn’t been decanted yesterday; they knew better than to think that a kid of that age would learn anything positive in an adult high-security prison.

Across the room, Boba sat with his cyare, their legs tangled together beneath the little table. The two of them seemed to be eating from a number of small communal dishes; as Kix watched, Din took a bite out of one bowl and then pushed it over to Boba.

“You like it better than I do,” he said. “You have the rest of that, and I’ll eat the rest of the noodles.”

Boba smiled at him, unselfconscious and easy. He was one of the brothers who had dimples. “In that case, you have to take half my uj cake.”

Din grinned back. “What do you take me for? I got us two slices each.”

It was hard to imagine, looking at Boba now, that he had ever been the lost and desperate child that Commander Tano had described.

Kix wondered if that meant there was a chance that someday he might stop feeling the absence of his brothers like a sharp-edged hole behind his ribs. He wondered if there was a trick to it.

He finished his ration. After a moment, he determined that his body was accepting the nourishment, and picked up the cup of broth carefully. It smelled amazing. His muscles were still weak, but he could hold the cup steady if he used both hands. The ceramic was warm, soothing on his fingers. He raised it to his lips and took a cautious sip.

The flavor burst onto his tongue, meaty and rich, and he groaned appreciatively before he realized what he was doing. The room went quiet; both Boba and Din had paused their meal to look in his direction.

“All right, vod?” Din asked.

Kix felt a warmth in his chest that was not entirely from the soup. How easily Din seemed to accept him. It wasn’t something he was used to from natborns who weren’t Jedi.

Though he supposed the man had a Jedi son, or something like it, so perhaps it wasn’t as surprising as he’d first thought.

“It’s good,” he said. “Real good. We lived mainly on rations, during the war. They did the trick, but they were obviously designed with an eye to price and shelf-stability, not flavor.”

Boba beamed at him. “Once you’re recovered enough, we’ll have to have a proper clan dinner,” he said. “You can meet everyone. We’ll do skraan’ikaase—that’s a traditional Mandalorian feast, a bunch of little dishes that everyone shares. That way you can try lots of things, figure out your favorites.”

“I’ll help,” Din said. “I won Fenn Rau’s gi dumpling recipe off him in a bet last time I was on Concord Dawn, I’ve been wanting to try it. Maybe I can get Bo-Katan to send me to a water planet for something and pick up the fish while I’m there.”

“Why wait? You could just go, if you want to,” Boba said.

“Yeah, but if Bo-Katan sends me she has to pay for the fuel.”

Boba chuckled, leaning against Din’s shoulder, his body language the kind of relaxed that meant he felt completely comfortable and safe—or at least, that was what it meant for every other brother Kix had ever known. “Well in that case, go for it,” he said. “Have any of them figured out how much of a mir’sheb (smartass) you really are under all that honor and beskar?”

“Rau knows, but he thinks it’s funny so he doesn’t say anything.” Din’s cheek dimpled again, his smile smug. “I think Bo-Katan actually does know, but she always second-guesses herself in the moment. Or maybe she doesn’t care? Ends up the same, either way.”

“You’ve got to watch out for this one, vod’ika,” Boba said, turning to look at Kix again, affection written in every line of him.

“So, just like all my other brothers, then,” Kix said. “I don’t care how good he is at keeping a straight face, he can’t be worse than Commander Cody.”

Kix sipped slowly at his broth, letting the light, teasing conversation wash over him. It felt… good. He’d had so much horrifying news since he woke, but his brother had done everything he possibly could to soften the blows. Kix knew that the losses would hit him again soon—he could feel them looming—but now, some combination of tiredness and medication was holding back the pain enough that he could let himself enjoy the feeling of safety and care, the flavor of the broth and the sound of his brother’s voice.

After he finished his soup, he settled back against his pillows with a hydropack, sipping slowly with his eyes closed. He listened as Din and Boba discussed something that Kix didn’t have the context to understand: some kind of political thing, or possibly bandits? Or possibly both. Boba had said he was a crime lord now, after all. It could be both.

He roused a little at the feel of the half-empty hydropack being pulled gently out of his hand.

“Shh, vod’ika, it’s just me.” Boba ran a gentle hand over Kix’s head, ruffling his curls.

Kix hummed a little, too tired to make words happen.

“Do you still want me to lie down with you? More anti-stress hormones?”

Vod-pile, Kix thought dimly. Yes, please. That was exactly what he wanted.

“All right.” A little jostling, a little shifting, and then his ori’vod was there, broad and warm and solid and safe. Kix rolled over sleepily, burying his face into soft linen that smelled like spices and sunshine, the tides of his brother’s breath making him relax even more.

He heard a rumble of voices, and felt a soft, slightly bristly kiss being pressed to his forehead, and then he slipped into sleep like drawing a curtain across a window.

The next day, Kix dozed off and on for half the morning before he finally opened his eyes for longer than a few seconds. Boba was still beside him, propped up on pillows and tapping away industriously at a datapad.

“You know,” Kix said, his voice coming out hoarse with sleep. “I didn’t actually mean you were never allowed to leave. Don’t get me wrong, vod, I appreciate it, but I’m starting to feel a little guilty for monopolizing your time like this.”

Boba startled a little, then turned to smile down at Kix. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Family’s the most important thing, they all understand. We’re all just glad you’re doing better.” He handed Kix another hydropack, straw neatly inserted.

Kix took it, holding back a smile at Boba’s apparently irrepressible buir instincts. At least hydropacks tasted better in the future, or maybe the GAR had just only bought ones that tasted like shit. Hard to know. “Still,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you have to spend all your time bunking in medbay. Why do you even have a biobed this big, anyway? You get a lot of Wookiee patients?”

Boba shrugged. “Just Krrsantan,” he said. “But it never hurts to be prepared.”

“Oh.” Kix considered that. “That’s true. I guess I’m still too used to all my patients being more or less the same size.” He took a healthy sip of the hydropack. “These are good, by the way.”

“I’m glad,” Boba said. “They’re my favorite kind, so I hoped you’d like them too.”

“Thanks.” Kix shifted position so that he could lean against Boba without interfering too much with his datapad. He hadn’t been lying about the health benefits of a vod-pile, though the altered clones did need it more than a baseline human would; the Kaminiise had increased their social bonding needs to make them work better in groups. Jango Fett, after all, had been a solitary hunter, not a soldier, and a million independent operatives made for a shoddy army.

He let Boba work while he obediently drank his rations, and then submitted to a new set of scans from the med droid. The results were encouraging.

“I should be able to get out of here by tomorrow,” Kix said.

“Are you sure?” Boba frowned. “Your stasis sickness—”

“Is all but resolved,” Kix assured him. “I’ll need some extra sleep and some time to train my muscles back up, but you know we heal fast. Besides, I’d be bored to tears if I stayed here too much longer without anything to do.”

“I suppose,” Boba said. “But you don’t have to push yourself. Take all the time you need to heal. I know that before, you had to—” he broke off, looking down at his hands. “Just. The goal here is optimal healing, not the minimum acceptable to get back on duty.”

Kix’s breath seemed to squeeze in his chest. It wasn’t that the Jedi generals hadn’t done their best to get the troopers the medical care they needed; they had, often to higher standards than what they permitted themselves. It was just that as the war went on and on, anything beyond the bare minimum had become an unattainable luxury. There just hadn’t been enough, not of anything—not enough bacta, not enough painkillers, not enough medics, not enough bed space, not enough troopers. The GAR had started lean and ended up well-nigh starving.

Apparently, that had been the entire point.

But here, in the conquered palace of a gangster on a skughole planet in a grubby corner of the galaxy, Kix’s brother had a family, a home, and the freedom and power to live how he liked, and he seemed to want nothing more than to share it all with Kix.

Kix thought that it was just as well that he’d been genetically modified for additional resilience and rapid emotional processing, because otherwise he might have broken apart under the emotional strain of finding himself somewhere that embodied his wildest fantasies and his worst nightmares at the same time.

“Understood, ori’vod,” he said at last, and settled down next to Boba to breathe and just… let himself feel his feelings. Boba looked down, eyes sharp with concern, then nodded to himself and laid one hand on Kix’s head, stroking through his hair while he returned to his datawork.

The next day, the med droid finally pronounced Kix ready for release and graduated him from a liquid to a soft diet. Din arrived just as the droid was finishing up, with a hovercart of food trailing behind him and Grogu perched on one shoulder.

“Fennec says you can have midmeal up here and show Kix his room, but then she needs you downstairs for a couple of hours,” he told Boba, who slumped a little but nodded.

“I’m sorry, but I really do need to,” he told Kix. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“Don’t rush on my account, vod,” Kix said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine. The rest of your people need you, too.”

Boba nodded, the set of his mouth still unhappy.

Din squeezed Boba’s shoulder; Kix was pleased to see the way his brother leaned into the pressure.

“If Kix is up to it, I’ll show him around some while you’re gone,” Din said. “Grogu’s been wanting to show him his room for days.”

“Vo!” Grogu said, as if in agreement. “Soo coo! Vo pay.”

Boba relaxed, smiling up at the child. “You want Kix to play with you? Can you say that? Play. Geroya.”

“Roy,” Grogu repeated, his little face scrunching with effort. “P-pway.”

“Ori’jate!” Din and Boba spoke at the same time, then Boba broke off with a grin as Din continued. “You’re doing really well with that, kid. I know it’s hard, but you’ll get there.”

Over midmeal, in between bites of his food—another soup, this one zesty and creamy with soft bits of meat and vegetable and a strong contender for the best thing Kix had ever eaten—he pondered the mystery of his smallest new…vod’ika? Vod’ad (nephew)? Family member, one way or the other. Kix was only familiar with human child development—and honestly, he was mostly familiar with clone child development, which was rather different—but it was difficult to pinpoint Grogu’s age based on knowledge and observation.

“How old is Grogu?” he asked, nodding at where the kid was enthusiastically—and somewhat disturbingly, to a non-carnivore—making his way through a plate of what appeared to be roasted whole frogs.

“Fifty… two? We think,” Din said, tilting his head thoughtfully. He’d taken off his helmet to eat, but its influence was still clear in his body language. “We don’t know exactly when he was born, but somewhere around there.”

Kix stared. “That… would not have been my guess. I mean, I know General Yoda was really old, but…” he shook his head. “So what developmental stage is that for his species?”

“We don’t know much,” Boba said. “It’s mostly guesswork so far. He’s like a human baby in some ways and like an older child in others.”

“He obviously understands more language than he’s able to use,” Din said. “And even without speech he’s good at getting his point across. We’ve been told he can communicate through the Force, but none of us have the power to understand him.” He stroked his son’s head, looking wistful. “He’s working really hard at learning to talk,” he said. “I just wish I could do the same for him.”

Kix hummed thoughtfully. “So right now, his primary difficulty is physical?”

“His species can speak,” Boba said. “I wasn’t exactly looped in to the old Order but I do remember seeing Yoda on the news during the war. But it seems hard for him to produce some of the sounds, at least right now.”

“If his species is all Force-sensitive, it’s possible that they’re naturally telepathic,” Kix said. “On their native planet, they might not generally develop verbal speech at all, or at least not until they’re older.” He thought about various vode he had known who’d had difficulties with speech after an injury. “Have you considered using alternate communication methods while he’s still learning? Sign, communication boards, that sort of thing?”

Boba and Din both stared at him for a moment.

“I… can’t believe we didn’t think of that,” Boba said. “We both know Tusken sign.”

“Last year,” Din said slowly. “For a while, he had this… droid suit? It had a ‘yes’ button and a ‘no’ button. He loved those. Sometimes almost too much.”

“If you’ve got a datapad spare, I can set something up for him to try,” Kix offered. “We used something similar for injured troopers who couldn’t speak.”

“I’ve got one!” Din pulled a small, sturdy-looking datapad from the shoulder bag that he had slung over the back of his chair. “I got it for his learning modules. And, um, sometimes I let him watch a holo.”

Kix took it. “We can work on it this afternoon,” he said. He turned to Grogu, who was looking between them with wide eyes, his ears pricked up. “Do you remember that, Commander?” he asked. “The droid suit, with the buttons?”

“Lek!” Grogu bounced in his seat.

“Would you like to have buttons like that again?”

“Lek lek lek,” Grogu said, waving a frog leg around. “Lek peese?”

Kix felt a wave of the child’s emotions, excitement and agreement and want. He cleared his throat. “Then we’ll make you some buttons,” he said.

“Lek,” Grogu said again, his joy fizzing through the room. “Ray, ray, ray!”

After that, they all hurried through the rest of midmeal, then Boba led them out of the medbay and into a lift.

“The residence floors have restricted access,” he said. “I’ve got your biometrics in already, you can only go to floors you’re approved for.” The lift rose, rattling a little, before coming to a stop at the top floor.

They emerged into a broad, curving sandstone corridor. “This floor is only you, the two of us, and Grogu,” Boba said. “The door in the middle is me and Din, the one on the right is Grogu, the one on the left is yours.” He gestured Kix forward toward the left door, his expression going flat; he was nervous, Kix realized, and trying not to show it.

The door slid open when Kix approached, and he stepped inside, then stopped short just inside the threshold, staring.

It was huge, big enough to comfortably fit a whole squad with room left over. The entrance opened onto a kind of sitting room, furnished with plump, inviting chairs and sofas bristling with cushions. The floor was tiled with chips of polished stone in rich colors, laid out in an intricate geometric pattern. One alcove off the main room held a desk, and another a small kitchenette where Kix could see a bowl of fruit and a fancy caff machine. Gauzy curtains stirred in the breeze coming through large open windows that showed a view of rocky cliffs, desert, and a vast, cloudless blue sky.

It was beautiful and extravagant, but somehow felt welcoming and cozy despite the luxury. It looked like quarters for, for a Senator maybe, some kind of rich natborn; it was absolutely absurd to think of it existing for the use of a recently-thawed clone medic who was only there through chance.

“We can change anything you don’t like,” Boba said. “I just wanted you to have something to start with.”

His voice jolted Kix’s brain back into gear, and he spun around to look at his brother.

“Boba,” he said. “Ori’vod. I just need a bunk and a footlocker somewhere, there’s no need for…” he gestured behind him, “all this.”

Din had put his helmet back on for the trip upstairs—he seemed to only remove it when he was in private with his family—but Kix could still read sympathy and amusement in his body language. “Boba has his own thoughts on what his people need,” he said, affection rich in his voice.

Optimal conditions, Kix remembered Boba saying before. Not just the minimum requirement.

“We’ve been over this,” Boba said, crossing his arms defensively. “The people expect a certain standard of living from their daimyo’s clan. If the gotra doesn’t look prosperous, it invites others to see us as weak.”

“I’m not criticizing, cyare.” It was remarkable, how tender Din was able to sound even through the voice modulator on his helmet. “The aliit’s prosperity proves the alor’s worth. There is no glory in leadership, save that the people flourish beneath your hand.”

Kix looked at the uncertainty in the set of Boba’s shoulders and forced down his own instinctive discomfort. It wasn’t as though Kix didn’t want nice things; he’d just spent too many years being told that they weren’t for his kind. Kix hadn’t even been allowed into the natborn officers’ lounge, not that it looked like anything special. Or that he had any desire whatever to socialize with the natborn officers.

Still, it was tough to shake the subconscious feeling that someone was about to come by, look down their nose at him, and scold him for ruining the floors with his filthy great boots. But this was Boba’s palace, and Boba wanted Kix there—wanted Kix to have the room right next door to his, velvet chairs and fancy floors and all.

Boba was biting his lip exactly the way Tup used to do when he was worried that someone didn’t like him, and that was not to be tolerated. Kix wasn’t going to risk hurting his brother over what some shabuire (motherfuckers) in the past thought about a clone’s “proper place.”

“It’s beautiful, ori’vod,” Kix said. “Want to show me around?”

The way Boba’s eyes lit up at the question was all the reinforcement Kix needed to be sure he’d made the right choice. By the time Boba had finished showing off the rooms, Kix had even lost most of the itchy feeling of being somewhere he wasn’t allowed to be; it was hard to still feel that way after seeing all the little touches Boba had added with an eye to his comfort. These weren’t quarters for a rich natborn, after all; they were quarters for one of the vode, and everything from the caff machine to the robust medkit to the multiple hidden weapon caches proclaimed it.

Well, admittedly the closet stuffed full of enough clothing to outfit half a battalion might be a little over the top, but Kix was willing to overlook that.

Boba opened the last door, and Kix caught his breath in shocked delight. An armory! Racks of shining weapons, well-equipped workstations with pegboards of tools, bins of neatly sorted parts, even a station with a vent hood for painting armor or using heavy solvents.

“The door on the other side goes to our quarters,” Boba said. “This is our personal equipment, but there’s plenty of room for yours once we get you geared up. If you’d like armor, we’ll get you a set made, though if you want beskar it might be a bit harder. The Mandalorians aren’t generally fans of ours, but Din’s been working on them.”

“It’s mainly House Kryze who still has clone issues,” Din said, sounding annoyed. “Most of the others don’t care.”

“I’ll… think about it,” Kix said, feeling a bit dizzy. Beskar? He’d have considered himself lucky to get his hands on low-end durasteel after spending the war stitching up the evidence of how good at protection plastoid wasn’t.

A comm chimed, and Boba swore. “Sorry,” he said. “I really do have to get downstairs now.”

Kix stepped forward and hugged him, a quick impulsive squeeze. “Go on, vod,” he said. “We’ll be fine here. Come back when you’re done and we’ll show you where we manage to get with the little Commander’s talking buttons.”

Boba nodded, looking a little flustered but happy, and left Kix’s rooms with only a few glances back over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Din said, after a few seconds of silence.

“What for?” Kix pulled himself reluctantly out of the armory and sat down on one of the overstuffed armchairs, which was covered in blue velvet.

“For accepting all this,” Din said, gesturing at the room. “For letting him give you things. He doesn’t want to pressure you, but it means a lot to him.” He sat down, moving Grogu smoothly from his shoulder to his lap. “He spent a long time without any clan. Now that he has one again, he overcompensates a little, but it’s all sincere. He’s not trying to put you in his debt.”

“I never thought he was,” Kix said. “It’s just... different. An adjustment.”

Din snorted. “Poor Boba,” he said. “He’s desperate to spoil his entire clan, but the only one who really takes to it naturally is Grogu. The rest of us are coming around slowly, though.” He pulled something out of a pouch on his belt and handed it to Grogu, who made a happy cooing sound and started to fiddle with it; from what Kix could see, it was some kind of combination of a teething ring and a puzzle.

Kix activated the datapad and pulled up the system utilities. If things hadn’t changed too much in the intervening years, there should be something there he could use as a foundation. “Who else is in the clan? I asked Boba once, but all I got was ‘mostly criminals’. Granted, I was still pretty out of things.”

Din chuckled. “Well, I guess that’s true enough,” he said. “At least from a New Republic point of view. Hard to last long on the Rim without running afoul of some Core rule or other. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t trustworthy.”

While Kix worked on the datapad and Grogu alternated between chewing on and playing with his puzzle, Din told him the story of how Boba had pulled together a disparate group of bounty hunters, freed slaves, gang members, and ordinary citizens to take control of Jabba the Hutt’s old territory and kick the Pyke spice syndicate off Tatooine.

“So let me get this straight,” Kix said. “Boba’s first priority upon taking over the criminal empire of notorious gangster Jabba the Hutt, which was largely built on spice-running, was to… eliminate spice-running from his territory?”

“I don’t know how much you knew Boba’s buir,” Din said.

“Not at all,” Kix admitted. “It was only the older commandos and command class that trained with Prime directly.”

Din nodded. “He was captured by an enemy once and sold to a spice freighter,” he said. “Slavery is a violation of the Creed, no true Mando’ad would tolerate it, but it’s personal for Boba because of what happened to his buir and his vode. Plus, he had to agree to get rid of the spice to form the alliance with Freetown.”

Kix nodded. “And how did you end up part of all this? Were you and Boba already together?”

“Not yet,” Din said. “Not the way we are now. I served my covert as beroya—a bounty hunter—and Boba and I met through a job. Grogu was kidnapped by Imperial remnants and Boba helped me get him back, so of course I came when he needed help in turn. We fought the Pykes side by side.”

“Fell in love over blaster fire?” Kix smirked. “Sounds like something off a romance holo.”

Din laughed. “In love? Not then, not yet. I had a lot going on, I wasn’t in a place to think about things like that. Lust, though…” he shook his head. “You haven’t gotten to see him fight yet, but believe me, it’s inspiring.”

“Prime was a sharpshooter and a hand-to-hand brawler, from what I hear,” Kix said. He wondered how different Boba’s fighting style had ended up than the brothers trained on Kamino.

“Boba too,” Din said, “Plus explosives and melee weapons. He lived with the Tuskens a while—the indigenous people of Tatooine—and earned the right to bear one of their staff weapons. It’s a great honor.” His voice went dreamy. “He fights like a charging mudhorn with that thing; the first time I ever met him I watched him break a stormtrooper’s skull right through his helmet with one swing.”

“If I didn’t already know you were Mandalorian, vod,” Kix said, chuckling.

“You’ll understand when you see it,” Din said. “Well. Maybe not in exactly the same way.”

Kix grinned. “So when did you two get together?”

“Last year,” Din said. “Boba had given us rooms here after we fought the Pykes, and I was helping him with reconstruction after the battle and getting the gotra set up. Even when I had other personal business to take care of, he let me keep this as a home base, a place to rest and resupply between jobs.”

“By let you, do you mean ‘gave you wounded tooka eyes until you agreed to live in a luxury apartment in his palace without paying for it’?”

Din shrugged. “He also kept offering to spar with me. I’m not a tactical genius or whatever your clan is meant to be, but I’m not stupid, vod. I can recognize a good thing when it makes me its buir’s tiingilar and pins me to the mat in the training ring. Plus, Grogu liked him.”

The child made a questioning noise at hearing his name, looking up from his puzzle.

“I was telling Ba’vodu Kix how we started staying here because we both liked Boba,” Din told him.

He grinned. “Bo,” he said. “Bu!”

Din tapped him lightly on his nose, making him giggle. “Exactly, ad’ika.”

“You know, one of my squadmates used to read a lot of Mandalorian-themed romance novels,” Kix said. “I’m fairly sure you just summarized the plot of like three-quarters of them.”

The tilt of Din’s helmet was somehow smug. “Some things are classics for a reason.”

Kix finished his last line of code and hummed in satisfaction when he saw the button interface pop up on the screen. “Look this way for a second,” he said, and took a picture of Din’s head using the datapad’s integrated camera.

“What’s that for?” Din leaned forward, trying to see the screen.

“Button labels, unless the kid reads Basic already.”

“Not that I know of,” Din said.

“Okay, we’ll need to tweak this, but I’ve got a proof of concept we can try.” Kix moved over to the sofa, sitting beside Din and Grogu and holding up the datapad so they could both see the screen. An assortment of colorful buttons covered the screen, some labeled with pictures or icons and some with words. “Okay, Commander, push one of the buttons.”

Grogu reached out with one chubby little finger and tapped the button labelled with the picture of Din’s helmet that Kix had just taken.

“Buir,” the computer-generated voice of the datapad said.

Grogu’s eyes widened, and he started pushing all the buttons, one after the other.

“Yes,” said the datapad. “No. Want. Bad. Food. Big. Good. Hug. Nap. Grogu. Boba. Love. Play. Thank you. Little. Help…”

“We can program it with actual audio samples,” Kix told Din. “And add in people and words. We should probably keep it simple at first until he gets the hang of it, but we could even do additional screens of buttons later so he has more options.”

“Excuse me,” said the datapad. “Excuse me. Buir. Buir. Excuse me.”

They both looked down. Grogu shoved the datapad under Kix’s nose. “Vo!” he said. He poked Kix in the cheek, and then pushed the buttons for “Buir” and “Boba”, then poked Kix again.

“You want a button for me?”

“Lek!” Grogu said, then pushed his Yes button for good measure.

Kix felt a little stunned. “Okay, just give me a minute.”

The picture of himself that labelled the new button looked a bit shocked, but Grogu didn’t seem to mind. He accepted the datapad back with a pleased little trill.

“Kix,” the datapad said. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Beside him, Din made a soft, broken noise. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, ner ad’ika.”

“Buir,” the datapad said. “Grogu. Love. Big. Big. Big. Love. Buir. Big.”

Din sobbed and fumbled for his helmet, pulling it off and letting it fall to the floor while he gathered Grogu against his chest, bending to press his forehead against Grogu’s. “I love you, too,” he said, his voice so raw that Kix felt almost embarrassed to hear it. “So much, so much—ni kar’tayli gar darasuum, ad’ika, (I love you, little one) ner cyar’ika, ner Grogu, (my sweetheart, my Grogu) I hold your name in my heart forever.”

Kix felt his own eyes blurring with tears, his throat tight. He could feel Grogu doing whatever it was he did with the Force to share his emotions, waves of love and joy and a sense of at last washing heavy over the room. It felt amazing to see that moment and to know that he had helped to make it possible.

If Prime had loved Boba like that, Kix thought, watching as Grogu reached up to touch his father’s wet cheek, it was no wonder Boba blew up a cruiser trying to avenge his death. Honestly, Kix was a little surprised he hadn’t blown up more.

Once the adults had regained their composure—helped along by Grogu’s datapad informing them BIG WANT FOOD, leading to a snack run in Boba and Din’s quarters next door—Kix and Din turned their attention to refining the button selection. Grogu caught on very quickly; Kix still wasn’t sure if he was reading or just had a good memory for patterns, but after a few hours he had a second screen of buttons, which had expanded to include important concepts like BALL (represented by a silver ball that looked more like an old ship part than anything), FROG, FLY (a photo of Din holding Grogu up in the air), BANTHA (an obviously well-loved stuffed animal), FORCE (a picture of Grogu holding his hand out dramatically) and a whole squad of new names, only some of which Kix recognized.

The door chime startled Kix, and when he went to answer it he was perplexed to find Boba waiting.

“You could have just come in,” he said.

Boba shook his head. “This is your space,” he said. “You control who gets to come in and when.” He looked over at Din—who had been tearing up at intervals all afternoon in sheer joy at being able to finally communicate with his son—and stiffened. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Nothing bad,” Kix started, but was interrupted by the now-familiar sound of Grogu’s datapad.

“Boba,” it said. “Buir. Grogu. Talk. Kix. Give.”

Boba sucked in a breath and hurried across the room, crouching beside the blue velvet armchair where Grogu was happily ensconced with his datapad and his favorite toys. “Kix made that for you? So you can talk to us?”

“Lek!” Grogu beamed, his little fingers already more sure on the datapad than they had been a few hours before. “Bo Bu!”

“Boba. Buir. Look. Look. Big. Talk. Grogu. Good. Good. Good.” A slight delay while Grogu tapped to another page of buttons. “Jate.”

“Ori’jate,” Boba whispered, his voice rough. “Oh, Grogu, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Grogu Play Ball.” Grogu was starting to speed up, hitting buttons quickly enough that the words sounded one after the other. “Grogu Play Fly. Grogu Play Bantha. Grogu No Nap. Grogu Food Frog Thank You.” He was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in place on the chair cushions.

He was telling Boba about his day, Kix realized, meeting Din’s shocked gaze across the room. Boba leaned forward and touched their foreheads, his expression focused. Grogu cooed, cuddling close to him. When they parted, he picked up the datapad again.

“Boba Buir Good. Hug Grogu Force. Big Happy Grogu.”

Boba caught his breath. “It works? When I try to send you feelings? You can feel that?”

“Lek!” Little fingers scrambled on the pad again. “Boba Buir Grogu Love. Big Big.”

“Yeah,” Boba said. “I know, you love your buir so much, kid. He loves you right back.”

Grogu frowned down at his pad. “Buir Grogu Love Yes,” the computerized voice said. “Boba Buir Grogu Love Yes.”

Din gasped. “Cyare,” he said, his voice trembling.

Boba was very still, staring at Grogu in disbelief. Kix felt his chest squeeze with tenderness for his ori’vod, who seemed ready to give his family anything but still seemed so surprised that they would love him.

Grogu,” Kix said. “Can I hold your pad for a minute? I think I need to fix one of your buttons.”

“Lek,” Grogu said, handing it over.

Kix made a few quick changes, then handed it back. “How’s this?” he asked, and tapped the button labelled with the picture of Boba’s face.

“Bo’buir,” said the datapad, and Boba made a noise like he’d been punched in the gut.

Grogu crowed in delight. “Yes Kix Yes Good. Bo’buir Grogu Love Yes.” He held out his little arms in the universal signal of tubies everywhere, nearly thwacking Boba across the face with the datapad. “Bobu!” he said, his high-pitched baby voice almost startling after the flat computerized tones of the pad. “Up!”

Boba stood up clumsily and picked up his child, cuddling him close and letting him nuzzle the crook of his neck. He was breathing fast, his eyes wet and red. Din came over to him like he was caught in a gravity well, tucking Boba against his side and whispering in his ear.

Kix was turning away to give them some privacy when he felt a firm hand grab his wrist. He was quickly pulled into the hug, the three of them and Grogu standing in the middle of his new living room holding onto one another. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there before Grogu wriggled his way up onto Boba’s shoulder and pulled up his datapad again.

“Buir Bo’buir Kix. Aliit. Grogu.”

Someone sniffled at that, or maybe they all had.

“That’s right,” Din said softly. “Cuun aliit. Our family.”

“Yes Good. Happy Grogu.”

“I’m glad,” Boba told him. “That’s all your family wants, ad’ika: for you to be happy and safe.”

Grogu looked down at his pad for a long moment, concentrating, before moving decisively to the buttons he wanted.

“Grogu Food Yes. Want Bo’Buir Cookies Thank You.”

They all laughed, at that, genuine if a little shaky, and Kix ended up giving both Grogu and his stuffed bantha good-night kisses before his parents took him back to their rooms for a snack before bed.

(Boba had looked miserably torn, obviously wanting to spend time with Din and Grogu but just as obviously worried about leaving Kix alone for the first time since he’d woken up. Kix had to promise he’d comm Boba if he needed anything—even company—during the night before he’d relaxed enough to go next door.)

Once he was alone in his rooms, fatigue hit Kix like a mallet. He changed into one of the six different absurdly soft sets of sleeping clothes Boba had put in his wardrobe and curled up in the middle of the lavish pile of pillows Boba had put on his massive bed.

He’d enjoyed the chance to get to know Din better. He seemed like a good fit for Boba, and Kix was glad to confirm that he returned Boba’s affections. Kix might have only known Boba a few days, but he was quite well versed in what Jango Fett’s face looked like on someone who was boots-over-bucket in love, and it looked exactly like the way Boba went gooey around the edges every time he looked at his Mando.

Seeing a brother in such a happy relationship with a natborn made Kix feel like there might be hope for him, too, someday; he’d been too busy—and frankly too heartsick—during the war to do anything about it, but he’d always rather liked the thought of one day settling down like Cut had, getting married, maybe even having a tubie or two. He wasn’t in a hurry, though. He had a lot of work to do adjusting to the… well, to the future, he supposed. This bizarre future, which was in some ways horrible and in some ways better than he’d ever dreamed. Kix had a home, and a family, and a devoted ori’vod who seemed determined to give him everything he even thought of wanting. There was no war, here, no battle droids, no brothers dying in Kix’s arms because he wasn’t good enough to save them. But there were also no Jedi, no General Skywalker or Commander Tano laughing and teasing each other in the training hall, no General Kenobi with his kind, tired face, no Commander Cody pining after him like a deadly, devoted shadow. And except for Boba, there were no brothers. No Jesse or Rex or Fives or Tup, no Echo or Appo—

Kix cut himself off with a shudder. He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t bear it. He’d been given so much more than he had any right to expect: a family who was eager to have him. A home, freely given. Even a chance for meaningful work, if he could convince Boba to let him take over the medbay now that he was no longer inhabiting it. He couldn’t let himself go sour, sitting in the dark polishing his sorrows.

For some reason—or no reason at all—of all his brothers, Kix had been given a second chance to live. And there wasn’t a one of his brothers who would want him to do anything but grab it with both hands and be as happy as he could manage, for as long as he could manage.

Wherever his vode were marching on to, he hoped they knew that he was going to be all right now. Maybe they were watching. Maybe they’d gotten to see Grogu telling Din that he loved him for the first time, or had listened to Boba tell the story of Goran and Mythosaur. Maybe they were watching now, tracing over the beautiful lines of the mosaic floor as the last light of the setting suns seemed to dip everything in 212th gold.

Kix decided that he’d live as though they were.

He took a deep breath.

“So, vode,” he said quietly. “Who had ‘takes over Jabba the Hutt’s criminal empire’ in the Boba Fett betting pool? I’m guessing either nobody or maybe one of the Corries…”

Chapter Text

An illustration of the end of Chapter 4! Grogu using his talking buttons. Clink link to see full size.

Chapter Text

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Kix went directly from being discharged from medbay to putting himself on the duty roster. Boba had hoped, though, that maybe being completely apart from the army, the war, and anything like a chain of command might make Kix consider taking it easy. He’d had a whole plan worked out of having meals delivered to Kix’s rooms on trays so that he could eat them while lying down if he wanted to. He had carefully stocked a datapad with several catalogues so that Kix could start picking out his own gear—because while of course Boba wasn’t going to ask Kix to fight anyone, he was fairly sure Kix would still want gear—and some recreational supplies.

Instead, on the day after Kix moved in next door, Boba’d woken up well after first sunrise, wrapped in Din’s arms and feeling languid and soft around the edges. There was a note, written in neat block letters on a piece of flimsi, attached to Grogu’s vacant hammock at the end of the bed.

I’ve got the Commander, vode. Take a rest cycle. —Kix

He was equal parts annoyed and impressed; Kix was the one still supposed to be resting, after all. But Boba had to admit that there were very few beings who could have left a note in place of the child—of their child, he thought, with a pang of emotion—without either of them noticing. It spoke equally highly of Kix’s skills and their level of trust for him.

“Bo? M’vaa’t’gar?” (What’s going on?) Din’s voice was creaky and slurred with sleep. Boba stroked his arm—his skin was so soft where it wasn’t callused or scarred, always protected from the elements by beskar—and hummed, reassuring.

“Naas, cyare,” (Nothing/I’m fine, love) he murmured. “Just woke up. Kix took Grogu so we could sleep. Sweet of him, but he should be resting.”

Din rolled closer, nuzzling the back of Boba’s shoulder, his facial hair scraping pleasantly and making Boba’s skin tingle. “Y’do the same thing,” he said, amusement warming his voice as he roused further. “Serves you right. Taste ‘f your own medicine.” He paused, then added, “‘cause Kix is a medic.”

“I bet your wordplay dazzles them back on Manda’yaim.” (the planet Mandalore) It was still early enough that the air in the room was cool and their light covers were comfortable. Din was a long line of heat down his back and second sunrise was making everything in the room seem to glow rosy-gold.

“I get by.”

Boba hummed agreeably, basking in the feelings of comfort and closeness and safety and the slow curling warmth of desire that radiated through him from everywhere he and Din touched. He’d been surprised, at first, how much Din liked physical contact when he was out of his armor, but he understood better now. It was something Din only allowed himself when he was confident that he didn’t have to be on guard, when he was home, safe, protected. Every touch of skin that Din allowed or gave was a silent mark of trust, and Boba would never take the gift of them for granted.

“Maybe we should take Kix up on his offer,” Din said. He pressed his hand to Boba’s chest, where the kar’ta beskar (beskar heart) of his armor would lie, then trailed it suggestively downwards, coming to a rest on the waistband of the soft pants they both wore to sleep in case Grogu needed them in the night.

“Well,” Boba said, turning around in Din’s arms. Their heads lay on the same pillow, breath mingling. The dawn light struck amber through Din’s untidy curls.

There was no deeper intimacy than this for their people: no truer trust than to lie unarmed and unshelled together in the heart of their stronghold, wearing only their first faces. To feel a bond between them as strong and true as beskar. To defend each other, to care for each other, to cherish their clan.

Boba would never forget the vow Din had made, the two of them standing in the ruins of the Sanctuary, grimly preparing for what they both thought would be a fatal last stand. Boba trying to give Din an out, and Din refusing to take it.

I’m with you until we both fall, he’d said, and something deep in Boba’s core had trembled and shifted before settling into a different shape, and Boba had known that he would never be the same.

Din’s mouth was soft and pink and inviting. Boba kissed it, slow and reverent as was only fitting when one was granted such great honor. Din’s fingers flexed against Boba’s spine, nudging him forward. Wanting him closer.

Boba always wanted to be closer. If such a thing were possible, Boba would forge himself into beskar’gam (armor) for Din, a second skin of protection around the soft and precious heart of him, a promise that nothing could ever harm him unless Boba were already shattered into dust.

Din’s son had called Boba his parent, and Din had been delighted. That had to mean something, surely. It had to mean that now was finally the right time.

He drew back from the kiss just enough to rest their foreheads together, and closed his eyes. “I would vow myself to you, Din Djarin,” he whispered. “In whichever way best pleased you. There could be no greater glory for me than to live out my days at your side.”

Din stiffened against him, his hands clutching, his breathing sharp. “Whichever way I want,” he said.

Boba nodded, still not opening his eyes. He wasn’t ready to see the expression that went with the tone of Din’s voice.

“But what do you want, Boba?” Din lowered his voice, soft and coaxing. “Me’copaani, cyare?” (What do you want, beloved?)

“Copaani gar,” (I want you) Boba whispered. “Ni copaani… mhi dinui an. (I want us to share everything.) Ni copaani dinuir gai bal manda gar ad.” (I want to adopt your son.)

“Cuun,” (Ours) Din whispered. “Cuun ad.” (Our son.)

Boba trembled. It took two tries to make his voice audible, hope and trepidation tangling together in his throat. “Copaani gar sa riduur.” (I want you as my spouse.)

Din’s muscles all went slack, and he seemed to melt into Boba’s body. “Copaani balyc,” (I want that too) he said. “Ori’copaani (I want that so much) —yes, Boba, elek, elek—” he cut himself off, pressing kisses all over Boba’s face, careless and jubilant. He wound their legs together, pulling Boba tight against him even though they were already touching everywhere they could touch.

Boba cupped the back of Din’s head in one hand, the curls tickling his fingers. “I would say the vows right here and now,” he said, “except—”

“Yeah, I know,” Din said, his voice rueful. “Krrsantan would be heartbroken. And I think Fennec might actually murder us. Plus I might have promised Rau that if I ever convinced you to say the riduurok (marriage vows) with me I’d invite him and Bo-Katan both so he could watch her endure having to be nice to you.”

Boba laughed. “I like him already. I’m not doing some fancy royal wedding thing, though, Mand’alor or no Mand’alor. I have enough going on without having to deal with that kind of diplomatic bantha shit.”

“Just tell them Krrsantan is your Minister of Inter-Systems Alliances and let him work out the details,” Din said.

It wasn’t a bad plan. Negotiations did tend to wrap up faster when the diplomat was a Wookiee.

“We’ll talk about it with the Council,” Boba said, sneaking another kiss. “Later. For now—” another kiss, longer this time, ending with a gentle suck on Din’s bottom lip that made him shiver and sigh— “I just want to enjoy this.”

Din was an enthusiastic supporter of that idea. By the time they broke apart to catch their breaths, Boba’s lips were tender and buzzing from kisses and he could feel a number of pleasantly sore love-bites on his skin.

Din had buried his head in Boba’s chest and was currently engaged in sucking and nibbling all along the ridge of his collarbone. Boba couldn’t wait to look at himself later, when the bruises had risen on his skin like flowers blooming, marking him as wanted, treasured, claimed. To feel the slight ache from them like promises under the weight of his armor.

It would have to be later, though. They had responsibilities.

“We should probably go find Grogu,” Boba said reluctantly, even though it felt like he might actually die if the maximum possible amount of Din was no longer pressed against the maximum possible amount of himself. “Stars only know what he’s gotten up to by now.”

“Kix has him,” Din said, lifting his head enough to be heard. “And I know you’ve already told everyone else to look out for Kix.” One corner of his mouth quirked up, dimple flashing in his stubbled cheek. “And I admit, I’d like a little more private time with my ven’riduur (future spouse) before we start the day.”

The sound of that word—that promise—in Din’s husky voice made Boba shiver. His skin prickled, suddenly alive with the need to hear it again and again, whispered into his ear, gasped into his mouth, pressed against his skin.

“Well,” he said again, his voice gone rough with hunger. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a little longer.”

They finally emerged from their quarters shortly before midmeal, and a short comm to Fennec led them to Kix and Grogu. They were in the medbay, having somehow suborned both the med droid and Drash into helping with what appeared, to Boba’s inexpert eyes at least, to be a meticulous and comprehensive supplies inventory.

Kix looked them over, a quick and keen scan like he was checking them for visible damage. Boba saw the moment his gaze caught just under the hinge of Boba’s jaw.

The nerves had grown back funny there, after the sarlacc. It was uniquely sensitive now, a fact which Din, as orally fixated as he was, very much enjoyed taking advantage of.

Kix grinned at them, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “You may need to call an exterminator, vod, it looks like something tried to take a bite out of you last night.”

Boba glanced over at Din, checking to see if he’d mind Boba sharing their news. Din tilted his head in agreement, his body language relaxed and happy. Boba felt like laughing out loud, or dancing—he was so full of joy he felt like it might lift him right off his feet.

“Only my ven’riduur,” he said, completely failing to keep his tone casual.

Kix’s teasing expression melted into something sweeter, pleased and sincere. “Yeah? That’s new, right?” he asked.

Boba nodded, taking a half-step closer to Din so they could press their shoulders together.

“Congratulations, vode,” Kix said. He sounded delighted, and Grogu looked up from his juice box with a questioning coo.

“Buir and Bo’Buir are getting married, Grogu,” Din said.

Grogu screeched with excitement and then leapt clear across the room; Din caught him, but staggered backwards a step under the impact.

“Lek lek lek!” Grogu bounced and wiggled excitedly in his father’s hands, squirming until Din let him clamber up to his favorite perch on his shoulder. He held out his hand and his datapad zipped across the room, hitting his hand with a thwack. Din had to jerk his head to one side at the last second to keep it from hitting his helmet.

“Buir Love Bo’Buir Love Grogu,” the tablet voice said. “Aliit. Happy Yes.”

“Congratulations, boss,” Drash said, grinning at him from behind a half-empty crate of hyposprays. “Din. About time. I thought Mandos moved fast in their relationships?”

“That’s a stereotype,” Boba said.

“He wasn’t ready yet,” Din said at the same time.

Boba blinked at him, surprised. “What?”

“You needed to focus on—” he gestured vaguely at their surroundings— “business, first. And I needed to earn your regard.”

That was the stupidest thing Boba had ever heard. “You earned my regard when you carried my father’s armor on your back out of the Dune Sea,” he said. His hand crept up to touch his kar’ta beskar. It had been reforged for Jango with beskar from all three of his parents, so that their souls could help defend him even after they'd marched on. “I was ready to do more or less whatever you asked me to from the first time we met; you know this.”

Din ducked his head. “That was for Grogu, though.”

“It wasn’t only for Grogu.” He stepped closer, leaning up to trade nuzzles with Grogu before giving Din a soft kov’nyn. (Keldabe kiss)

“You should host a pod race in honor of the wedding,” Drash said, picking up a packet of medical supplies and squinting between its label and a datapad. “Boonta Eve’s lost its luster since the Hutts were kicked off Tatooine. This could be the next big thing! You could do it every year for your anniversary, call it the Kissing Classic or something. We’d make money hand over fist between the entry fees, the concessions, and our cut of the book.”

“The circuit is kind of slow in this part of the Rim lately,” Din said, because like most Mando’ade he liked nothing better than an event that was fast, borderline illegal, and likely to explode. “We’re not calling it the Kissing Classic, though.”

“Riduurace,” Kix suggested, grinning. “It’s bilingual because we’re sophisticated.”

“We’re calling it the Mudhorn Invitational,” Boba said firmly, then caught himself and groaned. “Kriff.”

Drash cackled. “Too late, you already said it, this is definitely happening now.”

“We don’t have to,” Din assured him, in that tone he got when he thought he was successfully concealing how much he wanted something he didn’t think he’d get. “I know it would be a lot of trouble.”

Well now he definitely had to. “No, Drash is right,” Boba said. “It would be good for business. Bring some tourism back to the territory. Besides, when you think about it, I think it suits you.”

Din chuckled. “Fast-moving and prone to dismemberment?”

“Fascinating to watch,” Boba said, lowering his voice and leaning close, like he was whispering into Din’s ear. Their helmets had 360 degree audio pickups, but it was the principle of the thing. “Exhilarating to experience. And demonstrating galactic-class levels of skill.”

“Boba,” Din said, flustered. Boba smirked, knowing from the tone that he was blushing under his bucket. Boba threaded their fingers together and squeezed his hand, feeling warm and proud and humbled. His blood sang within him, practically bursting with how much he loved this man, with how karking happy he was.

Grogu giggled from Din’s shoulder, and Boba felt a sweet, clumsy wave of the child’s affection and joy; he couldn’t have stopped himself from smiling back if he’d wanted to.

“You know,” Kix said, his dry tone undermined a little by the smile that was twitching at the corners of his mouth, “I didn’t give you a time limit on how long I’d keep Grogu busy this morning. You didn’t have to get out of bed yet if you weren’t ready to.”

“We were waiting for them to get it out of their systems for the first six months,” Drash said. “Then we realized they’re just like that.”

“It’s good for children to see their buire (parents) being affectionate with each other,” Din said, in the tone he usually reserved for discussions of Mandalorian theology. “They need models for healthy adult relationships.”

“He took an early childhood development class over the holonet,” Drash told Kix, in a stage whisper.

Din shrugged. “When you take on a new duty, it’s important to train for it,” he said.

(Din had taken a number of holonet classes, actually, starting while he was still recovering from his injuries from the battle for Mos Espa; Grogu had chosen him, so he would do everything he could to be a good parent for the boy. Boba’s infatuation with the man, already substantial, had been pushed into hyperspace when he’d learned that.)

“We’ve got a subscription to the Open University Consortium,” Boba told Kix. “You should have full access set up on your account already, but let me know if you need any courses we don’t already have. The Fett gotra invests in its people.”

Kix perked up. “Oh!” he said. “That’s perfect. I have nearly thirty years of medical advancements to catch up on before I take over your medbay full-time.”

“Before you—Kix, we’ve talked about this. You’re here to recover, not to work.” Boba refused to be yet another person taking advantage of his brother. Kix had endured far too much of that already.

Kix rolled his eyes. “Ori’vod,” he said. “I appreciate the sentiment. But I’ve spent the last several years as the CMO of one of the heaviest combat assets in the entire GAR, which included both the Jedi general known as ‘The Hero With No Fear’—which really meant he had no self-preservation instincts—and literally thousands of our brothers who competed with each other in trying to keep up with him. Keeping your people in one piece will practically be a vacation by comparison.”

Boba sighed, recognizing the stubborn tilt of Kix’s jaw. His Buir had gotten that same expression sometimes, when his mind was made up and would not be changed. It was both unnerving and oddly comforting to see Jango Fett’s “no, Bob’ika, I am not taking my six-year-old son to Nar Shaddaa” expression on his brother’s face.

“Fine,” Boba said. “But the droid scans you once a day and if it says you need to rest, you rest.”

“Agreed, under the condition that if I put someone on medical reserve, they stay on medical reserve until I release them, and that includes the two of you,” Kix said, gesturing between Boba and Din.

“Sometimes I might be needed regardless,” Boba said cautiously. “Shows of strength are important in this business.”

“I’ll allow limited exceptions in case of emergency, provided that I concur that it is, in fact, an emergency,” Kix said. “And bear in mind my training. I’ve never been able to coddle my patients; I won’t keep you back for nothing.”

Boba nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “You have a deal. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.” (Truth, honor, vision: Mandalorian vow to seal a pact) He reached across the medical-supply laden table where Kix was working and the two of them clasped arms to seal their agreement.

“Wow,” Drash said, looking from Boba to Kix with wide eyes. “Are you all that intense?”

“Oh, no,” Kix said, with a mischievous grin. “Some of us were much worse. You should have met the ARCs. Or the Alphas.”

“The Nulls,” Boba added.

“I met Ordo Skirata once,” Kix said. “That was enough to make me glad I tested into medical instead of special ops. That vod was terrifying.”

“Now imagine six of him, all going through puberty at the same time,” Boba said. “I honestly have no idea how Skirata survived.”

“Did you know them well?” Kix leaned forward, curious.

“Buir let me stay with them sometimes when he was off on a hunt,” Boba said. “Skirata’s clan was sworn to House Mereel. There were a handful of trainers like that, who’d followed our faction during the Clan Wars, and Buir trusted them more than most.” He shrugged. “Kal raised his boys as True Mandalorians, and that included a responsibility to help younger kids. They used to let me tag along behind them in training, join their games, that sort of thing. At least until…” he shrugged. “I never found out what happened, but Buir started keeping me apart from everyone else on Kamino. Looking back, I wonder if there was some kind of threat I didn’t know about, but at the time I was just happy he started taking me with him on hunts.”

“Mereel? I thought you and Prime were Clan Fett.” Kix’s brow furrowed.

Boba hummed thoughtfully. “Fett’s our clan,” he said. “Mereel is our House—yours, too, if you want it to be.” He swallowed, feeling a pang of anxiety. “You don’t have to,” he said. “You can pick whatever you want. But we’ll be setting you up with new citizenship papers. You’re part of my clan, and that includes the right to my name—Fett or Mereel, or both if you’d like.”

Kix inhaled, short and sharp. “I never had much to do with Prime, but it was common knowledge in the GAR that he was very insistent that he only had one son.”

“He was,” Boba said. It still ached, remembering how much his life had revolved around Jango Fett, how lost Boba had been without him. “But he’s gone, now, and so is anyone else that had the right to say anything about it. I’m the clan head now—the aliit’alor—and if I say someone’s part of my clan, then they are.” He cleared his throat, nervous. “I actually filed paperwork already,” he said. “Stating that any Fett clone or spouse or child of a Fett clone would be considered a clan member. I’m pretty sure they only let me do it because they thought it was just a symbolic gesture.”

“They let you do it because Fenn Rau got roped into being in charge of restoring the Clan Registry, and he has a crush on your ba’buir,” (grandparent) Din said.

Boba stared at his ven’riduur. “He what?”

“He’s got a crush on Jaster Mereel,” Din said. “That time Bo-Katan sent us to Ord Mantell together, he spent the entire trip talking about the Supercommando Codex and how it was the best way forward for the Mandalorian people since the days of Mandalore the Preserver. The word ‘visionary’ came up a lot.”

“Oh,” Boba said, feeling a bit stunned.

“I haven’t told him yet that you’ve got your buir’s annotated copy,” Din continued. “I figured we’d save that for when we really need a favor.”

“To be honest, I didn’t think anyone really remembered Ba’buir Jaster anymore,” Boba said. “Buir always said that Death Watch had all but wiped out our House, and the New Mandalorians did everything they could to erase any history they didn’t approve of.”

“They drove them underground, maybe,” Din said, “discouraged people from talking about him. But you know as well as I do that it’s not that easy.” He nudged their shoulders together, a silent reminder of his support. “You should talk to Rau. I know you don’t want to get involved in Mandalorian politics, but it can’t hurt to get a better idea of the landscape. A lot has changed since the old days. Mandalore might still have a part to play in your plans.”

Boba sighed. Din was right; Boba had stepped up to reclaim his father’s House and Clan for his brothers’ sake, so it was his duty to at least maintain awareness of any complications that might result. Particularly if his inquiries led to any other clones wanting to join the clan. They might not all be as willing to join the gotra as Kix had been, and it was Boba’s responsibility as aliit’alor to ensure they had support and opportunities for wherever their paths might lead.

Besides, Din was technically part of the Mandalorian government, now, so they would need to decide how they would deal with clan ties after their upcoming riduurok. Din was more influential than he realized, and if he brought Clan Djarin into House Mereel, it would probably make some waves. Boba couldn’t imagine that Bo-Katan would be happy to see one of her own House’s greatest rivals rebuilding, talk of a united Mandalore or no.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to him. Can you set it up?”

“Absolutely,” Din said, sounding satisfied.

“Well now that’s settled, I’d like to discuss supplies for the medbay,” Kix said. “Unless there’s any other planetary royalty you’re connected to that we need to talk about?”

Boba thought of the letter to Leia Organa, then quickly suppressed the thought. “No,” he said. “No more royalty today.”

Kix narrowed his eyes. “I’m taking note of the word ‘today’ and then deliberately putting it aside for now,” he said. “But I reserve the right to re-open the conversation if it becomes relevant.”

Boba grinned. “If it becomes relevant, Kix’ika, you’ll know.”

“I like him, boss,” Drash said. “He’s got moxie.” She winked at Kix, cheeky and cheerful.

Kix cleared his throat. “I’m fairly sure I was vaccinated for that in the GAR,” he said dryly, but he ducked his head a little, almost shy. Maybe he wasn’t used to the Mods’ particular brand of teasing yet, but he’d get there. It was nice to see Drash warming to him; Skad would follow her lead, and where the two of them went, the rest of the Mods followed. Between that and how excited everyone would be at the prospect of finally getting consistent access to trustworthy professional medical care, Boba thought Kix would settle into life at the palace quite nicely.

He took a moment to enjoy the warm feeling of clan settling around his shoulders, then turned his attention to business. Kix, unsurprisingly, had a well-honed sense for how to run a medbay; between them, it only took a few hours to sort out the answers to the running list of questions Kix had been keeping as he worked through the med droid’s records. Din took Grogu down to the training rooms after midmeal for meditation and Force practice, and Drash had left for one of her check-ins with the other Mods soon after, leaving Kix and Boba bent over their ledgers.

Boba was digging through his files, trying to determine if it was feasible for them to start a small bootleg bacta operation, when his comm alerted him to a message from Fennec.

So I just heard an interesting rumor from Skad about a pod race we’re going to be hosting, it said. Seriously, Boba, you get engaged and I have to hear it from the kids?

Boba winced.

We didn’t tell them first! We told Grogu first, Kix and Drash were just there. I was planning to tell you when we met later on today.

I’ll allow it, but mostly because I know you were in bed all morning and you’re probably still drunk on hormones, she replied. Better get to Santo before the Mods do, though, or you may be getting married with no arms. I’ll stall Skad for you, but you owe me.

Copy that.

He made his excuses to Kix and went downstairs to share his good news.

Three days later, there was a reply in his House Mereel comm inbox from Leia Organa. He closed off his office and set his comm to Do Not Disturb before opening it with shaking hands.

Aliit’alor Fett,

It was indeed a surprise to hear from you, but not an unwelcome one. I recall and acknowledge the help you provided me in a time of need, and am glad to know that the opportunity to repay your kindness is not lost as I had thought. Though the currents of galactic politics have sometimes set us in opposition to one another, I welcome the opportunity to forge new alliances for what shall hopefully be a brighter chapter of history.

Please accept my sincere congratulations on the recovery of your lost brother. Palpatine’s cruelty and lust for power shattered many families, as you and I know better than most; any reunions between those who were believed lost are truly cause for rejoicing. I do not wish to overstep your role as his clan head, but if CMO Kix is in need of anything that Alderaan can provide, please let me know. House Organa has ever considered it a sacred duty to aid those displaced by war.

I can confirm that the Alliance to Restore the Republic became aware during the Imperial rule that the clone troopers of the GAR were not willing participants in any of the atrocities led by Palpatine, Vader, and their officers, but were coerced by means of a slave chip implanted during development on Kamino. The troopers bear no responsibility or blame for these heinous acts, and should indeed be counted among their victims as surely as the Jedi with whom they served. Accordingly, the Alliance maintained a policy of aid and support to any clone troopers who were able to be recovered from Imperial hands.

I have attached a schematic and surgery guideline file to this message, compatible with any standard surgical droid in the 2B series, detailing how to find a trooper’s chip using brain imaging and the safest way to remove it. For security reasons, the Alliance required all troopers who passed through our rehabilitation program to undergo chip removal, so we do not know if any Imperial remnants would be able to activate it, but we always considered the risk of leaving the chip intact too high.

There is additional information that I would like to share with you and with CMO Kix pertaining to your family. However, as I am sure you understand, I must be constrained by my duty to those under the protection of my House to ensure that they face no danger through my actions.

Before we negotiate further to determine the shape of our potential alliance, I would request that you meet with an envoy to verify the information you have provided and speak with CMO Kix directly on behalf of House Organa. Luke Skywalker, Master of the New Jedi Order, is willing to meet with you on Tatooine at your earliest convenience for this purpose. However, if you would prefer not to receive my envoy at this time, I am happy to host CMO Kix on Chandrilla for discussions with House Organa.

I look forward to your decision.

May you lead your people to life and light, and may you cover your family in honor as the pure snows once graced the peaks of Appenza.

Princess Leia
The Royal House of Organa
Invested Heir to the Crown of Alderaan

Boba let out a long breath. That… was honestly much more than he’d expected to get. He was no fan of Jedi meddling, but Grogu was fond of Skywalker, and that was enough for Boba to tolerate his presence for a few days. He couldn’t blame Organa for wanting Jedi verification of Boba’s intentions, given his complicated history with her faction. Reading between the lines, it sounded like a great many clones might have passed through the Rebellion, and Organa was being too cautious not to be protecting someone. If even a few of the troopers they’d rescued from the Empire were still alive, Boba owed them a debt too vast to be paid in his lifetime, but he was still going to pay what he could.

If he could give Kix back even a single one of their brothers, Skywalker could do whatever Force shit he wanted to assure himself of Boba’s sincerity. It was his duty, his obligation under the vows he had made when he’d set himself as the head of his clan.

I give my back to bear the weight of our burdens. I give my armor to take the blows of our enemies. I give my sword to defend our home and family. I give my life in service, that our clan may thrive. So do I swear before the Ka’ra.

Boba wasted no time writing back to thank Organa, and gave several time windows when he would be happy to host her envoy on Tatooine (strategically chosen to ensure that the Jedi wasn’t in the palace at the same time as any of the gotra’s more particular business associates.) That task complete, he went back to his bacta plans. The tight control and high prices under the Empire had led to a number of bootleg strains proliferating, but black-market bacta was always risky if you didn’t know how to make sure you were getting the good stuff.

He’d been shocked to learn from Kix that the GAR medical corps, pushed near to breaking by the ever-increasing casualty rates and ever-decreasing bacta rations allocated by the Senate, had somehow managed to develop a method of producing their own, using a mixture of techniques cobbled together from Kamino, the holonet, and the time-honored tradition of a clandestine shipboard still. While not quite as potent as Thyferran bacta, the GAR strain—referred to euphemistically as “jahaala (healthy) juice”—had been inexpensive to produce, hardy enough to survive on an active warship, and effective enough to allow the medics to stretch their supplies much farther than they’d otherwise been able to.

If they could replicate the strain at the palace and produce enough to sell the excess, they’d have an excellent income stream and a simple, accessible way to continue building positive relationships with the people. Life on Tatooine was harsh, and many people were killed or permanently disabled by injuries that would have been easily healed on a Core world. An affordable local source of bacta could make all the difference.

They could sell it just above cost, Boba thought, and ensure that everyone knew their treatment was being subsidized by the Daimyo. Put the Fett sigil on the containers, play up the humanitarian angle. If they ramped up production enough, they might even start exporting the stuff; of all the black-market goods to dabble in, high-quality, low-cost bacta was about as low risk as you could get. In fact, since the Empire’s monopoly had raised the prices so high, bacta smuggling was considered practically virtuous by most people outside the Core.

By the time Boba rejoined the family for latemeal, he’d already placed the first supply orders for Kix’s new lab. Everyone was in a festive mood, excited over the news of Boba and Din’s engagement and happy to get to know Kix. Kix himself seemed to be settling in pretty well, gravitating toward Drash and Skad and having animated discussions of recent advancements in bio-cybernetics whenever he wasn’t sticking near Boba, Din, or Grogu. Boba had never considered himself sentimental, but he couldn’t deny the warmth he felt at the sight.

He and Din took Grogu up to their room afterward, the child pushing so much happiness and affection into the air that Boba couldn’t help grinning like a fool. The light of the setting suns streamed ruddy-gold through the gauze curtains, the cooling breeze flirting with Boba’s robes and ruffling Din’s curls as he sat down at the worktable to clean his beskar’gam. Grogu rummaged in his toy box and pulled out a complicated little puzzle that Skywalker had sent him for Life Day, some kind of Jedi toy intended to help little ones hone their skills with the Force. Boba would be lying if he said that the gesture hadn’t made him take a softer view of the Jedi; he knew well how thorough the Empire had been in destroying every Jedi-related item they could find, and it was understood in bounty hunting circles that there was a rich client on Chandrilla who would pay good prices for any surviving items that might turn up in the course of business. It would have cost Skywalker something, to give up any of the things that he’d managed to recover. For him to give one to Grogu spoke well of his ability to put the wellbeing of a child above his own. An encouraging sign.

And besides, according to Din and Fennec, Skywalker had saved them all from certain doom on Gideon’s cruiser. He might have borne some of the blame for Boba ending up in the sarlaac, but he’d also saved Boba’s family and indirectly enabled his present happiness. Boba might never warm to Jedi in the abstract, but Skywalker… he was all right. As long as he behaved himself and didn’t try anything dodgy, Boba was willing to consider him a potential ally.

Besides, he and Organa were something of a matched set, and Boba definitely wanted to pursue some kind of alliance with her.

As though summoned by his thoughts, his comm chimed.

“Huh,” Boba said, after reading the message. Din looked up, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

“Ad’ika, would you like to see Al’baji (Head Teacher) Skywalker again?”

Grogu looked up from his puzzle, eyes bright. “Lu?” He lifted his hand to summon his tablet from where he’d set it down earlier—they needed to get him a strap or something, Boba thought—and started pressing buttons with abandon.

“Luke Play Grogu Home Yes. Grogo Go Luke Home No. Grogu Aliit.”

Boba held out his arms, bracing for the warm little thud of Grogu Force-jumping up onto his lap. “That’s right, Gro'ika,” he said, kissing the soft, fine hair on the top of his head. “He’s going to come visit you here, but you’re not going back to school, you’re staying here on Tatooine with your aliit.”

“Skywalker’s coming here? What brought that on?” Din sounded nervous; even after all this time, Boba thought he still worried that something would happen to force Grogu to leave him again, frightened by Tano’s dark warnings that his connection to his son might somehow hurt the child.

All the more reason to do this, then. Boba wasn’t an expert on Jedi history by any means, but his Buir had taught him about the Mand’alors of the past; if Tarre Viszla could leave the Jedi to come lead his people without turning evil, that must mean there was a way to keep those connections safely. They’d just need to figure it out. Having a good relationship and open communication with one of the only beings to openly claim the Jedi name was a good start—and a good way to keep them from getting on the New Republic’s scanners in a bad way before they had time to get properly established.

“I asked Organa if the Rebels had any intel on any of Kix’s vode,” Boba said. “Before she’d tell me anything, she wanted Skywalker to come here. She said it was so he could talk to Kix directly, but we both know she wants him to sniff around with the Force and make sure I’m not up to anything nefarious.”

“You wouldn’t,” Din said, offended. “You’d never dishonor your word like that, you—”

“Easy, cyare,” Boba said, warmth stirring in his chest at Din’s spirited defense. “To be fair, I doubt either of them have enough knowledge of Mandalorian culture to understand the context of what I asked. Plus, they only know me in a professional sense. I tried to bring Skywalker in for the Empire about ten years ago, and you already know I slabbed Solo for Jabba right before the sarlacc.”

“Sure, but you aren’t hunting now,” Din said. “So there’s no reason for them to worry.”

Boba chuckled. “People who aren’t in the business tend to take that kind of thing personally,” he said. “But Organa’s willing to negotiate, and she’s willing to engage with me as one head of House to another rather than as a senator; that could be a valuable relationship to cultivate in any number of ways. Besides, I thought Kix might enjoy meeting his General’s son, and Skywalker might like to hear stories about his father that don’t end with his horrific death, so it’s worth letting him come stick his nose in my business for a little while.”

“Fair enough,” Din said. “Still, you should say the gai bal manda (adoption vow) to Grogu before he gets here. Just so he knows how things are.”

Boba took a sharp breath. “Already? I’d thought to wait until our riduurok.”

“You’re already his parent, Bo,” Din said softly. “This just makes it official, isn’t that right, ad’ika?”

Grogu stood up in Boba’s lap, reaching up with both hands to tug on his face; Boba obeyed, bending down to touch their foreheads together gently, cradling Grogu’s torso between his hands.

“Neh Bobu,” Grogu said, bonking Boba’s skull a little for emphasis. “Lek.”

Boba’s eyes burned. He had never thought he’d have this; sometimes it still felt like it must be a dream. “Elek,” he said. “Ni kar’tayli gai sa’ad, (I know your name as my child) Grogu Djarin.”

“Djarin be Mereel,” Din said, sitting on the couch beside them. “For both of us, I think.”

“You sure?” He looked up, pulling Grogu in to cuddle against his chest. “Your Mand’alor will have a conniption.”

“Yeah, but think how fun it will be watching Rau gloat.” Din raised his hand to Boba’s cheek, gently wiping away the wetness there. “You are our family, Boba. I want us to claim it. I want us to wear each other’s signets and bear the same House name. I want people to know.”

Boba shivered. “How about you, Grogu? Do you want to be part of my House?”

“Leet,” the child said, wriggling around until Din laid a soothing hand on his back. He huffed, sounding adorably put out. “Lek, Bobu.”

Din laughed. “Bobu’s being silly, isn’t he? You’re right, our aliit should share a House name.”

“You honor me,” Boba said. He could feel his hands shaking; if he didn’t have Grogu in his arms and Din leaning against his side, he thought he might fly apart. It seemed impossible for one heart to contain so much. “I—I never thought this could happen for me.”

“Neither did I,” Din said, pressing a kiss to Boba’s damp cheek. “I guess you were right, Boba. Sometimes fate does step in. Fate, or the Force, or the Ka’ra… whatever it was, I’m glad.”

“So am I,” Boba said. He’d never really believed in the Ka’ra, not the way some did, but it was nice, sometimes, to think that the past Mand’alore really did watch them from the stars. It was nice to think of his Buir, reunited with Ba’buir Jaster, looking down on Boba and seeing him thrive, loving and beloved, each day a new and precious gift. “So am I.”

Chapter Text

Boba Fett, Kix thought, was quite possibly the worst crime boss in galactic history.

Not that he was a bad daimyo; from everything Kix had seen and heard in his few weeks on Tatooine, Boba was an excellent daimyo, probably the best in living memory considering that most of the others had been Hutts. People loved Boba, much more than he ever seemed to notice. Oh, Kix had heard about the occasional double-crosses and assassination attempts from rival syndicates, but Boba’s own people? The gotra, the townsfolk from Mos Espa and Freetown, the allied Tuskens, the business owners? They talked about how fair his judgments were, how reasonable his protection fees. They talked about how he kept them safe, how he kept his word. He walked through his city and children ran up to him, eager for his attention. He wanted to rule through respect, not fear. He had a Council to help run his gotra, and it had civic representatives on it. Its last two meetings had been largely devoted to working out a plan for installing a water recycling system in Mos Espa to lessen the city’s dependence on vaporators.

Kix admittedly wasn’t an expert on organized crime, but he’d been under the impression it didn’t usually involve a lot of municipal infrastructure development.

Granted, they were on Tatooine, where there hadn’t been much distinction between civil government and crime syndicates for centuries. Maybe in Tatooine terms, running a gotra was like being a governor, just with assassinations instead of elections. He’d seen worse systems, honestly. Boba didn’t permit spice trade and took immediate, violent action against any slaver he caught in his territory, which put him ahead of about half the Outer Rim in the good government ratings.

And Boba was good, no matter what he seemed to think. A good leader, a good brother, and, from everything Kix could see, a good partner and a good parent as well. He was protective and generous and kind, loyal and honorable and dryly funny. He was intensely devoted to his family, which encompassed not only Din, Grogu, and Kix but most of the higher-ups in his gotra as well. He wasn’t the only vod Kix had known who brought that terrifying level of focus to bear, but most of the others hadn’t applied it to everything the way that Boba did. If something didn’t matter to Boba, he paid it no attention at all; if something did, Boba treated it with the sort of dedication Kix was more accustomed to see pointed toward, say, a delicate and lifesaving surgical procedure or the planning and execution of a difficult, mission-critical military operation.

“The thing you’ve got to understand about the boss,” Drash had told him, the second time she’d come up to the medbay to chat over inventory, “is that he doesn’t give up. Ever. On anything. Once he decides he’s gonna do something, he keeps going until it gets done. Don’t matter if he has to try a hundred different things before he hits on the right one. And he’s honest; it’s been hilarious watching him build up the gotra, because none of the other syndicates are, so they don’t believe anyone else is either. They twist themselves in knots looking for the double-cross and end up sabotaging themselves half the time, and then the boss does exactly what he said he’d do and they’re all still surprised.”

She’d smiled at Kix then, unexpectedly soft. “He told us he planned to make his territory a place where all his people could thrive,” she said. “Not just scrape by, he said, but flourish. Can you imagine? Flourish, he said. On Tatooine.” She’d shaken her head. “But he meant it. And now… you know, before he came all the Mods were squatting in a half-rotten warehouse outside of town? Never enough of anything and no way to get any more, no work on offer that paid enough to live on. It was the same all over; only two kinds of people lived here, the ones getting ground into the sand and the ones doing the grinding.”

She looked down at her work; Boba was holding immunization clinics in Mos Eisley and Mos Espa soon, and they were sorting vaccine ampoules into lots to be delivered to the various administration sites.

So the people could flourish, Kix thought, and felt a wave of love for his brother so strong it almost hurt.

“So we’re here, right, trying to stay alive in this sandy shithole and knowing we were losing the fight a little more every day,” Drash continued, after a moment. “And then they showed up out of nowhere—just him and Fennec at first, then Din came pretty soon after—and they fought for us. Fought beside us. And the boss kept saying he’d do things and then doing them. Brought the water prices down. Gave people paying work. Started breaking up the trafficking rings. I think half of Mos Espa wants in his bed and half wishes he was their dad.”

Kix considered that statement for a while. He was used to natborns lusting over clones in general—stars knew there had been a lot of clone-themed holoporn floating around during the war—but it was strange to think of one individual vod as the specific object of those kinds of affections. “Huh.”

She grinned at him, lightning-quick and wicked. “Of course, there’s a fair bit of overlap between those two groups,” she said. “Sometimes when things are slow in court we like to guess who falls in which category: ‘Kriff Me,’ ‘Daddy,’ or ‘Kriff Me, Daddy.’”

That there had definitely been holoporn about. Medics… saw a lot of things in the course of their duties, including the aftermaths of many, many stupid choices.

Suffice to say that Kix had made it less than three months into the war before instituting a mandatory sexual health training module for all their new shinies that, thanks to the arcane and ridiculous GAR regs that prohibited clone troopers from sexual activity outside of shore leave, he’d been forced to call “Keeping Your Deece Safe During Deployment.”

Drash watched him, looking delighted at whatever expression he was making at this train of thought.

“You know, I feel a little weird saying this, given our whole—” Kix gestured at his own face—“thing, but I can actually see where you’re coming from, at least in theory,” he told her, laughing. “He’s definitely got presence. I have to ask—who usually wins the game?”

“Fennec,” Drash said immediately. “Santo’s the judge because he can smell pheromones, and Din doesn’t play; the first time he heard about it, he blushed so hard his helmet practically turned red and immediately left court to go polish his blasters or something. But Fen can always tell. It’s that assassin training, I guess. Gotta know which way your target’s gonna jump, even if it’s to lust pointlessly over the daimyo.”

“It’s definitely pointless?” Kix said casually. “He and Din seem happy, but people have all kinds of arrangements.”

Drash scoffed. “So pointless,” she said. “He’s so in love with his shiny Mando murder machine I don’t think anyone else even exists for him like that anymore—like, he knows if someone’s hot the same way he’d know if a blaster was in good shape, but he doesn’t act like that’s relevant to him personally.”

“I’ve known people like that,” Kix said. “Like their hormones don’t even kick in unless it’s someone they already really care about for other reasons.” Boil from the 212 had been that way, he thought. He’d never looked at anyone but Waxer, even after Waxer had marched on after Umbara.

“And Din’s completely smitten right back,” Drash continued. “It’s easy to see once you get to know him enough to understand the way he operates. I mean, I’d rather someone court me with something other than a carbon-frozen slaver, but to each their own, you know?” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s a Mando thing or a hunter thing, but it works for them. It’s kind of sweet, really. And they do so much for us; they deserve to be happy more than anyone.”

It was more or less the same, no matter who Kix talked to—and he talked to as many people as he possibly could, seeing as how his involuntary trip into the future had left him uncomfortably short on intel. The only people who seemed to want Boba gone were people who wanted him out of the way of their own criminal endeavors. Everyone else was either vehemently on Boba’s side or, at worst, distrusted all daimyos on principle but allowed that Fett wasn’t as bad as most, and would be tolerable as long as he lasted.

Honestly, Kix kind of hoped that he’d turn out like Boba when he got to be his age; there were certainly far worse examples to aspire to. Boba wasn’t the best at taking compliments, though, so Kix didn’t tell him that directly.

He told Din, instead. It made Din radiantly, transparently happy when someone said nice things about Boba; it put Kix in a good mood for the rest of the day to see it. Drash was right; the two of them worked hard for their people. They deserved to be happy together.

Kix knew he’d been incredibly lucky, even if it didn’t feel like it most of the time. Things could have ended up so much worse for him; Boba said that the stasis pod would have been able to run for hundreds of years off the power it had. What if Kix hadn’t been found for another hundred years, or if it had been treasure hunters or pirates who found him instead of family? At least this way he had Boba, and all of Boba’s colorful clan of big-hearted misfits and outlaws. Kix’s clan, now, too, or so Boba insisted.

Kix even had citizenship papers. For the first time in his life, he officially existed as a person. Sometimes he pulled the ID up just to stare at it in wonder; Kix Mereel, medic, citizen of Tatooine. He had a salary. He earned paid vacation time. He paid taxes. Honestly, that was very nearly more disorienting than waking up twenty-eight years in his own future had been. For most of his life, taxes had only been relevant to Kix in relationship to how many medical supplies his medbay would be shorted, and how many of his brothers the Senate would buy from Kamino to fill the spaces left by the ones who’d died because there weren’t enough medics or medicines or bacta tanks to save them.

He wondered what his brothers would think about Kix’s new life: living in the back of beyond, in a palace stolen from a Hutt, technically part of a criminal enterprise run by the most unusual of all their brothers. Staying in a luxurious suite of rooms next door to said brother, his Mandalorian warrior fiancé, and their tiny Force-wielding green son. Treating patients that included any number of townsfolk, smugglers, freed slaves, bounty hunters, assassins, moonshiners, moisture farmers, miners, and Tuskens, coming in and out of the palace to negotiate, seek aid, deliver tribute, pick up jobs, or just visit a while.

He was fairly sure the rest of the 501st would have loved it here.

And the luck ran even beyond that. Even if Kix had been cursed to live out his life as the last remaining Fett clone, he would have still been lucky, because he’d never been forced to—to—to take part in the Purges.

The Jedi. Mandalore. Alderaan. So many more. So many lives torn apart, and white-armored Imperial troops aiming the blaster every time. How many of those helmets had hidden a vod's face beneath? How many sets of strong, once-kind hands had been stained with innocent blood?

He hoped they hadn’t known. He hoped that they’d marched ahead to join their vode without ever realizing what their bodies had been used to do without their consent.

Kix worked, and he made friends, and when he felt the absence of his vode like a missing tooth, aching and wrong, he’d go to Boba. It was the first comfort he’d ever known, one of the only comforts any of the vode had ever had. His brother, solid and safe, warm and breathing, alive and free.

He was lucky, Kix reminded himself. He’d been so very, very lucky.

One night, after Grogu was in bed, Boba had come to him looking solemn, and handed him a datapad open to a comm box with only two messages inside.

Boba sat quietly while Kix read them, and then read them again, and then again, before looking up at his brother, hardly able to believe what he had seen.

“Boba,” he said, his voice shaking. “What she said, does that mean—do you think—” he hardly dared to say it, as though putting words to the hope would somehow destroy it. “Are some of our brothers still alive?”

“I don’t know more than that, right now,” Boba said, nodding at the datapad. “But… I hope so. Or if not vode, at least other family members; some of the troopers may have married, had children, even been adopted themselves, like the Nulls were. The way Organa’s talking, it sounds as though she has someone to protect. That’s why she wants to send Skywalker here: to make sure it isn’t a trick.” He looked up at Kix, his dark eyes serious. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner that I was asking around,” he said. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up for nothing if none of my contacts panned out.”

How many contacts must Boba have, after a lifetime of bounty hunting and a few years leading a syndicate? How many favors had he called in, looking for any sign of their lost family? Kix knew, without even asking, that Boba wouldn’t care how much it cost or how long it took. If there was anything to find, he would find it or die trying. And he’d do it all, not for himself, but for Kix’s sake, and for the sake of any vode who might need Boba’s help. After all, Boba had spent nearly his whole life thinking the vode didn’t want him.

He was wrong, obviously, but he’d still thought that. And he still hadn’t hesitated; he’d written to the Princess while Kix was still in medbay sleeping off his stasis sickness.

It made Kix feel strangely young, cared for in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. Since before his batch had started training in earnest, when older brothers would come play with the littlest cadets in their rare downtime, giving cuddles and telling stories, teaching them scraps of stolen languages in secret. They’d seemed larger than life, the ori’vode: impossibly strong and kind and clever. It had felt like nothing bad could happen to them, as long as an ori’vod was there.

Kix got out of his chair, the datapad still clutched in shaking hands, and sat down on the couch next to Boba, close enough to press all up against his side. Boba immediately slung an arm around Kix’s shoulders; the comforting weight of it made it easier to breathe.

Nothing bad can happen, something in his hindbrain whispered. Ori’vod is here.

“I can't believe you asked the Princess of Alderaan to help you track down our brothers,” Kix said helplessly. “How do you even know the Princess of Alderaan?”

“We met a while ago,” Boba said. He leaned over absently and kissed Kix’s hair, exactly the same way he did with Grogu. “A Hutt was involved. Don't worry about it; I know a lot of people.”

“Obviously,” Kix said, letting his head sag down onto Boba’s warm shoulder. “Well. All right then. I guess I'm going to meet the famous Al' baji Luke.”

“Only if you want to,” Boba said. “If you don’t, we can try another way. Next time Din goes to Mandalore I’ve asked him to try to dig something up on the Skiratas; if anyone’s still plugged in to any kind of vode network, it’s Prudii.”

“It’s all right,” Kix said. “I’m fine to talk to him. It’s just weird. I mean, it's hard to believe my general had a kid and none of us knew. It's not like he was at all subtle with his ‘secret’ girlfriend.”

Boba looked up, his gaze sharp. “You know who the kid's mother was?”

Kix blinked in surprise. “I mean, not for certain, but I can’t imagine him having a child with anyone but Senator Amidala,” he said. “They had something going all throughout the war. Worst-kept secret in the GAR; I have no idea how General Kenobi trained someone so terrible at stealth. Rex said he saw them kissing behind a plant two meters away from General Yoda one time. It wasn’t even a big plant.”

Boba chuckled. “I didn't know that,” he said thoughtfully. “People talk about Skywalker’s father having been a Jedi, but there’s not been much public discussion of any other relatives.”

“Did he grow up on Naboo?”

“Here, if you believe it. Moisture farm, out in the Dune Sea past Anchorhead.”

“The General was from Tatooine,” Kix said. “He hated it here, though. We heard about it every time we had an engagement on a desert planet.” He could still hear the speech about sand. They’d all been able to quote it from memory by the second year of the war. Ahsoka used to stand just behind her master’s shoulder and pantomime the words…

He shook himself out of the memories. “So when I talk to him, is there anything in particular I’m supposed to do? What does the Princess need to decide if it’s safe to let us know about our vode?”

“She just wants to make sure this isn’t the setup for something nefarious,” Boba said. “Which it isn’t, so we’ll be fine. I’m hoping to convince Skywalker to ally his new Jedi Order with us independent of the New Republic, but you don’t need to worry about all that; just talk to him however you like. He’d probably enjoy hearing some of your stories from the war. I get the impression he doesn’t know all that much about his father.”

“I thought you said that General Kenobi survived the Purge,” Kix said. He’d clung to that knowledge—it was one of the few comforting things he’d learned from Boba’s excruciating debriefs.

Commander Cody used to hover over his General like a mother nexu with one kit. Kix had personally seen him kick an assassin droid’s head clean off before it could take a swipe at Kenobi. He had also personally seen Cody stand guard at the door of a conference room for nearly five hours, glaring every passer-by into terrified silence, because Kenobi had fallen asleep on a pile of datapads and was not to be woken. General Kenobi used to rest his hand on Cody’s shoulder and smile at him and say things like “I don’t know what I’d do without you, my dear” or “I shudder to think how dark these days would be without my Commander by my side,” and Cody would go very upright in the spine and very red at the tips of his ears and radiate devotion.

The thought of him ever hurting General Kenobi was just… wrong. Not wrong like committing a crime, but wrong like gravity not working anymore, wrong like the sun just not coming up one day. There were very few mercies to be had in the story of the Jedi Purge, but knowing that Cody had not killed his General was definitely one of them.

“Kenobi didn’t die until close to the end of the Empire, but I don’t think he spent that time with Skywalker,” Boba said. “At least, Skywalker didn’t seem like he’d had much training when he showed up and started waving a lightsaber around.” He shrugged. “I don’t know much, but I don’t think Kenobi was doing well, after the Purge. Everyone thought he’d died at the end of the Clone Wars, then he showed up on the first Death Star looking at least twenty years older than he should have, and almost immediately got killed by Darth Vader. I didn’t really know him, so I couldn’t speculate about his state of mind, but…” Boba frowned. “Even I know he was considered one of the best fighters in the Order. Vader shouldn’t have been able to kill him so fast, not if he was able to fight at capacity.”

“Oh,” Kix said softly. What Boba was describing sounded terribly familiar. He felt queasy. Every medic in the GAR had known how dangerous it was for a vod who’d lost all their batchmates or squadmates; even the ones who weren’t obviously a risk to themselves tended to have much higher casualty rates. They took risks they shouldn’t. Volunteered for dangerous jobs. A vod who didn’t have anything to come back to… often stopped trying so hard to come back. “You think he wanted…”

“You knew him better than I did,” Boba said gently. “What do you think?”

“The Jedi could feel it, when a lot of people died at once,” Kix said. “It hurt them. And they also needed regular mental contact with people they trusted to stay healthy,” Kix said. “If General Kenobi felt the other Jedi dying, and then spent all those years without anyone else to connect with…” a horrible thought struck him. “Kark, if he wasn’t running with the Rebels, he wouldn’t have known that the troopers didn’t want to—he would have thought that we—that Cody—” he broke off, shuddering. “I hope someone told him,” he whispered. “I hope he knew. The vode loved him. They would never have hurt him, not if they could help it. I just—I hope he didn’t die thinking that they’d wanted him dead.”

Boba gave him a little squeeze. “I hope so, too,” he said.

“I don’t think he would have hurt himself,” Kix said slowly. “Not on purpose. But… he was always too willing to sacrifice himself, if he thought it would save lives. His troops hated that—we used to joke that Commander Cody would be as bald as General Windu by the end of the war because his General would make him tear out all his hair worrying. If the General spent all that time alone, and he thought that his death would save people or, or be for the greater good… I could see him thinking it was the right thing to do.”

Boba nodded. “I’m sorry, Kix,” he said.

“It’s bad for them to be alone for too long,” Kix said. “Jedi, I mean. Or maybe it’s Force-sensitives in general? We only worked with Jedi, so I don’t know. We should make sure General Skywalker’s son knows that. If he’s the only Jedi, he’ll have to figure out other ways to get the mental contact he needs.”

“Tell me more about that,” Boba’s voice sharpened, his attention caught; Kix thought he was probably worrying over Grogu.

“Being Force-sensitive but not having mental contact is… the way it was explained to me, it’s a bit like sensory deprivation,” Kix said. “It’s okay for a short time and can even be relaxing, but too much has a bad effect on brain chemistry. Depression, anxiety, paranoia, hallucinations… there are things they can do to mitigate the effects if they have time to prepare, but even that only goes so far, and it was a lot worse if they were injured or sick in some way. We had a standard protocol that any time one of the Jedi was admitted to medbay or injured in the field, there had to be someone there—another Jedi if possible, or a trooper they were close to if not—to sit with them and provide empathic support.”

“So it doesn’t have to be another Force user to help? Did they need special training, or were they just supposed to sit next to the Jedi and—” Boba wiggled the fingers of his free hand—“emote at them?”

“Apparently Mandalorians in general tend to be empathically loud,” Kix said. “Nearly all the clone troopers who tried were able to learn emotional projection pretty quickly. The idea of it was to project positive feelings into the Force, so the patient could sense that they were safe and to drown out any negative stimuli that might impede their healing. Injury tended to weaken their mental shields, and then they’d pick up pain and negative emotions off other patients, and the whole thing would spiral.” He frowned at the memory. “The medbay at the Temple had special shielding, but they’d never let us requisition any for the Venators. Apparently it wasn’t cost-effective to do such an expensive refit to benefit such a small number of people, even if it was their own Generals.”

Boba made a face. “Short-sighted, wasteful, and petty,” he agreed. “Sounds like the Senate.” He sighed. “How quickly did this mental contact issue become a problem? Should we be trying to set up some kind of… emotional projection treatment sessions for Grogu now that he isn’t training with a Jedi anymore?”

Kix smiled, letting himself lean more heavily against his ori’vod’s side. “I haven’t seen him showing any symptoms of Force isolation,” he said. “It’s hard to know for certain without an adult Jedi around, but he’s obviously reacting to our emotions, and I’ve felt him projecting his feelings a few times; as far as I know, that means he’s connecting naturally with his caregivers, so he should be fine. The main thing is to make sure not to shield him out all the time. And if he ever does get sick or hurt, we’ll make sure to have someone there to give him an extra helping of good Force-vibes.”

Boba sagged in relief. “Good,” he said. “We can do that. I wonder if Skywalker turned up any manuals on the care and feeding of kids with the Force in one of his scavenger hunts through old Temple ruins. Maybe you should ask him; he’d probably be more receptive if the question came from you.”

“Sure,” Kix said. For a moment, it felt like being back on the Resolute, swapping favors with a brother. Boba was solid and warm beside him, the weight of his arm reassuring across Kix’s shoulders. “Make me a list; I’ll see what I can do.”

For all that had been lost, he thought, there were still some things that remained. Boba’s steady care, Din’s fierce protective loyalty, Grogu’s innocent affection. Drash, mischievous and optimistic. Fennec and Krrsantan, clever and watchful. And all the people of Mos Espa that Kix had started to know, as he walked through their markets and listened to their requests in court, watched Grogu play with their children, given them vaccines in the open clinic: still marked by hardship, but burning with determination and hope, with belief.

He’d been thinking as if he and Boba were the last trailing remnants of something that was gone. But the longer he stayed here, the more he was starting to think that maybe, if their luck held out, they could be the start of something new.

Chapter Text

Skywalker landed at the palace a week later. For diplomacy’s sake, Boba had Drash meet him at the landing pad, escorted by a pair of palace guards who’d been indentured to a mining conglomerate before Boba’s people had reminded their “employers” of Tatooine’s new unpaid-labor policies. He didn’t want to take the chance that Santo or Fennec might have taken a shot at any bounties Skywalker’s Rebel friends might have had during the Empire days.

Ordinarily, he met new potential allies in the throne room, but considering what had happened the last time he and Skywalker had both been there, he decided to err on the side of caution. They would meet instead in the most impressive conference room, which had high arched ceilings and a mosaic tile floor. It was outfitted with vivid tapestries and furnished with gorgeous carved Alderaanian pine furniture. Boba had no idea how it had escaped being stripped and sold off by Fortuna; either he hadn’t realized its value or he’d needed it to keep up appearances to anyone who was still willing to do business with him.

Boba was half-considering offering the furniture to Organa as a diplomatic gift, should they actually succeed in forming some kind of alliance. He appreciated its beauty, but it didn’t mean anything special to him, not the way it would to her.

He stood near the head of the table, studying one of the tapestries on the wall, and waited. He felt the same calm clarity that he felt on a hunt, clear in his goals and focused on his work. Not all battles were fought with blasters, after all.

The heavy doors swung open.

“Boba Fett,” Drash said, “Head of Clan Fett, Head of House Mereel, Daimyo of Tatooine. I present to you Luke Skywalker, Master of the New Jedi Order, representing Her Royal Highness Leia Organa, Head of the Royal House of Alderaan.”

He gave her an approving nod, and she winked at him while her back was to Skywalker before composing her expression back into solemn dignity.

“Jedi Skywalker,” Boba said, meeting the man’s eyes and giving him a nod as well. “Be welcome in my home.” He took his seat, and Drash pulled out the chair to his right for Skywalker. There was a pitcher of cold water on the table between them, and Boba poured two tall crystal glasses full, offering them both to Skywalker for him to choose from. “As water brings life to the desert, so may this meeting bring honor upon both our houses.”

Skywalker’s eyes widened, his serene Jedi mask faltering for a moment as he looked back and forth between Boba’s face and the water before visibly regaining his composure and accepting one of the glasses. “As you say, Daimyo Fett,” he murmured, raising his glass toward the suns—a polite Tatooine boy, even after being gone so long—before taking a long swallow; a gesture of trust that Boba was pleased to see. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. The Empire is gone, but it left many wounds in its wake. Princess Leia and I are both eager to see those wounds heal wherever they can.”

“A worthy goal, and one I share.” There was something oddly familiar in the way Skywalker spoke, not from their previous encounters, but from somewhere else—someone else, Boba thought. He sounded like he should be on the news, or making a speech; he sounded like—

Kark.

He wondered if the kid even realized he was imitating General Kenobi.

Suddenly, Boba felt tired of the formalities. Putting on a show was an important part of politics, but something told him that Skywalker would react better if Boba gave him something to connect to.

He forced himself to thin the mental shields that his Buir had spent years drilling into him—just enough to let an echo of his emotions out—and took a deep breath.

It is an honor, he reminded himself, for a leader to suffer so that their people may be comforted. He was doing this for Kix, and Grogu, and Din. He was doing this for the other vode and their families that might still live, that Organa was protecting.

“We are here to negotiate an alliance,” he said. “I believe there is much potential benefit to this alliance, on both sides, and thus I wish to ensure that we begin building on a strong foundation.” He firmed his voice and set his shoulders, focusing his mind on his sincerity and the love he felt for his aliit, his desire to see them happy and flourishing. “I would like to tell you a story,” he said. “Are you willing to listen?”

He saw interest sparking in Skywalker’s eyes. “I will hear you, Daimyo Fett,” he said, and Boba nodded, grave and respectful. He didn’t know if Skywalker had been raised in the old traditions, but… one thing that Mandalorians and Tuskens and the descendants of enslaved people on Tatooine all held in common was the importance of their oral traditions. When someone gave you their story, you honored it. He hoped Skywalker still had enough desert in his bones for that to remain true.

“When I was ten years old, a Jedi came to my home,” he said. “He would later become quite famous, but he was not yet widely known outside the Order. He and my father fought one another, first with words, and then with blades. I grew up surrounded by Mandalorian warriors, watching the training of an army, but I had never seen anyone fight like that before. I probably should have been frightened, but I wasn’t, because it never occurred to me that there was any possibility that my father might lose. Indeed, he didn’t; he overpowered the Jedi and we escaped the planet.” He gestured at Skywalker. “That Jedi would be known by many names in the years to come; for a time, he was the darling of the Republic’s war effort. High General Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man they called ‘The Negotiator.’”

Skywalker went still in his seat, staring at Boba with wide eyes that made him look younger than his years. “You knew Ben—Obi-Wan?” He winced as soon as he spoke; it was rude to interrupt a storyteller. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“It’s all right,” Boba said. He knew that Skywalker and Kenobi had been close—how could they not have been? He wasn’t sure if Kenobi had been the elder Skywalker’s buir or his ori’vod, but they had certainly been aliit, inseparable all throughout the war, one seldom mentioned without the other.

Boba remembered how desperate he had been, after Jango died, to get any scrap of information about him he could find, no matter the source, as though if he just learned enough it could help fill the gaping hole in Boba that Buir’s death had left behind. It would be kind, to give Skywalker any knowledge he could about his own family.

“We met, a few times. And he was in the news constantly, so I heard a lot about him. How much of that was true is difficult to say. But the Jedi who had the greatest impact on my life was not Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He sighed, and met Skywalker’s eyes. “Less than a day after we left our home, I watched as another Jedi—a man called Mace Windu—cut my father’s head off with his lightsaber during the first battle of what would come to be known as the Clone Wars.”

Skywalker made a sharp, bitten-off sound of distress, and Boba felt grimly pleased; if they were to move forward, he wanted the man to understand.

“My father was a complicated man, who lived a difficult and tragic life. He was born the son of farmers, and orphaned; adopted by a king, and then orphaned again; led his father’s men and found family among them, and was betrayed.” Boba paused, gathering his words. “It would take far too long to tell the full story of the Mandalorian civil war, so I will try to simplify for now. My adoptive grandfather was the true ruler of Mandalore, chosen by the Council of Clans, but there were those who sought to take his power for themselves. One of them was Tor Viszla, the leader of a terrorist group called Death Watch, who responsible for my grandfather’s murder. He had thought that he would be able to step into the power vacuum left behind, but the people saw the truth behind his treachery; when they chose a leader, they chose my father instead, though he was still only a boy at the time. Viszla was enraged and humiliated; he conspired with people inside the Republic to eliminate my father and all who followed him, hoping to clear his own path to power once and for all.”

He took another sip of his water, shoring up his shields. He wanted Skywalker to feel his honesty, but he didn’t want to batter the man with the full extent of the anger that burned in him at the thought of all the suffering that had sprung from Tor Viszla's greed and cowardice.

“Death Watch and their supporters arranged for my father and his men to be blamed for crimes they had not committed, and for a strike team of Jedi to be dispatched to… take care of the problem. My father saw his entire company—those who had become as his family after his second father’s murder—fall before the Jedi’s blades. In his grief and rage, he killed six of their number bare-handed before they were able to subdue him. It is for this reason that he was sometimes called ‘The Jedi Killer.’”

Boba could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, but kept himself calm, checked his shields again. “The Jedi handed him over to his enemy and returned to their Temple, believing that they had served the cause of justice. By the time they learned their error, my father had vanished. His enemies had taken his armor as their trophy and refused him even the honor of a valiant death in battle; while the galaxy thought him lost, he was in fact enslaved on a spice freighter in the Outer Rim. He was twenty-two years old.” He glanced up, wondering if Skywalker would try to deny that the Jedi would let themselves be used in such a way.

The young man’s face was troubled, his eyes suspiciously bright. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “That’s not—I know it doesn’t help anything, but that isn’t what the Jedi are supposed to be. They’re—we’re—meant to help the galaxy.”

Boba nodded. “I know this is probably difficult to hear,” he said, his voice softer. “And very different from what you know of Jedi from your teachers and your friends in the Rebellion. Please know that I do not tell you this story to cause you pain, but because I honestly believe that you need to hear it if we are to go forward.”

Skywalker smiled, but it was a twisted little thing with a bitter edge. “I believe you,” he said. “We may not know each other well, but if you wanted to hurt me, I’m fairly sure you’d do it with a blaster and not bother with all of this.” He waved vaguely at the rich furnishings of the room.

Boba laughed, caught off-guard, and relaxed a little despite himself. “You aren’t wrong there,” he said. “I’m a simple man; I don’t like to complicate matters unnecessarily.”

Skywalker nodded, his expression easing. “Please, continue your story, Daimyo. I will accept the gift of this knowledge, however difficult.”

“Thank you.” Boba took a deep, steadying breath, and thought of Din and Kix and Grogu, of Fennec and Santo and the Mods. He wasn’t alone, not anymore.

“The tragedy on Galidraan had far-reaching consequences,” he said. “The faction of Mandalorians my family led was the most moderate and widely-accepted of the groups warring for control of the sector, but nearly their entire leadership structure and all their experienced warriors were killed by the Jedi that day, and my father—their Mand’alor—dishonored and thought dead. The government that eventually took over Mandalore were pacifists, and did everything they could to dismantle the warrior traditions in the name of peace. When the Empire came, Mandalore and its wealth of beskar were defenseless. The Imperials plucked the system like a ripe fruit and purged any of the people who would try to fight back. But that is another story.”

He risked another glance across the table. Skywalker was watching him with almost unnerving focus.

“Mandalorians are very community-oriented people,” Boba said. “One does not become Mandalorian through birth, but through choice; anyone can be Mandalorian if they vow the Creed and honor the Way. Mandalorians have a fearsome reputation, but that very reputation means that they are often targeted by outsiders who wish to subjugate or destroy them, either through fear of their strength or through a greedy desire to take that strength as their own. A Mandalorian’s clan is their family, but it is also their home, their support, their refuge from an often hostile galaxy. Do you understand?”

Skywalker nodded.

“Galidraan was the the third time in my father’s life that he was left as the only survivor of a massacre that killed his entire clan,” Boba said. “I think that it… broke something inside him. When he eventually managed to free himself from slavery, he embarked on a quest for vengeance. He did not rest until he had recovered his armor and hunted down and killed the men who had betrayed him. He never returned to Mandalore or sought out the scattered remnants of his people, but faced the galaxy alone. He never said exactly why, though looking back on things he said, I suspect he was ashamed. His people had followed him to Galidraan, after all. To his mind, he had led them to their doom. Perhaps his self-imposed exile was his punishment.

“Over the years, he built his reputation as a bounty hunter without compare: deadly, efficient, and honorable. If you were lucky enough to hire Jango Fett, he would never break the terms of your contract, and he would fulfill his goal or die trying. He had no connections but business connections, trusted nobody beyond the bounds of a contract. He used to say that a hunter had no friends nor enemies; only clients, temporary allies, and targets.”

“Nobody that you could not bear to lose,” Skywalker whispered. His eyes were distant, his hands tight around his glass.

“Yes,” Boba said. “I believe so, though he died when I was too young for him to share such sentiments with me, at least not explicitly.” He cleared his throat, and continued his tale.

“In time, his reputation brought him a different kind of attention, and he signed a very different kind of contract. He would serve as the genetic template and lead trainer for a clone army—what would become the Grand Army of the Republic. He asked for one special addition to his compensation: a single clone. No gene manipulations, no rapid aging, no alterations of any kind from the template; just a normal baby that he could keep and raise as he saw fit. The cloners agreed to his terms. The Republic got their grand army, and Jango Fett got his son.” Boba laid his hand on his chest. “He got me.”

Skywalker jerked his head up, startled. “You’re a—” he cut himself off, as though worried he’d offend.

Boba nodded. “It isn’t widely known, but yes. I’m a clone of Jango Fett, just as the GAR troopers were.”

“Leia said you called them your kin, but… I didn’t realize.”

“I went to a great deal of trouble to hide it, when I was younger.” Boba sighed, relaxing his shields a little, letting some of his regret and grief seep through. “My father kept me largely apart from the other clones. He spent a lot of time telling me that I was different from them, that they weren’t our family. The cloners claimed that they had manipulated their genes enough that they were faultlessly loyal, would obey orders without question. My father told me this made them less than fully human: that they had no will of their own, no souls. That they were more like droids than men.”

“I’ve known droids with as much will as any organic being,” Skywalker said wryly. “That doesn’t seem like a very convincing argument.”

“Especially when you consider what happens if a droid is allowed to develop without regular memory wipes and a restraining bolt,” Boba agreed. “I still don’t know if my father believed what he said about them, if he forced himself to believe it because he couldn’t bear the guilt otherwise, or if… someone else forced the belief upon him.”

“Someone else—like the Emperor?”

“One of his cronies, at least,” Boba said. “There were certainly enough of them running around back then. And my father’s client—the man who hired him to make the army—was one of them. A dar’jetti—what do you call them, the Jedi who went bad?”

“Fallen,” Skywalker said, going pale. “We say they fell to the Dark Side of the Force.”

Boba nodded. “His name was Dooku, the ruler of Serenno. He had been a Jedi Master, once, and a respected one. I don’t know if he left them because he was already a traitor or if it happened after, but he led the Separatists during the Clone Wars. Nobody was supposed to know that he’d been the one who hired the cloners to make the Republic’s army. When I was growing up, my father had to give him reports a few times a year. Every time he came back from one, he was… different. He’d forget things he’d known before, act crueler, colder. He’d have terrible nightmares and wake me with his screaming.” His voice caught, remembering those terrible nights, the way Buir had sounded: shredded, hopeless, terrified. “He always locked himself in his room until the dreams stopped. I used to just go sit outside his door and talk to him. When he eventually came out, he’d carry me around for hours. Like a little child with a stuffed toy.”

“You think Dooku was doing something to him. Altering his mind with the Dark Side of the Force.”

“It might be wishful thinking,” Boba said. “I know that my father did terrible things, that he allowed terrible things to be done to the other clones. But he also raised me as a Mandalorian, the way he had been raised. He taught me that clan ties were sacred, that your word should be inviolate. That children are our hope and our future, to be cherished and protected, and that harming a child is the worst crime a being can commit. For him to believe those things, and still agree to make the clones, still allow them to be treated the way they were—he was either the biggest hypocrite in galactic history, or he really did believe that the alterations to their genes meant that none of the others counted as children.” He sighed. “Perhaps it’s foolish of me, but it’s easier to believe that his mind was twisted by an evil sorcerer than that everything I knew of him was a lie.”

“He was your father,” Skywalker said gently. “And you loved him.”

Boba’s eyes stung, suddenly, and he looked down at his hands. They wore a different set of scars, but the arch of the wrist and the span of the palm were the same as Buir’s had been. Steady, teaching him to fire a blaster. Gentle, rubbing his back when he caught Corellian fever and coughed until his chest burned. Strong, pulling him to safety, holding him close. “He was my entire world. Losing him felt like losing everything.”

“And a Jedi killed him,” Skywalker said. “I—no wonder you hated me.”

Boba scoffed. “I’ve never hated you, Skywalker,” he said. “No friends, no enemies, remember? You were a job. A tricky job, with a high price tag. Something that would boost my reputation. When we first met, that was all I cared about: living up to my father’s legacy. Being the best hunter in the galaxy. And making sure nobody ever found out my secret.” He sighed. “I did blame the Jedi for what happened,” he said. “My father had spent my whole life teaching me to fear Jedi, showing me how to shield against the Force, to keep you out of my head. I’d heard him at night, weeping over his Remembrances of the family he’d lost at Galidraan. And then he died the same way, like one of his nightmares come true. I thought he’d been right: that the Jedi’s reputation as peaceful and just was only a mask, that they were all monsters underneath who’d cut you down without a thought as soon as you did something they didn’t like.”

“But you… don’t think that anymore?” Skywalker was tense in his seat, but not reaching for any weapons, his hands still holding the glass.

“Not exactly,” Boba said. “Not in the same way. I think that the old Order was too sure of itself, too quick to trust the Republic Senate and too sure that it knew what was best. But I know now that the Senate held their leash—and Palpatine controlled the Senate. The Jedi were a threat to his rise to power, just as the Mandalorians had been. And just like the Mandalorians were, the Jedi found themselves stripped of credibility and then betrayed to their deaths. I wanted the adult Jedi who had harmed me to pay for it, but even at my worst I didn’t wish harm on the children. After the Purge, any debt I considered myself owed by the Jedi was erased by the shedding of so much innocent blood. It would have been dishonorable to pursue it further.”

“And your honor is important to you.”

“Without a clan, my honor was all I had,” Boba said. “My honor, and my name, and my father’s armor.” He laid a hand lightly on his kar’ta beskar. “For a long time, I thought that was all I needed.”

“And then something changed?”

Boba shot Skywalker an unimpressed look. “You could say that,” he said, dry as the desert outside. “One of my targets got a lucky shot in, and I spent a while with nothing to do but re-examine my life while being slowly dissolved. Burning alive tends to give you a fresh perspective on what’s important.”

Skywalker winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have gone back—”

Boba waved him off. “Why would you?” he asked. “You owed me nothing; eliminating me eliminated a possible threat to you and yours. It was a logical decision; no hard feelings.”

Skywalker shook his head. “I will never understand bounty hunters.”

“Good hunters are easy to understand,” Boba said. “You just have to get a look at their contracts. It’s the amateurs you have to look out for; they’ll jump on a whim, pull all sorts of stupid shit if they think they’ll come out ahead. You’re far better off sticking with professionals who honor their agreed-upon terms.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Skywalker said. “I mean—what if someone wanted you to kill your best friend, or a kid?”

“Then you don’t take that contract,” Boba said. “And you make sure your contracts have out clauses in case some skughole tries to fool you into taking a job that goes against your principles, whatever they are.” He made a note to himself on his datapad. “My adoptive grandfather actually wrote a book about how to conduct yourself with honor when working as a hunter or a mercenary; I’ll send you a copy.”

“Thank you,” Skywalker said. “I’m beginning to realize I’ve made a lot of unsupported assumptions.”

“If we’re going to work together in the future, we need to understand one another,” Boba said. “That’s the whole point of all this.”

“Right,” Skywalker said. “For the clones.”

“For the clones. Or, more accurately, the other clones.”

“You said you didn’t consider them family, before.” Skywalker looked at him, eager and curious. “But you told Leia they were your kin. That they’re part of your clan.”

Boba nodded. “They are,” he said. “It took me longer than it should have to realize it, but no matter what the cloners claimed about their genes, they’re still people and they’re just as much my father’s children as I am. It was only chance that meant I grew up as his son instead of one of the others.” He thought of the few clones he’d been permitted to get close to; the Skirata boys. Kote and his batchmates, at least until they outgrew him. Jax, the cadet who had befriended him on the Endurance. One of the cadets he had abandoned, not knowing if they would live or die.

“They were good people,” he said quietly. “Loyal, and brave, and kind. Better people than my father was, at the end. Better people than I had been. The Republic spilt their blood like water, but not a single clone died without being mourned—by their squadmates, or their batchmates, or their officers. By the families they made for themselves when my father refused to make them part of his. And I realized, while I was trapped inside the sarlacc waiting to die, that there wasn’t a single person in the entire galaxy who would mourn my loss. There were clients, who might regret the loss of a useful tool. Targets, who would rejoice in their escape from me. But when I died, my clan would die with me, and there would be no one to add me to their Remembrances. No one whose life would be at all poorer because I was gone. I saw, then, how foolish I had been. And when, against all odds and logic, I escaped from what should have been my tomb, I vowed to myself that the second part of my life would be different from the first.”

He met Skywalker’s eyes, sitting up straighter, letting his voice carry. “I will not face death again knowing that nobody will care,” he said. “I have skills, and I have opportunities; I plan on using them. I know I can make life better for more than just myself; I’m going to do it. The people of Tatooine and the clones of the GAR have a lot in common; they’ve spent decades being treated as resources, tools to serve the aims of the lazy and the greedy who manage to gain power over them.

“I once thought I was my own master, but I was deluding myself. I was just a better class of tool. But that is true no longer.” He rapped his fist sharply against the table. “My people can remake Tatooine, together. Our way. The Fetts can be a proper clan again, our way. No more dying for greedy idiots who want all of the reward for none of the risk. No more cutting out our own hearts because our ties make us harder for others to use. As my father’s people would say: nu draar. Never again. At the end of that path lies only ruin.”

Skywalker sucked in a sharp little breath, and Boba realized that he’d dropped his shields farther than he meant. He was probably half-deafening the kid, or however that worked in the Force.

“My apologies.” He reinforced them again, back to the level they’d been at earlier. “I feel very strongly about this.”

“I can see that,” Skywalker murmured, with a keen look.

“In the end,” Boba said, “This is what matters. I wasn’t a trooper, but I am a clone. The other clones are my siblings; their families are my family. I cannot undo the harms my father did to them, or the harm that I myself did before I saw the error of my ways, but I know better now. I acknowledge our debts. I must do what I can to give them what they always should have had, what is theirs by right: they are owed the care and support of their clan, and I will do my utmost to see it given to any who will accept, and to build a home that can shelter and provide for them in the way they deserve. It is a duty I will not shirk. I hope that you and Princess Leia can see your way to assisting me.”

“And yet Tatooine has not petitioned to be admitted to the New Republic,” Skywalker said.

Boba scoffed. “And we won’t,” he said. “Why would we? The old Republic was bloated, corrupt, and inefficient. Sure, things were good in the Core, but Rim worlds? Poor worlds? They got left to rot, and so far we’ve seen no evidence that the new version will be any different. When Nevarro was being attacked by pirates, it was the Mandalorians who came to help. When Crimson Dawn tried to get re-established on Savareen last year, we were the ones who lent our aid. No. We can make our own alliances, work with our neighbors to do things that help us rather than pad some Senator’s pocket.”

Skywalker’s shoulders slumped. The more invested he got in the conversation, the more of his emotions he was letting show; it was encouraging, Boba thought. He’d grown up on the Rim; he had to know that Boba was right, even if he wanted things to be different. “Then why reach out to us at all?”

“I didn’t reach out to the New Republic,” Boba said. “I reached out to individuals I thought would give a damn. House Organa. The Huttslayer. And through her, you.” He tried to put every scrap of his conviction into his voice. “I think that our peoples have been pitted against one another for hundreds of years, when in fact we have more in common than most would ever realize. Those in power fear us, Jedi. They fear what would happen if we stopped fighting one another and turned our attention to a single purpose. They have tried over and over to wipe us out, and very nearly succeeded. The Jedi of old tied themselves to the Republic and ended as little better than their attack dogs, and when the Senate had drained them dry, they turned on them too.”

“That was Palpatine,” Skywalker protested. “That was the Sith.”

“He was the head of it, sure,” Boba said. “But don’t forget, I was alive then. I saw it happen. There were blessed few Senators or even common folk that disagreed when Palpatine started calling the Jedi traitors. They were a convenient tool, and then they became a convenient scapegoat.” He crossed his arms. “Tell me something. While you’ve been working on getting your new order set up, how has the New Republic treated you? Not your friends, but the government itself, the Senators. Do they provide you with resources? The time and space and security you need? Surely some planets have records of the Jedi—have they offered to share them? And if they have, what do they ask in return? A pledge of your loyalty, perhaps? An agreement that you and your students will serve them exclusively? Promises that you won’t seek positions of power for yourself? Perhaps a registry of Force-sensitives. How many missions do they try to send you on, and how often do those missions align with the tenets of your religion?”

He knew what he was asking. So far, the Mothma-Organa voting bloc had prevented any of the more egregious bills from passing, but the margins were slimmer and slimmer. The farther they got from the war, the less gratitude would win over greed. It was only a matter of time.

Skywalker frowned.

“I know you have friends and allies there,” Boba said. “I’m not saying you don’t, and I’m not saying you should set yourself against them. If you wanted to live your life as a private citizen of the New Republic, I wouldn’t give a kark what you did. But if you’re serious about restarting the Jedi, you have to think about what will happen in ten years, fifty years, a hundred. You can’t think about the individuals in power now, you have to think about the systems you’re building. Don’t put your future into Republic chains again; you can’t be sure who will end up holding the leash.”

“So, what,” Skywalker said. “You’re suggesting we just… go rogue?”

“That very phrasing already implies that the Jedi belong to the Republic,” Boba said. “I’m suggesting you stay independent. No other religion in the galaxy is required to swear service to the government, why should yours be any different? The old order is gone, just like the Mandalore of my father and grandfather is gone. They were both broken into pieces by the Republic and then the pieces were ground to dust beneath the Empire’s boot. The Mandalorians are rebuilding: something new, something that honors their legacy but isn’t imprisoned by it. Something vital, something that can change and grow to meet the needs of the new age. We’re doing the same on Tatooine. They’re doing the same on Nevarro.”

He looked Skywalker square in the face, willing him to hear the truth in his words. “You could do the same with the Jedi, if you choose,” he said. “Build something better. Build something free.”

“But… without the Republic’s resources…” Skywalker trailed off, biting his lip.

“Form alliances,” Boba said. “Make treaties. Build a web of relationships instead of depending on a single connection that could easily be broken or corrupted. We’ve already started, on the Rim. We could help each other.” He stood, and reached out his hand. “I do not ask a representative of the New Republic, but the head of the New Jedi Order,” he said. “Will you join me in walking a new path for our people, united and unchained?”

Skywalker was silent for a long moment, then stood, the chair rattling against the tiles. He gripped Boba’s arm. “I will join you,” he said. “In finding a path we can walk together. A way to align our principles and your honor. To build something better for all our children.”

“Then for as long as you walk beside us with honor, so will we walk beside you as allies and friends,” Boba said. “In truth, and honor, and vision, so I vow. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.” His words hung in the air, somehow electric. Boba felt the hair on the back of his neck lift.

Skywalker’s eyes went wide, and he swayed on his feet for a moment before steadying himself with his free hand on the table. “Oh,” he said. “I—oh.”

“Skywalker?” Boba frowned, trying to brace the Jedi’s weight with their clasped arms. “Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down. Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine, it’s just—the Force,” Skywalker said. “The Force really likes what we just did. It’s been a while since I felt it that clearly.”

“I see.” Boba relaxed, letting go and watching carefully as Skywalker retook his seat. “Well, I suppose that’s a good sign. You should probably still eat something, though. I was going to bring in midmeal soon anyway, but if you’d rather, we could eat in the dining hall. Kix would really like to meet you, if you’re all right with that. I promise, his chip is out. He’s safe for you.”

“Kix,” Skywalker said. “That’s your brother, right? The one who—who served with my—with Anakin Skywalker, during the war.”

“That’s him,” Boba said. “He was their chief medical officer, with your father’s battalion all the way through the war. He got kidnapped by Separatists and put into cryostasis, but the ship he was on got lost before they could get him to Dooku. We only found him a few weeks ago.” He gave Skywalker a serious look. “Finding out about the Purge broke his heart. He went to sleep with millions of siblings and woke up thirty years later to find them all gone except me. He loved the Jedi and found out his family were forced to murder them. Just—please be kind to him when you talk. I don’t think he’d handle it well if his general’s son didn’t like him.”

“I know about the chips, Daimyo Fett,” Skywalker said. “I know none of what happened was the troopers’ fault. I’d love to meet your brother; I never got to know my father, and most of the people who did know him are dead now. Anything he can tell me about him would be a gift.”

“In that case, why don’t we head to the dining hall?” Boba fired off a quick comm to Drash, letting her know of the change in plans. “You’ll be able to meet more of the family.” He got up from the table and headed out into the hallway, Skywalker following close behind. “And there’s no need to stand on formalities unless we’re doing something official. I’m fine with you calling me ‘Fett,’ if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Skywalker said. “I, ah… you can call me ‘Luke.’ If you want to. Since Kix knew my father, so it might be weird if there were two Skywalkers.” He sounded a little awkward; Boba liked that. It made him seem more like a normal person and less like an untouchable monk.

“Very practical,” Boba said. “I appreciate that. Luke.” It felt strange, but Boba had certainly done harder things for his family than make nice with an orphan Jedi. “We’re planning a mix of Tatooinian and Mandalorian food for midmeal,” he said. “How’s your spice tolerance?”

“It used to be great, when I lived here,” Skywalker—Luke—said. “That said, I’ve not been back in a while, and neither field rations nor Core food tend to be very challenging, so I might need to build it back up again.”

“That, we can definitely help you with,” Boba said. “In fact, we’ve just made a trade agreement with the Hidden Rock Tuskens for a number of new pepper hybrids that—”

Skywalker tensed, then stopped walking, cocking his head like he was listening to something. It was a familiar posture, though it was odd seeing it without an accompanying lifting of large green ears.

“Is everything all right?” If that conglomerate was back to try to make more trouble over the indentured workers, Boba would make them regret it. He’d specifically made sure that all the messy business would be kept clear of the palace during Skywalker’s visit.

“I think so, I just thought I heard—”

A joyful screech echoed through the hall, and a tiny green missile launched itself at the Jedi’s chest. Sky—Luke staggered back a few steps, but managed to both catch Grogu and regain his balance.

Score one for the Force, Boba supposed. It had taken him a week to be able to do that consistently.

“Lu! Soo coo!” Grogu bounced excitedly in his teacher’s arms, then held out one little hand, brow furrowing in concentration.

The Jedi winced almost at once. “Whoa, hey, I’m glad to see you too, little guy, but can you slow down a little?”

“Gro'ika, you’re giving Al’baji (Head Teacher) Skywalker a headache,” Boba said gently, laying his hand on Grogu’s back and giving it a soothing rub. “I know you’re excited to see him again, but remember when we talked about inside voices? You need to do that with your Force voice too.”

“Bobu,” Grogu said, with an impatient little huff.

Boba secretly thought it was adorable, but he knew better than to let on. As a buir, it was his duty to make sure his ad didn’t become too obnoxiously spoiled. “When Lorelle brought Ker’ika over to play last week and she screamed right in your ear, did you like that?”

Grogu’s ears drooped, and he shook his head.

“I know you don’t want to do the same thing to your teacher,” Boba said gently. “You’re excited and you want to tell him things, we understand, but it’s important to be careful not to hurt others, even by mistake. Can you take some big breaths to calm down, and then try again?”

“Lek,” Grogu said, and closed his eyes, his little chest rising and falling with his deep breaths until Boba could feel the tension in his muscles relax.

“There you go, ad’ika, ori’jate,” he said. “I’m very proud of you for stopping to calm down even though you were really excited. I’m sure Al’baji Skywalker is proud of you as well.” He caught Luke’s eye, raising his eyebrows pointedly and nodding in Grogu’s direction.

“Yes, absolutely,” Luke said quickly. “That was very well done, Pa—Grogu.” He kept glancing from Grogu to Boba and back again, his expression bewildered. “I’m sorry, I just—may I ask where—”

Din slammed around the corner running at full tilt, then skidded to a halt just before running into them. “Kar—twheels,” he said, cutting himself off before he could finish the expletive. Now that Grogu was becoming more verbal, he’d started to worry about being a bad influence on his son’s vocabulary. Boba was fairly sure it was a lost cause already—he was honestly surprised the kid’s first words hadn’t been “dank farrik,” given the company he kept—but he’d keep that opinion to himself until he was asked.

Also, it was extremely entertaining to watch Din guilt a company of hard-bitten outlaws into putting credits into his swear jar.

“—Mando is,” Luke finished weakly.

“Hi,” Din said, giving Luke a halfhearted little wave.

“Lu!” Grogu reached out again, insistent. He must have managed to temper his volume, this time; the two of them fell silent, closing their eyes, their expressions going distant.

“And there he goes with the telepathy,” Boba said. “Hopefully he manages it without causing a migraine this time.” He moved to stand next to Din and bumped their shoulders together. “We were just on our way to the dining hall so that our new ally could meet the family.”

Din’s entire body perked up. “He said yes?”

Boba grinned. “We still have to work out the details, but he agreed to the alliance. And he said it made the Force happy.”

“That’s wonderful news, cyare.” Din bent to press their foreheads together, cool beskar now a familiar and treasured feeling on Boba’s skin. “So Organa will tell you about your other vode?”

“I hope so,” Boba said. “We’ll have to talk more before he leaves, but I think chances are good.”

Din squeezed the back of Boba’s neck affectionately before drawing back to look over at their son and his teacher. “Honestly, it’s a marvel we kept Grogu away this long,” he said. “He’s been wound up ever since the Jedi’s ship landed. Santo’s been giving him bantha-back rides for the last hour to keep him occupied.”

“Maybe he felt whatever Luke did in the Force when we made our agreement, and knew we were done with business for now.”

“Luke? That’s new.”

Boba shrugged. “He offered,” he said. “And he’s tomad, (a true ally) now, not narudar. (my enemy’s enemy) If I want him to overlook the past, I have to be willing to do so as well.”

“Spoken like a true alor.” Din’s voice was low, tender; meant just for Boba to hear. “I’m proud to stand at your side, in this as in all else.”

“I can only hope to live up to your faith in me,” Boba said. He traced the indented cheek of Din’s helmet, the same way he liked to stroke his private face. They were, both of them, so beautiful to him, so very dear.

“Sorry, I—oh,” Luke said. Boba turned, to see him, still holding Grogu, the tips of his ears gone red. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can…” he trailed off, probably realizing that there really wasn’t anywhere for him to tactfully retreat to except his ship.

“No apologies needed,” Boba said. “Were you two able to catch up?”

Luke smiled down at Grogu, the expression affectionate and a little sad. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Grogu was very excited to tell me all about his life here with his family. It seems congratulations are in order for the two of you? Though I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure what for, only that he’s very happy about it and maybe a pod race is involved?”

“Boba and I are getting married,” Din said. “And Boba is officially Grogu’s second parent, now; he’s said the adoption vows.”

“How wonderful,” Luke said softly. He looked at Boba, understanding in his eyes. “Your clan is growing again.”

“Yes,” Boba said, thinning his shields; he wanted Grogu and Luke both to know how happy he felt about that. “It is, and that is a blessing beyond any I ever thought I would receive.”

“You’re good with him,” Luke said. “I could see it at once; he grounds himself on your Force signature. As soon as you spoke to him, he started to calm down.” A spark of mischief lit his eyes. “Plus, I am assured that you are the best at something called ‘jetpack’ and I should ask you to play it, because it is the most fun.”

Boba laughed in spite of himself. “I’m glad he thinks so,” he said, “though I’m afraid I don’t think I’m up to throwing you up in the air the way I do him. Our friend Krrsantan’s a Wookiee, though; I’m sure he’d be willing to give it a try if you ask nicely.”

“Maybe I will,” Luke said, chuckling. “It would hardly be the most unexpected thing I’ve done today.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” Boba shook his head, still halfway waiting for the catch to reveal itself. Everything was going far too well for his peace of mind.

Oh well, whatever would happen, would happen. It was all right; whatever it was, Boba wouldn’t be facing it alone.

Chapter Text

Kix had been nervous when Drash let everyone know that the General’s son—Luke, his name was Luke, and apparently Ori’vod had already won him over enough that he’d given them permission to use it—would be eating in the family dining hall instead of in the conference room. It was a relatively small group; Boba, Din, Kix, and Grogu, along with Boba’s closest advisors: Fennec, Krrsantan, Drash, Skad, and Garsa, who as the Mayor of Mos Espa was the only one of the group who didn’t live in the palace.

Kix wasn’t afraid; Grogu was obviously fond of this Jedi, so Kix wasn’t worried he’d gone Dark like General Krell had. But there had been nearly thirty years of bad blood between the Fett clones and what was left of the Jedi, years that Luke Skywalker had lived through while Kix slept in his frozen prison. Kix was just… cautious. He knew how important it was to make a good impression, so the Jedi would tell the Princess that it was safe to tell Boba and Kix about their vode.

It was still hard to believe that Boba knew an actual Princess, and that she was Senator Organa’s daughter. It was strange to think of the Senator having a grown child; the last time Kix had seen him in person, he’d been young and bold, joking with General Kenobi in a flirtatious way that kept the GAR gossips enthralled.

Wager down in Engineering had run a betting book on it, Kix remembered. Rex had put ten credits on General Kenobi having some sort of friends-with-benefits arrangement with the Senator. Fives insisted that the Senator and the Queen of Alderaan were both in love with the General. He’d had an elaborate theory about how their love was thwarted by the General already being married to the Force, so they were forced to content themselves with “having carnal knowledge of his body.”

Kix was fairly sure that wasn’t how the Force worked, but… ARCs. There was no arguing with them. And Fives had read a lot of romance novels in between deployments.

Kix sighed. None of this was really working to distract him from being nervous about meeting Luke Skywalker; he was still nervous, but now he also had to worry that he might accidentally say something to the man about his friend’s royal parents’ imaginary torrid affair with a Jedi.

General Kenobi would have thought it was funny, he thought wistfully. But General Kenobi was gone, and natborns could be very touchy about the oddest things sometimes.

A pointy elbow landed in his side, and he jumped before realizing that he’d been standing at attention. He forced himself out of position, though he was pretty sure that just made him look awkward. How did natborns decide how to stand at times like this? What should he do with his hands?

“Relax, Kix,” Drash said, following her elbow jab with a finger poke. At least it was her organic finger, so it didn’t really hurt. “You’re as wound up as a bantha in a krayt nest.”

“I just—Boba’s trusting me to talk to him,” Kix muttered. “We need him to be happy so the Princess will give us information on our other brothers. I don’t want to mess this up.”

She cocked her head, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you really think the boss doesn’t have like seventeen different contingency plans for how to get that information if the Princess says no?”

Kix sagged. “No, I… you’re right. He absolutely does.” It was a useful reminder. It was one of the ways Boba was most like Cody—or, well, it was probably one of the ways that Boba and Cody were both like Prime. Extensive plans, and fallbacks for those plans, and extraction plans for the fallbacks: all built around flexible frameworks that could take a lot of on-the-fly rearranging when necessary. Like, for instance, if instead of waiting for air support, someone’s Jedi General jumped off a cliff, landed on the hatch of a tank, lightsabered the tank open, and commandeered it to shoot at the clankers from behind their own front lines.

To give a completely hypothetical example.

Even if Kix did kark this up, Boba would know something else to try. Possibly he’d already set a few things in motion, just in case.

Still, though. Kix thought of how fast all the vode had grown. Even the oldest clones had just been reaching full physical maturity towards the end of the war; none of the medics had known if their rapid growth would translate to rapid aging throughout their lives, or if it was limited to maturation and would slow down eventually to allow a longer “usable lifespan.” If any brothers had survived the Empire, would they be old and frail before their time, like 99 had been? Or would they just look fifteen or twenty years older than Boba, the equivalent of a natborn human’s late middle age? Kix would never be sorry to see any brother again, never regret anyone who might still be alive, but… the thought of getting them back, only to lose them again almost immediately, made him feel like he’d swallowed something spiny and squirming.

The door swung open. Boba came through, stately in his robes and armor but with his helmet clipped to his belt; Din was behind him with his bare beskar polished and gleaming, and next to Din—being guided by Din’s hand on his shoulder—a young, fair-haired man in black, who was walking with his eyes shut. Grogu, his little legs folded and his eyes closed, was sitting balanced on the top of the man’s head.

“Um,” Kix said.

Din sighed, the long-suffering sigh that Kix associated with cadet trainers, Jedi who had recently been assigned a new young Padawan Commander, and CCs who had to wrangle whole squads of drunk shinies on their first shore leave. “They’re fine,” he said. “They do that.”

Boba’s mouth twitched. “The ways of the Force are mysterious,” he said. “Apparently.”

Din steered the Jedi to a seat and pushed down on the top of his shoulder until he sat in it.

“I… don’t think that’s a Force thing,” Kix said dubiously. If it was, he was pretty sure that Ahsoka would have done it, at least when she was first assigned to them and was still little. “I mean, sometimes they’d float, but I never saw anyone…” he gestured at his own head, trying to convey “wear their Padawan as a hat.”

“Grogu likes being tall,” the Jedi—Luke—said. Had he been listening to them the whole time? Kix felt his face heat.

“I think it’s common to his species,” Luke continued. “Master Yoda used to make me carry him around in a backpack.” He opened his eyes and smiled, wide and warm. Kix felt a shock of recognition; that was Senator Amidala’s smile, set in a face beneath General Skywalker’s bright blue eyes.

(Hah. Called it.)

“Hi,” Luke said, meeting Kix’s gaze. “You must be Daimyo Fett’s brother. Kix, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Kix said, his limbs snapping to attention without his conscious input. “CMO Kix of the 501st, serving under General Skywalker, sir.”

“At ease,” Luke said, and Kix was startled for a moment before he remembered his briefing; this Skywalker had been an officer, too, just in a different war.

“There’s no need to stand on formality,” Luke continued, his voice kind in a way that reminded Kix painfully of the way General Kenobi used to talk to shinies. “I’ve been retired for a long time, and I think it’s safe to say that you have, too.”

“Sorry,” Kix said, biting back the “sir” with some difficulty. “Force of habit.”

“So to speak,” Luke said, his eyes twinkling, and Kix laughed a little, feeling the tension in his shoulders unwind at the unexpected familiarity of a Jedi trying to ease his tension with a Force pun.

“You may look like your parents, sir, but that is all General Kenobi,” he said.

Luke startled, his eyes going wide. On his head, Grogu made a grumpy noise.

“Lu,” he said.

“We can meditate more later, buddy,” Luke said, not looking away from Kix. “It’s time to eat. I know you don’t want to miss that.”

“Nom,” Grogu said, with the air of one making a great concession, and jumped off his teacher’s head into Din’s waiting arms.

Luke’s hair was somehow still perfectly in place. Kix wondered if that was what the Generals would have called a frivolous use of the Force.

“You knew them,” Luke said, taking a step closer to Kix. His voice was level, but there was something about it that made Kix ache in sympathy.

“Yes, sir,” Kix said. He could see Drash rolling her eyes at the honorific, but he couldn’t help it; he’d spent his entire life learning to call Jedi “sir.” A few weeks (decades) wasn’t long enough to break the habit.

“I mean, I knew that—that’s part of why I came—I just… both my parents? And Ben—Obi-Wan?”

Kix nodded. “If you want, we can talk more after the midday rest? I’d be happy to tell you what I remember. And I know you had some questions for me, as well.”

“Of course,” Luke said, seeming to remember the rest of the room. “My apologies.” He straightened his back, his face going placid; Kix recognized the signs of a Jedi putting their dealing-with-civvies face on. He wondered if that came naturally with Force sensitivity or if General Kenobi had taught it to Luke during whatever time they’d had together.

“No harm done,” Boba said. He gestured, and the rest of the group took their seats around the table.

It was a strange meal, though not an unpleasant one. Luke kept gradually slipping back into a Tatooine accent and manners, then visibly remembering he was there as a diplomat and putting the Jedi face on again; it reminded Kix of Ahsoka, and he found it kind of endearing. If Luke was serious about allying with Boba, he’d learn soon enough to keep his formality for court.

He certainly seemed to be serious; he paid obvious attention during the introductions and made sure to speak with everyone at least once during the meal, finding some point of personal connection. He knew the proper ways to eat the Tatooinian food and quickly took to the Mandalorian dishes as well, though he did accept some yogurt to put in his tiingilar.

By the end of the meal, he and Drash had gotten absorbed in a conversation about prosthetics, Drash always delighted to show off the newest tweaks she’d made to her arm. It had caused something of a stir around the table when Luke had peeled the glove off his right hand to reveal his own cybernetic, opening the maintenance port to compare notes with Drash about micro-servos.

The same hand General Skywalker had lost at Geonosis. Surely it was a coincidence—a lot of things happened during wartime—but it made Kix uneasy nonetheless. They’d run into far too many people during the war who’d like the idea of giving an enemy’s child an injury to match their own.

Boba had given Kix some materials about Skywalker’s service during the Rebellion. He’d looked so painfully young in the holos, fluffy-haired and bright-eyed. He’d reminded Kix of the shinies they’d started getting toward the end of the war: pushed out far too early, standard-issue armor loose on nine or even eight-year bodies that hadn’t even finished growing properly yet.

He cut that train of thought off. His General’s child or no, there was no need to Kix to get overprotective over a Jedi, especially one who was both older than him and responsible for defeating both the Emperor and his Sith apprentice, not to mention blowing up more than one significant enemy installation and gaining a reputation as an almost unbelievably-talented fighter pilot. (Just in case there was ever any doubt of his parentage.)

Besides, if Luke made an alliance with Boba, he’d fall under the aegis of Boba’s protection. From what Kix had seen so far, Boba’s steadily-increasing web of alliances was halfway to making him the overprotective ori’vod for half the Outer Rim.

A little big-brothering would probably do Luke good, honestly. For all that they’d been nominally in command, it was an open secret in the GAR that the Jedi weren’t treated all that much better by the Senate than the vode were.

Once dessert was cleared away, Boba met Kix’s eyes across the table, a question clear: did Kix need him to stay while he talked to the Jedi?

He shook his head, then replied in battlesign: my watch. All clear.

Boba nodded, then signed back: on standby.

As though his Ori’vod would ever be otherwise, if he thought any of his people might need him.

Kix thought about the cybernetics conversation and his General, and took a stab in the dark. “I was planning on doing some maintenance to the medical droid after the rest period,” he told Luke. “If you like, you could sit with me and chat while I work?”

He felt quite smug when Luke noticeably perked up. “I’d love to. I’m a fair hand at droids myself, I’d be happy to help out if I can.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Kix said. Drash, who seemed to be having the time of her life playing majordomo for the day, led Luke to his guest quarters, while Kix followed his brothers and their son up to their floor, indulging in a long three-cornered hug before they parted to rest.

The days on Tatooine were much longer than Coruscant standard, and the always severe heat was unbearable during the time of day when both suns were at their highest. It was a longstanding custom to spend that time resting, or at least doing quiet work indoors. Apparently, even the Hutts had realized that they lost more productivity to sunstroke than to allowing the break. Kix found it a little odd, still—his life had never contained much in the way of mid-day rest periods—but it was growing on him.

Some quiet time on the family floor helped to settle his nerves, and he sent a note to Drash and Boba offering to pick their guest up and escort him to medbay personally. They agreed, though Boba’s answer somehow managed to convey the feeling of his ori’vod looming protectively around the corner, just in case Kix needed him for anything.

Really, Boba was very sweet once you got to know him.

When Luke answered his door, he’d changed out of the severe black outfit into lightweight linens that wouldn’t be out of place anywhere in Mos Espa. Kix thought that was probably a good sign; he’d always liked Jedi best when they weren’t so worried about being official. By the time they got settled in the medbay and had the droid in maintenance mode, Luke had seemingly forgotten his former reserve and was chatting quite happily about the friends he’d made in the Rebellion. He’d commanded an X-Wing squadron, and from the sound of it was every bit the pilot General Skywalker had been.

“Now that, you get from your father,” Kix said, after Luke had demonstrated—using several Force-levitated odds and ends from around the medbay—the precise bombing run that had led to the destruction of the first Death Star. “Not even our best pilots could keep up with him in the cockpit; he never met a ship he didn’t want to take apart and put back together, twice as fast and with half the safety tolerances, so he could make it do things it was never meant to do.”

“Default tolerances are for average pilots,” Luke said. “If you know what you’re doing—”

Kix couldn’t help it; he laughed. “You are definitely the General’s kid,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you about the Cristophsis blockade?”

Luke shook his head, his expression eager. “No! What happened?”

Kix told the story, and followed it up with several others—the best ones he could think of, the ones that showcased his General’s proudest moments as well as smaller stories that showed his personality: the games he played with Ahsoka, the way he fussed over General Kenobi, the times he somehow managed to get little treats for the battalion. Kix made sure to highlight what he knew of Senator Amidala, as well, talking about how she’d fought for the clones in the Senate, how fierce she had been as a voice for peace and democracy, how she always treated the vode like people. Luke drank it all in; apparently he’d grown up knowing very little about his parents, and what he had been told at first were mostly lies.

He told Kix some stories in turn, of growing up on Tatooine and later serving in the Rebellion, his too-short training time and subsequent struggles to regain some of the knowledge of the Jedi that had been lost. He seemed to spend most of his time searching the galaxy for old sites that had been abandoned before the Empire and might therefore have escaped the Purges, alone except for his opinionated astromech droid.

“General Skywalker had a droid like that,” Kix said. “An R2 unit—R2-D2, I think? He liked that droid more than most people, never would let anyone wipe it.” To the detriment of operational security and his own troops, often enough.

Luke stared at him, shocked. “R2-D2? Was he blue and white? Foul mouth, likes to threaten people with a shock prod?”

Kix blinked. “That’s the one. You don’t mean to say it’s still around? Did you inherit it from your dad?”

Luke shook his head. “We bought him off some Jawas, along with a protocol droid called C-3PO,” he said. “They’d been with the Rebellion, were trying to get a message to Ben—Obi-Wan. General Kenobi. But the Jawas caught up to them first.”

“You lived with the General, then?” That would make sense, given how much of General Kenobi Kix could see in Luke sometimes.

Luke shook his head. “I grew up with my aunt and uncle—my father’s brother,” he said. “Ben lived alone, out in the Wastes—people called him a hermit. He had kind of a… reputation. I knew him a little, and he was always kind to me, but my uncle didn’t like him much; he said he brought trouble. Looking back, I think he was probably worried the Empire would come looking for Ben and find us. But I had no idea at the time. I didn’t find out who Ben really was until we bought the droids and they insisted they needed to see Obi-Wan Kenobi. I thought maybe Ben might be a relative, so I took them out to see him, and… things happened fast. We got off-world just ahead of the Empire. Ben was going to train me to be a Jedi, but he was killed helping us rescue Leia from the first Death Star.” His voice was quiet and sad. “I know we didn’t know each other for long, but I miss him.”

“He was a good man,” Kix said gently. His heart ached to hear the story—General Kenobi, who seemed to have an old friend or two on every planet he visited, a hermit out in the Wastes? No wonder he’d shown up on the Death Star old before his time. “One of the very best of the Jedi. My brothers who served in his battalion were always boasting about him to the rest of us. They named the flagship after him, did you know that?”

“I don’t know much about the Clone Wars,” Luke said. “The Empire—let’s just say the standard history curriculum I learned growing up had a lot of strategic omissions. They named the ship the Kenobi?”

“The Negotiator,” Kix said. “That was what people called the General; he and General Skywalker were the propaganda office’s favorites. ‘The Negotiator and the Hero Without Fear.’ They used to put them on war bond ads, news clips, that sort of thing. I’ll never forget, one of our first on-planet engagements we were evacuating a school, and a group of teenagers ran up to General Skywalker and asked him to sign photos of himself like he was some kind of holo star.”

“Ugh,” Luke said. “I get some of that, sometimes. Less now than right after the war, at least. It’s awful; I never know what to say.”

“General Kenobi hated it, too,” Kix said. “He was good at it—that nickname wasn’t just hot air—but he would much rather get to know people sincerely, have honest conversations. I think General Skywalker found the attention flattering, though. But he was young, for a General. I think if it weren’t for the war starting, they’d have given him a little longer as a Padawan.”

Luke looked down at the tool interface he was tinkering with; Boba had ordered a new surgical suite for the med droid that came with some hardware upgrades. “Was he… a good General?”

Kix bit back his instinctual response. There were no longnecks to worry about, anymore; he wasn’t going to be decommed for being less than worshipful in his opinions of a Jedi. “I think that depends on how you define it,” he said, thoughtful. “He definitely wasn’t a bad general, and he was very successful in winning battles, even when he probably shouldn’t have been able to. But… if he’d been one of us, he’d have been slotted in as a commando, not put in charge of a battalion. He sometimes had trouble remembering that we couldn’t do the same things he could, that we didn’t have the Force to catch us if we fell off a cliff, couldn’t pull off the same kind of maneuvers. Some of those impossible victories had high casualty rates.”

“It seems like most Jedi would have been best suited as commandos,” Luke said. “At least, given what I know about their skills and training, which is admittedly far from complete.”

“Honestly, most of them would have been,” Kix said. “From what I heard, one of the main reasons General Kenobi was made a High General so young was that he was one of very few Jedi with any actual experience with large-unit tactics; apparently he had a few missions as a Padawan where he ended up involved in planetary wars. But the more experienced Generals at least knew that about themselves and deferred to their clone Commanders when making battle plans. General Skywalker… didn’t defer to anyone, much. He was always confident that he knew the right thing to do, and he’d charge ahead with it no matter what.” Kix chose his words carefully, trying to be fair. “That was one of his greatest strengths, and probably his biggest weakness. When it worked, he could inspire the troops in a way few officers could, make us feel invincible—I don’t know if it was adrenaline or some weird Force effect, but when he got us fired up, we did perform better than we should have been able to. But on the flipside… sometimes he’d get an idea in his head and wouldn’t hear anything against it, even if there were probably slower but safer ways to achieve the objective. He and General Kenobi would fight about it, sometimes. One of my brothers used to call them the unstoppable force and the immovable object.” He sighed. “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea; our General was good to us. Treated us like people, encouraged us in whatever personalization we wanted to do. He was inspiring, and determined, and ridiculously brave. And if you won his personal loyalty, he’d stick by you until the stars went out, didn’t matter who you were. He and Captain Rex were as close as brothers by the end of the war. He just… he was less than twenty standard when he became a General. He never got the chance to get all the shiny knocked off him.”

Luke’s face scrunched in confusion. “Shiny?”

“Sorry,” Kix said. “It was what we used to call clone troopers who had just deployed straight off Kamino. We used to paint our armor; each unit had a color, but the designs were personal. You earned your paint after your first battle. New troopers had armor that was unpainted and unscuffed—shiny.”

“Blue and gold,” Luke said, his eyes gone distant in the way that all the Jedi seemed to get when they were seeing something that wasn’t technically there—or wasn’t there yet, or anymore, or literally. The Force-osik face.

“That’s right,” Kix said. “The 501st wore blue, and General Kenobi’s 212th wore gold. Though if we’d really been Mandalorian, it probably would have been more appropriate to swap.”

Luke tilted his head, his focus returning to the present. “How so?”

“I’m not an expert in Mandalorian history, but Boba and Din have been sharing things since I woke up here,” Kix explained. “Traditional Mandalorians also painted their armor, but the colors often had specific meanings. If you knew how to read it, you could learn a lot about a person from their paint; their clan, their allegiances, their values. To them, blue signified reliability. Gold meant vengeance, but the color the 212th wore was closer to orange, which was for… the word in Mando’a is shereshoy. In Basic, it’s usually translated ‘lust for life.’ I was just thinking that if you went with personality, you’d probably swap whose battalion wore which color.”

“Reliability for Ben? That definitely sounds right,” Luke said. “He… I didn’t find out until after he died, but he’d been protecting me from a distance my whole life. Leia says he was good friends with her parents; I’m sure they could have set him up somewhere much more comfortable than here, but he wanted to protect me, so he lived here, out of contact with everyone he knew, for almost my entire life. Just to keep me safe from the Empire.” He sniffed, his eyes gone bright.

“He loved General Skywalker very much,” Kix said softly. “They were like brothers; even when they argued, they always had each others’ back. He’d have considered you part of his family.”

“I think he thought it was his duty,” Luke said. “From everything I know, I don’t think Jedi really do family, not the way other people do.”

“Not exactly the same, no,” Kix said. “Jedi families were always less about genetic relationships and more about chosen ones. But they still had families. Other Jedi they grew up with, their Masters and Padawans.” He gave Luke a serious look, putting on his “I am the CMO and this is my area of authority” tone. “Actually, that leads me to something I want to discuss with you, since I know you’re working with incomplete information. How much do you know about Force Isolation?”

Luke blinked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever even heard of it,” he admitted.

Kix prevented himself from saying the first three things that crossed his mind.

“Well,” he said. “In that case, it’s a good thing we’re talking now, because if you’re going to make more Jedi, you really need to know this.”

He told Luke the same things he’d told Boba about Force Isolation and the relationships the Jedi had maintained with each other. When he was done, Luke was quiet for a long moment.

“Ben had that,” he said, at last. “Probably Yoda too.”

Kix nodded. “If they were as isolated as it sounds… I’m honestly surprised they were able to help you as much as they did,” he said. “General Kenobi was an amazing Jedi, and General Yoda was a living legend, but… no Force-sensitive would be in good shape under those circumstances.”

“I hate that my uncle kept Ben and me apart,” Luke said softly. “Not only for the things I could have learned from him, but… I know he always cared for me, but he wasn’t there. I wish we could have had more time.”

“There are good reasons most Force sects lived communally,” Kix said. “I’m sorry you both missed out on that.”

“How many Force sects were there? I mean, I’ve found references to ancient orders, but I had the impression that by the time the Clone Wars started it was just the Jedi.”

“It was never just the Jedi,” Kix said. “The Coruscant Jedi were just the best known in the Republic, especially once the war started. There were a few different splinter groups of Jedi. Probably the best known was the temple on Corellia—the Green Jedi, I think? They encouraged their members to get married and have children, if I remember right; I got the impression that our Jedi thought they were kind of scandalous. And there was some kind of Force temple on Jedha that was… General Kenobi called them ‘interfaith,’ though he always said it in a way that sounded like it was kind of a joke. The Kel Dor had their own tradition, too; Master Plo had some kind of position there in addition to being a Jedi.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I don’t know more,” he said. “But… the way the Empire seems to have targeted Force users, I’d imagine that anything you can find would be helpful, Jedi or not.” He paused, weighing his words. “Do you mind if I offer you some advice?”

“Of course not,” Luke said at once. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

“There used to be a lot of Jedi, even if you only counted the Coruscant ones,” Kix said. “And from what I saw, they agreed on their duty—to help people, and to make the galaxy a better place, and to serve the Force—but there were many different opinions on how it was best to actually do those things. I got the impression that General Yoda was something of a hardliner, philosophically speaking. Just… you’re working from incomplete information, and without the people and traditions that the Jedi I knew had. I’d just caution against taking everything you find that a Jedi said or wrote as non-negotiable, and against assuming that your goal should necessarily be to rebuild your new Order to be exactly the same as the old one.” He shrugged. “I mean, I really hope that Boba and I will be able to find some of the vode, but we aren’t going to try to recreate the GAR. We just want to be able to connect with our people and get back some of what the Empire took from us.” He met Luke’s eyes, knowing his expression was probably giving away more than he meant. “You understand?”

Luke reached out, laying one hand on top of Kix’s; it seemed to radiate warmth. “I think I do,” he said. “I promise, I’ll meditate on what you’ve told me.” He smiled a little, wry. “And on what your brother told me earlier. I’ve got a lot of meditation to do.”

Kix relaxed. “Good,” he said.

“And…” Luke paused, looking uncertain. “I can’t speak for Leia, or tell you anything else about the other clones,” he said. “That’s House Organa business, and I don’t really know anything anyway; the Alliance operated in cells most of the time and I was pretty focused on the pilots. But…” He broke off with a frustrated huff of breath. “If I had information about a Jedi you knew, but it wasn’t current information,” he said. “Would you rather hear about it now, knowing that it’s out of date, or would you rather I try to find out more and tell you once I’d verified if that person was still around? It feels cruel to withhold things, but I’d hate to give you hope that didn’t pan out in the end.”

Kix’s heart jolted unpleasantly in his chest, but he answered without hesitating. “If you know anything about what happened to any of our Jedi after the war, I want to hear it,” he said. “If—if any of them survived the Purges—I want to know that, even if you don’t know where they are now.” He bit his lip. “You said ‘a Jedi I knew.’ Who…”

“Ahsoka Tano,” Luke said, and Kix made a sharp, bitten-off sound, sitting down so fast that his chair skittered backwards over the floor.

“She worked with Alliance Intelligence,” Luke said. “From what I hear, I think she ran Alliance Intelligence, at least for a while. The last time I saw her in person was about two years ago; she was heading out on a mission in Wild Space and expected to be out of contact for a while. I’ve had a few text comms since, but nothing for about six months. I—here,” he said, and fumbled with his comm, bringing up a holoimage and passing it to Kix.

“Oh,” Kix said, holding it up to his face to see it better. It was Luke, holding Grogu, and next to them—

She grew up, he thought, ridiculously. Of course she had, he’d known she must have from what Luke had said, but it was different to see it. She looked so much like Master Ti, tall and strong and confident, smiling down at Luke and Grogu with tender eyes.

“She got tall,” he gasped, half-sobbing. “Force, the last time I saw her she only came up to my shoulder and now look at her—our little Commander.” His eyes blurred with tears, and he scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes, not wanting to look away. “The Generals would be so proud,” he whispered. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. I never—I hoped there might be someone left, but I never dared to hope it would be her. Thank you.”

“I just wish she wasn’t comms-dark,” Luke said. “I—I don’t want to promise something I might not be able to do, but sometimes I’ve been able to feel her in the Force. I’ll try to get a message to her, let her know that you’re here and you’d like to see her.”

“That would be wonderful,” Kix said, his voice shaky. “If—just, even if she can’t come here in person, it would be so good hear her voice again. Or anything, just—please let her know that I miss her, and I love her, and I’m so happy she’s okay. And, and tell her I said that she better not be trying to live off baseline human rations without her supplements. I’ll know.”

Luke chuckled, the sound a little damp.“Orders from the medic take priority,” he said. “I’ll tell her, I promise. The very next chance I get.”

Luke sent him a copy of the holo before he left, both of them drained from the emotional conversation. Kix sent Boba a short update—he’d worry otherwise—and went back into his rooms, collapsing onto his bed with a sigh.

“She made it out,” he said, and his voice caught on a sob. “Vode, she lived—Ahsoka’s alive out there, or at least she was a few months ago. She fought with the Rebels; she never gave up. If—if the Generals are marching nearby, could you tell them? Look, I have a holo—she grew up so beautiful, vode, look—”

He talked himself hoarse. When he finally fell asleep fully clothed on top of his covers, his throat was sore and his face was swollen from crying, but his heart was full of hope.

The next day, Luke spent the morning doing Force things with Grogu and the afternoon helping Kix organize an immunization clinic in the Workers’ District. He was a good volunteer, willing to use the Force to help out when necessary but just as willing to put in good old-fashioned elbow grease. Kix tried not to get too smug at the number of people who brought up the Daimyo or the gotra in positive ways while they were getting hyposprayed and then observed for half an hour to make sure they didn’t suddenly turn allergic.

“You’ve built a lot of goodwill with the people here,” Luke said, as they packed up at the end of the day.

“I just got here,” Kix said. “That’s all Boba and his gotra. He means what he says, you know. He cares about his people.”

“I can tell. He seems to be making alliances all over the place.” Luke fidgeted. “Even… it was a surprise to learn of his engagement. I knew Din and Grogu lived on Tatooine now, but the address I had for them was in care of a mechanic in the city. I didn’t realize they were so involved with the Daimyo.” He shifted, glancing at Kix and then away; the very image of General Skywalker when he wanted to ask someone a nosy question but wasn’t sure he could get away with it.

“Whatever it is you want to say, just say it,” Kix said.

“Oh! Um. It’s not that important, I just… Fett wanted an alliance with me, even though a Jedi killed his father. And Din is, like… with the new Mandalorian government… and they’re engaged now…”

“Yes?” A ridiculous thought struck Kix. “Wait. Are you—are you asking if Din and Boba are getting married for politics?” He stared at Luke, his hands still full of bacta patches.

“Um,” Luke said, his face flushing. “…no?”

Kix couldn’t help it; he started laughing.

“People do that! Leia still gets offers all the time, and she’s already married!”

“Yeah, but… have you seen them?” Kix wheezed. “The way they look at each other! And, and Boba adopted Grogu! And they kiss, like, every time they have to separate, even if it’s just to go to different rooms. They kissed right in front of you before we left this morning!”

“What? No they didn’t. They couldn’t have, Din had his helmet on the whole time.”

“They’re Mandalorian,” Kix said, trying to regain his composure. Ow. His stomach hurt. “They kiss the Mandalorian way when they’re in armor.” He sighed. “I guess you might not recognize it,” he admitted. “I know the Mandos have had to live in hiding for a long time. It’s just hard to imagine—you used to see it in pop culture all the time, there was this one holodrama that Ahsoka got us all watching with her, about a Mandalorian and an Alderaani prince who had a forbidden romance. My Armored Heart. And I know there were all sorts of Mando romance novels and such, we had a crate of entertainment in our medbay that someone donated for injured troopers to use during their recovery period.” He shook his head. “Anyway, when Mandalorians want to kiss when they’re wearing their helmets, they touch their foreheads together—they call it a kov’nyn, or a Keldabe Kiss.”

“I thought that meant a headbutt,” Luke said.

“It means that, too,” Kix said. “Mando’a is very dependent on context.”

“Oh.”

“I wonder if Boba could find a copy of that show,” Kix mused. “I never did find out if Jono and Rel managed to escape Aldera. They were trying to get to Coronet City to elope.”

Luke stared at him.

“What?”

“Leia is an Alderaani princess,” Luke said. “She married a Corellian. They eloped to Coronet City. Are you telling me she and Han stole that idea from a pre-Imperial holodrama?”

“I mean,” Kix said. “I think a lot of people eloped to Corellia back then? Not like it was relevant to the GAR; it’s hard to elope when the government doesn’t think you’re a person. But apparently they had pretty lax requirements for marriage licenses, so people would go there to do it. I don’t know if that’s still true, though.”

“I bet they did,” Luke said. “That’s exactly the kind of thing they’d think was funny. No wonder Lando made that face.”

“Either way,” Kix said. “Boba’s marrying Din because he’s bucket-over-shebs in love with the guy. No politics necessary. So don’t worry that he’s going to try to add you or the Princess to some kind of… treaty harem, or whatever. The only proposals you’re likely to get from him will be about the other clones and—” he waved a hand before picking up his bacta patches again. “I dunno, whatever he wants to work with you on. Treaties? I’m just Life Sciences, I don’t get into the diplomacy side of things.”

“I think I’m jealous,” Luke said. “If I’d known I’d end up negotiating treaties, I might have taken Wedge up on his offer to train X-Wing pilots instead of deciding to rebuild the Jedi.”

Kix laughed. “Hey, at least you’re friends with a princess who can show you the ropes,” he said. “I got thawed out of cryo and the next week Boba made me the Surgeon General of Tatooine. When I told him I didn’t know how to do that, he gave me an unlimited subscription to the Open University Consortium’s Public Administration module and told me to figure it out.”

“Maybe you should ask your brother to negotiate to get you Surgeon General lessons next,” Luke said, grinning. “He seems to be getting everything else he wants so far.”

“He deserves it,” Kix said, feeling probably more defensive of Boba than was really warranted. “He’s been through a lot, and for a long time he didn’t have anyone else to help him. He just wants to make sure his family and the rest of his people are safe and well.”

“Yeah,” Luke said, more serious. “I can see that.” He paused, looking uncertain, then said, “I’m probably not supposed to say this to you, but—you don’t need to worry about what I’ll tell Leia. You’re all doing exactly what you claim you’re doing. The Force on Tatooine feels lighter than I can ever remember it feeling before. What Fett’s done—it’s good. And he’s doing it for good reasons. I don’t see any reason for Leia not to help you reconnect with your family, and that’s what I’m going to say when I get back to Chandrilla.”

Kix wobbled on his feet, feeling like his bones had suddenly turned into flimsi. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s… that’s good. I’m glad. Thank you.”

“I think I should be thanking you,” Luke said, smiling. “Keep up the good work, Doctor.”

“I’m just a medic,” Kix said. “Not a doctor.”

Luke just hummed, a mysterious look on his face that was straight out of the Kenobi toolset. “Aren’t you?” he said. “My mistake,” and refused to say anything more the whole way back to the palace.

For all that Kix missed his Jedi, sometimes they were absolutely infuriating.

The third day of his visit, Luke went with Din and Grogu to Freetown, to meet up with Marshall Vanth and learn more about what it was like to ally with Boba. They’d been scheduled to be gone the whole day, so after Kix did his afternoon clinic hours—Fleema’s arthritis was much improved; little Kera’s mysterious GI issues turned out to be lactose intolerance—he pulled up one of the medical courses he was doing over the holonet, hoping to get a few hours of study in.

He was nearly done with his initial Twi’lek anatomy refresher—GAR medical education was highly human-centric, for obvious reasons—when someone slammed through the medbay door, calling his name.

He rushed into the main room, mind already ticking over checklists, and skidded to a halt when he saw Din, covered with dirt and blood, cradling a massiff in his arms. Luke was beside him, similarly messy, his eyes shut and his hand firmly resting on the animal’s side.

It wasn’t the first casualty that had been brought to Kix with a Jedi attached, though all the previous times it had been a wounded vod and not an animal. Kix shoved aside his instinctual despairing response—he was just now starting to catch up on non-human sapients, he didn’t know anything about veterinary medicine—and gestured them into Exam 1.

“What happened?” He pulled his clinical datapad out of his scrub pocket and did a quick search. To his surprise, results started loading immediately: anatomy, vital statistics, triage decision support tools… Boba must have loaded the medical servers with standard datapacks for massiffs in addition to everything else he’d bought. Kix hadn’t done a complete inventory, but there was definitely a complete medical datapack on the servers for every species Boba employed in the gotra, as well as one for “Cloned Near-Human, GAR Standard Modifications” and “Near-Human or Hybrid, Not Otherwise Specified.”

Stars bless Boba Fett and his out of control ori’vod protectiveness.

“Some slavers tried to hit the Freetown convoy,” Din said, settling the massiff gently on the table with a soft stroke to its nose. “She helped us fight them off, one of them caught her in the side with a cycler round. Luke’s keeping her calm and helping slow the bleeding, but the slug’s still in there so we couldn’t use bacta yet.”

“Fett took some guards to help with clean-up in Freetown,” Luke added, still not opening his eyes. “No other injuries a bacta patch couldn’t fix. I know you aren’t a vet, but can you help her? They—they were aiming for Grogu.”

Kix sucked in a sharp breath. “Is he—”

“Fine,” Din said quickly. “Fennec took him down to play with Sweetums.”

“Good. That’s good.” Kix had not asked why, exactly, Boba had named his rancor “Sweetums,” or how exactly it had become Grogu’s favorite playmate, but the rancor pen was certainly one of the safest places to put him if his parents were busy elsewhere.

Appropriate parameters loaded on the medical scanner. He did an overall scan for vitals and triage. BP low, respiration high, but…

“How long can you keep doing whatever you’re doing with the Force?” he asked Luke as he moved to scan the wound more closely. “She’s lost blood but you seem to be keeping her out of shock, so she’s in better shape than I’d have expected.”

“Maybe another hour?” Luke said. “Longer if someone can get me some energy gels and a hydro-pack.”

“Hour’s plenty.” The scanner beeped. “Good, the wound track’s relatively clean and the slug’s only in two pieces. Luke, keep it up. Din, stay where she can see you, and gentle touches are fine as long as you avoid the wound.” He crossed to the supply cabinet, checking the datapad; he was pleasantly surprised to find that he already had a stock of the suggested drugs for anesthesia, pain relief, and infection prevention.

“So you can help her?” Even through his helmet’s modulator, Din’s worry was easy to read.

“I’ve pulled shrapnel out of brothers in the middle of a swamp while being actively shelled by battle droids,” Kix said, setting up the emitters on the table to create a sterile field around the wound. Bless Boba for having the foresight to include surgical equipment in all the exam rooms. “This is cadet stuff in comparison.” He filled a syringe and moved to stand by the massiff’s hind leg. “Luke, can you keep her from moving?”

“Got it.”

Kix raised the massiff’s leg and found the vein he needed, prominent against the pale, soft scales of her underbelly. “Anesthetic, for the surgery,” he explained, injecting it. The massiff twitched, but Luke held her steady. Kix watched her vitals on the scanner; within ten seconds she was asleep.

“She should stay down for at least an hour at that dosage,” he said. “I can take it from here, but if you’ve got the energy to keep a hold on the bleeding, it would help.” He crossed to the prep station. “Din, if you’re going to stay through surgery I need you to step into the sanitizer. Luke, if you can be out of contact for a little while, same thing, though if you need to keep touching her to do your Force thing I can work around it.”

All in all, Kix thought later, the whole thing went surprisingly well, given that he had never operated on anyone but humans and near-humans before. Once he’d removed the slug fragments and cleaned the wound track, he’d been able to pack the wound with bacta and get it neatly closed up; he’d even found a special cone-shaped collar in one of the supply closets that would keep the massiff from licking or chewing at the wound while it healed.

(He really needed to finish that supply inventory. He thought he’d seen a case of medications in the closet that were mainly used for banthas. Had Boba just preemptively stocked up for every major species on the planet, just in case? Did he open up a medical supply catalog and order one of everything? Kix knew there was a small bantha herd attached to the palace, but he hadn’t been expecting to treat any of them.)

After the surgery, Luke went to his room to sleep off his Force headache, but Din insisted on staying with the massiff while she slept off the sedatives. They seemed to have bonded; when Kix went in to check on them a few hours later, the animal was curled up in a sort of nest made of Din’s cape. Din was perched on the biobed next to her, scratching her head spines while she snuffled and drooled onto Din’s knee.

“I take it she’s joining the family?” Kix said, grinning.

“She took a slug for my son,” Din said. “She’s already family.”

“Does Boba know about your new addition?”

“Who do you think sent us to bring her to you?” Din said. “He’s already named her. By the time he gets home he’ll probably have ordered her an engraved bronzium collar.”

Din was probably right. Boba adored animals. “What’s he calling her, then?”

“Princess,” Din said, a thread of amusement in his voice that made Kix think the name was some kind of inside joke.

“Princess Fett it is,” Kix said blandly. “I’ll update her chart.”

Din chuckled, and Princess sneezed, blowing some kind of slime onto his knee plate. He just patted her flank, seemingly unaffected.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Kix decided, and went to download an introductory veterinary module to his datapad, just in case. It looked likely he’d need it again sooner or later. Force forbid one of the banthas take sick.

Kix wondered if other planets’ Surgeon Generals had to do this kind of thing. Maybe there was some kind of professional association he could join. Sometimes, he really missed being able to consult with the rest of the GAR Medical Corps.

When Luke finally left Tatooine, three days later than originally planned, he took with him a large number of comm frequencies, four draft treaty proposals, a data stick full of Kix’s notes on everything he remembered about the medical needs of Force users, a sheaf of finger-paintings from Grogu, and a pirated copy of all eight seasons of My Armored Heart, courtesy of Krrsantan. (There was a whole season and a half that Kix had never seen! He was very excited. Sometimes there were benefits to living in the future.)

A few days later—judging by the metadata, as soon as Luke came out of hyperspace near Chandrilla—Kix got a text comm from him.

I can’t believe Jono’s aunt tried to pay the Death Society to fake a contract to ambush Rel!!!!! If Norras hadn’t had a bad feeling and turned around, they could have killed her and Jono would never have known she didn’t just leave him because of their fight! Do you know if Norras is supposed to be Force-sensitive? I don’t know anything about Mandalorian Force traditions, but whenever Ben said he had a bad feeling we all knew to get prepared for the poodoo to hit the intake manifold…

Kix smiled.

Norras’ arc in season 2 is great, he replied. I can’t wait to see what you think about the interactions between him, Jono, and Rel. Good luck with your political stuff on Chandrilla, and don’t forget to tell Commander Tano to take her supplements. I don’t care how good you are at meditating, the Force is not going to manifest micronutrients directly into your bloodstream. That goes for you, too—remember what I told you about the caloric requirements for Force-users.

Soon, he thought, Luke would be telling the Princess that she could trust Kix and Boba, and she would contact Boba again, and tell him… whatever it was she had to tell him.

Rex and Jesse had been with Commander Tano on her last mission. Whatever had happened, however she’d gotten away—surely she’d know what had happened to them. He knew that she might have had to hurt them to survive when their chips activated, might have had to fight her way free, but he also knew she wouldn’t have done anything to hurt them that she didn’t have to. She loved the 501st as much as they loved her. If… if she’d had to fight them, she would have spared them anything she could. And none of Kix’s brothers on that ship would have wanted to live at her expense, regardless.

They would learn something, Kix thought. They would get some answers. Maybe not complete, and maybe not good news, but they would know something.

Soon, he reminded himself. Be patient. You’ll know something soon.

Chapter Text

With Skywalker gone, the palace settled back into a more normal rhythm, though it was tempered with a certain level of tension. Kix had thoroughly charmed Skywalker—not that Boba was surprised, Kix was quite obviously one of the charismatic vode—so all that was left was to wait to hear back from Leia Organa.

Her reply came with gratifying speed; she must have sent it very nearly as soon as she’d debriefed Skywalker.

Aliit’alor Fett,

I was very gratified to hear of the unqualified success of Master Skywalker’s recent visit to Tatooine. He feels strongly that everyone involved could only benefit should you be put into contact with other members of your House.

Accordingly, I have provided your earlier message, along with the specified communication frequency, to my chief liaison with those former clone troopers who have received assistance under the aegis of House Organa. He has indicated that he will make contact with you within approximately three business days.

I am also eager to hear more about the alliance that you have proposed forming between the United Free Peoples of Tatooine and the New Jedi Order. If you are able to reach a mutually satisfying agreement, perhaps we should have further discussions about the work you have been doing on the Outer Rim.

On a more personal note, please permit me to offer my sincere congratulations to you, Al’verde Djarin, and your son on your engagement and your son’s adoption. As I can attest, such happy moments carry with them even more joy for peoples like ours; proof that, even in the wake of the Empire, we yet thrive.

May our future endeavors grow as mighty as the pines of Aldera.

Princess Leia
The Royal House of Organa
Invested Heir to the Crown of Alderaan

Boba read the letter over twice, impressed. Kix’s charm offensive must have hit Skywalker like an ion cannon for Organa to use such strong language, let alone allude to the potential of further alliances. His vod’ika deserved a raise; honestly, he deserved a promotion, but he’d threatened Boba with dire consequences if Boba gave him “any other karking jobs that I don’t know how to do.”

Maybe he’d like some other accessories for the med droid? He seemed pretty fond of it. Boba needed to get his people to start making standing wish lists for their areas of responsibility.

His comm pinged. His stomach flipped when he realized that the incoming message was addressed to the official House Mereel account. The sender was listed as “Organa Foundation for Universal Sapient Rights” and there was a large attachment. Before he could open it, though, the local voice comm on his vambrace dinged.

“Ori’vod,” Kix said, his voice shaking. “I just got a message from Commander Thire. He—Boba, they—” he sobbed. “They have a town,” he said. “There’s an entire town full of our vode, they saved so many—” he broke off, and Boba heard muffled weeping.

“I’m coming, Kix,” he said, already halfway out of his office door by the time he finished the sentence. “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

When he burst into the medbay, Kix was sitting on the sofa in his office, his face buried in his hands. Surprisingly, Drash was sitting beside him, rubbing his back. She looked up at Boba at once, her expression wildly, hilariously out of her depth, and mouthed “HELP” at him.

She really was a sweet kid.

“Vod’ika,” Boba said gently, and Kix launched himself off the sofa, hitting Boba’s chest with a thud that knocked him back a step. He buried his wet face in Boba’s neck, avoiding his pauldron with the unerring instinct of a little brother whose formative cuddling experiences had taken place in armor.

“They’re alive,” he sobbed. “I, I don’t know who yet, but—we’re not the last ones.”

Boba felt his own eyes sting. He nodded at Drash, shooting her a hand signal behind Kix’s back; it was the field signal for “my target,” but he hoped she’d take the correct “I’ve got it from here” interpretation from it.

She slumped in relief, and got up. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said, patting Kix’s shoulder. “We’ll catch up later, yeah? I’ll put the ‘Medbay’s-closed-unless-you’re-dying’ sign up.”

Kix nodded. “Thanks Drash,” he said, his voice muffled in the fabric of Boba’s cowl. As the door shut behind Drash, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

Boba rubbed his back and turned to press a kiss on his temple. “Sounds like a hell of a message,” he said. “I got something from him too, just before you commed, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

“On the console,” Kix said, pulling away with a sniff and visibly pulling his GAR-trained calm back on. “Why don’t you take a look while I wash my face.”

“I’ll do that,” Boba said, keeping his voice gentle. “Take your time, vod.”

Kix’s personal messages were up on the console, the one from Thire still open.

CMO Kix—

My name is Thire, formerly known as CC-4477. During the war, I served in the Coruscant Guard under Marshall Commander Fox, coordinating with Jedi Master Quinlan Vos. During and after the rule of the Empire, Senator Bail Organa and his daughter Princess Leia Organa worked to safely and secretly rescue as many clone troopers as possible. A large number of these clones, as well as other clones who left the Empire through other means, have settled on land provided to us by House Organa. Our largest town has a population of just over 5,000, primarily vode and their families. We call it Vode’yaim, though you will not find that name on any official maps or charts; for the safety of our people, all information about our settlement is heavily classified to non-vode.

Our governing council was extremely pleased to receive Boba’s message. To the best of our knowledge, he had been killed several years ago; it was a great relief to learn this was untrue, and an even greater one to learn that you had been safely recovered from your captivity.

It is our understanding that you are living happily with Boba on Tatooine. However, I want to be sure you know that if you wish, you are welcome to make a home in Vode’yaim with us. Additionally, it is the practice of the Organa Foundation to provide ex-GAR clone troopers with an aid package and small financial stipend for up to three years. The attached documents explain what assistance is available to you, and how to apply for the aid package as well as a visa to visit and/or move to Vode’yaim, should you wish to do so.

Due to the unusual nature of your recovery, as well as the offer of family membership extended to the vode by Boba Fett, your Resettlement Liaison would like to meet with you in person. If you and Boba are willing, he will meet with you both on Tatooine as soon as possible. If this is not possible, please let me know, and I will make other arrangements.

I am of course available to answer any questions you have. I know that you are probably very anxious to learn more of the fate of your closest vode; we have sent a message out through our network of former clone troopers, looking for contacts, and will facilitate contact with any who express a desire to communicate with you. Additionally, while our settlement rosters are classified, your Resettlement Liaison will bring you a copy of our Remembrance List. The List is the most complete accounting we have been able to compile of vode who have marched ahead, as well as Jedi who were killed in the Clone War or during the Purge. Each of us are encouraged to share the List with our loved ones, so that the names of our vode will never be lost. If you have knowledge of the status of any vode listed in the Unverified section of the List, please share it.

It must be tremendously difficult to have been frozen before the end of the war and then wake to find the galaxy in its current state. I cannot claim to understand, vod, but I truly hope that you find comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone in facing this strange future.

Vode an,

Thire Antilles
Chair, Vode’yaim Governing Council
(Formerly Commander CC-4477, Coruscant Guard Diplomatic Defense Corps, serving with High General Yoda, General Quinlan Vos, and Marshall Commander Fox)

Boba opened the attachment, revealing a large number of informational booklets and forms as well as a generic cover letter.

Greetings,

On behalf of the Organa Foundation for Universal Sapient Rights, I would like to welcome you to our Resettlement and Reintegration Program.

The attached information packet contains all the forms and resources necessary to begin your resettlement process, as well as the contact information for your assigned Resettlement Liaison. Your Liaison will remain available to you throughout the resettlement process, and will remain a resource for you even after resettlement is complete.

We at the Organa Foundation have great respect for the strength, resilience, and bravery that you have shown so far in your journey, and hope that our support can assist you in building a strong foundation for your future life.

Thire Antilles
Region II Director for Reintegration and Support
Department of Services for Trafficked and Exploited Beings
Organa Foundation for Universal Sapient Rights

Boba sat back from the console and let out a long breath.

“Well, kriff,” he said.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Kix said, coming out of the fresher with a damp collar and red eyes. “What’d yours say?”

Boba pulled the message up on his vambrace comm and skimmed through it. “Much the same, though he wants to know if I’m still serious about the vode joining House Mereel now that I know there are potentially thousands of them.”

“Is that still okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Boba said. “I may need to bite the bullet and talk directly to Fenn Rau, though; if I just dump that many new House members into the registry, Kryze’ll shit a brick. Din doesn’t deserve to have to deal with that.”

“He doesn’t even seem to notice that sort of thing,” Kix said with a faint grin. “Just lets it roll right off the beskar. It’s a glorious sight.”

“Everything he does is a glorious sight,” Boba said absently, tapping out a quick reply to Thire. “I’m letting Thire know it’s fine for the Liaison to come here whenever they can get here,” he said. “I’ll ask Din to set something up for me with Rau later, just to lay some groundwork.” He paused, not meeting Kix’s eyes. He knew that he’d already offered to help settle Kix somewhere else, if he wanted, but… that was before they’d known that there was a whole hidden settlement of vode, living safe and peaceful lives. Even with everything Boba had managed to do, life on Tatooine was still hard. Boba didn’t plan to leave—it was his home, now, and its people his people—but he owed it to Kix to make it clear that Boba would not use his gratitude and affection to bind him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

“You know I love having you here,” he said quietly. “We all do. But—I grew up mostly alone; I don’t… miss being surrounded by vode the way you do. If… if you wanted to take Thire up on his offer to emigrate to their planet… we’d miss you, here, but we wouldn’t be upset with you over it. We’d understand.”

Kix was quiet for long enough that Boba’s nerves got the better of him, and he looked up from his comm to see his brother looking at him with a raised eyebrow. When he saw Boba looking, he reached out and deliberately thwacked the back of his head.

“Hey! What? It needed to be said!”

“Ori’vod,” Kix said, meeting his eyes steadily. “Boba. I like it here. I don’t want to leave. I’d love to visit Vode’yaim, sure—it sounds like a dream come true for us—but I don’t want to move there. I’ve just got the medbay set up how I like it. Besides, I think Grogu would possibly murder me with the Force if I left, and then he’d go Dark and take over the galaxy and that’s the last thing we need; we still aren’t done fixing things from the last time.”

Boba laughed a little, in spite of himself. “No, that certainly wouldn’t be good,” he said.

“I know there are vode there,” Kix continued, his voice gentler. “Maybe even some that I desperately want to see again. But I have vode here, too. I want to be here, Boba. I want to help plan your riduurok and make an embarrassing speech at the party. I want to watch you ride Sweetums, and get Din to teach me to fight with spears, and tinker with Grogu’s speech pad. I want to watch holos with Santo and play cards with Fennec and help Drash tinker with her arm. I want to finish the immunization campaign. I want to complete that karking university course and actually be a doctor. I want to stay. As long as I’m not wearing out my welcome.”

“You could never,” Boba said, his throat tight. “You’re always welcome anywhere I am. Always.”

“That’s settled, then.” Kix pushed their foreheads together, squeezing the back of Boba’s neck a little. “You’re about to have a lot more of us underfoot, I bet, but I don’t care. I got here first. I have ori’vod dibs.”

“You can’t call ori’vod dibs,” Boba said. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Watch me,” Kix said.

There was a long pause, where Boba let his eyes slip shut and just basked in the knowledge that no matter how the other clones felt about him, he had at least one brother who chose him.

He wondered if that was how it felt to have a batch.

“Besides,” Kix said thoughtfully after a minute, “I bet they already have a Surgeon General on Vode’yaim. It’d piss me off if I took that whole public administration class for nothing. Plus, I’m starting to get into it now. I’m thinking of issuing a report.”

Boba laughed, helpless and happy and nearly dizzy with relief. “What kind of report?”

Kix shrugged. “That’s what I mostly see on the holonet,” he said. “Surgeon Generals write reports about some health issue that’s bad and say hey, here’s what we need to do to make this better, and then people have to do what you say.”

“My entire medical infrastructure right now is you, the med droid, and a handful of herbalists and Tusken healers who are willing to do ad hoc consultation,” Boba said. “We’d do what you said anyway.”

“Yeah, but this way you could apply for grants to help implement your Surgeon General’s Recommendations for Community Health Improvement,” Kix said. “Trust me, natborns love it when you do that kind of shit. Why do you think the GAR medics named our group chat the GAR Medical Commission on Trooper Readiness?”

“Wait,” Boba said. “Really? That was you? They used to talk about that shit in the Senate. They used to quote your findings on the news sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Kix said, “because we added a couple Jedi Healers to the chat to give it legitimacy and then whenever something was enough of an issue, we wrote a report and issued findings, and then we could actually make things happen. At least sometimes.”

“That’s the second-best thing I’ve heard all week,” Boba said, delighted. “So what kind of report are you thinking of doing first?”

“Heat exposure management, probably? I don’t know, there’s enough karking problems on this planet. Pick one.”

“Truth.”

“A few less than there used to be, though, vod,” Kix said, giving him a bright smile even though his eyes were still red. “You’re doing good things here. I’m happy to be part of it.”

“I’m happy to have you,” Boba said, and he’d rarely meant anything more.

Within a few days, Thire replied to both of them, letting them know that their “liaison” was on the way, expected to arrive in three to four weeks. A terrible amount of time, Boba thought; long enough to be nerve-wracking but not so long you can get used to the nerves and go back to normal. Though at least Boba would have enough time to shuffle appointments around to keep any less savory contacts away during the visit.

In the spirit of keeping themselves busy, he and Kix applied themselves in earnest to setting up what Kix persistently referred to as “the juice stills” (the incubation tanks for their hybrid GAR bacta experiment), buried in one of the lower sub-cellars that offered the best growing environment for it. They had already produced their first experimental batch, which had been surprisingly successful. Apparently, the resource-strapped and desperate medics of the GAR had managed to make their special strain grow fast once it got going, and Kix had been able to replicate that success here. They could produce enough bacta with what they had on hand to take care of the gotra’s own needs, but if they wanted to produce it in large enough quantities to sell, they needed a few of the more specialized ingredients in bulk, along with industrial-sized lab equipment. Unfortunately, there were only a few uses for the items they needed, and the most common ones were all related to illegal drug production.

Well. Illegal recreational drug production.

Anyway, unless they were prepared to either register themselves as a biotech lab or deal with the New Republic anti-drug task force—neither of which appealed—their best bet was to hire a good smuggler to obtain what they needed quietly.

After going over his notes about various smugglers he’d worked with over the years, Boba found a good candidate. Tynn Manari ran a very tidy small smuggling op under cover of a mid-priced courier service, and had been a fixture in and around the palace since Jabba’s days. He wasn’t flashy like some, but he was steady, and had a solid reputation for scrupulously following his contracts and refusing to work for slavers.

Plus, he’d done Boba a good turn once, when he’d been younger and stupider and gotten himself in trouble on Nar Shaadda. Boba had tried to repay him, and the man had rolled his eyes and said “I don’t hurt kids, and I don’t take money to help them. Take that and go buy yourself a brain cell to keep the one you have company.”

He’d sounded almost Mandalorian, for a minute, and it had made Boba’s heart stutter with grief, but he’d had rather a soft spot for the man ever since.

He made contact through the courier client line, requesting a price quote for shipment of a breeding pair of prize nerfs. He was told—by a very professional-sounding young woman who’d introduced herself as hi-I’m-Tahri-how-can-I-help-you, all in one breath— that a sales representative would get back to him within two business days.

Manari called him in one. Boba, feeling uncharacteristically trusting, took the call with his helmet off.

“Kriff me, it really is you,” the man said, as soon as the connection stabilized. “I’d bet my partner fifty credits someone had faked up a set of armor and was trying to steal your name.”

“In the flesh, what’s left of it,” Boba said wryly. “Good to see you again, Manari.”

“Likewise.” The old smuggler leaned back in his seat. “So, tell me about these… nerfs.”

Boba told him what he needed.

Manari whistled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the drug lab type, Fett.”

“Not that kind of drugs,” Boba said. “I’ve recently gone into business with someone who knows how to make Clone-Wars era bootleg bacta. We’ve already done the proof of concept, and it works. We just don’t have what we need to scale up production, and I don’t want to buy the supplies openly because of exactly the assumption you just made. Last thing I need is the New Republic crawling up my shebs.”(ass) He met Manari’s eyes through the transmission. “You’ve been doing runs in this sector since before I was born,” he said. “You’ve got a reputation. You run your business clean, without collateral damage. You like to stick it to the corporates when you can. Even heard you did a little under the table work for the Rebels, once upon a time.”

“And?”

“If I can get production up, I can double the availability of bacta in this sector within a year, and sell at half the current price. Good for the people, good for my business, bad for the corporate monopoly that controls bacta distribution in the Core.”

“Which, granted, is good for everyone else,” Manari said. “As long as you can get your supplies without tipping off Thyferra or New Republic customs, which is where I come in.”

Boba nodded. “I’m prepared to offer you exclusive shipping rights for distribution for the first year in addition to your standard specialty rates.”

Manari scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Tempting,” he said. “But that’s more risk than I usually like to take on, especially in those quantities.”

“You’re angling for something else,” Boba said. “Tell me what, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”

Manari sighed. “You Mandos are no fun,” he said. “Always want to get right to business without enjoying the journey. Fine.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, suddenly looking tired. “You’re trusting me with something important,” he said. “So I’ll do the same. My daughter wants an apprenticeship.”

Boba blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. “You know I’m not actively hunting anymore, Manari,” he said.

“She doesn’t want to be a hunter,” he said. “She wants to be more… specialized. She wants to apprentice with Fennec Shand.”

Boba scoffed. “Does she want to be the next Queen of Alderaan while she’s at it?”

Manari tipped his head, conceding the point. “Harsh, but fair,” he said. “Look, Fett, I know you won’t make a deal like this on Shand’s behalf, but listen—my daughter’s got serious potential. Great instincts, spectacular aim, good at blending in. I was planning to have her take over my business some day, but honestly she’d be wasted here. I’ll take your offer for the bacta job if you’ll get Shand to agree to give Jain a trial period. Just a month or two. If at the end of that time, she really doesn’t think my girl can cut it, fine. But I’m pretty sure that once you all see her in action, you’ll want to keep her around. And…” he sighed. “She’s already pretty lethal in a fight, but she’s just one person. You run a tight operation, and you don’t break your word. At least if she’s working with your crew, I won’t have to worry about her getting stabbed in the back by someone who’s supposed to be her ally.” He bit his lip. “Look, I just—I adopted her out of a bad situation,” he said. “I know I can’t keep her at home forever, but if there’s anything I can do to keep her safe while she spreads her wings, I’ve got to try.”

Boba thought about it. Admittedly, he had developed a bit of a soft spot for people who adopted dangerous children out of bad situations, plus he was always looking for reliable talent. Perhaps if Jain worked out, her father would be willing to go on retainer.

“I make no promises,” he said. “But I’ll ask Fennec. If she agrees, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Wonderful,” Manari said. “You can send the contract to this frequency; I’ll get my preparations started so I can leave as soon as we make our agreement.”

Fennec wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of taking on a student, but the prospect of adding the bacta to their profit lines was too tempting to pass up, and she agreed that Manari was the best choice out of their currently contracted smugglers to do the job.

“I’ll make the kid tend bar during court for the first couple weeks,” she said, shrugging. “You spend a surprising amount of time in food service, as an assassin, so it’ll be good training. And then even if she doesn’t work out, we got something useful out of her.”

Manari and he turned up at the palace with his daughter six days after the contract was signed. He looked about the same as he always had, if a bit more worn around the edges. His daughter was startlingly pretty: tall and curvy, with bright green eyes and long hair that was dyed a shocking, unnatural crimson.

Fennec took one look and grinned. “No wonder he’s so stressed,” she murmured. “He’s hoping Ba’vodu Boba will keep the sleemos away from his little girl.”

Boba snorted. “I count at least four concealed weapons on her,” he said. “I’m betting she can deal with the sleemos just fine on her own, especially if she’s got her heart set on learning from you.”

Jain Manari was assigned quarters and installed behind the bar. After several last-minute pieces of advice and no fewer than three goodbyes and five reminders to comm “your Buir, or Dom, or Haat’in and Anelle” if she ran into any trouble or needed anything, Tynn Manari reluctantly left to go get the equipment for the bacta.

Buir. Interesting. Perhaps there was a reason that Manari had reminded Boba of a Mandalorian. There was certainly something familiar in the placement of some of Jain’s hidden knives. For the first time, Boba thought that Fennec might actually decide to keep the girl on after her trial period was over. He hoped things worked out; Fennec could use some trustworthy help as the gotra continued to grow.

Two days later, he and Kix got word that their “Resettlement Liaison” was requesting to land at the palace.

It was the middle of the afternoon; Boba’s Council had met in the morning, and he and Kix had spent a few hours after the midday rest setting up the bacta room for their new equipment and checking on the test batch. The stuff was electric blue and smelled strongly of overripe fruit, which Kix said meant that it was healthy. He’d insisted on demonstrating by smearing a little on a bruise that Din had left on Boba’s throat; the mark was gone within an hour, which was both impressive and a little disappointing.

Oh, well. He’d just get Din to give him another one later.

Kix had been ready to run straight out to the landing pad to meet the liaison’s ship, but Boba talked him into staying in Boba’s private conference room and letting Fennec and one of the palace guards escort the visitor to them. Boba sat in his accustomed seat at the head of the table, pulling up the notes he’d prepared for the meeting and trying to keep his nerves from getting the better of him. Kix sat at his right, looking down at his folded hands, very obviously taking long, deep breaths.

“It’ll be all right, vod’ika,” Boba told him. “Whatever happens, I’ve got your six, all right? I’m with you.”

Kix reached out and squeezed Boba’s offered hand, gratitude clear in his face. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know how I’d have gotten through all this without you.”

“I glad you didn’t have to,” Boba said, squeezing back. He didn’t say the same, because he knew that if he’d never found Kix, he would have assumed that the clones wanted nothing to do with Boba. He would never have reached out to House Organa or to Skywalker, would never have learned about Vode’yaim. He would have missed this chance, and never have known there was something there to miss. Instead, he had his vod’ika, and the chance of more to come, and the knowledge of so many of his kin living safe and free. He wondered if, now that he had a baby Jedi in his family, their Force was intervening on Boba’s behalf for once.

He wasn’t sure it worked like that, but something—Grogu’s Force, or perhaps Boba’s ancestors in the Ka’ra—had worked a miracle for him the day they’d led Din to that shipwreck, and he would never stop being thankful for it.

The door opened.

“Daimyo Fett will see you now,” Fennec said. “Just through here.”

Boba smiled to himself a little; Fennec was not immune to the tension, it seemed. She was only that formal when she was feeling protective.

The figure who came into the room was wearing a light hooded robe, appropriate for the desert heat. Boba only had time to catch a flash of white beard before there was a cry and a clatter as Kix scrambled out of his seat, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. He flung himself bodily at the visitor, who caught him without a problem. Their hood fell back, and—

“Rex,” Kix sobbed, and Captain Rex—still broad and powerful in body but with his hair gone entirely white and a bristly beard taken over half his face—wrapped his arms around Kix and pulled him close, fists tangling white-knuckled in the back of Kix’s shirt.

“You’re real,” Rex said, sounding like he might choke to death on the words. “Kark, kark—you’re alive, it’s really you, I thought there was no way it really could be you, not after we looked for so long and found nothing.”

“It’s me,” Kix said through his tears. “I’m here, I—Boba and his ven’riduur found me, they pulled me out of the wreck of the ship and brought me home. I thought you were all gone, Rex, I thought Boba and I were the only ones left.”

“Boba.” Rex pulled his head out of Kix’s shoulder to meet Boba’s eyes across the table. “I didn’t think you could be real either,” he said, and Boba realized he was weeping, not loudly like Kix but with tears running silently down his face. “But you are, and—Thire showed me your message, how you’ve claimed us all. I—I thought you hated us,” His voice broke. “For abandoning you.”

Boba’s throat was tight and his eyes hot. “It would have been easier if I had,” he said. “But I couldn’t. Not really.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fennec slipping out of the conference room and closing the door behind her. She’d made sure they weren’t disturbed. Boba’s heart ached at the quiet evidence of her care. She was his vod as surely as Kix was; he hoped she knew that. He should probably tell her outright, one of these days, just to make sure.

“I kept telling myself that if you wanted to see any of us, you’d be able to let us know,” Rex said. “Surely the best hunter in the galaxy could find an old clone trooper here or there if you wanted. And then—you died, and I never had the chance to see if we could make things right. I know everything was a mess back then but I just—I kept putting it off, finding reasons to wait. I thought I had time. But then I heard about the, the sarlaac and I kept thinking of when we were tubies and they’d put you in with us sometimes when Prime was away and—” his voice broke.

“Rex,” Boba whispered. “I thought—you were the ones that should have hated me. I fucked it all up so badly.”

Kix pulled away from Rex just far enough to shoot Boba a stern look, but before he could say anything, Rex was talking again.

“You weren’t at fault for that, not really,” he said. “You were just a cadet, and you didn’t have anyone after Prime died except a bunch of bounty hunters who just wanted to use you to get ahead. Someone should have taken care of you—one of the vode, or the trainers, or even the Jedi—but we all failed.”

“I tried to go to the trainers,” Boba admitted, quietly. “One of the ones who were loyal to Buir. But they scattered as soon as the Republic took over training at Kamino. I couldn’t find them. All the comm frequencies I knew stopped working. I couldn’t even reach Skirata, and he’d been practically family my whole life. I was terrified that the longnecks would try to make me be the new Prime, lock me up in a lab somewhere for the rest of my life. When Sing made contact… I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I could trust her, just because Buir had done a few jobs with her. I was… painfully naïve.”

“You were supposed to be innocent, you were a child,” Rex said through his tears. “I have my issues with Prime, but he was a good buir to you, we could tell. They never let us play with the tubies much, so we loved it when we got to watch over you. You were so tiny and sweet. You always wanted to cuddle with us. You used to try on our buckets and pretend to do drills. You always wanted us to sing the Vode An (Brothers All, Mandalorian war chant) for you, and you tried to sing along even if you couldn’t even pronounce half of the words.” He was talking faster and faster, words tangled with sobbing breaths like he was worried he wouldn’t be able to say them if he didn’t force them out immediately.

“You couldn’t even say ‘ori’vod’ properly yet,” he continued. “Cody used to swing you around in the air like you were flying a jetpack and Wolffe used to give you bantha-back rides and, and you toddled around behind Fox like a little shadow and curled up beside him at nap time and you trusted us and we left you alone to die.”

“I’m still alive,” Boba said, his chest tight with emotion. “And—and you’re here now. You can—” he had to pause to swallow hard. “You can stay as long as you want,” he finished, forcing his voice not to shake.

“I don’t want to impose,” Rex said. “You—it looks like you have a good thing going here. I’d hate to insert myself where I’m not needed.”

Kix smacked his shoulder. “I swear I don’t remember you being this stupid,” he said, sniffing. “He isn’t saying that because he needs us, he’s saying that because he loves us.” He turned his glare on Boba, no less effective for his red eyes and blotchy face. “Get over here and hug this di’kut (idiot), ori’vod.”

Boba stood, his heart hammering. He had vague memories of spending time with Rex’s batch when he was little, but nothing as clear as Rex seemed to have. Of course, he didn’t have the troopers’ near-eidetic altered memory, either. He’d thought they hadn’t liked him, but… he’d been so young. There was probably a lot that he didn’t remember—or had never known—about that time, losses he’d never even known to mourn.

As soon as he was within arm’s reach, Kix grabbed him and hauled him into the hug. Rex’s arm came around him at once, pulling Boba close, holding him so hard that Boba could feel the tension in his muscles. Boba sighed, and gave up on trying to push his own emotions aside, and let himself sag against Rex’s broad chest.

“Ori’vod,” he murmured, and Rex made a noise like he hurt.

“Bob’ika,” Rex whispered, and pressed a kiss against one of the faint scars tracing over Boba’s scalp. “I can’t believe you’re here. That you both came back to us.”

They stood there for a long time, holding each other and breathing, until Kix broke the silence.

“We should have met somewhere with a couch,” he said. “I know we need to talk, but… I don’t really want to let go of you yet.”

“We could go somewhere else?” Rex said.

“Yeah,” Boba said. “Give me a minute.” He wriggled an arm free to get to his comm and messaged Din. His first preference was to take Rex up to the family floor, but he wouldn’t do that without asking; Din deserved to have space where he could go unarmored if he liked without needing to worry about who might see. It was one of the primary reasons—aside from security, of course—that Boba controlled the access to that floor so tightly.

The “liaison” is Rex, he sent. Are we clear to take him upstairs? He and Kix need to talk somewhere more comforting than a conference room.

The reply came almost immediately. Kix’s ori’vod Rex? Of course you can bring him. Do you need me to take Grogu somewhere out of the way while you talk?

Just for a while, he replied. Things are a little emotionally heavy right now, I don’t want us to upset him. We can do introductions once everyone has a chance to settle.

Sounds good, Din replied. Let me know if you need anything, cyare.

Boba’s chest felt tight with emotion. Sometimes it was still difficult to believe that after everything that had happened to him, he’d managed to end up here, building a real home, a true family. Lost brothers returned, a child to love and teach, a partner to share all.

Ner kar’ta, (my heart) he said simply, then looked up at his brothers.

“We’ll go upstairs,” he said to Kix. “Your rooms?”

“If Din’s okay with it,” Kix agreed.

Boba held up his comm. “He is.”

“Then yeah, that sounds about perfect.” Kix smiled, a little watery but genuine. “Come on, Rex, I’m prescribing a vod-pile.”

Rex chuckled. “Medic’s orders,” he agreed.

“Maybe that should be your first report,” Boba said, pulling away reluctantly. He put his helmet on, not wanting to expose his emotions to anyone they might pass in the halls.

“Surgeon General’s Advisory,” Kix said gravely, stepping just far away from Rex to straighten his clothes and wipe his eyes. “Positive, prolonged physical contact is a safe and effective frontline treatment for bolstering mental health and increasing resilience in populations exposed to adverse childhood experiences.”

“Are there any populations in this skughole galaxy that haven’t been exposed to adverse childhood experiences?” Boba said.

“I’ve never met any,” Kix said. “That’s why the Advisory.”

Rex was looking back and forth between them rapidly, a strange look on his face. “…Surgeon General?”

Kix waved. “Hi, yes, sorry. You didn’t get the whole diplomatic introduction,” he said. “I’m Kix Mereel, the Surgeon General of Tatooine.”

“I tried to make him the Minister of Health and Social Wellbeing, too, but he threatened to shoot me in my sleep,” Boba added.

“I’ll do it, too,” Kix said. “I’ve got enough on my plate. You know, natborns take years to do a medical degree? And they mostly aren’t doing any other jobs at the same time?”

“You’re better than natborns,” Boba said, because it was true. “You’re basically a doctor already, this is just formalizing the paperwork.”

“While the sentiment is appreciated, I still need to sleep sometimes,” Kix retorted.

“Kark, I missed you,” Rex said, sniffling. “Take me wherever you’re going to take me, I want to hug you both for twenty years.”

“Oya, vod,” Boba said, and led them to the lift.

They didn’t pass anyone on the way up; Boba suspected that Din had cleared a path for them. Rex was red-eyed and subdued right up until Kix opened his door and ushered him inside; as soon as he got a good look around, he said something impressively profane in Ryl.

“I don’t think that’s physically possible, even for Twi’leks,” Boba said. “They mostly only have two lekku.”

Rex rolled his eyes. “I know you said this was a palace, vod’ika,” he said. “But this is Tatooine; I didn’t realize you meant it was a palace. I thought you meant, like, a palace, comparatively speaking.”

Kix laughed. “Boba always says exactly what he means,” he said. “It brings confusion to his enemies and reassurance to his friends.”

Boba shrugged, letting the corner of his mouth curl up smugly. “If a person is so dishonest they can’t conceive of anyone telling the truth, that’s hardly my problem,” he said.

“Plus it makes for very satisfying opportunities to say ‘I told you so,’” Kix added.

“And also that.”

Kix pushed him gently towards the door that led to the armory. “Armor off, ori’vod, you know the rules.”

“I don’t, actually,” Boba said, and Rex and Kix both froze in the middle of taking off their boots and exchanged speaking looks.

“Well,” Kix said. “The first rule of a vod-pile is no armor in the vod-pile.”

“What are the other rules?” Boba asked quietly.

“No rank,” Rex said at once. “No fighting—if you’ve got a problem with someone it stays outside.”

“And the vod who needs it most gets the middle,” Kix added. “Usually it’s whoever had the worst mission or has been gone longest.”

“Sounds good,” Boba said, something behind his sternum aching. “I’ll be right back.”

“Soft clothes!” Kix called after him, and he raised a hand in acknowledgement.

He removed his armor quickly and efficiently, checking for any issues before setting it up on the stand ready for the next day. Princess was asleep in her basket, but twitched awake when Boba closed the armory door behind him, making a delighted snuffling noise before scrambling to her feet and running to greet him.

“Gev,” (Stop) Boba said, making the appropriate hand gesture. Her excitement to see him was gratifying, but consistency was very important in animal training, and Fennec wouldn’t let Boba keep the massiff in the throne room during court unless they could trust her not to jump on anyone she wasn’t supposed to. She skittered to a halt, her claws clattering on the stone floor, and stood still in a ready position, her attention fixed unerringly on Boba.

“Ori’jate,” he said warmly. “Mav.” (Free). He went to one knee to let her lick his face, her entire body wiggling with enthusiasm as he scratched her neck. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? You are! Ner jatnese burc’y’ika, gar ori’copikla cabur’ika, ‘lek! (My best little friend, you’re the cutest little protector, aren’t you?) Gar kotep bal kotyc bal mandokarla, Princess, ‘lek, gar cuyi!” (You’re brave and strong and everything a Mandalorian should be, Princess, yes, you are!”)

She was healing so well; there was barely a limp now when she moved, her wound already fading to a lighter scar on her silver-green hide. Kix had done an amazing job with her, not that Boba was surprised.

Once she felt that Boba had been sufficiently licked, she settled down, keeping close as he stripped out of his kute. He changed into house-clothes, loose black pants and a faded red tunic, the linen worn soft with many washings.

He cracked the door. “Do you mind if Princess comes in with me?” he called.

There was a short pause, then Kix called back an affirmative.

He didn’t bother with slippers, padding back into Kix’s rooms in his bare feet, Princess following behind.

(Shoes off in the karyai, (main living area of a home) Buir used to say, even though Boba hadn’t been outside and the floors in the corridors and training rooms of Kamino were cleaned by the same droids as the floors in their apartment. It didn’t matter; Buir, and all of the Cuy’val Dar (Mandalorian trainers on Kamino) whose quarters Buir allowed Boba to visit, all had a neat boot rack next to their doors, often with a bin of soft slippers nearby. Din and Boba had one by the front door of their rooms, and he’d furnished Kix’s rooms with one, too. He wondered if Kix knew what it was for.)

Rex was perched in the middle of Kix’s bed wearing a pair of Kix’s pyjamas (the bright blue silk ones). Kix was in the green linen set, and was bringing a tray over from the kitchenette; half a loaf of seed-studded brown bread, some pallies, and a little wheel of fresh bantha-milk cheese, along with a thick ceramic jug of chilled water and three cups.

Apparently the therapeutic close contact protocol included snacks. Boba would defer to the experts.

“Just in time,” Kix said, smiling at Boba. “Rex in the middle this time, I think?”

Worst mission or gone the longest; Rex certainly qualified on the latter point. “Sure,” Boba said. “Just tell me where you need me.”

Kix fussed a little with his bedding, piling up a heap of cushions against the headboard and propping Rex up against them. He installed Boba to one side of Rex before getting in the other side himself and wriggling under Rex’s arm, letting out a relieved sigh as he laid his head against Rex’s shoulder.

“Come on, vod,” he said, reaching across Rex’s belly to grab Boba’s hand and tug him closer. “Princess too, there’s plenty of room.”

It felt strange; Boba was happily embracing his new life and the physical affection that came with it, but he’d not really had occasion to be this close to more than one adult at a time. It made him feel strangely small, dim memories stirring in the back of his brain of the occasional sleepovers he’d been allowed to have at Ba’vodu Kal’s.

Boba hadn’t thought of it in years. The Skirata boys had shared a room, but there hadn’t been enough space for six beds. They’d had a sort of sleeping nook on the floor, instead, and had all piled into it together like a litter of massiff pups, dividing up pillows and blankets according to an arcane schema known only to them.

Boba remembered having a nightmare once, something about Buir coming back and mistaking one of the other clones for Boba and refusing to believe that Boba was his son and not the other boy. He’d tried to muffle his crying, still young enough to be desperate to impress his older cousins. One of the Skiratas had woken up—Ordo, he thought—and hadn’t said anything about Boba’s tears, just flipped up the side of his blanket and waved Boba over. Boba’d slept like a stone; when he woke, he’d been tangled up with the others, feeling heavy and warm and safe with his head pillowed on Mereel's chest and Prudii hugging his legs like they were a stuffed toy.

He’d quietly ignored his own bedroll for the rest of that visit, and when Buir had returned from his hunt, Boba’s bed at home had felt too big and cold and lonely.

He closed his eyes, and could almost hear the distant echo of Ba’vodu Kal snoring in the other room.

Rex wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them close; Boba could feel the tension draining from his muscles. Princess poked her muzzle up to Kix for scritches before jumping up onto the bed and settling herself against Boba’s spine, warm and solid and reassuring.

“So,” Rex said. “We didn’t want to send you the Remembrance List cold. But there really isn’t an easy way to talk about who survived and who… didn’t.”

“Anyone I was close to, if you know what happened to them, just tell me,” Kix said. “Pull that bacta patch off fast. Any questions or context, we can talk through after; first, I just want to know.”

“All right.” Rex cleared his throat. “Of my command batch, the only confirmed survivors I know of are myself and Wolffe. Fox is MIA. All the others were confirmed KIA. C-cody,” his voice broke, “Cody was on the first Death Star when General Kenobi and Luke Skywalker came to rescue Leia Organa. He’d been a deep cover Rebellion agent for years; he sent them a message on a dead man’s switch. Every piece of intel he had, every comm code and access key, everything he could possibly get. And a note. He said he—he was going to save General Kenobi this time, or die in the attempt.” Rex stifled a sob. “He showed up on the casualty reports two days later. Executed by Vader, for treason.”

Boba’s throat was thick with answering tears. “At least he knew,” he said. “That Kenobi had survived the Purge.”

“Yeah,” Rex said. “His last note was—kark, it was awful. He’d had it prepared for a while; he thought he’d killed General Kenobi, and said all these things about how he owed his life to atone for it. That he hoped that when he died, the Force would judge him kindly, and let him follow where the General was marching ahead. And then there was a postscript at the end, that he’d obviously added in a hurry as soon as he realized the General was on the Death Star, before he went to do whatever it was he did that got him killed. He asked the Rebels to tell his vode he loved them, and then—” his voice cracked again. “I’ll never forget what he said. I can’t forget it. ‘Obi-Wan’s Force is merciful, a mercy I don’t deserve and never dared to hope for. For the first time in so long, my duty and my heart’s desire are the same. I will save him, this time, or I will meet my death while trying. Ni hukaat’kama, cyare. Ret’urcye mhi.’” (I’m watching your back, beloved. Maybe we’ll meet again.)

“Did the General know?” Kix asked, his voice shaky. “That Cody was there that day? That he helped him?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Rex said. “I… I hope he did. He always used to know who was around him, even without looking. I hope he could tell that Cody was himself again, and that he still—” he broke off, his chest heaving with his rapid breath.

“There was some good news,” he said, once he’d regained his composure. “Coric and Appo live on Vode’yaim. A fair number of the 212th—Senator Organa started with the vode he knew best, which mostly meant 212th and the Guard. And—oh! I don’t know if you would have known this, the Seppies got you while I was still on the mission, but Echo survived—survived the Citadel and the Empire. He had a lot of damage, lots of cybernetics, so he joined up with Clone Force 99 after he got out of bacta. He comms me every couple of weeks; I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns up here soon with some of the Batch.”

“I—can you tell him to please come?” Kix said. “It would be so good to see him. I didn’t really think we’d find him on Anaxes, but I hoped you were right, Rex. I wanted you to be right so badly.”

“I’ll tell him,” Rex said, then went quiet. Boba got the feeling that there wasn’t much good news left to offer.

“Just say it, Rex,” Kix said. “I notice you’ve very deliberately not said much about the rest of the 501st. About… about Jesse. And if he was still around, you’d have said that first.”

“He’s gone, Kix,” Rex said, his voice thick and aching. “I’m so sorry. We tried—I swear we did, we gave it everything we had—but we couldn’t save him.”

“You were there? You know how it happened?”

“I was there,” Rex said. He cleared his throat. “You know about the chips, right? That Fives was right all along?”

“I’ve heard,” Kix said softly.

“I think the day the chips activated was the worst day of my life,” Rex said. “Worse than when I lost my first batch, worse than Umbara, worse than—” he cut himself off. “I haven’t talked about this in a long time,” he said. “But you deserve to hear it, Kix. You, more than anyone.” Rex’s arms tightened around them both. “So I’ll do my best to get through it.” He took a deep, shaky breath.

“Right near the end of the war, Mandalore contacted us for help in getting rid of Darth Maul. Of course the Jedi wanted to help, but the Generals had to go ‘save’ the Chancellor.” He scoffed. “We should have let the Zillo beast eat him the first time he needed ‘saving’; it would have made things a lot better for everyone else. But nobody knew that yet, and the Generals couldn’t neglect their duty, so they split up the 501st and sent half of us to Mandalore with Commander Tano.”

“She’d come back to the Jedi?”

“She was considering it, I think,” Rex said. “But she wasn’t ready yet. Maybe, if things had been different… but that’s all might-have-beens. We made our way to Mandalore and captured Maul, under orders to return him to the Jedi as a prisoner.” His voice went distant. “The same day we left was the day General Kenobi and Commander Cody took the 212 to Utapau after Grievous. Dooku was already dead; we really thought we were almost through.” He laughed a little, short and bitter. “Well, I suppose in a way the war did end that day. It just wasn’t followed by peace.”

Boba hated the pain he could hear in both his brothers’ voices and see on their faces, but he knew this was the kind of pain that you had to endure if it was to heal. Still, he thought, he would help ease the process if he could.

“So you got the Order while you were in hyperspace?” he asked.

“I did,” Rex said. “Secure comm on the priority command line—I thought maybe it was the news that the 212th had taken Grievous out. I was excited. And then suddenly I wasn’t controlling my own body anymore.” He shuddered. “I can’t even describe how it feels to watch yourself doing things you’d never do—hurting people you’d never hurt—and be completely powerless to stop it,” he said. “I’d rather fly into a sun than ever experience it again. I was trying to scream, trying to fight, trying to stop myself, and nothing worked. I hung up the comm and I pulled my guns and I shot at Ahsoka and I couldn’t make myself stop.” He sucked in a breath, harsh and quick. “Thank the Force she managed to escape the bridge,” he said. “She got into the maintenance areas and rounded up a little crew of droids, managed to cut me off from the others. She stunned me and dragged me to medbay, had the droid cut my chip out. Worst headache of my life when I woke up but I was so glad for it I could have cried, because I was myself again. But we were still in danger; the troops were too good, and they were all looking for us, determined to kill us both.” He sighed.

“Ahsoka had let Maul out of containment as a distraction, which did let her get me loose, but he ended up wrecking the hyperdrive. We ended up with the ship on a crash course to a nearby moon, all the escape pods gone because chipped-me had ejected them so Ahsoka couldn’t use them, racing a Sith to get to the shuttle bay to try to escape before we were either killed by our own troops or the ship crashed. We hoped if we got away soon enough, they’d stop going after us and try to save themselves, but between Maul being loose and Jesse being so karking good, we just… couldn’t do it. We tried to convince Jesse that since Ahsoka had left the Order, she didn’t count as a Jedi, but he wouldn’t be convinced. In the end… Maul escaped on a shuttle. Ahsoka and I just barely managed to get away in one of the fighters. And everyone else…” he broke off with a sob.

“They died in the crash?” Boba asked softly. Kix had his face buried in Rex’s shoulder, his back heaving. “There were no survivors?”

“Ahsoka and I pulled them all out of the wreckage,” Rex said, his voice flat with pain. “Every last one. We buried them there. Probably stupid of us—proof that someone had survived the crash to do the burying—but we couldn’t bear to just, just leave them. The ship hit hard, and—they were all still trying to go after Ahsoka. The chips wouldn’t even let them get into their safety harnesses. They hadn’t even tried to deploy any emergency measures. They just… let it happen.”

“Palpatine died too quickly,” Boba said after a while, his voice grim.

“Damn right he did,” Rex said. He sighed. “We made our way off the moon and I got Ahsoka to somewhere safe, but I couldn’t stick around,” he said. “I kept having nightmares, she kept having nightmares—and I kept thinking of all my other brothers, their minds screaming while they watched their bodies do terrible things. I wanted to help, somehow. I thought I’d come back quickly, but… well. A lot happened.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Kix’s hair. “I’m so sorry, vod,” he said. “I wish I had something better to tell you. But from his, his injuries, after, we don’t think he suffered. Head trauma; he’d have passed out as soon as it happened.”

Kix sobbed, clinging to Rex, and Boba rubbed his shaking back while trying to press himself against Rex’s other side, hoping it would be comforting. Princess whined, trying to squirm her way into the middle of the pile so as to reach all three of them at once, ending up draped across Rex’s middle where they could all get a hand on her.

“I’m sorry, vode,” Boba murmured. “I’m so sorry. Mhi partayli, kaysh darasuum.” (We remember them, so they are eternal.)

They lay there for a long time, until they were cried out for the moment. Boba felt sore and sticky and oddly hollow. Kix insisted they all sit up for long enough to eat and drink something—even Princess, who was given a handful of jerky and a fresh bowl of water—then proceeded to give Boba and Rex extremely effective sad eyes until they obeyed. Eventually, they were all a little more steady, and could settle back into the pillows together, talking lightly of small things. Kix even managed to tease Rex a little about his beard, which was, Boba had to admit, what he’d heard Fennec call “a lot of look.”

“So,” Kix said at last. “How did you all get from… the chips… to Vode’yaim?”

“The short answer? A handful of vode and Senator Organa,” Rex said, with a soft smile. “Apparently the chips failed after a while, and the harder a vod fought while they were under, the faster they went. Some of them… couldn’t handle it, when they came back to themselves, knowing what they’d done. Especially the ones who’d been sent after the Jedi cadets and tubies on Coruscant, or the ones who’d been especially close to their Jedi.”

“I’d wondered,” Kix said, his voice very small. “Especially about the officers. I kept remembering the way we used to tease Commanders Cody and Bly about their Generals…” his breath caught, and Boba reached across Rex to take his hand, squeezing comfortingly.

“Cody didn’t think he deserved to die,” Rex said. “He thought he needed to do penance. Somehow, he managed to connect with Senator Organa. They set up a whole operation; Cody was leaking information to the Rebels and working to free vode any time he had a chance. On the other side of things, apparently someone in the Guard was paying attention during that debacle with Fives, because there was a Corrie vod still serving who’d gotten dechipped before the Order. He had to move carefully, being so close to Palpatine, but he made contact with the Senator very early in the war. Between them, they freed a lot of the Corries who’d been slated for decommissioning or reported dead after a mission.”

“Was that Commander Thire?” Kix asked.

Rex shook his head. “The Guard Commanders were too high-risk to dechip,” he said. “They worked too close to Palpatine and Vader. Personally, I always suspected he was a medic—easier to do a little sneaky brain surgery and report a wounded vod as dead that way—but he’s only listed anywhere as Fulcrum Red. Once Cody joined up, they called him Fulcrum Gold.” Rex sighed. “They released Cody’s identity after he was confirmed KIA,” he said. “Red is still MIA, so there’s a chance he’s out there somewhere. Thire knows who Red was, but won’t say, just in case. Red went MIA during the mission where Thire was extracted from Coruscant; I think he feels like he owes him.”

“Rex?” Boba asked, tentative. “Do you—can I ask. You said Fox was missing, too. Do you know what happened to him?” You were toddling around behind Fox like a little shadow, Rex had said. Boba hadn’t remembered that, not consciously, but… Fox had come to visit him, in prison. Not just once, but regularly, at least once every two or three months. Boba thought, looking back, that he must have squeezed the visits in either on his vanishingly rare downtime or at times when his duties gave him legitimate reasons to visit the prisons. He’d put credits on Boba’s account in the canteen, slipped him little treats; a new holonovel, a small bag of sweets. Boba had been horrible to him—so much about that time was still a blur of grief and betrayal and constant fear, lashing out at everyone who got near him—but Fox’d continued to come, nevertheless. And even when Boba was snarling and swearing at him, he’d still felt better, after those visits, like Fox’s mere presence was enough to shed a tiny bit of warmth into the empty pit inside him where Buir had once lived.

There had been new civilian clothes waiting for Boba on the day he was set free, and he’d never known where they came from. Looking back… he thought perhaps he did know.

He wished, sudden and sharp like a knife, that he’d thanked Fox back then. He hoped that he hadn’t hurt him too badly, that Fox had been able to see that his bitterness and cruel words were the reflexive lashing-out of a frightened child. He hoped Fox had known that Boba didn’t mean any of it, not really.

Rex sighed. “Technically, I don’t know exactly what happened,” he said. “He and Fulcrum Red went MIA after the same mission. It was the last big extraction that they were ever able to run from Coruscant. They called it Operation Starbird.”

“Subtle,” Kix said, a wry twist in his voice.

“Yeah, well, you know how natborns are,” Rex said. “Apparently Senator Organa was also helping Jedi survivors and Force-sensitives escape the Empire. About four years before the Battle of Yavin, he got wind of a special shipment of Force-sensitive kids. They usually sent people like that to the Inquisitors, but this shipment was heading for Coruscant. Special trainees for the Emperor directly.”

Kix caught his breath. “Sith Apprentices?”

“Or Force-using assassins,” Boba said. “Black ops that only answered to Palpatine. It would be like him.”

“I wasn’t with the Rebellion yet when all of this happened,” Rex said. “I’d been living off-grid with Wolffe and Gregor for a while, and by the time I reconnected, Starbird was over. But from what I heard, the Rebellion was trying to figure out a way to rescue the kids when Cody burned one of his emergency comms to make a priority call to the Senator; turned out that Bly had been helping Cody get vode out of the army, and Bly’s squad had just gotten orders to escort the shipment. Fulcrum Red had been concerned that the Imps were getting suspicious of his operation on Coruscant, too, so they made a plan to rescue the kids, extract Bly and his squad, and get all the vode left in the Corrie Guard out, all at the same time.”

“Bold,” Boba said. “But very risky.”

“It was largely Cody’s plan,” Rex said. “Cody, and General Vos; he was the Senator’s contact with the Force-using side of things. Apparently he’d spent nearly all his time since the Order trying to rescue Force sensitives from the Empire, and he thought it was worth risking exposure if they could pull off the mission. There weren’t many Force Sensitives around to find, anymore, plus he’d worked with the Guard a fair bit during the war and still had friends there.”

“So what happened?” Kix asked. “If they’d succeeded, the Corries would be on Vode’yaim with the others, and if they’d failed, they’d be KIA.”

“Complications,” Rex said grimly. “Imperial SOP was to transport Force-sensitive prisoners in carbonite; less chance of escape that way. The team was planning a cargo-swap; they’d freeze most of the Corries ahead of time, add in the kids, and leave in a cargo freighter. General Vos had one with an established clean record going clear back to the Clone Wars. But when they got to the shipyard, the kids were awake. No time to freeze them, and the smuggler’s holds in the freighter weren’t rated for occupation. They had to change plans on the fly. Thire took Bly’s squad to do the smuggling run with the frozen Corries, and Bly took the kids with General Vos, Fox, and Fulcrum Red to find another way off world.” He paused to take a drink, his eyes distant.

“Thire’s ship made the rendezvous, but the others didn’t,” he continued. “Intel said the ship they were in was destroyed trying to break orbit, but a few days later the Senator got a coded last message from Bly. Fox and Red had been injured and the General had to shield the kids. They’d managed to go to ground somewhere in the Undercity—the General and the Guard both had boltholes and contacts there—but the Imps weren’t giving up and kept getting closer. The only way they would be able to keep those kids away from the Empire was if the Empire thought they’d all ben killed. Bly volunteered to be the decoy.” Rex sniffed. “Honestly, nobody who knew him was surprised. I think the only reason he lived that long after his chip failed was that Cody convinced him that he owed it to General Secura to try to make things better. But going out like that—not just saving Force-sensitive kids, but his General’s old master too? I’ve heard his transmission. He didn’t sound like someone about to make a sacrifice play; he sounded like a trooper finishing up their last duty shift before shore leave.”

“Oh, Bly,” Kix whispered.

“Yeah,” Rex said, his voice thick. “It… I know how hard it was for me, just knowing I’d attacked my Jedi, and she wasn’t even injured. If… if I’d come up from under the chip and my last memory of her was seeing her body with a hole in the back from my blaster…” he shuddered. “Well. From what he said, General Vos forgave him, at the end. I hope it brought him the peace he deserved.”

“And nobody ever heard from the others again?” Boba guessed, his chest aching at the thought.

“Not a word,” Rex said. “Didn’t show at any of the fallback points, never sent messages to the drops, but they never found any evidence they’d been captured or killed either. Our best hope is that they managed to get away but had to go dark to stay safe. I know Thire refuses to believe they’re gone until he sees solid evidence.” He smiled crookedly. “Maybe Fox’ll hear the rumors about Boba Fett coming back from the dead to create a utopian clone empire on Tatooine and come out of hiding to get to the bottom of it.”

“I am not building a clone empire,” Boba said. “If anyone was doing that, it was the Organas. I’m simply trying to make sure my people have what they need to live without some skughole coming in and karking the whole place up every five minutes.”

“Get him to tell you about his ten-year plan for sustainable infrastructure development,” Kix said, a spark of mischief surfacing through his sadness. “That’s extremely non-empire-like.”

“Keep talking, Minister,” Boba said, smiling despite himself at Kix’s indignant denial. They teased each other back and forth for a few minutes; Boba was happy to feel the thick atmosphere in the room ease as they all got a little distance from the tragedies they’d been discussing. It had needed to happen—Kix needed that closure—but they needed this, too, perhaps even more: the chance to meet each other as men at peace, as brothers. To bolster the bonds between them that were thin and brittle with distance and trauma and misunderstandings. To hold each other, and know that they were known and accepted, cared for. To be aliit.

Eventually, Kix fed them another round of snacks, and Boba ducked into his own quarters for a minute to get a few pieces of uj cake that Din and Grogu had not finished yet; it made something in his brain itch not to provide any food for a gathering like this. When he got back, Princess had curled up to sleep at the foot of the bed and Kix was just picking up his beeping comm.

“I just need to make sure this isn’t urgent,” he said, flicking through the menus, then relaxed. After a moment, he chuckled.

“Luke just finished the third season of My Armored Heart,” he said. “He needed to comm me immediately to let me know that I am a cruel man to get him into that show and that he is now emotionally compromised to the point that the Princess pulled him aside for a private talk to make sure nothing terrible had happened.”

Rex laughed, sharp and startled. “Kark, that show’s still around? I haven’t thought of that in decades. What happened at the end of the third season again?”

“That was when they killed off Norras,” Kix said, busily typing a reply.

“Wait, when he confessed his love to Jono and Rel before using his secret Force powers to shield them from an orbital strike and then dying from extreme Force exhaustion?” Rex sat up straighter. “I thought for sure they were all going to swear riduurok together, I was so mad about that.”

“We’re doing a watch-through with Krrsantan every Primeday after latemeal,” Kix said. “If you stay a while, you could join us.”

Rex smiled. “Maybe I will,” he said. “Will your emotionally compromised buddy be there? I’m guessing he’s another of your people, Boba?”

Kix looked up from his comm, blinking. “Oh,” he said. “I forgot we hadn’t talked about that yet. No, it’s Luke. Skywalker. The General’s son? He was here a couple weeks ago, he signed a treaty with Boba between Tatooine and the New Jedi Order. Don’t you know him from the Rebellion?”

Rex blinked. “You have a treaty with the New Republic?”

“I have a treaty with the New Jedi Order,” Boba said, feeling a flush of pride. “Jedi Skywalker has elected to keep the Order politically separate from the Republic, given the unfortunate past consequences of tying the Jedi to the Senate.”

“What he’s not saying is that he’s the one who explained all that to Luke,” Kix said. “I wasn’t there to hear it, but Luke was really impressed. He says it’s no wonder Tatooine is starting to prosper now that it has such a wise and insightful leader.”

“He needed to know the history,” Boba said, though he felt warm all over at the admiration in Kix’s tone. “The Empire did a thorough job of destroying as much information they could about the Jedi and the Republic both; most of the people left who support the Jedi don’t really know much beyond the stories.”

“He’d never even heard of Force Isolation,” Kix added. “He didn’t know about the metabolic demands of Force use… honestly, I think it’s been harder for him than if he’d never heard of the Jedi; he’s been trying to piece something back together from scraps and rumors, all alone, and he knows just enough to make him second-guess the instincts that help keep untrained Force sensitives healthy.”

“He isn’t alone anymore,” Boba said. “Our gotra stands by its allies.”

“And House Mereel stands by its friends,” Kix said. “Seriously though, Rex, why didn’t you or Ahsoka ever talk to him about the Jedi?”

“I’ve never actually met him,” Rex admitted. “He was always either with the X-Wing pilots or with the brass, and I was mostly infiltration and small-unit tactics. Ahsoka was around even less; she was the original Fulcrum, you know? Practically ran Intelligence for a lot of the war. I don’t think she ever made contact until pretty recently.” He sighed. “Plus, well… it was awkward, you know? I can’t speak for Ahsoka, but I know I just felt… weird about it. If things had been different I’d have watched that kid grow up from the time he was a tubie, but he didn’t know me from a hole in the ground. What was I gonna say? ‘Hey, kid, you’ve never heard of me, but I used to work with all of your family members, most of whom my literal army of genetically-identical twins murdered while being mind-controlled by a Sith’?”

“I just went with ‘hi, my name is Kix,’” Kix said, rolling his eyes. “And then I told him a few of my war stories that were exciting or funny instead of horrible, and then he tinkered with his prosthetic arm while I upgraded Tubie—the med droid—and lectured him about nutritional supplements and meditation not being an adequate replacement for sleep.”

“Of course you did,” Rex said, his voice warm and rueful. “Is he as bad about taking that advice as the generals always were?”

“Not at all,” Kix said, smug. “He took careful notes and let me write him a prescription. And he let me give him a hypo to top him up before he left. He was low on chloriane B and borderline on his F-reactive protein markers.”

“With the Order and the MediCorps both gone, I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody even knows what those are anymore,” Rex said. “Lucky for him Bob’ika found you.”

“It was my ven’riduur that found him,” Boba said, “but I think it was lucky for all of us.” He squeezed Kix’s hand. “You brought the jate’kara (good luck) with you, vod’ika.”

“He always did,” Rex said quietly.

They were silent for a little while. Boba was content to allow himself to be fully in the moment, setting aside the tangle of plots and plans he was always working on to enjoy the way this felt: lying safe and warm with his brothers, locked up in the center of his territory, unarmored and comforted by the feeling of aliit that seemed to have soaked into the air around them.

“There was one more thing I wanted to ask you, Kix,” Rex said eventually. “And any answer is fine. Nobody will be upset, no matter what you decide.”

“Go ahead,” Kix said.

“Ahsoka commed me,” Rex said. “She knows you might not want to see her, because of… of what happened with the Order. The… the crash. The fight. But if you do, she can be here in a few weeks. And either way, she gave me a letter for you, if you want it. She’ll do whatever makes you the most comfortable.”

Kix sighed, a little tremulous. “Rex, even if she’d killed the troops herself that day, I know it wouldn’t have been her fault,” he said. “Honestly, I think J-Jesse would have been happy it turned out that way, if it came down to a choice between dying himself and knowing he’d killed Ahsoka. He would never have blamed her for a minute. Blame the Sith, blame the Kaminiise, even the Senate; that’s where the true fault lies. Tell her to come visit. She’s welcome.”

“You might also warn her to take her supplements,” Boba said. “Because he will check.”

“Someone has to,” Kix grumbled.

“Your conscientiousness and care does us all honor,” Boba told him, and felt warm all over with happiness when the tips of Kix’s ears went pink at the compliment.

“Ori’vod,” Kix said, his tone a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

“I say what I mean,” Boba said firmly. He turned to Rex. “Will you stay with us, too, at least through Commander Tano’s visit? I can have rooms prepared for you that are close to ours.”

“Or he could just stay with me,” Kix said. “There’s room for half a battalion in here.”

Rex tightened his hold around them both, his breath catching in a long sigh. “I don’t want to get in the way of your burgeoning empire,” he said. His voice was teasing, but Boba could hear a real question underneath.

“All I’m doing is trying to build a good life for my people,” he said. “That includes you, Rex, if you want it to. There will always be a place for you here, so long as I have anything to say about it.”

Rex relaxed, sagging back into the pillows. “Good,” he said. “Good. I think I’ll accept your invitation, then. Get to know some people, maybe lend a hand if I can.”

“Ten credits says he’ll have you on the Council within a month,” Kix said.

“Sure,” Rex said, his tone skeptical.

Boba just smiled, and made a mental note to make sure Rex had access to the Open University Consortium modules. Krrsantan was after him to find someone else to be Minister of Planetary Defense, after all.

He wondered where Vode’yaim was located, and whether they might be interested in some kind of alliance. The Organas—whatever was left of them—wouldn’t abandon them, but Boba imagined their resources were probably stretched a bit trying to care for the all surviving Alderaani people who’d been left destitute after the Empire’s atrocity. If the vode were able to build a web of support with other planets, it could only strengthen their position, and they were a wellspring of lost knowledge from the Clone Wars…

A thought struck him. “Do you think the vode would be willing to do some kind of oral history project about their experiences with the Jedi?” he said, interrupting the gentle back-and-forth ribbing Kix and Rex had been indulging in. “Skywalker’s desperate to learn more about the Order, I’m sure he’d be willing to make some kind of trade.”

“They might have something already,” Rex said. “I know they recorded interviews for their archives with every vod they could. Ask Thire.”

“I will,” Boba said. “Perhaps I should offer an interview as well.”

“We both should,” Kix said.

“You’d certainly offer unique perspectives,” Rex said, interrupting himself halfway through with a yawn. “Kark, I feel like I’ve been awake for six years,” he said. “I don’t know how you manage to get anything done with how long the days are on this planet.”

“We nap,” Kix said, raising an eyebrow. “You should try it sometime.”

“Good plan. I’ll start right now. That is… if that’s still all right, Kix?”

Kix poked Rex’s side, making him squirm; a ticklish spot, Boba thought, and Kix was taking relentless advantage in true younger-brother fashion.

“Of course you’re sleeping here, di’kut,” he said. “We all need it, and I—I missed you a lot. So please stay.”

“I missed you too,” Rex said softly. “Both of you. So if you don’t mind having me, I’m happy to stay.”

“Grogu will be so excited,” Boba said. “Better go ahead and make him a button for Rex on his speech tablet.”

“Who’s Grogu?” Rex asked.

“My son,” Boba said. “Din’s keeping him elsewhere for the evening, but you’ll get to meet him—both of them—tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you have a tubie of your own,” Rex said. “The last time I saw you, you were a tubie yourself, and now look at you.” He sniffed. “I’m so glad I got to see this. Thank you for reaching out, Boba. I know it must have been hard to stir up all those memories, but it means the world to me.”

“Finding Kix was a gift I never even realized I could want,” Boba said. “In a lot of ways. I never would have gone looking for the vode on my own; I thought you all hated me. It’s… good, to know that you don’t. Or at least, that some of you don’t.”

“A hundred credits that none of them blame you,” Kix said, his voice half-muffled in Rex’s shoulder.

“The Mods are corrupting you,” Boba said, narrowing his eyes. “You never used to gamble this much. I should have a word with Skad.”

“You should do nothing of the kind,” Kix said. “Go to sleep, vode. I’m warm and comfortable and I fully intend to enjoy it.”

“Medic’s orders,” Rex said. “Sounds good. Goodnight.”

“Good sleep,” Boba said softly. He turned a little, situating himself with his head pillowed in the hollow of Rex’s shoulder and his toes tucked under Princess’s warm belly. He slept. In his dreams, he saw mountains of silvery stone against a lavender sky, surrounding a valley full of gold-leaved trees. Livestock grazed on gently rolling hills covered with lush blue grass. In the center of the valley, nestled like a jewel in a cupped hand, was a town, built of silvery stone. Cheerful banners and painted signs splashed color over the sides of the buildings, and under them, men with his father’s face walked through its wide streets, smiling.

Chapter Text

Kix woke suddenly, something in his hindbrain urging caution even before he was fully conscious. He kept his breathing steady while he tried to assess his surroundings, trying to work out what could possibly have made him react that way; he was home, after all. Any kind of threat that wanted to reach them here would have had to blow up half the palace before they could make it this deep into Boba’s security.

Warmth on one side of him, a strong arm slung over his middle, the faint smell of spices; Boba, still sleeping. Something hot and leathery on top of his feet, breathing; Princess. And more than half on top of him—ah, that was it. Rex, who had as always squirmed to the top of the vod-pile in his sleep, was awake and tense.

It couldn’t be real danger, or Boba and Princess would have roused. Bad dream maybe?

“Vo! No nu!”

…Or maybe Rex had woken up to see what looked like a baby version of the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order sitting on top of him, and thought he was hallucinating or something.

Kix could sympathize.

“Su coo vo!” Grogu said happily.

“…General?” Rex said. He sounded mildly concussed.

Grogu made a grumpy noise. Kix wished he wasn’t stuck under Rex—he wanted to see Rex’s expression. It was probably hilarious.

Kix heard a soft swoosh and then a thump: the now-familiar sound of a very small being using the Force to summon a datapad from wherever he’d left it.

“Good Morning New Vod,” the datapad voice said. “Question New Vod Aliit Grogu.”

“I—what?” Poor Rex. Kix should probably help him out. Soon. After he’d had a chance to hear more of the conversation.

“Kix Same Face Bo’Buir. Kix Vod Bo’Buir Yes. Kix Ba’vodu Grogu Yes Aliit Grogu Yes.”

Grogu was good with those buttons. Such a smart kid. They really needed to upgrade the datapad to a more natural sounding voice, though.

“New Vod Same Face Bo’Buir. Question New Vod Bo’Buir Vod. Question New Vod Ba’vodu Grogu.”

Kix could practically hear Rex’s brain overheating, and finally took pity on him. “He’s asking if you’re his uncle,” he said. “Since I look like Boba, and I’m his uncle, and you look like both of us.”

“New Vod Aliit Yaim,” the datapad voice added.

“And because you’re in the private family rooms,” Kix said, then something occurred to him. “Oh, that’s Grogu,” he said. “Din and Boba’s son. No relation to General Yoda except being the same species and having the Force, at least as far as any of us know.”

“Question New Vod Aliit Grogu. Question Please.”

“Well? Aren’t you going to answer him?” Kix grinned into his pillow.

“Oh,” Rex said. He cleared his throat. “I. Yes. I’m Boba and Kix’s brother, so, um, I guess that makes me your Ba’vodu. Hi. I’m Rex.”

Grogu squealed with glee; Boba snorted in his sleep and tried to bury his face in Kix’s side.

“Gro'ika, ori’vaar,” (it’s very early) Din groaned from Boba’s other side. Kix wondered when Din had joined the vod-pile. His voice wasn’t modulated; he was there without his helmet. Kix felt warm all over at the evidence that Din really was ready to embrace the vode as his clan.

“Bu!” Grogu squealed, then turned to his buttons. “Buir. Buir. New Vod New Ba’vodu Grogu Yes. Question New Ba’vodu Play Grogu Big Please.”

“You can ask Ba’vodu Rex to play with you after he’s had a chance to get dressed,” Din said. “Remember how we talked about being patient.”

“Lek, Bu,” Grogu said, heaving a pitiful sigh.

Rex would crumple within a minute, Kix thought. Maybe less.

“Maybe we can play after breakfast, um, Grogu,” Rex said. “Also… hi? Boba’s ven’riduur, right?”

“Din Djarin,” Din said. “Olarom, vod. (Welcome, brother.) We’re very glad to have you.”

“Why is everyone talking,” Boba said grumpily.

“Your son was very excited to meet his new ba’vodu,” Din said, his voice fond.

“Bobu Bobu Bobu,” Grogu said, excited.

Boba extricated one arm from the vod-pile and patted him. “Morning, kid.”

“Question New Ba’vodu Bantha Face Why,” Grogu’s datapad said, and Kix started laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Eventually, they all disentangled themselves and said proper good mornings before Din and Boba took Grogu back to their quarters to get ready for the day. Kix offered to lend Rex some clothes out of his frankly excessive Boba-provided wardrobe until he had a chance to collect his luggage, then gave him first dibs on the fresher.

He only called Rex “Bantha Face” twice, which he thought was very restrained of him.

By the time they reconvened for firstmeal, Grogu’s datapad had acquired a “Rex” button, which Grogu immediately used to charm his new ba’vodu into letting Grogu ride on his shoulders.

And give Grogu most of his sweet roll.

And promise to play with Grogu after they finished eating.

It was fine, Kix thought. Everyone was a soft touch for Grogu. It was hard to resist the combination of hopeful big eyes and tentatively angled ears and the datapad voice saying “Ba’vodu Play Grogu Big Please.”

Give it a day or so and Rex’d start to build up some immunity. Maybe a week at the outside.

After breakfast, they all split off for their morning duties. Boba and Fennec were giving Rex a tour and introducing him around, Skad and Din were looking at the bounty rosters for the month, Krrsantan was taking a meeting with the leader of a Wookiee shipping consortium that was angling for a long-term contract in the sector, and Kix had open clinic hours. Drash was taking Grogu for “Introductory Mechanics” training (which was basically an attempt to teach him what different tools were called and not to put ship parts in his mouth; it seemed a little odd for a kid that young, but Din had been surprisingly insistent that it was necessary.)

Kix sensed a story there; he’d have to remember to weasel it out of Din some time.

Kix had immunized three babies, given one emergency rehydration protocol, and treated one set of plasma burns (with referral to the appropriate remedial welding safety training holo-course as part of the aftercare instructions) when his comm started beeping urgently. He stepped into his office and took the call.

“Kix you’ve gotta help me, the boss is gonna murder me, I am going to die,” Drash said, her words tumbling over one another in her haste to speak.

“Slow down,” he said, crossing the room to grab his emergency field kit. “Where are you, and what happened?”

“I just turned my back for a minute, I swear,” she said, her voice going even higher. “I don’t know how—I didn’t—”

“Drash!” he barked out her name like a command, using the tone that made panicking shinies pay attention. “What happened?”

“I lost Grogu,” she wailed. “Kix, I swear, I swear to you we were doing our lesson and I turned around to put the tools away and when I turned back around he was gone!”

Kix sighed and put his kit back down. “Breathe, Drash, it’ll be okay,” he said. “You know he likes to run off like that sometimes, he gets an idea in his head and just goes. I think it’s a Force thing, all the Jedi I knew did it too. They feel something shiny in the Force and go after it. I’m sure he’s fine. Boba and Din won’t be mad, he does that to everyone. I know for a fact he’s run away from both Fennec and Santo before.”

Drash made a muffled sobbing noise, but when she spoke, she sounded a bit more composed. “R—right. I knew that. Okay. We just… we just need to find him.”

“You look in the hangars and kitchens,” Kix said. “I’ll check the family floors and then go to the throne room and the rancor pit. If he didn’t go to get something from his room, try to sneak a snack, or visit Sweetums, we’ll get the others to help look. Worst comes to worst, we’ll get everyone to try to emote being sad really loud, that’ll draw him out.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I can do that. Okay. Thanks, Kix.”

Kix sighed and drained the rest of his caff in one go before putting up the “closed unless you’re dying” sign and heading upstairs to check the family rooms. Grogu wasn’t there, and Kix didn’t see any signs of him (he was quite good at using the Force to get to snacks he wasn’t supposed to have, but terrible at hiding the wrappers afterward).

Kix half-suspected that Grogu had gone looking for Boba and Rex, hoping to emotionally manipulate his new ba’vodu into extra playtime, but if that was the case, they’d know soon enough.

He was opening the back door to the throne room on his way to check the rancor pit when he heard it.

“—Big Want Play,” said Grogu’s datapad.

A laugh. “I bet you do, ad’ika, but the grown-ups have to do their work.” A woman’s voice, but it wasn’t Fennec or Drash or Garsa or anyone else he knew.

Kix started running without even consulting his higher brain functions. He skidded gracelessly to a halt just in front of the bar in the back of the throne room, where the new bartender was doing something with a datapad and a crate of bottles—restocking and inventory, likely—and Grogu was perched happily on the bar watching her, his own datapad clutched in one chubby little hand.

The bartender—what was her name again? Payne? Jay?—looked up from her work, startled. “Um… hi?” she said. “Dr. Mereel, yeah? The Daimyo’s brother? Can I help you?”

“Look Kix New Friend Grogu,” Grogu made his pad say. “Kaysh Mando Jate Jate. Buir Talk.”

Kix wasn’t sure what to address first; his head was spinning with the aftermath of adrenaline. He held up a hand. “One moment, please,” he said, and sent Drash a quick textcomm letting her know that Grogu had been located safely. Then he looked between the bartender (friendly and puzzled) and Grogu (excited and smug), and sighed.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “This little guy ran away from his teacher this morning, we’ve been in a bit of a state trying to track him down.”

“Grogu Look New Friend Force,” Grogu said through his buttons, pouting. “Mando Friend Big Happy Buir.”

“Grogu,” the bartender said, leveling the kid with a fairly impressive “disappointed ori’vod” look. “It’s scary for your aliit if they don’t know where you are.”

Grogu’s ears drooped. Kix seized the opportunity to emphasize the lesson using his Padawan-wrangling skills.

“Drash was very worried when she couldn’t find you, Commander,” he said solemnly. “She was so scared she cried.”

Grogu’s entire body slumped; Kix felt a pang of guilt as he reached for his buttons again. “Grogu Big Sorry.”

“You can let Drash know the next time you see her,” he said, reaching out to rub Grogu’s back. “We know you didn’t mean to scare us, and we aren’t mad at you. We love you.”

“I know it’s hard to wait when you have a fun idea, ad’ika,” the bartender said, her voice warm. “But next time, remember to be kind to the people who care about you and wait for them, ‘lek?”

“Lek,” Grogu sighed.

The immediate crisis resolved, Kix turned back to the bartender. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” he said, sheepish. “I’m Kix Mereel, I run the medbay and the clinic. Also I’m technically the Surgeon General of Tatooine, though I haven’t done much with that, yet.”

“Jain Manari,” she said, smiling. “Technically, right now I’m a bartender, though I’m hoping to apprentice with Fennec Shand. I’ve also got a lot of younger siblings at home, so…” she gestured at Grogu. “I guess I’ve got big-sib vibes or something.”

“Kaysh Mando Friend,” Grogu’s tablet said.

“My Buir’s Mandalorian,” she explained. “Grogu got really excited about that.”

“New Friend Mando Buir. Grogu Mando Buir. Same.”

“I thought that smu—ah, courier that Boba hired was your dad?” The bacta smuggler hadn’t worn beskar’gam; Kix would definitely have noticed. Maybe they were part of the Duchess’ faction? “Are you, um, New Mandalorians?”

She snorted. “Maybe when banthas fly,” she said, making Grogu giggle. She pulled up one of her sleeves for a moment, revealing a slice of red-painted metal; a vambrace, Kix realized.

“I grew up in a Mandalorian community,” she continued. “Only one of my parents is Mando’ad, though; Papa calls us an interfaith family. He didn’t want to convert, I guess—didn’t want to give up his birth culture.”

“Buir Talk,” Grogu’s buttons insisted. “Mando Friend. Happy Buir.”

“I already talked to the Daimyo, isn’t he your Buir?” She talked to Grogu, looking as engaged in the conversation as she would with any adult she was talking with; Kix approved.

Grogu looked down at his buttons, then made a frustrated sound, apparently not seeing what he wanted. “Bobu,” he said, waving his little hand at the throne, then pressed his “Bo’Buir” button.

“The Daimyo’s your Bo’Buir?” Jain asked. “And your Buir is someone else?”

“Jate. Kaysh Big Good Mando.”

“A different Mando’ad?” She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. “Oh! The one with the gorgeous set of unpainted beskar?”

Grogu crowed in delight. “Lek! Bu!” He looked up at Kix with a pleading expression.

“That’s him,” Kix said, rubbing his thumb over the wispy hair on Grogu’s head. “Al’verde Djarin. Grogu’s right that he’d probably really like to talk to you later.”

She looked puzzled. “Not that I’m not happy to meet him, but I’m not sure why he’d want to talk to me in particular,” she said.

“Bu,” Grogu said, then went for his buttons again. “Buir Big Want Mando Talk.”

“He… likes to talk to other Mando’ade?”

Kix paused. Honestly, he only had a vague concept of what exactly Din’s role with the Mandalorian government involved; most of what he’d seen so far mainly consisted of Din sitting through long comms from the Mand’alor while he cleaned his blasters and made occasional comments or suggestions. “He’s some kind of advisor to the Mand’alor,” he said. “I don’t know a whole lot about it, but I think they’ve been trying to get in touch with the Mandalorian diaspora to make sure everyone has a chance to participate in the reconstruction. They’ve found a lot, but new groups keep cropping up. A lot of them have been living off-grid since Empire Day.”

Jain blinked. “There’s a Mand’alor?” she said. “Like, a real Mand’alor? Not just some Republic puppet they call the Mand’alor?”

Kix nodded. “Bo-Katan Kryze.”

“What, again? Seriously?”

“I wasn’t… around when it all went down,” Kix said, “But Din was there, he could tell you more. Apparently they pushed the last of the Imps off Mandalore about… two, three years ago? They’ve been working on rebuilding ever since.”

“We’d heard rumors,” Jain said. “But… there are always rumors, and none of them were ever true before. And it never seemed all that relevant. Our covert wasn’t even from Mandalore, originally; before the Imps pushed them out, most of them were mercenaries and hunters working out of Republic space.” She rubbed her forehead. “Wow. I guess I really should talk to your Buir, ad’ika. Then maybe I might need to comm my Buir and see about setting up a meeting or something.” She laughed. “This was not the way I expected my first week to go, I have to admit.”

“Welcome to Mos Eisley palace,” Kix said drily. “Every day’s an adventure.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” she said, grinning.

She was very cheerful for someone who wanted to be an assassin, Kix thought. Still, it’s not like he was qualified to judge. Maybe it took a while to refine your sardonic eyebrow and air of ennui.

“It’s almost midmeal,” he said. “Why don’t we head to the dining hall? I can introduce you to Din and he can fill you in on the whole Mandalore thing; he certainly knows the details of everything better than I do.”

“Nom nom!” Grogu said, grinning.

“Yeah, Commander, I know, Grogu big want food,” Kix said affectionately, kissing the top of his head. Seriously, the kid was a bottomless pit.

Grogu giggled. “Lek!”

Jain shut down her datapad and slid it back under the bar. “Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Lead on, Doctor.”

“I’m not technically a doctor yet,” Kix said. “I’m a combat medic. I’m working on qualifying, though; I’m hoping to finish before the end of the year.”

“Oh, Open University?” Jain said. “I did a degree with them a couple of years ago, my parents didn’t want me working until I was a little older.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d have been fine, they’re just overprotective.”

“Mandalorian parents, overprotective?” Kix picked Grogu up and let him clamber to his favorite perch on Kix’s shoulder. “Surely you jest.”

She laughed, and they chatted idly about holonet coursework and Jain’s impression of the palace so far as they made their way to the dining hall. Din came over to reclaim his son and was indeed delighted to learn about Jain’s Mandalorian family connections; soon, the two of them and Grogu taken over one corner of the long table, deeply immersed in what sounded like a Mando family gossip session.

Kix sat with Boba, Rex, and Fennec.

“Did you know Tynn Manari’s co-parent is a Mandalorian?” he asked.

“Huh,” Boba said. “I did not. Interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “Now that you say that, though, I’m not surprised. He’s always felt kind of… familiar. Mannerisms, turns of phrase, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, Din’s running Jain through every clan he knows to see who she’s related to,” Kix said. “Or at least, that’s what I think is happening. They went beyond my Mando’a fluency level pretty quickly.”

Boba smiled. “There are a few clans they’re still trying to find,” he said. “Maybe she’ll know one of them.”

“Mandalorians are crafty,” Rex said. “If they don’t want you to find them, you won’t. Not without getting stupid lucky or paying a fortune, anyway.”

“Your siblings are the same way,” Fennec said. “One of the few contracts I ever failed was on a clone. A little blonde kid.” She cast an expert eye on Rex’s short-cropped hair, which still showed blonde scattered through the silver. “Were you two based on the same variation? I never saw any other natural blonde clones. Of course, I’m not exactly an expert.”

Boba was staring at her. “Buir’s older sister was a blonde,” he said. “Our Ba’vodu Arla. She was killed by Death Watch. I always thought Rex probably got his hair color from whatever ancestor she inherited it from.” He shook his head. “When did you take a contract on a clone, Fen? And why?”

“It was right after Empire Day,” Fennec said, cutting up a pallie. “Not an assassination contract; retrieval. One of the scientists from Kamino was paying. The kid had run off with a squad of older clones, but apparently she was some kind of control specimen and the Kaminoan wanted her back.”

“Omega,” Rex said. “You’re talking about Omega. She’d have looked maybe… twelve standard? Running with a batch of non-standard clones. One really big one, one with cybernetic parts, one with half his face tattooed—”

“That’s them,” Fennec said. “She was a sweet kid; they were incredibly protective of her.” She made a face, half-rueful. “Probably for the best, all things considered.”

“The longnecks made a girl clone?” Boba looked between Rex and Fennec, shaken. “I mean, one that they knew was a girl? And they let her be?”

“She was like you,” Rex said. “Didn’t have the standard alteration package, aged like a natborn. Even the names—letters in some natborn language, I think. Alpha, the first—” he gestured at Boba—“and Omega, the last.”

“I always thought I was the only one,” Boba said, looking down at his plate. “I—I always knew I was the only one. Alone, even among the millions. It never even occurred to me that it might not be true. It never even occurred to me to check. I—oh kark.” He looked up at them, his face gone pale. “She was the new Prime, wasn’t she. With Buir dead and me gone, she was the fallback. She must have thought I abandoned her, she must have thought—”

“Boba, no,” Rex interrupted. “She never thought that. She knew you had no idea she existed. And she was fine; she never deployed to the war, and Clone Force 99 took her off Kamino when they left, right after Order 66. Adopted her, really, and she adopted them right back.”

“Buir must not have known about her,” Boba said quietly. “He thought the Kaminiise gene mods were what made the difference between a clone and a child; if he’d found out they made another unaltered clone, he’d have wanted to raise her.”

“I think Nala Se hid most of her pet projects from Prime,” Rex said gently. “She didn’t want anyone getting in the way of her experiments.” He reached out and laid a comforting hand on Boba’s forearm. “If I were betting on it, I’d say she’ll probably turn up here with Echo when he visits,” he said. “She’s always wanted to meet you, Boba. She told me once she thought of you as her twin.”

“I feel a little like I should offer a retroactive apology,” Fennec said.

Boba snorted. “No debt, Fen,” he said. “If we start counting over old tallies, I doubt you’ll be the one to come up the loser.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “I am glad you failed the contract, though. It would be a shame for my older sister to have actually kidnapped my younger sister back to certain death on Kamino.”

Fennec gave Boba a narrow look. “That was terrible,” she said. “Being engaged has made you sentimental. Save that kind of thing for Djarin and your hordes of siblings.” She didn’t move any farther from Boba on the bench seat, though; Kix thought she actually leaned into him a little more.

“Of course, vod,” Boba said, with a smug little smile. “My mistake.”

“The things I let you talk me into, Fett.”

“Well, I hope Omega does turn up,” Kix said. “She sounds like fun.”

“She’s always been a menace,” Rex said. “So, yeah; she’s a lot of fun, at least when you don’t have to try to cover her tracks.”

“So… she’s just like the rest of the vode, then.”

Rex laughed. “Pretty much. I think she turned Hunter prematurely grey.”

“The duty and privilege of any vod’ika,” Kix agreed, and from there the conversation turned to various cadet shenanigans he and Rex had witnessed; Boba listened eagerly to their stories, a wistful smile on his face.

Honestly, Kix thought, it wasn’t at all surprising that Boba was prepared to take on ori’vod duties for however many thousand surviving clones he could dig up; what was surprising was that he hadn’t done it sooner.

After the midday rest—which Kix cajoled Rex into spending with him so that he could make sure the man actually got a nap—he handed Rex off to Boba again so that they could actually have the official-business conversation that had been interrupted the day before, and returned to the medbay for afternoon clinic hours. It was a slow afternoon; Drash came in to get a bacta patch for a pinched finger and stayed to keep him company.

She’d taken to doing that pretty frequently, lately. Normally, Kix would have chased her out of his medbay, but Drash was very good about making herself scarce when Kix had a patient or needed to focus, and she was never averse to helping Kix take inventory or sitting beside him on the couch in his office to quiz him on his study modules. She also had a lot of useful things to share about living with a cybernetic prosthetic; the technology had come a long way since the Clone Wars, even out here on Tatooine, and Kix was thinking about doing a sub-specialization once he got his basic medical quals out of the way. There were a lot of amputees on Tatooine, thanks to generations of exploitative hard labor practices, and until the modders had set up shop most of them hadn’t been able to get anything but the clunkiest prosthetics. Custom neuro-tuning and cosmetic work were still out of reach for many, but Kix thought there was a lot of potential for mass-producing some of the Mods’ techniques. If they could get the unit cost down and figure out a way to make medical support more accessible, he thought he might be able to get Boba another profit line for the gotra that would also help a lot of people on the Rim. It would even pair nicely with the bacta business.

“So,” Drash said after a while, fiddling with the access port on her wrist. “Is the boss gonna get what he wants? More of your brothers coming to stay here?”

“I don’t know how many of them will stay, but I imagine we’ll at least get a fair number coming to visit,” Kix said.

“And you?” She didn’t look up, flicking the port open and shut. “You gonna go live on their secret clone planet, wherever it is?”

“Nah.” Kix shrugged. “I mean, I’d like to see it, but I like living here. There’s good work to do. Good people. I never really had a chance to put down roots, before. Turns out I kind of like it.”

She didn’t look up, but something in the line of her shoulders eased. “Good,” she said. “I mean. Santo would have missed you.”

He nudged her ankle with the toe of his boot. “Santo would, would he? Well, I’d miss Santo, too. I’ve really enjoyed spending time with him.”

She bit her lip, but he could see a grin trying to slip out around the corners of her mouth. “Good,” she said. “It’s terrible to see a Wookiee cry.”

“Good thing we don’t need to worry about it, then,” Kix said. He cleared his throat, turning to his next module. “Think you could help me with my Devaronian anatomy flashcards?”

She took the offered datapad, her smile a little smaller and softer than usual. “I’d be happy to,” she said.

It took Kix three passes to get all the flash cards right; he wasn’t in top form. But, he thought, it was only natural for him to be a little distracted, what with everything that was going on. Still, he managed to get where he needed to be eventually and clear his module test before Boba commed him to give Rex a clinic tour. Drash came along, claiming she didn’t have anything else to do. She spent most of the tour trying to talk Rex into telling stories about Kix during the war, not stopping until Fennec pulled her aside for something on the way in to latemeal that resulted in her spending the meal huddled in one corner of the dining room with Skad, having an intense debate over a datapad.

Kix and Rex ended up in the middle of a working discussion with Boba and Fennec, who were trying to decide between two competing security plans for the new mushroom garden they were sponsoring in one of the caves outside of Mos Espa. It was weirdly similar to some of the conversations they’d had during the war, if you ignored the topic: like any time that senior staff had been putting their heads together over meals or caff, trying to work out the best uses for limited resources.

It was nice, being able to contribute.

After they’d eaten, Din came up to Kix with a sheepish angle to his shoulders.

“What would you think about keeping Grogu with you tonight?” he asked, angling his body to make it clear he was talking to Rex as well. “Boba’s… it’s been a lot, the last few days. Good things,” he added hastily, “but I feel like he needs a little room to process, and Grogu’s so attuned to his moods that he won’t do it if the kid’s with us.”

“Sounds like fun,” Rex said at once.

“Absolutely,” Kix agreed. “It’s been too long since we had a cadet sleepover. You take care of Boba, vod, and we’ll look out for the little Commander.”

Din relaxed. “You should be careful,” he said. “Keep calling him that and he’ll think he’s in charge around here.”

“You mean he isn’t?” Kix asked, mock-innocent, and Din laughed.

“Sure, okay, good point,” he said, then grew more serious.

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything. You being here—both of you being here—I don’t think you can possibly know how much it means to Boba. He’s been… very alone, for a long time. He has us now—me and Grogu and Fennec and the others—but there was always something he needed that we couldn’t quite give. But since you woke up, Kix, it’s like a shadow lifted. I can’t tell you how glad it makes me.”

“I don’t think it’s just me,” Kix said. “But I’m glad to be here, too. I’m glad to have you all.” He glanced at Rex. “I don’t think our people were made to be alone.”

“The GAR, or genetic Fetts?”

“Either,” Kix said. “Both, maybe.”

“Either way, you’re right,” Rex said. “Every trooper I ever met would go a little peculiar if they weren’t living with a few close brothers.” He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s what went so wrong with Prime,” he said. “He was the least clannish Mando I ever heard of; didn’t seem to give a kriff about anyone or anything but Boba, even though the other trainers all socialized with each other.”

Din sighed. “From what I know, a lot of things went wrong with Boba’s buir,” he said. “Long before he ended up on Kamino. But he was good to Boba, for all of it, and Boba loved him. He knows that Jango wasn’t without fault in everything that happened, but…”

“Family’s family,” Rex said. “For good or for bad.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Prime wasn’t… he wasn’t real to most of us the way he was to Boba. He was like a, a legend, or a holo-star. Only the oldest few batches really interacted with him much. It’s hard, sometimes, to think of him as just… a person, like anyone else.”

“Whatever he was, or wasn’t, I’m glad I got to meet his family,” Din said. “If the rest of you are anything like Boba and Kix, they’ll be credits to our House if they accept Boba’s offer.”

They followed Din and Boba upstairs, where Kix tried very hard not to laugh at how serious Din was as he packed Grogu a little overnight bag containing two sets of sleep clothes, his favorite blanket, his stuffed bantha, and a tiny hammock. Meanwhile, Boba packed up a few of Grogu’s favorite snacks “in case he gets hungry” and then caved to a request for “Bo’Buir Sleep Song Please” and sang two verses of what sounded like a lullaby in Mando’a before Grogu would consent to let Kix hold him.

Maybe that’s just how natborn parents were with their little ones? Kix certainly didn’t have a very good gauge of what normal parenting was supposed to look like other than “definitely not an assembly line full of nurse droids.”

Once Grogu had given his parents several rounds of enthusiastic goodnight headbutts, they went next door to Kix’s rooms. Kix and Rex exchanged looks and then started laughing, helplessly; Grogu joined in after a few seconds, his bubbly little laugh every bit as unfairly cute as the rest of him.

“You’re a lucky kid, Commander,” Kix told him, when they’d finally settled down. “Your parents love you a lot.”

“Lek,” Grogu said happily, and started chewing on one of his stuffed bantha’s tusks.

Kix had been a little afraid that Grogu would refuse to be put to bed, but he seemed tired from his various adventures and agreeably allowed himself to be washed and changed for bed and tucked into his little hammock.

It only took three and a half bedtime stories for him to fall asleep, too, which was pretty fast in Kix’s experience. He and Rex went to sleep soon after; it wasn’t quite the same as a vod-pile, but it still felt so comforting to drift off with a brother at your back.

Kix wondered how long he could convince Rex to stay on Tatooine.

Grogu slept through the night—or at least he didn’t wake Kix up and was still asleep in his hammock in the morning—and started the day in a cheerful mood, insisting on giving Kix and Rex each multiple hugs and head-bonks by the time they got him dressed and downstairs for firstmeal. Boba and Din hadn’t come down yet, but that was fine; sometimes they ate privately in their rooms, especially if Din was about to go off-world for a while or Boba had a lot of meetings scheduled. Maybe they’d decided to take advantage of their child-free window to take some extra private time together. They certainly deserved it, with everything that had happened recently.

They ended up coming down about halfway through the meal, while Kix was trying to convince Grogu that his breakfast did not have to contain frogs to be perfectly edible. It was, Kix decided later, entirely Grogu’s fault—the kid was adorable but distracting—that he didn’t notice anything had changed until Fennec looked down at the table, dropped her spoon with a clatter, and then smacked Boba hard on the shoulder and called him something very rude in Bocce.

“What was that for?” Boba said, and the tone of his voice—somehow both smug and full of barely-restrained glee—had Kix and Rex both sitting up straight and turning to look at him in alarm. It was a tone they knew very well. A tone that meant that the ARCs had gotten bored and were about to do something “interesting” that would make the rest of the officers regret everything up to and including ever having been decanted in the first place.

What the kark had Boba—

“You know damn well what that was for,” Fennec said, grabbing Boba’s hand and slamming it down onto the table with a clang of beskar. “You swore up and down you weren’t going to do a Corellian wedding, and now you come in here sleek as a Hutt’s backside and radiating self-satisfaction, wearing this?” She waved at Boba’s hand; the entire table craned their necks to see…

To see that the black-painted hand plate that Boba normally wore had been replaced with a different one. A shiny silver one with a blue triangle painted on it.

My Armored Heart had spent a lot of time on the significance of wearing your lover’s armor. And discussing how the riduurok, traditionally, didn’t need any participants and witnesses besides the beings making the vows.

Corellian wedding, Kix thought with a jolt, and turned to look at Din on Boba’s other side.

Din waved a black-painted gauntlet at him, somehow managing to convey an incredible depth of languid slouching in the tilt of his helmet.

“You said you needed us to take the kid so Boba could emotionally process!” Kix yelped, affronted. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have been willing to aid and abet his brother’s romantic pursuits. It just would have been nice to be asked properly. And to have time to get them a present.

Din shrugged. Somehow, Kix just knew he was smirking under his helmet. “One thing led to another.”

Boba leaned back, slinging his arm around Din’s shoulders. Din slumped into his side like maybe Boba’s armor was some kind of beskar-magnet. “And then I emotionally processed the realization that I didn’t want to see the suns rise even once more on a world where I wasn’t his riduur yet,” Boba said. “So… I didn’t.”

“Dammit, Boba,” Fennec said, sighing. “Congratulations, but there are people who care about you who might have wanted to be there.”

“Traditionally, it’s more the celebration than the actual vow that Mando’ade invite people to,” Din said. “We can still celebrate the riduurok however we want; we just didn’t want to wait any longer to swear the vows.”

“Yes!” Drash said, punching the air. “Mudhorn Invitational is a go.”

Grogu cheered, incidentally flinging a spoonful of his nutritionally-balanced frog-free breakfast goop into Rex’s beard.

(Kix wasn’t entirely sure it was an accident. Grogu seemed to have taken against the beard on the grounds that fur was for banthas, not ba’vodue.)

“Don’t you usually exchange vambraces when you get married?” Kix asked. My Armored Heart had made a big deal about the vambrace thing.

“It’s common, but not required,” Din said. “Mostly people just pick whatever makes the most practical sense. Boba and I have pretty different vambrace load-outs, and there’s not a goran (armorer) on Tatooine to adjust anything. We may do pauldrons or something later.”

Kix nodded, his eyes going to Din’s shiny shoulder-plate. On Din’s mudhorn signet, running down the length of the horn, the white sheaf of grain from Boba’s clan sigil had been delicately painted. He looked over at Boba’s chestplate; the blood drop on the Fett sigil had been replaced with a mudhorn.

He wondered, suddenly, if lovesick Mandalorians ever doodled various possible combinations of their own clan symbols with those of their crush, the way the trooper on sanitation duty had once found a sheet of flimsi on the General’s office floor covered with handwritten variations of his name and his senator’s. (Apparently “Padmé and Anakin Naberrie-Skywalker” had been the favorite, having been circled five times and surrounded with a number of doodled hearts. If Kix remembered right, Brewer—so named because of his magic touch with the caff machine—had seen significant popularity in the ship’s barter economy on the strength of it. The 501st, as a whole, had been fond of their general, but that didn’t mean they didn’t think his “secret” relationship was fascinating and hilarious by turns.)

Krrsantan said something in Shyriiwook.

“Ambassador Krrsantan would like to state that he will be planning the joining-feast,” 8D8 said.

“You can do the fancy diplomatic one,” Fennec said. “I want the podrace.”

“And the festival,” Drash added. “There has to be a festival; you can’t just have a fancy thing for offworlders, gotta have a way for our people to celebrate. I don’t think we’ve ever had a married Daimyo before!”

“My gran collected royal wedding souvenirs,” Skad said. “She had a teapot she got on Alderaan when Queen Breha married Senator Organa, with their faces on it and all. And a collectible plate from when King Yos Kolina’s wedding on Mon Cal. Maybe we should make something like that, for souvenirs.”

“Nobody is going to want a collectible plate with our faces on it,” Din protested. “What would you even—why would you want to eat your food off of someone’s face? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t use them,” Skad said. “You collect them. Obviously.”

“That makes even less sense,” Din said plaintively.

Kix was fairly sure Din had never collected anything in his life, unless maybe you counted weaponry.

“Didn’t we get a business proposal last week from a potter over by Anchorhead who wanted to do some kind of artisanal ceramic business?” Fennec said. “Maybe we can get them started with a limited-edition run of officially licensed Daimyo Fett Royal Wedding commemorative drinkware. Put the seal on the bottom, maybe number them.”

“People love when you number shit,” Skad said, nodding sagely.

“I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I,” Boba sighed.

“After you eloped when you specifically said you wouldn’t? Not a chance,” Fennec told him, with a predator’s grin.

“You should invite Luke to the feast,” Kix said. “Maybe Princess Organa, if she wants to come? And Ahsoka, and maybe some more of our brothers?”

Krrsantan growled.

“Ambassador Krrsantan suggests that we coordinate with Minister Rau to ensure that the Mandalorian contingent are adequately represented on the guest list, given Al’verde Djarin’s position in their government,” 8D8 translated.

“We’re going to have to invite Kryze, aren’t we,” Boba groaned, then another thought struck him and he sat bolt upright. “Oh, kriff me, we’re going to have to invite Solo.”

“Maybe he won’t come,” Din said, consoling.

“Ugh, we can only hope.”

“Bo-Katan definitely will, though.”

Boba sighed. “I would only do this for you, ner dinui,” (my gift) he said.

Din tugged Boba back to lean against him, leaning to touch their heads together gently. “I know, cyare,” he said. “Vor entye.” (Thank you/ I accept a debt)

“N’entye,” (no debt) Boba murmured, curling one hand around the back of Din’s neck. “No debt between us; we are one.”

“Mhi solus,” (We are one) Din said, and Kix was just starting to feel like maybe he should look away, or leave the room, or something—seriously, how could two men in nearly complete armor, one of whom was actually wearing a helmet, manage to create that much sexual tension—when Grogu’s datapad announced “Grogu Big Want Snuggles Please” just before the kid Force-jumped across the table, knocking over a bowl of mujafruit slices into Din’s lap on his way.

Yeah, Kix thought, smiling to himself as he watched his brothers try to sort out the jumble of food and giggling baby. He’d made the right choice.

He was home.

Chapter Text

The United Free Peoples of Tatooine
Together with Clan Fett be Mereel and Clan Djarin be Mereel
Request the pleasure of your company
At the celebration of the riduurok
Of Aliit’alor Din Djarin, Clan Djarin be Mereel
And Aliit’alor Boba Fett, Clan Fett be Mereel, Daimyo of the United Free Peoples of Tatooine
At Mos Espa Palace, Tatooine
Beginning on Benduday, the first week of the fifth turn of Guermessa

The suns were sinking behind the cliffs, painting the sky in spectacular streaks of color. The desert wind was freshening, cooler than it was in the heat of the day and carrying the smell of spices. Boba looked out over the large space in front of the palace that usually held nothing but sand and windswept stone, and saw a riot of color: tents of every shade and pattern, painted banners bearing crests and sigils, tidy campfires and portable grills and clay ovens wafting fragrant smoke, and people, everywhere people. He saw knots of Sand People with their woven bantha-fur awnings, dancing the Joining Dance around their fires; groups of Fett clones with every kind of outfit and hairdo and adornment, all flashing the same broad smile; moisture farmers and free workers in pale desert linen handing out pallies and stirring pots of stew; and in among them Mandalorians, more than Boba had ever seen in his life, with their helmets or without, some fully armored while some wore only a few pieces, some in Kryze blue and gray but most with their armor painted every sort of color scheme one could think of, and all eating and smiling, arm-wrestling, playing cards…

There were so many, and that was when Boba realized that he must be dreaming. He didn’t think that there were that many Mandalorians left alive in the entire galaxy; certainly not that many who could still be visibly identified as such.

“Alive or not matters less than you’d think,” someone said, and Boba realized that he wasn’t alone. Someone was standing beside him, tall and armored. They looked like a human male, but every time Boba tried to look closer, the image grew foggy, as though seen through a thick mist.

“In my experience, alive or not matters a great deal,” Boba said.

“Perhaps,” the stranger said. “But you mustn’t forget to account for context. Many things may happen here that may not happen elsewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Boba echoed. “But dreams are not reality, no matter how much we might wish it so.”

“Is this a dream, then?”

“It could hardly be anything else,” Boba said.

“It could be a vision,” the stranger said.

Boba snorted. “I’m neither a mystic nor a Jedi,” he said.

The stranger hummed, exactly the way Boba’s buir used to hum when Boba got an answer not-quite-right during his lessons. Boba had forgotten what an irritating sound it was. “Not technically, no,” he said. “And yet, your sight has grown clearer of late.”

“Fennec made me get the surgery,” Boba said, deliberately not taking the bait. “She said reading glasses wouldn’t give the appropriate image for the leader of a gotra.”

The stranger laughed. “You are every bit as delightful as I always knew you would be,” he said.

“You can’t have known it for very long,” Boba said, “seeing as we’ve never met.”

“Sadly, we haven’t,” the stranger agreed. “But we know each other, nevertheless. And I am very glad to finally be able to speak with you. I was starting to worry.” He cleared his throat. “Ke’gana briikasar gar riduurok, ner bu’ad,” [Be joyful in your marriage, my grandchild] he murmured. “Kot bal kote haili gar aliit.” [Strength and glory to your family.]

Ner bu’ad. Boba whirled around in shock, finally able to pierce the strange fog and see the stranger clearly. Battered armor, black and red; a red cape; the sigil of the mythosaur; a craggy, weathered face; kind, dark eyes, crinkled with a smile. Boba knew that smile, had spent hours staring at the precious few images that his father had managed to recover that showed it.

“Ba’buir Jaster?” he whispered, and the smile grew impossibly broader.

“Who else? I would never miss my grandson’s wedding.”

“You must stay busy, then,” Boba blurted, and Jaster Mereel—Mandalore the Reformer—Boba’s Ba’buir threw back his head and laughed.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he said. “Oh, Bob’ika. Our House thrives again.” He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, curling a hand up to cup the back of Boba’s bent neck protectively. “What you’re doing here—what you’ve done, you and your riduur and your vode and all the rest of your clan. It’s beyond what I ever dreamed. I am so proud.”

It felt so real; Boba could smell behot and armor polish, could feel grit between the back of his neck and the rough surface of his grandfather’s gloves.

“I haven’t—I’ve done so much wrong,” he said. Even in dreams, he didn’t deserve that warm approval, not from Ba’buir Jaster. The last true leader of their people, the scholar and warrior, the visionary who would have been the salvation of Mandalore. The great leader who had been betrayed and murdered before he could finish his work, whose loss had torn a hole in their people that was still not mended after more than sixty years.

His grandfather, the hero of so many of the stories his father had told him. Who Jango Fett had taught his son to love and revere.

It had been decades since Boba really believed that the fallen kings of Mandalore really watched over them from the stars. But if they did, Jaster would have been there. He would have seen everything.

“I was dar’manda,” Boba said, his voice rasping through a throat suddenly thick with shame.

“Never,” Jaster said. “Never, ad’ika. Only lost, for a little while. Anyone might get lost, if they are left alone with nobody to show them the Way.” His broad hand curved over the back of Boba’s bare head, the way it nestled against the shape of his skull somehow inexpressibly tender. “Your road was long and hard and full of grief, but you walked it. Even when you thought that you were lost, you were always coming home.” He sighed. “I was always with you, bu’ad, though I wish I could have let you know it sooner.”

Boba’s vision wavered, and the scene started to fade. He made a distressed sound, clinging to his grandfather’s armor. “Please,” he choked. “Please, Ba’buir, don’t make me go. Not yet.”

Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close, and he pressed his face against his grandfather’s armor—his father’s armor—his own armor.

“Take heart, Bob’ika,” Jaster said, and Boba felt chapped lips press a tender kiss against his temple. “We will speak again.” He chuckled. “For now, let yourself wake. I think my great-grandson is looking for his Bo’buir.”

“Ba’buir,” Boba said, and got another squeeze from beskar-clad arms.

“The stars look down on you, Boba Fett,” Jaster said, and Boba opened his eyes to see Grogu sitting on his chest, poking him in the cheek with one chubby little finger.

“Bobu!” he said, grinning with delight.

Boba reached up with a trembling hand and cupped the back of Grogu’s little head. “Ad’ika,” he said. Grogu made a worried little noise, picking up his emotions like he always did, and promptly crawled up Boba’s chest to nuzzle his neck. Boba stroked his little back, trying to get his tumultuous emotions under control and radiate love and safety to his little empath.

“Boba?” Din looked over in alarm from where he was sitting up in bed, reading something off his datapad. “Is something wrong?”

“I dreamed my grandfather came to the riduurok,” Boba said hoarsely. “He told me he’d been with me my whole life. He said—” he cleared his throat, blinking the sting of tears away from his eyes. “He said our House was thriving. He said he was proud.”

Din smiled, soft and shining and beautiful. “Our House is thriving,” he said. “And your grandfather should be proud of you, cyare. I know I am.”

Boba closed his eyes, ignoring the hot tear that broke free and slid down his cheek toward his ear. He reached out, and Din took his hand, raising it to press a bristly kiss against his fingers. Beneath his other hand, Grogu’s little back was warm, the child’s slight weight and snuffling breath against his skin tender and precious. He turned enough to kiss his son and squeezed his riduur’s hand.

His life these days was full of miracles. Who knew, maybe his dead grandfather really had visited him from the Manda in his dreams. Maybe it was simply a gift from his subconscious mind. Either way, he was grateful for it.

“I love you,” he said. “Both of you. So much.” He pushed his love at Grogu, the happiness he always felt when they were all together like this, and sighed in contentment as the child gave a happy croon and relaxed.

From the bedside table, the alarm on Boba’s datapad went off. A few seconds later, Din’s datapad started beeping as well.

They had a breakfast meeting with Fennec and Krrsantan in half an hour, to go over all the last arrangements for the series of events celebrating their riduurok that would begin that day. The first diplomatic party was scheduled to arrive in just a few hours.

“I suppose we should get going,” he said.

Din leaned forward and kissed him, a sweet and almost innocent press of lips that Boba would have deepened if he hadn’t been holding their child at the moment. As it was, he still slipped his fingers into Din’s soft, untidy curls, luxuriating in the feeling that he was the only being in the galaxy allowed to have.

Boba’s comm turned itself on.

“If you two aren’t at breakfast in twenty minutes, I’m giving Krrsantan your override codes,” Fennec said, over the speaker. “Show up on your own or dragged out of bed by a Wookiee, your choice, just know I will be recording if it’s the second one.” She disconnected with a click, and Din and Boba pulled apart, laughing ruefully.

“Okay, okay,” Din said, brushing the tear track on Boba’s face with his thumb. “I know when I’m beaten. C’mon, kid, Al’baji Luke’s giving you a lesson later, let’s get you dressed.”

“Lu,” Grogu said happily, raising his arms to let Din scoop him up and then regarding Boba imperiously from his newly-obtained height. “Bobu! Up!”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Boba groaned, sitting up and stretching the kinks out of his spine.

“I’ve got Grogu,” Din told him, dropping another kiss on Boba’s scalp and pausing so that Grogu could offer one of his sweet, clumsy forehead-bonks. “Go ahead and get ready, I know Krrsantan sent you a checklist.”

“I should never have made him the Minister of Culture,” Boba groaned. “Or let him keep the protocol droid.”

“Last week you said it was the best idea you ever had,” Din said, pulling one of Grogu’s tiny robes out of his drawer. It was one of the fancier ones, fine Tatooine bantha wool and traditional Mandalorian embroidery done in glimmering metallic thread.

(They wouldn’t put Grogu in it until just before the guests arrived, and would change him back into play clothes as soon as possible thereafter; they knew better than to tempt fate by expecting him to stay clean all morning while they waited for the delegation.)

“You should wear that cologne Peli sent over,” Din called as Boba was washing up. “Traditional Tatooine craft and all. Plus it smells amazing on you.”

“Fine,” Boba called back. Din was right on both counts, though honestly it was a small miracle that his mechanic friend was so good at selecting perfume, seeing as how she herself smelled perpetually of burnt circuitry, ozone, and engine grease.

Ah, well. Life was a rich tapestry, as Garsa liked to say when someone was being more bizarre than was expected on Tatooine.

He’d originally been planning to wear what he normally wore—some combination of his desert linens and his armor—but Krrsantan had been quite insistent that the occasion called for something special, seeing as how the week of festivities was not only commemorating Boba’s marriage but was also serving as the first real diplomatic event that their fledgling planetary government had hosted. Din had it easier—there was, after all, no outfit finer or more precious than head to toe pure polished beskar’gam—but even he had consented to a new kute and boots for the occasion.

Boba himself had refreshed the paint on their armor the day before, taking especial pleasure in touching up their combined clan sigils. Din’s goran was planning to come with the rest of Kryze’s group later in the week and had agreed to forge them something more permanent, but the paint would do in the meantime.

For everything about the outfit that wasn’t plate, Krrsantan had somehow managed to obtain enough Concordian armorsilk to make newer, finer versions of Boba’s normal pants and mantle, edged with intricate embroidery that combined Mandalorian and Tatooinan designs. It was ridiculously extravagant, but Boba did not have a Council in order to ignore everything they said; if Krrsantan thought he needed diplomatic finery, Boba would wear it in good grace. Especially given that it was blade-and-blaster-proof, and nice and cool besides.

(And if Boba privately enjoyed the almost liquid way that it flowed around him when he moved and billowed in the slightest wind, well, nobody else needed to know.)

As he finished doing up his boots (also new, and polished to a mirror shine), Din reappeared in the doorway, Grogu perched on his shoulder with his datapad slung around his little torso on a strap, their latest attempt to keep him from leaving it places and then summoning it to him with the Force whenever he remembered he wanted it, regardless of who or what might lie in its path.

“Looking good,” Din said, giving him an appreciative once-over. “I mean, you always look good. But the clothes are nice.”

Boba smiled at them. “Think I’m fancy enough for a princess?” He’d been trying not to dwell on it, but he was more than a little nervous about meeting Leia Organa again, not just because she had so much influence over Vode’yaim but because she had seen him at his lowest point, and he couldn’t help feeling uncomfortably exposed by it and hoping that she would approve of how he’d changed since.

“I think the princess ought to worry about being fancy enough for you,” Din said, loyal as always, and Boba felt his shoulders unknotting. Regardless of what happened over the next few days, this was true, this was foundational; his partner and their child and their love, solid as stone.

Boba’s comm alarm shrilled his five-minute warning, and he and Din exchanged smiles and kisses before heading out to begin the day hand in hand.

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The entire palace was buzzing with excitement by the time Kix made it down to breakfast. Boba had entertained VIPs before, of course, but there was a difference between Tatooine VIPs—or even the odd Mandalorian—and Leia Organa. Krrsantan and 8D8 were all over the place, tweaking decorative banners and checking on food and looking up diplomatic protocols. The Mods were all scrubbed up and polished shiny, looking nervous. Fennec was going over security protocols with the dockmaster for the fifth time in two days. Even Din was holding his shoulders at a nervous angle.

Grogu, in his usual way, was picking up on the energy in the room and literally bouncing in his seat; he’d gotten food all over himself before Din had admitted defeat and pulled out the freeze-dried frogs so he’d at least eat something.

“Just as well you didn’t put his court clothes on,” Kix told Boba, in a low tone.

Boba laughed. “I haven’t been a buir that long, but I do know better than that,” he said.

Just then, Kix’s comm buzzed with a message notification: it was from Luke.

We’re orbiting Guermessa while everyone gets ready and Leia tries to scrape Han off the ceiling, he wrote. I’m about to grab my X-Wing and come down now since I have my own clearance codes. You think they’d let me sneak Grogu out for some Force playtime and give the fancy presentation part a miss? I never know what to do with my hands during those things. I swear I think that’s more than half the reason the old Jedi wore those huge robes.

“Luke wants to know if he can come down early and skip the introductions to play with Grogu,” he said.

Grogu squealed happily. “Grogu Play Luke Big Yes,” his tablet voice said soon after.

Boba laughed, rubbing the child’s head affectionately. “I think we’d all do that if we could,” he said. “Sure, tell him to come on down.”

Boba says sure, go ahead, Kix sent back. We’re all looking forward to seeing you again. And you’re totally right about the robes. I know for a fact that General Kenobi kept all sorts of things in his robe sleeves and/or pockets. The boys in the 212 used to keep a running list. One mission he pulled two lothkittens and a hydrospanner out of there.

Somehow I have no trouble believing that, Luke replied. ETA about half an hour, see you soon!

Of all the ways that Boba had imagined his future, none of them had ever looked anything like this: seated on a throne in a palace on Tatooine, waiting to receive a Princess of Alderaan who might become an ally and who might also, if he was very lucky, be something not entirely unlike a friend.

And who, incidentally, was married to one of his former targets who had nearly gotten him killed once.

Of course, if Boba refused to associate with people who had nearly killed him or nearly gotten him killed, he wouldn’t have any friends. Or his husband. Or their child.

Boba was very good at letting bygones be bygones when there was a good reason to do so.

Krrsantan bellowed, and 8D8 scurried forward, playing a little trumpet fanfare.

“Lord Fett, called the Undying, Daimyo of the United Free Peoples of Tatooine, may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Leia Organa Solo, Head of her House, Invested Heir to the Throne of Alderaan,” the droid said, and moved aside, and there she was, stepping forward to greet him.

“Aliit’alor Fett,” she said, inclining her head respectfully: the greeting of one planetary ruler to another.

She hadn’t changed that much; oh, the shadows of war and pain had left their marks on her face and in her eyes, but she was still the same in the fundamentals, the fire of her convictions and the beskar of her will making her seem the center of any room she was in, but tempered and refined even more by the years.

He stepped down from the dais, distantly aware of Fennec and Din falling in behind him, and stood in front of her. It was still startling, how physically small she was up close; Boba was by no means tall for a male human and yet the top of her elaborate coiffure barely came past the tip of his nose. And yet, one would underestimate her at one’s peril.

He bowed, not in the manner of Core-world courts but in the way of the desert, his hands twisting into the gesture that paid honor to a warrior who had slain a great foe. He could hear a few indrawn breaths and whispers flutter around the room.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Blade of the People. Voice for the Lost. Huttslayer.” He straightened up, thinned his shields, and looked into her eyes, pushing forward everything he felt about her: admiration and respect, gratitude for everything she had done for his kin, hope that they might be allies in future, and the echo of protective care he’d felt ever since he’d shown her his face and given her his knife. She might not be able to feel it, but Luke was somewhere in the room keeping an eye on Grogu, and he definitely would, and would likely tell her later. “Be welcome in my home.”

“Your home,” she murmured, that golden voice soft and warm. “Yes.” Her expression went distant, though her eyes grew bright; if it were not a ridiculous notion, Boba would have almost thought that she was about to cry. “Your worthy one stands ever at your side, Boba Fett, and the stars sing glory to your House.”

He said nothing, frozen in shock: not just for her words, but for how she looked—how she felt—as she said it. Since the last time they had met, he had become quite familiar with the look of someone looking at him with something other than their eyes.

No wonder the Organas supported the Jedi so fervently, he thought. Their own daughter could have been a Jedi if she hadn’t been destined to be a queen, and nobody ever knew.

She shook her head, her face clearing, and reached out to take his hand—the one wearing Din’s plate—in both of her own. “Congratulations,” she said. “I’m so glad you didn’t die.”

“So am I,” Boba told her, “though admittedly it took me a while to get there.”

She grinned, no longer stately and mysterious but with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Shame about the hair, though,” she said. “It was cute.”

He barked out a startled laugh, and felt it ripple through the room like a stone dropped into a pond, breaking the odd tension. “You win some, you lose some,” he said, and grinned back. “I’d like it if you called me Boba.”

“Then you must call me Leia,” she said. “I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.”

“The galaxy is doomed,” someone said, in a poor attempt at a whisper, then the same voice gave an affronted-sounding yelp.

Boba deliberately did not look over Leia’s shoulder at where Solo was rubbing his arm resentfully while glaring at one of the armored security guards flanking their party.

Leia touched one of her braids, lightly, and Boba saw that one of the ornaments woven into her hair was the hilt of the tiny knife he’d given her in Jabba’s palace, the handle worn with use but well-kept and gleaming. He met her eyes, and knew she saw that he had noticed. Something seemed to hang between them, like the air going still before a storm broke. There was a part of her that called out to a similar part of him, a deep stirring recognition that he had seldom felt in his life before. He’d felt it with Fennec, and with Din, and with Kix—like a tiny voice whispering, we are the same.

Listening to that voice had never once been the wrong thing to do.

He nodded at her hair. “You know, in certain parts of Mandalore, you offer a weapon to an esteemed warrior to invite them into your clan,” he said. “If the warrior accepts, they wear it publicly.”

“Oh?” She touched the hilt of the little knife. “Would we be considered cousins, then? Siblings?”

“Vode,” Boba said softly. “All the clan children around the same age would consider each other vode.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Well, you would certainly know about that,” she said. “Besides which, I think I would have been your vod already, by that definition. Or at least an in-law.”

“Do you know, Leia, I believe you’re right,” he said, feeling exultation fizzing in his chest. He reached behind himself to grab Din’s hand, tugging him forward. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband. Din Djarin, meet Leia Organa.”

Somewhat to Boba’s surprise, she reached out to clasp arms with Din in the Mandalorian fashion. “It’s wonderful to meet you,” she said warmly. “I was very pleased to hear that Boba had found someone to share his song.”

This, Boba thought, feeling faintly stunned, was why Leia Organa was a terrifying politician. Where had she learned that phrase? He wasn’t sure half the extant Mando’ade even knew the old diplomatic protocols anymore.

Din startled a little, then relaxed all over, his posture going loose and the tilt of his helmet delighted. “I was very happy to be found,” he said. “And we’re both really glad you could come. Boba’s always thought very highly of you.”

“I’m honored.” She turned and gestured, and Solo came forward with, to his credit, only a small amount of visible reluctance, one arm securely around the child on his hip and the other carefully free (and just as carefully not visibly close to any of his concealed weapons.) “Boba Fett, Din Djarin, this is my husband, Han Solo, and the shy one there is our son Ben Solo.”

Fennec poked him in the kidney in a way that meant be nice, which was totally not necessary. Boba could be diplomatic when he wanted to, he just didn’t usually meet with anyone that made him want to.

“Welcome, General Solo,” Boba said, nodding. “Thank you for coming.”

Solo flinched a little, just as his wife withdrew her arm from behind his back with an innocent air. “Thanks,” he said. “Um, congratulations on getting hitched.” His eyes darted between Boba’s bare, scarred head and Din’s helmet, which was polished to even more of a mirror shine than normal for the occasion. “So, are you both… bounty hunters, or… ow! Leia, I was just asking!”

“Yes,” Din said, in that particular deadpan tone he had that meant he was kriffing with you.

“Not anymore,” Boba said easily. “I’m retired.”

“You went with me last month to break up that trafficking ring that was operating out of Trask,” Din said. “We ended up with over two hundred thousand credits worth of Guild targets.”

“Yes, but we did that job as a favor to your friend,” Boba said, pretending not to notice the very amusing color Solo had gone. “That wasn’t hunting, it was being neighborly.”

“He’s an artist with a rocket launcher,” Din told them gravely. “It was one of the first things about him I fell in love with.”

Leia laughed, looking absolutely charmed. As well she should; Din was absolutely charming. Her child—who had previously been visible mainly as a little body perched on his father’s hip and a shock of dark hair—turned his face enough to look at them, his little forehead creased. “Daddy thinks you’re scary,” he said accusingly. “But Mama thinks you’re funny and nice. And you look like my—like a nice person, but the shiny man feels weird.”

His mother’s talents had bred true, then. Boba met his look, thinning his shields and focusing on his feelings the way he did with Grogu, trying to send the child—Ben, wasn’t it?—a sense of calm-safe-friends. “I can be scary sometimes,” he said honestly. “It’s my job to protect the people who live here, and sometimes bad people try to hurt them and I have to keep them away. But you and your family are guests in my home. That means that I would protect you, too.”

The boy relaxed, lifting his head entirely and looking curiously at them. Boba continued, feeling encouraged. “The shiny man is my husband,” Boba continued. “He’s a very nice person. He’s probably the nicest person I know.”

“Eh, fair,” Fennec muttered.

“Then why does he feel like that?” Ben demanded.

“It’s my armor,” Din said gently. “It’s a very special kind of armor, and wearing it is part of my religion. It protects me.”

“Huh,” Ben said, tilting his head and looking at them with a thoughtful expression that looked very like his mother. “I’ve never seen any armor like that before.”

“My people had to hide from the Empire,” Din told him. “A lot of us are still hiding until we know it’s safe to come out.”

Ben nodded. “My mama and daddy and uncles and aunts had to hide from the Empire a lot,” he said. “They were poodoo heads.”

Leia winced.

Boba chuckled. “They were, indeed,” he said. “You know, Din and I have a little boy too. He’s having a lesson right now with Jedi Skywalker, but I’m sure he’d love to play with you when he’s done.”

Ben perked up. “With Uncle Lu—I mean, um, Jedi Skywalker? Really?”

“Really,” Din said. “In fact, here they come now.”

They all turned to look as Luke walked into the throne room, trailed by Kix, Drash, and Rex, with Grogu once more balanced on his head.

“I hear we’re done with the official part?” Luke said. “Hey, Leia, Han, Ben. How was your trip?”

Leia rolled her eyes. “You were with us until yesterday, laser brain,” she said affectionately.

“What, I can’t be polite? I—ow!”

Grogu, apparently tiring of the conversation, had launched himself towards Din in one of his terrifying Force jumps, narrowly missing his teacher’s eye with his foot on the way. Din, Boba, and Fennec all lurched forward to catch him—Boba noted that Han and Leia did, too; it seemed some aspects of Force-sensitive children were universal—but Grogu landed squarely against Din’s chestplate, his ears lifted happily and his little pointy teeth gleaming in a wide grin.

“Bu!” Grogu said. He scrambled up to perch on Din’s shoulder and pulled his datapad around from where it dangled on its strap. “Question New Ad’ika Who. Question Friend Grogu Play Grogu.”

“This is our son, Grogu,” Din said. “Grogu, this is Ben Solo, and his daddy, Han, and his mama, Bobu’s friend Leia.”

“Soo coo!” Grogu said, waving a chubby little hand before going back to his buttons. “Question Friend Play Grogu Big Please.”

“Hi,” Ben said, looking shy. He squirmed in his father’s arms until Solo set him on the floor; Din hurriedly did the same before Grogu could take it upon himself to just jump down. The children approached each other cautiously.

“He’s so little,” Ben said. “Is he a baby? Why does he talk like that?”

“His species grows differently than humans,” Boba said gently. “It’s hard for him to say Basic sounds, so he has the datapad to help him.”

“Like Ithorians?”

Boba nodded. “A lot like that, yes.”

“Grogu also communicates through the Force to people who can understand him,” Din said softly.

“Oh,” Ben said. “Like m—like Jedi Luke?”

“Yeah, Ben, like me,” Luke said fondly.

“That’s a secret, though,” Boba said. “Just for our family and close friends.”

Ben nodded. “I understand.” He tilted his head, his eyes going distant in a familiar way, and then Grogu let out a shriek of delight.

Ben flinched. “Not so loud,” he protested.

“Breathe, ad’ika,” Boba reminded gently. “Inside voices, remember.”

Grogu sighed, then nodded, and Ben’s face eased. He stepped forward, holding out a hand, and Grogu took it. The two of them quieted, their eyes closing and their breathing matching up. Luke watched them, his face glowing with pride.

Boba wondered if he’d ever had two students at the same time, in the same place before. From what he remembered of the Jedi—and what Kix had told him—meditating together was good for them.

“He’s adorable,” Leia said softly. “You must be very proud.”

“Beyond my wildest hopes,” Boba said, and they exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

“Why don’t I go get some of Grogu’s toys?” Din suggested. “The kids can play while we talk.”

“Good idea,” Boba said. “If Ben’s anything like our little one, he’ll get bored before long but won’t want to go too far from his parent in a strange place.”

Din nodded, and turned to head back into the residential quarters.

“Leia,” Solo hissed as he went. “Is he green under there? How does he fit the ears under the—ow! Leia!”

Boba pretended not to have heard. Nobody needed to know that the extra-sensitive audio pickups on his helmet were still on and transmitting to his in-ear comm.

“I think we have a few more introductions to make,” Boba said. “You’ve met Ambassador Krrsantan and Minister Shand, of course. I’d also like to introduce Dr. Kix Mereel, the Surgeon General of Tatooine, my younger brother. And I think you may know my other brother Rex.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Dr. Mereel,” Leia said. “And Captain Rex, I’m very glad to see you again.”

“Same to you, kid,” Rex said.

“An honor, Your Highness,” Kix added.

Leia tsked. “None of that, now,” she said. “We’re all friends here. In fact—” she looked over her shoulder, and the two masked guards that had flanked her party when they entered came over, with long, familiar strides.

Boba knew what he would see even before they finished removing their helmets. Rex and Kix both stiffened.

“Vode,” Rex said, his voice wobbling. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Kix let out a little cry and rushed forward; Rex followed, and the four men collided in a jumbled four-way hug, all talking at once. Eventually, Boba heard Kix’s voice rising above the others.

“But you have to meet ori’vod,” he said.

“Ori’vod,” one of them said with a snort. “Maybe to you, baby face. I deployed when that one was still a cadet.”

“You’ll see,” Kix said, smug.

Leia beamed at them as Kix herded them over. “Boba,” she said. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to Boil Antilles and Wooley Ballory, my adopted uncles. They served with General Kenobi during the Clone Wars, but have been with my family for many years.”

“You did say you knew my brother,” he said, feeling his smile get wider. “It’s my honor to meet you both,” he said. “And it would be my honor to call you vode, if you would allow it.”

Boil gave him a long, searching look, then grinned. “Yeah, that’ll do,” he said. “Always good to find another brother in these trying times.”

Wooley jabbed Boil in the side. “What he’s trying to say is, welcome to the family, we’re glad you didn’t die after all,” he said. “Also, Thire and Hound were right behind us, they’ll want to meet you, too once they get here. They were both Corrie Guard, they wanted a chance to catch up a little.”

Boba smiled back. “I’d love to meet them,” he said. “Thire and I have corresponded a little, but it will be good to talk in person.”

“In the meantime, though,” Kix said, “Rex and I were planning on going to the festival for a while this afternoon and then heading to the podrace. Anyone who doesn’t want to do the diplomacy thing is welcome to join us.”

“I’ll go!” Solo said at once. “I mean…” he glanced at Leia, who rolled her eyes.

“Go,” she said. “Ben can stay here and play with his new friend. Bring me back a souvenir.”

“Absolutely,” Solo promised.

“Excellent,” Fennec said. “So, who else is coming with us?”

To his credit, Solo’s squeak of alarm was almost entirely silent. Leia met Boba’s eyes and winked.

This, Boba thought, could be the start of a glorious friendship, one that would utterly terrify their enemies.

He couldn’t wait to get started.