Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Concord Dawn:

One would think that, despite his lifelong commitment to disapproval as a full-time job, Jorad Vizsla might’ve managed a flicker of pride over his son becoming Mand’alor.

They’d be wrong. At least when it came to Lok. 

Of course, when Tor did it, he got all the pride and praise. Nevermind that he grew his base by forcefully conscripting children, or that he ruled with all the ethics of a dar’jetii on a power trip. For some reason, when Lok did it without all the torture and unnecessary bloodshed, he was still a disappointment.

That was a tough truth to swallow, but Lok had gotten used to the taste of it by now. He’d just mentally added it to the ever-expanding list of reasons he was the worst son to ever disgrace the name Vizsla. Right up there at the top—above the near-heretical reformist leanings and the fondness for jetii tea rituals—was the fact that he’d killed Tor. Not out of ambition. Not even out of hatred. Just... necessity.

Though maybe that’s what made it shameful.

That sin never left him. No matter how many times he told himself it was self-defense, or how many nightmares reminded him what might have happened to Arla if he hadn’t. He knew it. Carried it. Woke up with it in his throat some nights. He didn’t need Jorad hammering it in like an anvil to the chest.

But alas, such was his fate.

Ironically, that same sin only made him a more popular figurehead among the rest of Kyr’tsad. Because if there was one thing they loved more than violent rhetoric, it was actual violence. Especially if it came with a tragic backstory and the illusion of righteous purpose.

He didn’t get it, but whatever. He didn’t need to understand them. He just had to survive them. For a little longer. Because they’d be Jaster’s problem soon enough.

Lok stirred his drink like it had personally offended him and mentally made a note to ask Sifo if there was a jetii technique that could fast-forward through family meals. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, he could skip straight to the part where he was free of his lineage and its many delightful generational traumas.

One day, he was going to cut his parents off. But having lost too much family, he couldn’t bring himself to do that to Na’buir. More than that, he couldn’t do it to Pre’ika, who was adored by Jorad to a degree that dug up an uncomfortable amount of Lok’s childhood trauma.

Tonight, they were repeating a tired conversation.

“I don’t see why you won’t just let Pre stay with us,” Naera implored. Again. That would be the third time today.

The answer sat at the head of the table, swirling wine like he was orchestrating the entire farce. Which, let’s be honest, he probably was. Lok wouldn’t put it past Jorad to hand Naera a script and stage directions to make yet another bid for custody. 

It was a waste of time. There was simply no version of reality where Lok let Jorad Vizsla raise another child. Biological, adopted, or otherwise. He had a track record. It spoke for itself.

“Just while you’re in Keldabe,” Naera added sweetly. “There’s no reason for Pre’ika to be exposed to such… unpleasantness.”

Lok didn’t roll his eyes, which he felt earned him some kind of medal, honestly. 

The ‘unpleasantness’ in question was just a bunch of meetings set up to finally turn the ceasefire between Kyr’tsad and the Haat’ade into something more than a temporary pause in hostilities. 

The more Lok dug into the mess that was the internal workings of Kyr’tsad, the more sure he was that a united Mandalore was a necessity, not simply a desire. Whatever hidden enemy they were up against, it was going to take more than a verbal “live and let live” agreement to be able to withstand it. So, they were finally going to sit down and find a way to put all lingering animosity between the two groups to rest and unite them under a single Mand’alor.

That Mand’alor being Jaster Mereel, of course. Lok didn’t have many demands going into these talks, but he had one single non-negotiable: the title of Mand’alor, and the cursed dha’kad’au that came with it, went to Jaster Mereel. He wanted none of it and he was more than ready to give it up.

Sure, tensions were high and the threat of sabotage was statistically non-negligible, but still.

It wasn’t like he was walking Pre into a warzone. Not this time, at least.

“But I don’t want to stay,” Pre whined in that entitled voice he had sometimes, mouth twisting in practiced indignation.

Look, Lok loved him. Truly. From the bottom of his heart. He’d walk through fire for him. Kill for him without hesitation. Die for him, if it came to it.

But the adiik was a spoiled menace on a good day. His ba’buire’s indulgence did not help things.

Tonight, that entitlement was working in Lok’s favor.

Thank the Manda.

It was their last night on Concord Dawn before heading to Keldabe, and while Lok had tried to weasel out of this latemeal, the universe had conspired against him. For the past week, they’d been staying with Veyli’s buire at the Kast stronghold. The couple was still grieving, but had adopted Pre’ika like he was some sacred relic of their daughter’s memory.

They spoiled him too, but in a way that actually resembled love, not status inflation.

Unfortunately, Lok’s own buire caught wind that he was planetside, and thus he now found himself at their table, nursing a drink and a headache, wondering if pretending to pass out would be too dramatic.

But he came prepared. He already had Arla hyping Pre up about everything they’d get to see and do together in Keldabe. The adiik was practically vibrating with anticipation. There was no way he’d trade that for quality time with his emotionally constipated ba’buire. 

Thank kriff. It was one less fight he’d have to have.

The truth, of course, was uglier than that. Pre wasn’t just excited for Keldabe, he was anxious that Lok would leave him behind the same way Tor did. At the same time, he acted like he despised Lok. A feeling that was wholly justified. 

Calling the dynamics of the situation complicated would have been a substantial understatement.

“Ba’vodu promised to show me the fortress and Arla promised I could see the old hangars,” Pre continued, oblivious to the way Jorad’s grip on his wineglass tightened like he was imagining someone’s neck.

Arla’s, most likely.

The Vizslas were…not fond of her, to put it mildly. There was a reason that “family latemeal” did not include her and it had nothing to do with space limitations. 

Lok would have pushed back against that if Arla weren’t perfectly content to be excluded. In fact, she preferred it. She wasn’t shy about declaring that while she considered Lok to be aliit, the rest of them could kriff right off.

Still, he would never stop being quietly grateful that she’d accepted his adoption of Pre with such ease. It was never a question of whether he was going to do it, but he’d worried about how it might impact her. Apart from Pre being Tor’s son, he was almost an exact copy of his father. 

But Arla took one look at Pre and saw him for what he was—a scared adiik who had just lost the only buir he had left, covering pain in anger. Maybe she saw a kindred spirit, he’s not sure and it’s not something they talk about, but he didn’t know how he would have managed taking on Pre without her help.

Arla liked to joke that if Pre was going to turn out anything like Tor, she’d personally launch him into hyperspace. But the joke always softened when Pre clung to her arm, all wide eyes and wounded pride, just desperate to prove he belonged somewhere.

She really was a great ori’vod. It made him proud.

Naera’s smile pinched at the edges, lips twitching as if she were trying very hard not to scold her bu’ad. “Of course you think you want that, darling, but—”

“But I do,” Pre interrupted, loud and stubborn in that way that made Lok feel a twisted blend of exasperation and pride. “I already packed.”

He hadn’t, actually. His clothes were currently spread across three rooms in a manner more akin to detonation than preparation. But it was the principle of the thing.

Naera reached for her wineglass as if drawing strength from fermented fruit, while Jorad finally deigned to speak.

“You let the boy talk back to his elders like that?” he asked, tone deceptively casual as he swirled the red liquid in his own glass. “No wonder he doesn’t know his place.”

Lok’s jaw locked and his grip on his spoon tensed enough that he had to consciously set it down before it snapped in his hand. He was not the one who taught Pre to talk back to his elders. That would be courtesy of Tor’s brief, sporatic attempts at parenting and Jorad’s refusal to enforce boundaries whenever Tor left Pre behind to go on one murder spree or another. 

“He’s eight,” he said with a measured calm. “He doesn’t need to know his place. He needs to know he’s safe.”

And wasn’t that a daily struggle. Lok was doing his best, but between trying to turn Kyr’tsad into something that didn’t leak war crimes and the day-to-day osik that came with being Mand’alor to a large faction of Mandalorians, it wasn’t easy to give Pre the time and attention he needed to adjust to all the changes in his life. 

Pre saw a mir’baar’ur regularly and they were making progress, but ensuring he felt safe and secure in Lok’s care was more of a priority than his manners. It was hard enough to convince an adiik to trust you when you’re responsible for their buir’s death without adding unnecessary criticism to the mix.

Jorad scoffed. “Safety is a lie. Strength keeps you alive. Order teaches discipline. That’s what you should be giving him.”

“Like you gave me?”

That shut him up.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to draw blood, but Lok didn’t care. He was done pretending that the Vizsla School of Emotionally Repressed Parenting was anything but a cautionary tale when their legacy was one dead son and another who was drowning in guilt and trauma so dense he couldn’t sleep most nights.

But sure. Let’s lecture him on discipline.

Naera stepped in before the silence curdled. “We only want what’s best for him, Lok. You look so tired. You’ve been so busy.” Her voice was almost kind, practiced concern laced with maternal guilt-tripping. “No one would blame you if you took a step back.”

“I’m not tired,” Lok lied, though the bags under his eyes had long since stopped pretending they were from bad lighting.

Something Jaster often commented on during their weekly call, which, these days, was less “status update” and more “why haven’t you eaten”.

Tired didn’t feel like a strong enough word for his exhaustion. Not only because the memory of his brother’s eyes haunted him most nights, but on a soul-deep existential level. 

He just wasn’t cut out for this. He knew when he picked up the dha’kad’au that it wasn’t a weight he could carry and he only did it because he didn’t have a choice. The war had to end and there was only one way he was going to accomplish that.

But every day, he woke up and put on the mask. He pretended to be someone he wasn’t. When people called him “Mand’alor” it felt like he was…a fraud. Faking it until he reached the finish line. 

Now, he was almost there. He could almost taste the freedom. One more formal alliance, one more political circus, and then he could shove the dha’kad’au into Jaster’s hands, mutter something vague about legacy, and vanish into blissful irrelevance. 

“You’ve lost weight,” Naera pointed out, like it was a crime. ”I’m sure you could take better care of yourself if you weren’t caring for an adiik on top of everything else.”

“Thanks for the input,” Lok muttered, fighting off a laugh that probably would’ve sounded more like a breakdown.

Jorad made a noise—somewhere between a scoff and a warning growl—but whatever insult he was gearing up to launch died in his throat the second Lok turned and glared at him.

They all knew the truth. Jorad didn’t hold the cards anymore, and Lok’s patience had an expiration date. One they were getting dangerously close to every time this conversation happened.

Lok stood, because if he stayed in that chair any longer, he was going to lose whatever fragile hold he had on composure. “I’m not giving him to you,” he said, tone flat and final. “Not now. Not ever.”

Pre, who had been very busy pretending to sulk with maximum dramatic flair, looked up at that, brow furrowed. “Are we leaving now?”

Lok exhaled slowly. “Yes. Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Naera made a small noise like she wanted to say something else, probably another round of we only want what’s best, but Lok gave her the kind of look that said: Don’t. Not unless you want to find out how close I am to snapping.

To her credit, she shut her mouth.

He placed a gentle hand on Pre’s shoulder and steered him toward the exit, both of them walking in silence through halls that had long since stopped feeling like anything resembling home, past rooms that had witnessed more resentment than warmth.

“I didn’t actually pack yet,” Pre muttered eventually, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I know,” Lok replied. “We’ll do it together.”

A pause.

“…You’re really not leaving me here?”

Lok stopped walking. He turned and knelt just enough to meet Pre’s eyes, an ice-blue that was too damn familiar. He looked so much like his buir it hurt, but where Tor was always so arrogant and sure of himself, Pre looked insecure.

“I’m not going to leave you behind,” Lok promised. “Not ever.”

Maybe one day they’d get to a place where that was a promise Pre actually believed in without needing the reassurance.

Pre stared at him for a beat too long. Then nodded. “Alright,” he said. “But I’m not sharing a room with Arla again. She talks in her sleep. And kicks.”

Lok smirked. “Fine. But you’re responsible for your own stuff. I’m not wrestling your socks out of the ceiling vents again.”

Pre groaned like he’d been gravely wounded. “That happened once.”

Keldabe:

The council chamber still smelled faintly of solvent and scorched wiring, leftover reminders from the last time someone tried to set fire to the building. Allegedly by accident. Jaster didn’t buy it, but he hadn’t been able to prove it either.

Now, the long durasteel table gleamed under soft blue lights, littered with datapads, old reports, and mugs of caf in various states of abandonment. The usual battlefield.

Jaster leaned back in his seat, posture relaxed to the untrained eye, but every muscle tense beneath the surface. It had been nearly a year since he last saw Lok Vizsla in person. They’d kept in contact—regular holocalls, the occasional datafile exchange—but it wasn’t the same. 

The last few months had carved exhaustion into the sharp lines of Lok’s face. His voice always seemed a little hoarser than the week before. Jaster knew better than to think his mere presence could magically fix that. Still. He wanted to see him. In person.

For… reasons.

“—and the perimeter rotation is finalized,” Myles was saying, brisk and efficient, as always. “I’ve doubled the patrols near the hangar just in case, but we’ve vetted the incoming delegates twice over. They’re clean.”

Clean. Jaster resisted the urge to smile. That was generous, considering.

The final agenda items wrapped with a few nods and grunts of assent. It had been a long meeting, and the arrival of Kyr’tsad’s delegation in the morning had them collectively bracing for impact.

Predictably, it was Vau who shattered the momentary peace. “I still think we’re making a mistake,” he said flatly, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable beneath the faint scar slicing through his left brow. “We all know who’s coming with that delegation.”

Jaster didn’t need the name. Every soul in that room knew who Vau meant.

“Walon,” Jaster sighed, straightening. “We’ve gone over this.”

So many times.

Still, he kept his tone even. “They’re coming to negotiate an alliance. In good faith.”

“In good faith?” Vau repeated, like the words tasted wrong. “You’re trusting good faith from the man half the Outer Rim’s started calling Mand’alor the Ruthless?”

Jaster’s jaw twitched. He hadn’t missed the rumors. He just didn’t put much stock in them. He tried not to look personally offended on Lok’s behalf. He failed.

“The name isn’t self-appointed,” he said, a little too quickly. “It’s propaganda.”

Terrible propaganda, at that. Anyone who’d spent more than five minutes around Lok knew he was about as ruthless as a striil pup meeting an ik'aad. Sure, he had a glare that could melt beskar and a death toll that made people nervous, but the man also apologized to droids when he raised his voice and once lost sleep over a sad-looking stray tooka.

But he supposed the rest of Mandalore didn’t really get to see the man behind the buy’ce. They didn’t see the toll it took on him or how every week, he looked just a little bit more worn down. And if Jaster maybe thought about that a little more often than strictly necessary, well. That was his problem.

“Is it?” Myles cut in, arching a brow. “I know you’ve read the reports. Indiscriminate executions. Imperial-style expansion policies. Integration centers for war orphans that are somehow even more effective than Tor’s. And you expect us to believe that Lok Vizsla isn’t going to walk through those doors tomorrow and finish what his brother started?”

“Yes,” Jaster said calmly. “Because I know Lok.”

“You knew Lok,” Vau shot back. “Before he claimed a title we once swore to tear from Tor’s cold, dead hands.”

A third voice piped up, dry and unimpressed. “You really know how to kill a mood, Vau.”

Kal Skirata leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers drumming thoughtfully. “I met Lok Vizsla on Coruscant, remember? That wasn’t some megalomaniacal tyrant. That was a disaster of a man trying not to unravel in front of a child.”

“That was two years ago,” Vau countered. “He’s gone through several transformative experiences since then. You think holding power over Kyr’tsad didn’t change him? All intel says he’s the new and improved Tor. You know how much damage Tor did with half a brain and a violent god complex? Now imagine someone competent.”

Jaster finally stood. It wasn’t dramatic, but it had presence, probably helped by the quiet undertone of I swear, if you slander him one more time, I will overturn this table.

“You’re not wrong about the shift in perception,” he said. “But don’t mistake the shift in tone for a shift in character. The reason people are calling him Mand’alor the Ruthless isn’t because he is —it’s because he’s been cleaning house.”

He tapped the datapad in front of him and turned it toward the room. “I’ve spoken with him. About everything, especially the rumored integration centers. I won’t pretend the initial reports didn’t worry me. They did. But I’m not going to screw this up by jumping to conclusions, so I asked about them.”

Vau didn’t reply, which was either a tactical retreat or a brewing counterattack. Hard to say.

Jaster kept going.

“Those centers aren’t indoctrination camps. They’re youth homes. They take in children who were already in Kyr’tsad’s custody. Lok’s first act as Mand’alor was returning every single child with surviving family. Every one of them. The only ones who stayed behind were the ones who had nowhere else to go… or didn’t want to leave.”

He glanced around the room, letting that sink in. “He created something stable.”

“A stable Kyr’tsad?” Vau asked bitterly.

“A stable community,” Jaster corrected. “They’re youth homes. Yes, they offer training, but not forced conscription.”

Vau made a noise, part skeptical, part resigned.

Jaster let it slide.

Kal tilted their head. “He’s popular, you know. It’s part of the problem.”

“More than popular,” Myles added. “People who once despised Kyr’tsad because of Tor are starting to reconsider.”

And wasn’t that what kept Jaster up at night. Well, that, and wondering if Lok had eaten anything besides caffeine and guilt since their last holocall.

Jaster straightened again. “And that narrative is not going away. So we can either resist it and fracture further, or we can meet it head-on. Kyr’tsad is coming to Keldabe in good faith. We’re going to meet him the same way.”

Vau didn’t argue, which was as close to agreement as he ever got. He just crossed his arms tighter and muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like osik and blind optimism.

Jaster chose to interpret it as progress.

Kal leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, if it all goes to haran, at least we’ll be able to say we tried diplomacy before we’re all shot in the back.”

“Optimistic as always,” Jaster said dryly.

“Just setting expectations.”

As the rest of the room finally emptied, Jaster stayed behind, trying to untangle the knot in his gut.

He told himself it was strategic readiness. Nerves, maybe. The usual tension that came with a historic political meeting. It had nothing to do with the fact that Lok Vizsla would be standing across from him again tomorrow after a year of holocalls and unanswered questions and lingering what-ifs.

He wasn’t looking forward to it, exactly. He just… needed it. In a way that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the fact that he still remembered how Lok looked the last time they stood face to face—grief-stricken, trembling, half-broken, and still trying to hold the galaxy together with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Jaster closed his eyes for a beat, then sighed and reached for his datapad. He had reports to review, security to triple-check, and a dangerously earnest Mand’alor to greet at sunrise.

He took one last glance at the door.

“Try not to look too relieved when you see him,” he muttered to himself, half-scolding. “Manda knows Vau would never let it go.”

Jango Fett stood on the landing platform next to his buir, arms crossed, boot tapping out a silent, increasingly aggressive rhythm against the metal.

The sky over Keldabe was gray and grumpy, and the Kyr’tsad transport was late. Not by much, but just enough to make Jango’s nerves itch.

Typical.

He didn’t want to be this impatient. Objectively, he knew—in a theoretical, grown-up, responsible kind of way—that this was a complicated political meeting between former enemies and not, in fact, about him. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

Still. He hadn’t seen Arla in person since Korda VI. That was a whole year ago.

He rolled his shoulders. Whatever.

They talked a lot over holocall, sure. They’d even gotten good at hijacking each other’s comm time during Lok and Jaster’s weekly check-ins. Bonus points if they caught one of them mid-eye roll. Bonus bonus points if they got Jaster to look like he’d just been emotionally roundhouse-kicked by Lok’s existence.

Honestly, great entertainment.

Jango had even spoken to Lok directly a few times. Which had been weird at first—because, well, Lok —but he was actually pretty okay. He was weirdly gentle, never spoke down to him, and didn’t flinch when Jango got mad, which was more than he could say for most adults.

But none of that was the point.

The point was that he and Arla had a plan.

Jango’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Just...tactical satisfaction.

It started innocently enough, with a casual comment during one of their longer calls, something like: Have you noticed how Jaster always looks like someone punched him in the gut after talking to your buir?
To which Arla had replied: Only when he doesn’t look like he wants to throw him over a table and swear a blood oath. It’s very romantic.
And then Jango had choked on his water and Arla had grinned like she’d won something.

From there, it evolved.

A few shared notes. A spreadsheet (yes, a spreadsheet, Arla took this very seriously) titled “Operation SMOOCH: Strategic Manipulation of Our Clueless Heads-of-household” …the title was a work in progress, but several bolded items included things like:

- Suggest latemeal. Regularly. Weaponize nostalgia. Emotional bait recommended: “I missed my vod.”
- Reassign living quarters. Discreetly. Fate works in mysterious floor plans.
- Feign ignorance when they act flustered.
- Do NOT let Myles or Skirata find out. They’ll make it weird.

Technically, they weren’t lying to anyone. They were just...facilitating destiny. For the good of Mandalore. Obviously.

And maybe because watching Lok and Jaster orbit each other like emotionally repressed moons was getting real old. It was exhausting. Tragic. Painful to witness. Something had to be done.

Jango scanned the horizon again. A low hum of engines whispered overhead. Finally.

The Kyr’tsad transport—a sleek, dark, and sharp-edged ship— crested the clouds with a low roar. Kyr’tsad aesthetics always were a little dramatic. 

A ripple of tension traveled through the guards flanking the platform. No one really trusted Kyr’tsad yet, not even with Lok in charge. Maybe especially not with Lok in charge.

Jango wasn’t sure how he felt, either. But he trusted Arla. And if Arla trusted her buir, then that was good enough.

The ship touched down with a hiss of hydraulics, ramp extending slowly to reveal Lok Vizsla. His beskar’gam was a little different than Jango remembered from Korda VI—slightly darker colors, slightly different pattern—but his beskar’ta still stood out with a stark, contrasting white. The dha’kad’au was clipped to his belt.

The biggest change had to be the cape, though. Apparently, being Mand’alor came with a mandatory dramatic flair and a government-issued cape.

Jaster wore a deep red one, with the white Mythasaur skull of the Haat’ade stretched proudly across the back. Lok’s was black, with Kyr’tsad’s crimson jai’galaar embroidered in sharp, aggressive thread.

It was intense, but annoyingly, it worked.

Arla followed two steps behind her buir, flanked by one of Lok’s commanders—Wren, maybe—and Kas Rook. As soon as her boots hit the platform, her buy’ce locked on Jango’s. 

“Hey,” she said, like they hadn’t been plotting political romance espionage over encrypted channels for weeks.

“You’re late,” he replied.

“Your face is late,” she countered, deadpan.

“Did you bring the datapad?”

She pulled it from her satchel and handed it off like it was contraband. Because, technically, it was, if you considered “blatant emotional manipulation in spreadsheet form” a crime. (Which it shouldn’t be. They were heroes.)

Jango tucked it under his arm like a soldier cradling an explosive.

“So,” he said, just loud enough for Jaster—standing a conveniently short distance away—to overhear, “I was thinking… maybe your buir would want to come over for latemeal tonight. You know. For unity. And healing. And togetherness.”

Arla tilted her head just slightly. The universal expression for: Really?

“That’s subtle,” she muttered.

“I’m incredibly subtle,” Jango replied, glancing back to make sure Jaster was finished with his eavesdropping. “I’ve been told I’m the master of nuance.”

“By who?”

“Myself.”

Arla nodded like that tracked. “Fine. We’ll start with latemeal. I’ll make sure my buir can’t wiggle out of it.”

Perfect.

“I still think we should’ve started with locking them in a storage closet,” Jango grumbled under his breath, mentally reviewing his shortlist of ideal locations based on door durability, ventilation, and plausible deniability.

Arla shrugged. “Too obvious. This is better. A subtle, strategic slow burn.”

Jango looked past her to the two grown men supposedly in charge of the fate of Mandalore, who were currently standing close enough to definitely be inside each other’s personal space, but also avoiding eye contact like it might kill them. Lok was pretending to check something on his datapad. Jaster was very interested in… a crate. Just a plain crate. A crate that had apparently never been more fascinating in its entire wooden existence.

There was enough unresolved tension between them to power a capital ship and at least three bad decisions.

Yeah. They were so doomed.

And if Jango and Arla had anything to say about it, they’d be married by the time either one figured it out.

For the sake of Mandalore.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

The transport touched down like it meant business.

Sleek, angular plating, black as a void and just as subtle, marked in deep crimson with stylized Kyr’tsad sigils that caught the light like fresh blood. The sort of vessel that didn’t request entry so much as declare occupation.

In the general sense, that is. This time, it came in peace. 

Jaster stood at the edge of the landing platform with his posture composed into something that resembled patience. Jango was beside him, not even pretending. He was tapping his foot with enough restless energy to power a fusion core. Jaster didn’t blame him. He knew he was excited to see Arla again.

Skirata stood to Jaster’s left, chewing on a grimace. Vau, to his right, looked like he was waiting for someone to give him permission to shoot something.

The ramp hissed.

Hydraulics whispered.

And then Lok Vizsla stepped out of the shadows and into the sun, and for the span of a heartbeat, all thoughts flatlined.

The silhouette was familiar, if slightly thinner than before. He moved like someone used to being watched.

His beskar’gam was different. Still Vizsla lineage styling and very much “Kyr’tsad”, yes, but the colors were cleaner. None of the cobalt trim that used to mark him as Tor’s shadow. Instead, the beskar was a few shades darker than steel, matte black in places, slate in others, with a clear crimson Kyr’tsad sigil on his pauldron and a white beskar’ta glaring in stark defiance of subtlety.

It was far from the battered half-armor he usually wore during comm calls, and definitely not the rumpled flightsuit Jaster had seen too many times to pretend he didn’t have thoughts about. No—this was regalia.

It echoed Tor’s old pattern. Uncomfortably so. 

A dark cape swept over one shoulder, clasped at the collar with a polished emblem he couldn’t quite make out from this distance. The dha’kad’au hung at his hip like it belonged there. Which, technically, it did.

This was the Mand’alor the galaxy whispered about. The one rumors painted in ruthless colors, whose reputation bled through every political chamber and every cantina in the outer rim like smoke trailing fire.

Looking at him now, Jaster could understand why. Lok came off as…imposing. Dangerous. Cold. Commanding.

And kriff him, he wore it well.

Too well.

Jaster exhaled quietly through his nose, like that would do anything to dispel the ache blooming low in his chest. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

Lok stopped at the base of the ramp. An adiik stepped into view beside him, like a miniature, copikla version of Lok. Including a smaller, cheaper quality cape fluttering slightly in the breeze, as they tugged in Lok’s.

It must be Pre Vizsla. Lok spoke about him, sometimes. Always fond, but always equally sad. Jaster couldn’t really imagine the struggle he must face every day trying to raise Tor’s ad after…everything. And he only respected him more for it.

Lok’s attention immediately turned to the adiik while Arla rushed over to Jango. Then, after whatever the adiik needed was resolved, Lok approached. 

Two steps. Then another.

It was ridiculous, how aware Jaster was of the exact number of strides it took for Lok to reach him. Thank the Manda for his buy’ce, because the look on his face probably wasn’t fit for public consumption.

“Mereel,” Lok said, voice quiet, low, with a rasp at the edges like it had weathered more than one argument too many.

“Vizsla,” Jaster returned, with a nod he hoped passed for professional.

He was vaguely aware of Vau stiffening beside him and elected to ignore it. He understood where the concerns came from, truly, but he was confident it would only take a few days of interacting with Lok for them to see he was nothing like his inadvertent reputation portrayed him to be.

“You get a decent flight in?” Jaster asked, because saying you look like you walked out of a propaganda poster and I’m not coping well felt frowned upon in front of subordinates.

Lok hummed in acknowledgment, already turning his attention to Skirata, distractedly accepting the datapad he was handed and scrolling through planned lodging arrangements and other logistical information for their delegation. 

Jaster tried not to stare. Redirected his focus to a nearby crate. It was…well, it was there. It existed. It was square. Unlike his ability to handle the fact that Lok was standing this close, apparently completely unconcerned with Jaster’s presence.

Somewhere off to the side, Jango muttered to Arla, “I was thinking… maybe your buir would want to come over for latemeal tonight. You know. For unity. And healing. And togetherness.”

Jaster pretended he didn’t hear that. But he did. He very much did. And setting the…odd phrasing aside, he absolutely intended to extend the invitation himself. For Arla and Jan’ika, of course. They were still aliit, despite all the…complications.

Not at all because he’d love to share latemeal with Lok for more…selfish reasons.

Nope.

That would be unprofessional.

“This looks good,” Lok said, voice clipped as he handed the datapad to the verd on his right—Tarin Wren, if Jaster wasn’t mistaken. 

His posture tensed almost imperceptibly.

Permitting Tarin to enter Keldabe as part of the delegation was…controversial. He’d been Tor’s right hand. Understandably, his continued presence in Lok’s circle made certain people nervous. Including Jaster. He didn’t understand it. Lok had purged most of the others. For some reason he never explained, he kept Tarin around.

Something to keep an eye on.

Before he could reply, a small blur darted out from behind Lok and nearly collided with Jaster’s leg.

“Hey! Watch it,” the adiik said indignantly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. As though Jaster had initiated the collision.

The adiik looked up at him like he was deciding whether or not to bite. Jaster nodded, refraining from commentary mostly because he wasn’t sure the adiik wouldn’t take it as a challenge.

“Pre,” Lok warned, half-sighing. “We talked about making a good first impression.”

“I am making a good first impression,” Pre huffed. “I didn’t kick anyone.”

Jaster raised an eyebrow. 

“Yet,” Kal muttered beside him.

Lok let out a tired breath and placed a hand on Pre’s shoulder. “This is Pre. My… ad.”

There was something in the way he said it that Jaster couldn’t pinpoint, but he knew from their calls that Lok’s relationship with Pre was…complicated. 

Pre looked up at him like the phrase was just a formality. Jaster caught the subtle shift in Lok’s posture to something protective, resigned, almost apologetic.

“We’ve had a long trip,” Lok added.

“I’m sure,” Jaster said neutrally. “Should we take this inside?”

The delegation split at the main corridor of the Keldabe palace. Lok’s people were a blur of dark armor and sharper glares—commanders, tacticians, logistics specialists, maybe an amateur assassin or two. They were redirected to the east wing, away from the Haat’ade barracks and, crucially, away from the more trigger-happy of Jaster’s verde.

Myles and Silas took the lead there, issuing access badges, assigning quarters, rattling off rules like they’d been preparing for this for weeks. Which, of course, they had.

Arla appeared at Lok’s side and reached for Pre’s shoulder.

“I got him,” she said to Lok. “You focus on all the…official stuff.”

Pre grumbled something about not being six, but he let himself be led away. 

Lok watched him go like he was calculating three possible exit strategies and a backhanded bedtime threat.

Jaster waited until they rounded the corner, then turned on his heel. “This way.” He kept his pace steady, neutral. A few paces ahead, Vau was muttering something to Skirata about controlling their men, tensions in the south training yard, the usual.

Kas Rook and Tarin Wren flanked Lok silently, the three of them following close behind. Professional, alert, wary. Like every room could still be a battlefield.

When they stepped into his office, Jaster pulled off his buy’ce and placed it on his desk. A symbolic show of trust, or at the very least, a signal that this space, however temporarily, didn’t require armor between them.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lok follow suit. And just like that, every carefully rehearsed phrase Jaster had spent the last week composing abandoned him.

There was something almost vindictively unfair about the way Lok looked when the buy’ce came off. Familiar in the way an old wound could still ache when the weather shifted, but changed in ways that were worse. 

Dark blonde hair tied loosely back at the nape, several strands slipping free. His skin was fairer than he remembered, almost as if he’d been kept from the sun too long, and across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, faint freckles stood out like stars scattered across pale stone. Those dark blue eyes that always looked like they were seeing something just beyond the edge of reality met Jaster’s for only a heartbeat before flicking politely aside.

Something clenched behind Jaster’s ribs, deep, sharp and inconvenient. His fingers curled against his thigh before he could stop himself. The instinct to fix things was as familiar as it was foolish.

He looked tired, and not the kind of tired that could be cured by a nap and some strong caf. 

Still beautiful, though.

Wait.

What?

Kriff.

“I appreciate the hospitality,” Lok said, formal enough for show. The diplomatic mask was in full effect.

“Don’t thank me until after the first joint patrol rotation,” Jaster replied, forcing his mouth into something resembling a smile. “Let’s see how diplomatic everyone stays once they’ve had to share a mess line.”

Vau didn’t even wait for the moment to breathe before slapping another datapad onto the desk. “Speaking of,” he said. “Here’s the rotation schedule.”

Lok stepped forward to take it, nodding his thanks as he skimmed the contents. His brow furrowed with every swipe. It was nothing they hadn’t discussed. Well, with the additions of Vau’s…overly cautious arrangements. 

“That’s… extensive,” Lok commented carefully.

“Necessary,” Vau replied. “Every member of your delegation has been assigned a designated escort. You’ll find a rotating schedule for training grounds, common spaces, and mess hall access. We’ve staggered meals to minimize your contact with the Haat’ade units.”

Lok glanced up, sharper now. “That’s extreme.”

“Tensions are high,” Vau said flatly. “We’re not giving either side an excuse to escalate.”

Tarin’s head snapped up at that, bristling like a charged wire. “Escalate?” he growled, stepping forward. “You think we’re the threat here?”

Well…Jaster wasn’t dumb enough to say it out loud but he was under the impression that the inherent threat of Kyr’tsad was understood. By both parties. Lok had certainly seemed sympathetic to Jaster’s need for an abundance of caution when arranging all of this.

“Didn’t say that,” Vau returned, voice like stone. “But I’ve seen enough Kyr’tsad to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Careful,” Tarin warned, low and venomous. “That sounds dangerously close to an accusation.”

Unsurprisingly, Kas Rook shifted to lean against the wall, arms crossed, the picture of bored detachment. He wasn’t here to play peacekeeper. He was here for Lok, and once this was done, he’d likely vanish back to Keldab’ika underground with a shrug and a cocktail.

Lok didn’t move, but his stance went still. His shoulders settled into something that looked calm, but wasn’t.

Jaster stepped in before it could tip into something more dramatic.

“We’re all here under the same truce,” he said, throwing a look at Vau. “So let’s act like it.”

Lok’s voice cut in, calm and authoritative. “Wren.”

Tarin didn’t look happy about it. But he exhaled, stepped back, and gave Vau a grudging nod.

Command looked good on Lok, Jaster had to admit.

He shook off the thought.

Vau remained firm. “You’ll be shown to your quarters shortly. First meal rotation starts in twenty minutes. You’re scheduled second. Hall B. You’ll have the room to yourselves.”

“Appreciate it,” Lok said tightly, eyes already dropping back to the datapad as if the almost-confrontation hadn’t so much as dented his rhythm.

Jaster watched him as he scanned the datapad again, jaw set. Collected. Composed.

He wondered what it cost him to keep it that way.

The Haat’ad who introduced himself as Silas was trying very hard not to look confused.

Which, to his credit, he was doing a pretty good job of. The kind of good job that involved no fewer than three subtle glances down at his datapad and a fourth that lasted just long enough to suggest he was considering pulling rank on the hallway itself.

Lok trudged along in silence, the weight of his armor settling heavier than usual across his shoulders. The east wing—the one where his men had been stationed, where logic and cohesion and his last two functioning brain cells dictated he should be—was several hallways behind them by now. They’d passed the appropriate junction ten minutes ago. Silas had double-checked that marker. 

“This way,” Silas said, voice polite, casual. 

Lok raised a brow behind his buy’ce but didn’t comment. Yet.

Honestly, he didn’t care if the Haat’ade put him in the brig at this point. As long as it came with a shower and a nap.

They turned another corner.

The west wing was quieter. Less military and more… personal. The lighting was warmer. The air smelled faintly of oil, stone, and the subtle undercurrent of something floral that reminded him, uncomfortably, of somewhere else. It felt less like a barracks and more like a home.

Or a trap.

Not the worst one he’d walked into, admittedly.

Finally, Silas stopped in front of a sealed door, punched in a code, and stepped aside as it slid open.

“Your quarters,” he said.

Lok took one long look inside, then turned back to him with a slow tilt of his head. “Not that I’m ungrateful,” he said, each word carefully enunciated, “but why am I not in the east wing with the others?”

Silas blinked. “This is where you were assigned.”

“By?”

Silas checked his datapad again, clearly stalling for time. “Vau, I think. Or Skirata. One of them. Maybe admin. Logistics? Look, I just follow the assignments, alright?”

Lok stared at him.

Silas stared back.

They had a moment.

“Right,” Lok muttered, stepping inside. “Thanks.”

Silas hesitated, then added under his breath, “For what it’s worth, this is one of the nicest apartments in the compound.”

Lok gave him a flat look.

“I’m just saying,” Silas added hastily, already backing away, “I don’t think separating you was meant as a slight.”

And with that, Silas turned and walked off.

It was strange that they worried Lok might care about osik like that. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he made Silas nervous. He couldn’t imagine why. According to Jaster, Silas was a close friend of Jango, so he had to know Lok wasn’t all that uptight.

Shrugging to himself, Lok let it go and released a long breath. The door sealed behind him with a gentle hiss, the lock engaging with an audible click.

Finally.

He let his posture shift just enough to drop the mask. The Mand’alor mask, specifically. The one that kept his spine straight and his voice even, that made him sound like he knew what in haran he was doing when half the time he was operating on instinct, caffeine, and a vague sense of righteous indignation.

Lok looked around the room.

It was nice. Not luxurious in a wasteful way, but deliberate. Someone had clearly taken the time to make it comfortable. The floors gleamed faintly under warm lights, and the air held that clean, oiled scent of wood grain and lived-in stone. There was a modest kitchen, a traditional karyai, and an arched hallway that led deeper, splitting into two bedrooms.

Good. He wouldn’t have to bunk Arla and Pre together in the main space. That was a recipe for guaranteed disaster.

He stepped down the hall and found their bags already inside, lined up against the far wall. Arla’s was shut neatly, predictably. Pre’s was half-unzipped and threatening to spill out onto the floor. Lok sighed fondly. Of course.

He sent a quick message to check in, and within moments, Arla responded with a blurry image: Pre, halfway through sparring with a training dummy, sweat-slicked and flushed with concentration. His stance was sloppy but improving, and Lok could tell—just from the way his shoulder was angled—that he’d remembered to square up the way they’d practiced. The smile that pulled at his mouth felt less like a reaction and more like a quiet surrender.

“Good,” he murmured, mostly to himself. If Pre was occupied, maybe he’d be able to sneak a nap in.

Then, finally he began to strip off his beskar, unfastening each piece with slow, practiced care and stacking it neatly on the provided rack. His shoulders ached in that familiar, warning way that meant he’d pushed too hard again, that his body had been running on fumes and forward momentum for days now.

Just twenty minutes. That was all he needed. A hot shower. A clean kute. Maybe—if the galaxy could manage not to implode—he could get ten uninterrupted minutes of shut-eye before their scheduled meal shift, where someone would undoubtedly throw a fit about mess hall seating or why they didn’t get priority access to the caf dispenser.

He stepped toward the fresher, tugging at the collar of his kute.

If all went well, he’d be able to shove this whole kriffing arrangement into something stable and self-sustaining. An agreement finalized, command structures integrated, logistics delegated. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to keep dealing with this particular flavor of emotional self-destruction.

He sighed.

Which, honestly, didn’t do it justice. It wasn’t a sigh so much as a reluctant, full-bodied exhale of emotional fatigue, resignation, and the creeping awareness that he had absolutely no business being in charge of anything more complicated than a caf machine.

He leaned a shoulder briefly against the wall, just to feel something solid. His thoughts, of course—traitorous bastards that they were—drifted immediately to Jaster.

They were going to be working in the same building. Every day. And Lok was going to have to pretend to be unaffected. He would be expected to nod politely, speak clearly, and not stare like a man losing his grip on reason every time Jaster leaned in a little too close.

It might have been easier if Lok hadn’t been an idiot and convinced himself he moved on years ago. He’d done all the right things. Focused on his ad. Built something meaningful out of the wreckage of his old life. Fell into bed with other people. Got out of bed with most of them just as quickly. Put distance between himself and every version of the life he might’ve had, and told himself that meant he was healed.

He’d believed it. For a while.

Then Korda VI happened and Jaster started calling.

At first, it was strategy. Reports. Intermediary diplomacy. Then it was just checking in. Then it was I thought you’d want to hear this directly and I figured you’d like to weigh in and How’s Arla doing? And Lok, in a rare act of advanced denial, told himself that the flutter in his chest was just gratitude.

Until today.

Until he saw him again, close enough to see that faint scar at the corner of Jaster’s mouth, the one he never talked about, from a crash Lok had patched him up from back when things were simpler and nothing hurt quite this way. Close enough that Lok could smell his damn soap, of all things, because of course it had to be the same scent as it was ten years ago, just to make things worse.

He’d known the second their eyes met that he was screwed. 

Hopeless, really. 

He was truly, pathetically hopeless.

He should’ve delegated it.

There were a dozen perfectly reasonable excuses, any one of which could’ve justified sending someone else to extend the invitation. But Jaster, in a moment of spectacularly poor judgment, thought I’ll handle it.

And now he was standing in front of Lok Vizsla’s door, second-guessing whether he should knock like a normal person or if that would make it weirder. 

Because there was a door. A normal door. Flush with the wall, matte finish, completely unremarkable.

Right there.

Between their apartments.

Whose idea was that?

Wisely—or cowardly—he chose the more traditional approach. He stepped into the corridor, walked the three steps to the proper door, and rang the chime with dignity. Or what remained of it.

The door slid open a beat later, revealing Lok framed in the soft light of the entry, and the rational part of Jaster’s brain promptly ceased all function.

The beskar’gam was gone, replaced by a loose dark tunic and worn pants, the sleeves pushed up, collar askew like he’d dragged the fabric on without looking. Damp hair curled against his temples in a way that made Jaster’s brain short-circuit for exactly one half-second longer than was professional.

He looked less like a warrior and more like a secret, the kind you don’t realize you’ve been keeping until it’s standing in front of you and saying your name.

“Jaster,” Lok said, neutral, though his expression softened. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Jaster said, a bit too quickly. “Actually, I—” He shifted, not awkwardly, just adjusting his stance, because the floor felt off-balance and someone probably sabotaged the tilt. “…wanted to check if you, Arla, and Pre were free for latemeal.”

Lok tilted his head, brows drawing slightly. “Did something come up? I thought there was a…rotation.”

Kriffing Vau. 

“Not exactly,” Jaster said, resisting the urge to scratch the back of his neck. “Jango wanted to catch up with Arla. Figured it might be easier if everyone just…ate together.”

It was, technically, true.

Mostly.

Lok blinked. “Right,” he said slowly. “Sure. That sounds fine.”

“Good,” Jaster said. “Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t strained, but…definitely awkward.

Lok broke it first. “Should we meet you in the mess hall when we’re ready?”

Jaster opened his mouth, intending to say yes, absolutely, that would be fine, perfectly normal, then paused. 

“Well. Actually. Jango thought we should do it here. At home. Uh…” He gestured vaguely to the left. “You can just come through,” he said. Then, after a short pause, added with a dry glance toward the adjoining wall, “There’s a connecting door.”

Lok raised a brow. His expression slid briefly toward wariness, then evened out again. “Between our apartments?”

“Apparently.” Jaster cleared his throat. 

Lok looked at the wall, then back at him. “Is that a standard diplomatic arrangement?”

“I’m sure someone has a chart explaining the strategic benefits,” Jaster said, voice bone-dry. “I didn’t request it.”

“Right, of course.” Lok cleared his throat and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest, shoulders relaxing just enough to make it obvious how tense he’d been a moment before.

Which was deeply unfair, because Jaster was trying very hard not to stare at the curve of his neck where the collar had slipped, or the way his tunic clung to damp skin. 

“I’m making tiingilar,” Jaster added, mostly out of desperation. Then, too late, he realized how that sounded.

Lok’s eyebrows shot up, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. His cheeks flushed, a faint pink that made the world tilt a few degrees to the left.

“Trying to impress me, Mereel?”

Jaster made a noise that might have been a scoff, or possibly a wheeze, and turned on his heel with more force than necessary.

Retreat was the only option. Staying would’ve meant standing there, watching that almost-smile settle into something permanent. It would’ve meant noticing how adorable that blush actually was and wondering, again, if anyone else ever got to see it. It would’ve meant forgetting that Lok didn’t look at him that way anymore and possibly forgetting how to function as a sentient adult.

Walking away was safer. 

He could feel Lok’s eyes on his back as he crossed the corridor. Which would’ve been fine. Totally fine. Except for the soft chuckle that followed. A low, amused sound that sent an unwelcome warmth straight down Jaster’s spine just before the door slid shut behind him.

Jaster shut his own door with slightly more speed than was dignified.

Yes. That had gone…swimmingly. Completely normal. Nothing remotely ridiculous about the fact that he was acting like a jittery teenager when he was, in fact, a grown man.

Definitely no cause for concern.

He rubbed a hand over his face, muttered something unflattering about whoever assigned the housing arrangements—Skirata, probably; that had Skirata written all over it—and headed to the kitchen to make sure the bread wasn’t stale and the tiingilar was edible.

Not because he was nervous. Certainly not because he wanted to impress anyone. Of course not. 

He was just being a good host.

It had been a week.

A whole week.

Five days of diplomatic negotiations, forced smiles, and watching two grown men perform the slowest emotional striptease in the history of Mandalorian politics—through datawork.

The thing about living door next to Jaster Mereel was that it did things to your perception of reality. Like, for instance, it made you acutely aware of how often your buir blushed. Which, apparently, was often. Like, embarrassingly often. Enough that Arla was beginning to consider the blushes a legitimate tactical signal. Hostile activity detected? Three-second delay blush. Flirtatious shoulder brush? Six-second heatwave and a dropped datapad. Absolute war crime of a smile from Jaster across the table? Blush, stammer, and sudden inability to make eye contact for the rest of the meeting.

And sure, maybe some of that was projection—of her will onto the universe—but clearly someone had to get these two emotionally constipated wrecks to admit they were in love.

She had a plan to unify her aliit and give her buir the happiness life enjoyed denying him, and it started with these two idiots getting their act together. She couldn’t do anything about the inter-factional power imbalance or Jorad Vizsla being the worst, but she could force these two to have feelings in the same room without hiding behind committee briefs.

It started innocently. A shared private latemeal, just for unity. It was supposed to be subtle. Then Jango, who had the subtlety of a cannon blast and the emotional insight of a blaster bolt, had added, “For togetherness!” like that was somehow a normal thing to say.

Miraculously, it worked. So now they had daily family latemeals.

Daily.

Every. Single. Night.

And still, still, despite daily meals and being placed quite literally on either side of a thin wall, Lok and Jaster treated each other like diplomatic appointments with too much history and not enough kissing. They sat together, talked shop, and managed to make inter-factional budget reconciliation sound like a tragic love ballad. Arla didn’t know what was more painful, their sheer obliviousness or the fact that her buir looked at Jaster like the sun rose in his damn eyes and still thought he was being subtle.

Spoiler alert: he was not.

Arla had watched her buir forget his own name mid-sentence because Jaster laughed too hard. She had seen him get ambushed by his own shoelaces while trying to navigate around a casually shirtless Jaster—don’t ask, but blame Jango—and once, she witnessed Lok walk into a closed door because Jaster had smiled at him. A door. He’d tried to blame it on a distraction in the corridor. There had not been a corridor.

Meanwhile, Jaster was out here playing the “quietly longing” game like it was a strategy. Agreeing with Lok in council, disagreeing in private, smirking like he didn’t mean it, only to circle back later with questions about datapoints he’d already memorized just to keep Lok talking. That wasn’t politics. That was foreplay disguised as policy.

It was gross.

And it had gone on long enough.

The worst part? They didn’t even know they were doing it.

By day three, Arla had fully transitioned from “mildly amused” to “deeply personally offended.” That was the day her buir and Jaster had spent forty-five minutes leaning over the same datapad, blushing every time their hands brushed, and still managed to somehow pretend nothing was going on.

The apartment setup had been a clever move on Jango’s part. Lok’s quarters, hers and Pre’s, all right next to Jaster’s for… practical purposes. Which was perfect. Because it meant she could “innocently” wander over at all hours and ensure Lok did the same. And it meant Jango was always around. Though, to be fair, that had its pros and cons.

Because if there was one thing that needed more help than Lok and Jaster’s love life, it was Pre and Jango’s developing rivalry. Jango couldn’t go five minutes without issuing a command, and Pre had decided that the correct response to authority was full-scale psychological warfare. 

It was exhausting.

She loved them both, but if she had to mediate another territorial spat, she was going to start charging credits.

“I am going to bite him,” Jango muttered under his breath as Pre poked him in the ribs for the third time that morning.

“You do and I’ll let him paint your beskar’gam pink while you sleep,” Arla whispered back.

“Liar,” he grumbled. “You’d help him.”

“Obviously.”

Pre, of course, was thriving. The eight-year-old had discovered that he could needle Jango into a reaction about every ten minutes, and seemed to take it as a personal challenge to shorten that interval with each interaction. Jango gave as good as he got, but neither of them had quite figured out how to de-escalate once things got heated.

The adiik had a future in psychological operations, at least. But Jango was starting to have second thoughts about ending up with Pre as a vod’ika.

Which meant Operation SMOOCH needed to escalate. Immediately.

So, Phase Two: weaponized cuteness.

She and Jango had convened in the maintenance corridor two doors down (neutral ground), and mapped out their next move. The solution was elegant, effective, and bribery-based. Which meant it was perfect.

“Pre,” she cooed, cornering the kid with the smile she only used when she was about to do something underhanded but technically not illegal , “how would you like… candy?”

Pre narrowed his eyes. “What kind of candy?”

“The good kind,” Jango said, pulling a carefully stolen bar from his pocket.

“…what do I have to do?”

“We need you,” Arla said, placing a hand on her chest with mock gravity, “to ask for a family day.”

“A what.”

“A family day,” Jango echoed. “No work. Just a tour of Keldabe. You, me, Arla, your buir, and Jaster.”

Pre considered. “You want me to say I miss the city.”

“Exactly.”

“And you want me to say I want to see it together.”

“Perfect.”

“And you want me to do it during latemeal. With everyone there.”

“You are a prodigy.”

Pre squinted at the candy again. “Two bars.”

“Done,” Jango said, and Arla barely held back her indignation at how fast he caved. That was going to have negative long-term consequences but whatever. 

They were in business.

That night, the trap was set. Table dressed. Food plated. Lok had already blushed three times and fumbled a spoon. Jaster looked suspiciously polished, which was definitely not a coincidence.

And then, at just the right moment—when Lok had leaned in too close and Jaster’s ears had turned a deeply suspicious shade of pink—Pre launched.

“I want a family day,” he announced, voice sweet and just a little too rehearsed. It was fine. He really sold it with the tooka-eyes. “You’ve been working so much, and I miss Keldabe. Can’t we all go together tomorrow?”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Jaster lit up like someone had handed him a mythosaur cub. “That’s—Pre, that’s a wonderful idea. I think we could all use some time off.”

Arla raised her glass in a quiet toast to victory. Jango smirked.

Lok, of course, blushed furiously and mumbled something about needing to check his schedule.

They were so close.

They just needed one more push.

Maybe two.

She was thinking turbolift malfunction. Or a harmless misfire. Or a staged debate about whether tiingilar was better with or without ne’tra gal that just happened to leave them stranded in the storage pantry overnight.

Her buir deserved happiness. She was just giving fate a little nudge.

Chapter Text

Dust floats in the air, suspended like time has fractured.

He stands in a familiar apartment, staring into deep brown eyes he knows too well.

They burn with a fire he longs for but can’t name.

His back hits the wall hard but he doesn’t feel it.

A hand around his neck.

A flash of red.
The air shudders.
Sound breaks like a thunderclap inside his skull—
the cruel, unmistakable crack of a slugthrower tearing a hole through time.

He watches it happen.
Helpless.

The eyes go wide—
and then they go empty.
The life leaves faster than the blood does.

They fall.

He drops to his knees.

Hands already slick with guilt.

He tries to hold the wound shut with shaking fingers, tries to press time back into the body, tries to undo it, undo it, undo it—

“Stay,” he pleads. “Just stay.”
But the warmth is leaking out faster than he can beg, and the blood is slick and useless on his fingers.
It coats his palms. His sleeves. His soul.

He presses harder.

Like it’ll matter.

Like it ever did.

“Not again,” he whispers, but the words tumble out like broken glass. He rocks forward. His breath stutters.
Not again.
Not again.

Not again not again not again not again not again not—

As far as wake-up calls went, opening his eyes to the sight of Lok looming over him in the early morning light—hair tousled from sleep, tunic slipping off one shoulder, pants hanging a little too low on his hips—was of the more preferable variety.

The blaster complicated things.

“Lok?” he asked, his voice low but alert as he shifted to shield the still-sleeping weight of Jango curled up at his side. Not because he thought Lok would ever hurt them—he didn’t—but instinct was instinct, and instinct saw child and weapon and acted accordingly.

Lok blinked, his posture collapsing inward as he took a shaky step back, muttering an apology as he shoved the blaster into the waistband of his pants with jerky movements. 

It was only then that Jaster noticed the pallor of his skin, the barely-there tremor in his limbs he was fighting to control, the sheen of sweat clinging to his temple. There were circles under his eyes like bruises and a tension in his jaw that suggested it was either locked from holding back tears or rage, or possibly both.

It might have been nearly a decade since Jaster last looked out for the signs, but he recognized them nonetheless. He carefully disentangled himself from Jango, who made a small sound of protest and burrowed into a pillow. He rose slowly, eyes never leaving Lok.

He was blank. Hollow-eyed. Haunted.

“You’re okay,” Lok said, voice so thin and trembling it barely sounded like him.

Jaster wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question but it held far too much relief.

“I’m fine,” he replied, because that was what Lok needed to hear. His eyes were darting over Jaster’s body like he was searching for damage, cataloguing blood that wasn’t there, trying to verify that whatever he Saw hadn’t followed him into reality.

Jaster wanted to reach for him. Wanted to close the space between them, wrap a hand around the back of his neck, and press their foreheads together until that haunted look in his eyes went away. But he wasn’t sure if Lok wanted that from him, so he settled for lightly placing a hand on his arm and steering him toward the kitchen.

He didn’t push. Lok didn’t resist. 

Jaster settled him at the table and retrieved a cup of water, placing it gently into Lok’s shaking hands. Their fingers brushed again. Lok flinched, barely, like he hadn’t meant to touch him. Jaster slid into the seat across from him, trying not to notice the way Lok’s shirt now clung to his chest, thin with sweat. 

Trying not to notice anything, really, and failing spectacularly.

The glass trembled faintly as Lok drank, and Jaster tracked the motion, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way the morning light kissed the slope of his neck, the exposed line of his collarbone, the hollow just above his sternum where his shirt had slid too low and Jaster had absolutely no business looking.

He did anyway.

“Vision?” he asked softly, careful not to spook what little steadiness Lok had managed to scrape together.

Lok nodded.

That alone was surprising. The Lok he remembered used to pretend they didn’t happen at all.

“Do you need a baar’ur?” he asked, softer still.

The immediate refusal was, at least, expected.

“Will you tell me about it?”

He braced for a wall. Soon after they first met, Jaster learned that Lok did not like to share what he Saw. He didn’t really expect that to have changed.

But instead of shutting down, Lok looked toward the window where the light was beginning to spill through the glass in soft, hazy ribbons. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, like that was the important bit. 

Finally, his eyes flicked back to Jaster, wide with something too vulnerable. “I saw…we were in here. I-I recognized it. And you—there was an assassin, I think…”

“Ah,” Jaster said eloquently. 

Lok’s expression twisted like he’d failed at something. There was something almost desperate in his eyes that Jaster wanted to erase. But telling him that yes, an assassination attempt was entirely plausible and statistically likely now that Kyr’tsad was under the same roof, seemed counterproductive.

“I recognized your apartment,” Lok stressed when Jaster remained quiet. “It was…it was dark. I didn’t know if it was now or something coming, but sometimes—”

“Hey,” Jaster leaned forward, closing the space just enough that Lok’s knee brushed against his. “I believe you.”

Lok went still. So still, it was like he’d stopped breathing. His eyes searched Jaster’s face like he was expecting to find a lie written across it, and when he didn’t, he sagged in his seat, the tension draining from him in increments.

“You… believe me.”

“Always.” Jaster’s voice was soft but certain. “Do people usually not?” 

That felt wrong but it would also explain so much.

Lok shrugged like it didn’t matter, but it did. It very much did. “Sometimes,” he said quietly. 

Jaster’s chest ached. 

“I’ll increase security,” he said, already planning rotations in his head. 

Lok’s mouth quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll comb through my side too,” he murmured. 

Jaster studied him for a moment. “Do you need anything?”

Lok hesitated, eyes flicking away. “I, uh…”

His eyes dropped, and for one torturous second, Jaster thought he might actually say you. But then Lok looked down at himself and flushed with a deep, full-body embarrassment that started high in his cheeks and slid down his throat.

“I should get dressed,” he muttered.

Jaster’s brain, unhelpfully, wondered how far that blush went.

Over the past week, keeping up a professional wall between himself and Lok had become increasingly…challenging. But despite how Lok occasionally made him feel, Jaster was not a teenager. He was capable of restraint.

For the most part.

Externally, at least. And what went on in the privacy of his own mind was nobody’s business but his own.

Sometimes, though, he found himself slipping into forgotten habits. When they were in private, he’d catch himself teasing Lok just to watch him grow flustered. But it was a dangerous game, because teasing led to wondering and that was a treacherous road that only ended in heartache or disappointment. 

So, he forced himself to keep his expression perfectly neutral through sheer will and a decade of command experience, and ignored the warmth creeping up his own neck. “Of course.”

Lok stood too fast, shirt still skewed, fingers fumbling as he tried to straighten himself out. “Pre’s excited for today,” he said, latching onto the nearest safe topic like a lifeline. “Do you think it’s weird he asked for a family day?”

Yes. Unequivocally. But he also knew better than to give Lok any reason to back out of spending the entire day with them without politics to distract them. He played it safe.

“He might be feeling neglected,” he said diplomatically. “You’ve been working nonstop.”

Lok didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t mean this to sound rude,” he said, already bracing for pushback, “but Pre only barely considers Arla to be aliit. So asking for a ‘family day’ that includes her, you, and Jango is… off. If he wanted my attention, he wouldn’t ask for it. He’d demand it. Loudly. Possibly by threatening to throw my commlink in the bath again.”

Jaster frowned. Was Lok looking for an excuse to back out?

But Lok shook his head, like he’d read the thought. “I’m just worried about him,” he clarified.

Jaster relaxed, a smile spreading across his face. Lok was such a dedicated buir. 

He would blame the early hour for how he ended up staring at the way Lok’s arms crossed a little too tightly and how his weight shifted toward the door, like he needed to leave before he said something honest.

And then Lok looked up and caught him staring.

That blush came back like it had never left, flooding his cheeks, staining the tips of his ears, racing down his neck in a way that made Jaster’s mouth go dry all over again.

“I should, uh… go.”

Jaster didn’t stop him.

Sometimes, he was tempted to read into the way Lok lingered when they spoke, like he didn’t want to walk away. The subtle fluster when their hands brushed. The old habits creeping back in that made Jaster feel like he mattered again. Like they could find their way to what might have been before…everything.

But then he forced himself to confront reality.

Whatever they’d had—whatever they could’ve been—was buried under too many years and too many mistakes. He’d made peace with that.

Mostly.

But Jaster owed it to Lok not to try and dig it up. He didn’t want to hurt him. Not again.

So he let Lok leave and told himself it was restraint.

Even if it felt like loss.

The day dawned bright, clear, and full of potential.

Arla woke up early and made sure both Pre and her buir were clean, fed, and mildly threatened into behaving. Well. Pre needed threatening. Her buir just needed caf.

By the time they made it to the plaza and met up with Jaster and Jango, things were weirdly... functional. 

“You made it,” Jaster said, turning toward them with a smile that was probably meant to be casual but radiated way too much quiet enthusiasm for a man who claimed to be indifferent.

Naturally, it all went downhill from there.

“If you look just up ahead,” Jaster began, pointing toward the statue in the central square, “you’ll see one of the earliest depictions of—”

“Oh no,” Arla muttered. “He’s doing the thing.”

“What thing?” Lok asked, tilting his head.

“The history nerd thing,” she whispered. “You’ve activated his lecture mode.”

But it was too late. Her buir was already caught in the tractor beam of Jaster Mereel’s Monument Monologue. He wasn’t listening anymore. Not to her, anyway.

Nope. Lok was gazing at Jaster with that look—the one where his eyes got all focused and soft at the edges, like he was watching a battlefield or a sunrise or something poetic and not, in fact, a grown man waxing rhapsodic about ancient armor etchings. It made Arla want to throw something at both of them.

“…and you can tell it’s a mythologized version because no actual records from that period ever reference a wolf-helm,” Jaster continued, absolutely beaming. “But it is fascinating as a symbol of postwar romanticization. The whole aesthetic of the legendary Mand’alor as something almost mythic—”

“He’s really into it,” Pre whispered to her, wide-eyed and faintly horrified. “Like... weirdly into it.”

“I know,” Arla said grimly. “It’s worse than I feared.”

And so it continued: Jaster playing tour guide, pointing out every mural, plaque, and monument. Lok, of course, didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he kept leaning in, asking questions, nodding too earnestly, like he actually wanted to know the footnote references for every kriffing anecdote when Arla knew for a fact he didn’t give an osik about any of it.

It was appalling.

By the time they hit the market district, Arla had reached her limit. She could only take so much lingering eye contact and shared historical commentary before she started seriously contemplating the logistics of locking them in a storage closet and throwing away the key.

It was time to make their retreat and let the parents flirt. So, she tugged on Jango’s sleeve and gave him The Look™. 

“Pre,” she said, grabbing his attention. “You want something from the market?”

Pre narrowed his eyes immediately. Suspicion came standard with him. “Depends.”

“There’s a vendor who makes those ice cream rolls you like,” she replied. “If you come now and don’t insult anyone, I’ll buy you two.”

Pre squinted at her like she’d offered him a trap disguised as dessert. “What’s the catch?”

“You walk,” Jango muttered from ten steps ahead, already scouting exits like he’d been waiting for the signal all day.

“Ugh. Fine.” Pre stomped after him like it was a burden. It absolutely wasn’t. He was already scouting food stalls like a tiny hunter with a sugar bounty.

Arla sent off a quick comm message because, if she didn’t, her buir would trigger a full-scale search party the second he realized they weren’t in his peripheral vision.

She swore he had some sixth sense about Pre’s location. He would perk up within ten seconds of Pre venturing somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. It was a bit unnerving but he was almost just as bad with her when she was younger. 

[We’re in the market—Jango, Pre, and me. Not kidnapped. Just ice cream. Don’t freak out.]

There was a three-second delay before her comm pinged back.

[Do not leave the main strip. Stay where there are cameras. Watch Pre.]

She rolled her eyes. “Buir says hi.”

Jango snorted.

Pre was already scanning the food stalls with predatory focus, eyes gleaming with the thrill of sugar-based conquest.

Behind them, she could still see the outline of Jaster gesturing animatedly while Lok tilted his head and nodded like Jaster was reciting poetry instead of recounting 800-year-old city zoning reforms.

It would have been sweet if it wasn’t so deeply pathetic.

They were into each other. Painfully, stupidly, obviously into each other.

Unfortunately, they were also them.

Hopefully some alone time would help them come to their senses before they needed to escalate to more drastic measures.

Arla was soon distracted by Pre, who began fighting with the ice cream vendor over the amount of syrup. Loudly.

“I’m just saying,” he declared, hands on hips like an angry miniature warlord. Which—well. Best not to go there. “You advertised two full drizzle passes. This is clearly one and a half, maybe one and three-quarters if I’m being generous.”

Arla could feel the secondhand embarrassment crawling over her skin like an allergic reaction.

“He’s going to throw something,” Jango said, resigned. 

“He’s your brother too,” Arla reminded him.

“Not yet,” Jango grumbled.

Arla refused to acknowledge that. As far as she was concerned, it was only a matter of time.

It took a solid five minutes and a generous bribe to get Pre to finally accept his overpriced dessert and shut up. Thankfully, the vendor was more amused than anything, though Arla wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d just dumped the syrup over Pre’s head and called it a day.

With their smallest chaos agent now appeased, Arla dragged them both behind a market awning and pointed toward a shaded archway where Jaster and Lok were right where they left them. Still talking. Still not doing anything useful.

“I swear,” she whispered. “They’re just… waiting for us. Probably talking about the treaty. Again.”

“Weren’t they closer earlier?” Jango asked, squinting. “I thought they were at least within casual hand-brushing distance.”

“They were,” she said grimly. “Then Lok panicked and stepped away.”

They watched in silence as Jaster gestured, Lok responded, both of them looking far too composed.

“What are we looking at?” Pre asked.

“Our buire being di’kute,” Jango muttered.

Arla slapped him upside the head without breaking line of sight.

“Hey!” Jango protested, glaring.

“Language,” Arla scolded. “There’s an adiik here.”

“But you call Ba’vodu a di’kut all the time,” Pre pointed out helpfully, the little traitor.

Arla narrowed her eyes on him. “Yeah, well, I say it with love. Now shut up and eat your overpriced sugar pile so the adults can talk.”

Pre rolled his eyes and dug back in. Arla returned her attention to the scene unfolding in front of them. Or, rather, not unfolding.

Jaster shifted slightly, leaned closer to say something, and Lok laughed softly. Something Arla had only seen a few times since Tor.

It made her chest hurt. She hated Kyr’tsad. Ever since they went there it was like her buir was fading away. He was always so stressed and sometimes, it felt like he didn’t even remember how to smile anymore. 

Oh, he tried to hide it. When it was just them, he did a pretty good job of it sometimes. But Pre’ika was a menace and he could be mean, so even when it was just their aliit, it often felt like Lok wasn’t allowed to relax and be happy.

It brought out a lot of guilt for how she used to treat him. 

Not that she ever brought it up. She was seventeen and halfway feral and mostly communicated via sarcasm and threats. But that didn’t mean she didn’t think it.

“I don’t get it,” Jango said eventually. “They obviously like each other. Like, clearly. No one looks at someone like that unless they’re in love or having a medical emergency. So why aren’t they doing anything?”

Arla frowned, considering. “Maybe they’re not as oblivious as we thought and there’s something we haven’t accounted for.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Regret? Guilt? My buir’s great at that. He overthinks everything, especially if it involves people he cares about. Do you think they have a history?”

“Skirata said they were partners in the Journeyman Protectors for a while,” Jango offered. “So maybe? Could be an old fallout thing.”

Arla considered this with a frown, and did some quick math. “I don’t think so,” she decided. “But we’re definitely missing something. We need to do some recon.”

“How are we going to do that?” Jango asked.

“Simple,” Arla replied. “We’re going to bring it up with them and see how they react. That should give us a better idea of why they’re being like this and we can adjust accordingly. Worst case, they’re really dumb enough to be unaware of all that unresolved tension, it’ll at least plant the idea.” 

Jango nodded slowly. 

Pre licked his spoon. “You’re both weird.”

They ignored him.

Jango was … gathering intel. Strategically. Like any decent commander would do before launching a revised op. 

It just so happened that said intel was currently located in Jaster Mereel’s office, where said Jaster was currently using work as a distraction. 

Not that Jango was judging. Much.

Look, someone skipped latemeal, and a certain someone else had spent the entire evening holed up alone with his feelings. Which just made Jango’s presence a necessary tactical adjustment.

Operation SMOOCH was struggling.

The much-anticipated Family Day had been a bust. Sure, there were a few promising moments. Eye contact. Smiling. Lingering awkward silences that definitely carried a vibe. But then Lok bailed on latemeal for the first time all week, and Jaster spent the entire evening locked in his office with only datapads and disappointment for company.

Which left Jango with a choice: admit defeat… or adapt.

So here he was. Adapting. Sitting on the edge of one of the spare chairs in Jaster’s office, making a show of twirling a stylus between his fingers like he hadn’t come in here with an agenda.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” Jaster asked without looking up from the report in his hands.

Jango kept his voice casual but twirled the stylus a little faster. “I think you and Lok should spend more time together.”

Jaster froze. “That so?” he asked, voice all careful neutrality.

“Yeah.” Jango shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “You like him. He likes you. We’re already sharing meals almost every day. It wouldn’t kill you to stop pretending it’s about negotiations.”

Jaster still didn’t look up. “It is about negotiations.”

“Riiight,” Jango drawled. “Because people totally blush during policy briefings.”

“I don’t blush,” Jaster said flatly.

Jango raised an eyebrow. “You definitely blushed when he complimented your cape.”

Jaster made a face. “It’s a well-made cape.”

“And,” Jango continued, holding up a finger, “I’m pretty sure the datapad you were using yesterday wasn’t even on.”

Jaster sputtered. “It—it was on!”

Jango raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Was it, though?”

“I was showing him a proposed infrastructure model—”

“Sure,” Jango said, folding his arms, “and I was reviewing advanced tactics when I spent ten straight minutes staring at Myles last week.”

Jaster opened and closed his mouth, clearly searching for an appropriate counter-argument.

None came.

“Myles is too old for you, Jango,” he muttered, being overprotective like he was.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t look,” Jango grumbled, then jabbed a finger toward him. “But you’re proving my point. You like Lok.”

Jaster didn’t look at him. “What?”

“Lok,” Jango said, slow and deliberate. “Do you like him?”

The datapad lowered slowly, and his expression shifted—flat, unreadable, and just a little too careful. “Why are you asking?”

Jango shrugged. “No reason.”

Jaster raised an eyebrow.

“…Okay, maybe a few reasons,” Jango shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that had bullet points. “I mean, you’re always staring at him like he’s the last rational person on Mandalore. You reread his reports even when they’re five lines long and half of them are logistics. And I definitely saw you—”

“Jango.”

The tone wasn’t sharp, but it was final. Jaster finally looked up with a blank and unreadable expression.

Jango hesitated. He almost let it go. Almost.

“You do like him, though,” he said, softer now, like it was a truth that just needed space to breathe. “Right?”

Jaster set the datapad down with a slow, deliberate motion that made Jango’s stomach twist, because he could already feel the mood shifting.

“I care about him,” he said, quietly. “I respect him. I’ve trusted him with my life before and I’d do it again.”

Jango leaned in. “Then why not just—?”

“Because,” Jaster interrupted, and for a moment, Jango caught something in his face that looked too much like grief. “Because that kind of future was never meant for us.”

There was a long pause. Jango didn’t know what to do with it.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, because it didn’t. Not unless you were in your forties and determined to make yourself miserable out of some misplaced sense of duty.

Jaster smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t have to. Just mind your business, ad’ika.”

“But—”

“Jango,” he said, not unkindly but firm. “I understand that you might see this as a way to fully reunite with Arla. But a relationship between us isn’t going to happen.”

Jango frowned. “Why not?”

That earned him a look. Not angry or annoyed. Just… sad. Distant.

“Because some things aren’t meant to be,” Jaster said quietly. “And it’s not your job to fix that. Now, I won’t tell you again. Mind your business.”

Jaster went back to his datapad.

Jango sat there for a second, trying to decide if throwing the stylus would accomplish anything.

Probably not.

So instead, he stood up and left, muttering under his breath the whole way.

Things were worse than he thought. Operation SMOOCH was going to need some serious revisions.

The mess was loud. It always was during mid-shift. Jango poked at the congealing remains of what someone had optimistically called stew, watching as it slid across his tray with the enthusiasm of a dying slug.

Arla slid into the seat beside him. “Report,” she said, all business.

He sighed and stabbed his fork into the stew corpse. “He said nothing’s ever gonna happen. And that I should stay out of it. And that ‘some things aren’t meant to be,’” he added, putting extra dramatic emphasis on the quotation marks with his fingers. He pulled a face. “It was extremely depressing.”

Arla made a noise halfway between a scream and a sob. “Great. Lok was basically the same. Apparently ‘I shouldn’t read into things’.” 

They stared at each other in mutual disbelief.

“So what you’re saying,” Jango said slowly, “is that your buir thinks my buir isn’t into him, and my buir thinks your buir isn’t into him.”

He dropped his forehead to the table with a thud that probably earned him mild brain damage. “They’re idiots.”

“Say it louder for the crowd,” came Silas’ voice from two tables over.

Jango jerked upright, only to realize they had, in fact, not been whispering as stealthily as they’d thought. Half the mess hall had tuned in. A few had even rotated their chairs for better acoustics.

Myles, seated beside Silas with his usual laid-back indifference and disarmingly attractive everything, raised an eyebrow. “Idiots,” he agreed. 

“Massive idiots,” added one of the Tenau cousins, raising their cup in solemn solidarity.

Even Kal Skirata, passing by with a tray, gave a grunt that definitely meant agreement. It was a very judgmental grunt.

Jango blinked. He could feel the heat crawling up his neck because Myles was looking at him now. “We’re not the only ones who noticed?”

“Please,” Silas said, taking a casual sip of his drink. “Nobody knows enough to get a good read on Vizsla but our Mand’alor is hopeless. There’s a betting pool.”

Jango blinked. “There’s a what—”

“Wait, you’ve been betting?” Arla asked, her eyes narrowing into pure threat. “And nobody thought to include me?”

“I'll add you to the chat,” Silas said.

“Something needs to be done,” Myles added casually, stretching like a predator before a hunt.

Jango felt his stomach flip for entirely unrelated reasons. 

“I’m listening,” Arla said immediately.

Jango hesitated. “That breaks one of the Operation: SMOOCH guidelines,” he whispered to her. “It’s on the spreadsheet. It’s literally in bold.”

Guideline #4, specifically. Do not, under any circumstances, let Myles or Skirata find out. They’ll make it weird.

“Operation SMOOCH?” Myles raised a brow, far too amused. 

There he went, making it weird.

Jango turned back to his tray. Avoided eye contact. Considered flinging himself off the second-floor balcony.

“You want results or not?” Silas asked.

Jango glanced toward Arla, who nodded solemnly. Then toward Silas, who was already cracking his knuckles.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “We’re in.”

The True Mandalorian Matchmaking Committee had officially formed. And given the look on Myles’ face, it wasn’t going to be subtle.

And Buir thought Myles was so professional. Jango couldn’t imagine why.

He cast a wary glance toward Arla. “We’re going to regret this.”

“Desperate times,” Arla said.

He nodded. “Desperate measures.” He turned to Myles. “You got a plan?”

Myles grinned, all teeth and menace. “Oh, I’ve got several.”

He definitely had a few too many credits riding on this.

Jaster left the meeting feeling discouraged. Truthfully, he always knew they’d end up here. Stuck. At an impasse that was, frankly, unresolvable.

The last three weeks had been an exercise in pretending otherwise.

They’d worked around the obvious. Hammered out everything else like victory was inevitable, and if they just solved enough secondary issues, the core one might evaporate on its own. 

It wasn’t a complete waste of time. At least not outside of the political arena. In fact, between the now semi-regular shared latemeals and all the various outings Pre’ika begged for, Jaster was starting to dread the day a resolution was finally reached. Because as soon as it was, he would be forced to let go of what he kept foolishly hoping would become their new normal. 

He wasn’t ready to do that.

As it stood, Kyr’tsad agreed to functionally become a military branch. Though merging them with Jaster’s ori’ramikade was going to undoubtedly be…bumpy. 

They had structural integration plans. Transition frameworks. Joint command language. Even a draft for how to incorporate the Evaar’ade once the dust settled. The whole damn government was beginning to take shape, but all of it teetered on that one unresolved point. Who, exactly, was going to lead it.

It should’ve been simple. Lok didn’t want the title. He’d said it clearly, repeatedly, even with that crooked little half-smile that meant he was trying to make light of something that was slowly killing him. Not in front of his people, of course, but Jaster was well aware of where he stood.

But Kyr’tsad made it clear—again—that their loyalty was bound to the dha’kad’au. Whoever held it, held the right to rule. That meant Lok. No matter how much the larger Haat’ade base meant Jaster was the obvious candidate for stability and long-term leadership. They’d follow him, albeit reluctantly, but only if he took the dha’kad’au from Lok.

Jaster had suggested a traditional, public, ceremonial challenge. Let Lok be formally challenged for the blade, then he can lose it in a way that would save face and spare blood. But then Kyr’tsad had countered. Not with rejection— oh no —but with a condition.

The challenge would be fatal.

They didn’t want a victor. They wanted a survivor.

Whether they made that condition because they truly believed it or because they suspected Lok would otherwise throw the fight, Jaster couldn’t say. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

Jaster didn’t miss the way Lok’s face shuttered at that, and something behind his eyes gave way, like a thread had finally snapped under too much weight. And even though part of him suspected Lok might let him, Jaster couldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t.

“I’ll talk to Wren,” Lok said, sounding defeated as they stepped into the turbolift that would take them to the residential level. “See if he can convince the others to allow a non-lethal match.”

“You don’t sound hopeful,” Jaster said, watching him.

Lok pulled off his buy’ce and rubbed his temples, a sign a headache was coming in.

“I’m not,” he admitted as the lift began its ascent. “How do you think I cleared out most of Tor’s command without sparking a mutiny?”

“They challenged you?” Jaster asked, something in his chest twisting. 

He knew, of course, that Lok had faced challenges. He just didn’t…well, he didn’t really think about how Lok could have died.

It’s not that he wasn’t a skilled fighter. He was, and Korda VI only demonstrated that he improved a lot over the years, but he was by no means invincible. 

Was he scared? How did he cope those first months without being able to trust anyone?

“They were a regular occurance in the beginning,” Lok said, inflectionless. “It was…easier, to be honest. I only had so much bandwidth to change and get rid of the previous structure. When I killed someone for being a kriffing child abuser, I got backlash. It was a precarious line to walk. But if they challenged me, I didn’t need to accuse them of wrongdoing to get rid of them. I just had to win and nobody would question it.”

There was no pride in his voice. No bitterness, either. Just the dull flatness of someone recounting a necessary evil.

“You could’ve died,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

Lok didn’t flinch. “Sometimes I thought I would.”

The floor number ticked upward in silence.

“And now,” he continued, “that precedent’s set. That’s what they expect. Walking it back… won’t be easy.”

There was a sudden jolt.

The lift lurched mid-level, lights dimming for a beat before flickering back to life. The floor number froze. The soft hum of movement stilled.

Jaster reached for the panel instinctively, tapping the override, but the controls were already dead. 

“Power flicker, probably,” he muttered, trying not to sound concerned as he sent a message to maintenance.

Lok tilted his head. “You say that like this doesn’t happen once a week in this building.”

Jaster didn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he had a growing suspicion—one he didn’t particularly want to confirm—that this wasn’t a systems error at all.

Still. He didn’t mind being stuck here. He could think of worse places. And far worse company.

There was a silence. Comfortable, then not. It stretched between them like a question neither of them wanted to answer.

There was always a moment like this with Lok. A fragile window where Jaster had to choose between playing it safe or stepping into the fire.

“So,” Lok said eventually, slumping back against the railing with a quiet sigh, “how long do you think we’ll be trapped in here?”

Jaster turned to look at him, which proved to be a mistake.

Lok’s hair was slightly damp from sweat, his buy’ce tucked under one arm, and there was a smudge of soot on his jaw that Jaster wanted to reach out and wipe away. He looked tired. And beautiful. And so very far away from Jaster in all the ways that mattered.

Jaster swallowed around the ache and forced a wry smile. “I’m not concerned. Worst case, we ration emergency rations and start negotiating territory rights for floor space.”

Lok huffed, a tired laugh slipping out. “You’re very calm for someone potentially trapped in a lift with a man whose approval ratings are based on body count.”

Jaster smiled faintly, watching him from the corner of his eye. “I’ve always had excellent taste.”

There was a pause. Lok nervously fidgeted with his vambrace, a distraction Jaster recognized all too well.

“I never thanked you for the datachip you gave me,” Jaster said, too steady to be casual.

Lok didn’t look at him. Just pressed the heel of one hand to his temple like he could grind the memory out of existence.

“Yeah,” he muttered after a beat, “sorry about that.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

That wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was clarity, closure, answers to questions he’d bitten down on for a year. He wanted to ask if Lok still thought about it. About him. Or if that damned letter was really as final as it felt. If Lok was still angry, or still hurting. Or if there was a chance that in the last year, things changed. 

“Still,” Lok said, awkward and quiet, “I wasn’t exactly… at my best. I meant what I said. I just—”

“Regret saying it?” Jaster offered, careful with the shape of the words.

Lok gave a tired, bitter smile. “No. Just regret how pathetic I must’ve sounded.”

Oh. 

It stung more than he thought to realize Lok had no intention of walking back the finality of it. He knew when he read it that the level of vulnerability there was only the kind given in goodbye, but he hoped life might’ve had other plans. 

“You weren’t pathetic,” Jaster said softly. He hated how obviously embarrassed Lok felt.

Lok didn’t answer. Didn’t meet his eyes.

So Jaster let it lie.

“How did you get past the Chief Librarian?” he asked, keeping the tone deliberately light. “Last I checked, visitors without clearance get dismembered before they enter the atmosphere.”

Okay, so that was an exaggeration, but not by much.

Lok blinked, thrown. “You mean Madame Nu?”

Jaster nodded. “The very one.”

Lok grinned wide, unguarded, all teeth and cheekbones and far too much for Jaster’s already-compromised emotional state to handle. “She loves me.”

“Of course she does,” Jaster murmured, mostly to himself.

Who wouldn’t?

Then Lok sobered, shifting back toward something more careful and slightly embarrassed. “She doesn’t know about the chip, though. Best we keep it that way.”

“I was denied archive access,” Jaster said, the bitterness only half-feigned. 

Lok shrugged. “Pretty sure the only reason I got in was because I lied about being Evaar’ade.”

Jaster stared. “You did not.”

“I did,” Lok said with a chuckle. “Arla ruined it almost immediately by challenging a jetii’ad who called Mandalorians primitive barbarians. Turns out that jetii’ad was Yan’s bu’ad. It was a whole thing.”

“So that’s how you got adopted by the jetiise,” Jaster mused.

“I didn’t get adopted,” Lok said, then paused. “...Maybe? Not officially. It started as a plan to help me deal with—” He stopped again. “It just kind of spiraled.”

Jaster watched him closely, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile he didn’t entirely mean to show. “Did you spend a lot of time in the Archives?”

“Too much,” Lok said. “I was trying to understand visions. Ended up falling into a hole about kyber crystals. The way they talked about bonding with crystals wasn’t all that different from how we connect with our beskar’gam and I found it…interesting.”

Jaster opened his mouth, instinctively drawn to ask the obvious next question, but stopped himself at the last second. 

He caught the edge of vulnerability in Lok’s posture, the way he was starting to retreat inward again.

“What?” Lok asked. “Say it.”

Jaster shrugged, a little awkward, a little too honest. “Didn’t want to bore you.”

“You don’t bore me,” Lok said, a touch too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I mean, not always.”

That earned a soft laugh. “That’s generous of you.”

“Mm. I’m in a generous mood,” Lok replied, and that crooked little smile returned just long enough to make Jaster forget how to breathe again.

They talked about kyber crystals after that. And ancient weapon forgeries. And at one point, about the implications of symbolic leadership versus cultural legacy, but that one tapered off when Lok started nervously messing with his vambrace again.

Jaster didn’t mention the datachip again or ask about the letter, or try to read the look in Lok’s eyes, or decode the way he leaned just slightly toward him without noticing. If Lok wanted to pretend none of it had happened, then Jaster would pretend with him.

It was a small price, in the end. A distance he could live with if it meant Lok didn’t pull away entirely.

Eventually, the lift jolted back to life with a groan. Jaster didn’t bother masking the long breath he let out as the numbers started ticking upward again.

They stepped out into the corridor on the residential floor to find three ade standing like they’d been stationed there for hours. Jango with his arms crossed, Arla looking just a little too pleased with herself, and Pre… unimpressed. Actively so.

“Well,” Arla said, glancing between them, “glad to see you didn’t kill each other.”

Jaster narrowed his eyes. “How long were you waiting?”

“Long enough,” Jango offered. “We were deeply concerned.”

Pre rolled his eyes. “They were stuck in a lift, not lost in hyperspace.”

Lok knelt slightly, meeting him at eye level. “We’re fine, ad’ika,” he said, voice soft. “Nothing to worry about.”

Jaster watched the exchange and felt a flicker of something…complicated.

Pre didn’t need the reassurance, that much was obvious. He stood like he owned the space, chin high and unimpressed. He didn’t lean into comfort. He didn’t want to be soothed. But Lok gave it anyway, because that’s who he was.

Jaster stared for a moment too long, then looked away before anyone noticed.

Arla raised an eyebrow, entirely too perceptive for her own good.

Jaster raised one right back. “Didn’t realize our absence was that alarming.”

“We were definitely worried,” Arla said unconvincingly. “Absolutely panicked.”

Pre just looked at Lok and said flatly, “Are we still going to spar today, or is this going to turn into another lecture about political patience?”

Lok’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “You still up for it?”

Pre shrugged. “Guess.”

“Then yeah,” Lok said gently, “we’re still sparring.”

Lok had been debating whether to bring it up with Jaster, unsure if it was the right call when other things needed to be prioritized, but with the negotiations stalled, he figured he might as well go ahead and complicate things further by handing over the conspiracy he’d been quietly unraveling in his limited spare time.

So he gathered all his documentation, his research, his suspicions, and presented them to Jaster, walking him through the line of inquiry that brought him to the point where he was almost positive someone was actively working to destabilize Mandalore from the shadows.

It started with a simple enough question: how was it funded?

The Vizsla’s were wealthy, but they were greedy too. They weren’t going to funnel their funds indefinitely into a failing crusade.

And yet, years after Tor’s crusade had started collapsing under its own hypocrisy, Kyr’tsad had somehow managed to keep their fleets fueled, their weapons updated, and their black-market supply chains fully operational. Which was strange, considering they’d stopped taking paid work entirely even before Lok’s falling-out with Tor. 

So Lok dug, and what he found wasn’t clean. It led, predictably, to MandalMotors and then, less predictably, to the Banking Clan. And from there, to a quietly spiraling web of connections that all began to tie them suspiciously to Sundari, where the Evaar’ade had recently launched a number of large-scale infrastructure projects with too much funding and too few receipts.

If he was worried Jaster would think he was reading into things, he shouldn’t have been, because Jaster looked just as concerned and Lok finally felt like he had an ally.

He was halfway through highlighting a data discrepancy in one of Kyr’tsad’s old fleet ledgers when the overhead lights pulsed red and the building’s alert klaxon kicked in.

“Emergency lockdown,” the system droned helpfully. “Please proceed to designated secure shelters.”

Jaster was already standing. “That sounded close.”

“Too close,” Lok muttered, stabbing at his datapad to preserve the open files. “We need to go—”

The door to the office slammed open.

Walon Vau stepped in. “No, you don’t.”

“We’re not sitting this out,” Jaster replied, already slipping into that calm, authoritative tone that was bad for Lok’s heart rate. “If there’s an attack—”

“It’s a drill,” Vau cut in flatly. “New rookies. Skirata’s bright idea. That means you, Mand’alor, and you—whatever we’re calling you these days—are both liabilities to coordination and morale.”

Lok scowled. “Then we’ll help coordinate,” he said, standing now. “We’re not exactly deadweight.”

“You’re both distractions,” Vau snapped. “And worse, neither of you will stay put unless someone physically makes you. Which is why—” he pulled a card from his belt, with all the grim enthusiasm of a man preparing a trap—“I’m doing this.”

“Doing what—?”

A section of wall to Jaster’s left hissed open, revealing a narrow passage lined with reinforced durasteel. The kind of reinforced durasteel Lok had come to associate with very expensive containment measures.

Lok stared at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Vau did not look like he was kidding.

“Inside,” he said, holding up the keycard like it was divine authority. “Now.”

“Walon—” Jaster began, exasperated.

“Don’t worry,” Vau said as the panel blinked green under his touch. “It’s just a few hours. Think of it as a bonding opportunity. Or a nightmare. Either way.”

The door slammed shut behind them.

The turbolift was a bust. 

Jango had honestly believed—for, like, five whole minutes—that trapping them in a confined space with bad lighting and forced proximity would finally get them to talk, or maybe even kiss. But no. Instead, they’d emerged after twenty-nine agonizing minutes mid-conversation about archive access and municipal architecture, looking annoyingly normal.

No messed up hair. No flustered guilt. 

But that’s okay. He wasn’t a quitter.

The bunker had potential.

It had four reinforced walls, no windows, no exits, and—most importantly—a bed. One bed. And Jango, eternal optimist that he apparently was, let himself hope that maybe this would be the thing. The breaking point. The moment Jaster and Lok finally pulled their heads out of the nearest atmospheric waste chute and realized the obvious. 

He and Arla had given it time. Hours, actually. More than enough time for awkward confessions and emotionally complicated physical closeness. Enough time that he was almost scared of what they might find when they went to unlock the door. Because nobody wants to find their parents… doing things. 

That sounded like a great way to earn some lifelong trauma, and as he and Arla went to release their respective buire from their temporary confinement, Jango was having some regrets about not sending Silas to do it instead. 

Somehow, what they found inside was worse.

The two teenagers stared into the bunker with perfectly mirrored expressions of horror.

Lok and Jaster sat on opposite ends of the bed like the very concept of physical proximity might cause spontaneous combustion. Between them was a holoprojector, its soft blue glow casting dramatic light across their completely unruffled, fully clothed forms. Two jetiise —one of whom Jango recognized from Korda VI—were mid-argument about something involving banks. Like actual economic infrastructure. With graphs. And citations.

It was… a crime.

An insult. A betrayal of everything the emergency lockdown protocol had been designed to achieve.

Arla recovered first. Barely. “What are you doing?!”

“Research,” Lok said, as if that explained anything.

“They locked us in here,” Jaster added helpfully.

Jango looked to Arla. “So… mission accomplished?” he asked, a little desperately.

This had to be some form of weird romantic bonding, right?

“Absolutely not,” Arla said, eyes narrowing. “This doesn’t count.”

This, of course, being the fact that instead of doing anything remotely scandalous, romantic, or otherwise useful, Jaster and Lok had used their forced alone time to host a joint economic seminar with jetiise. Jetiise. 

Jango was going to have to lie down.

Arla folded her arms. “This requires escalation.”

Jango nodded grimly.

It was time for Phase 5.

Arla had little faith in this part of the plan, but Jango knew his buir. He knew that look Jaster got when someone got too close to Lok, the one he tried to pass off as general concern but definitely wasn’t. He’d seen it. More than once.

This was going to work.

The sparring ring had always been a useful distraction—a sanctioned space for violence where he could funnel his attention instead of entertaining feelings he couldn’t name. Normally, it served its purpose well. There was always something to evaluate: form, stamina, stance, the subtle politics encoded in every exchange of blades between Haat’ade and Kyr’tsad as they learned to fight beside one another instead of against. It was the closest thing to unity they had managed since the ceasefire, and it should have been encouraging.

Today, though, it was different. He wasn’t watching for technique or tactical alignment or evidence of progress in the long and tedious road to integration.

He was watching Lok.

Specifically, he was watching Lok hold his own against Kal kriffing Skirata. And for all his quiet exhaustion and the thousand-yard look he wore too often these days, Lok moved like he was showing off.

It was infuriatingly attractive.

The problem was, Jaster wasn’t the only one noticing.

There were too many eyes on him. On his rookie—on Lok. Verde murmuring quietly to each other, impressed. The entire room was fixated on him and Jaster…didn’t like it.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. It had no right to bother him. But it did.

He was flushed from exertion, sweat beading at the nape of his neck, hair sticking damply to his temple as he danced just out of reach, and all Jaster could think was that he hadn’t seen him move like that in weeks. 

“You’re staring,” came a voice beside him, dry and knowing.

Jaster glanced down to find Arla, hair damp with sweat, cheeks still flushed from her own spar. She looked like she’d just finished knocking someone twice her size flat and might do it again if sufficiently provoked.

“I’m observing,” he said, perhaps a touch too defensive.

She hummed noncommittally and nodded toward the ring. “Who’s my buir fighting? I recognize their beskar’gam.”

“That’s Kal Skirata,” Jaster replied, letting his voice fall back into neutral. “You might have met him on Coruscant. Briefly.”

“Oh, right,” she said casually. “He’s the one my buir spent the night with.”

For a brief, blissful moment, the words didn’t register. When they did, Jaster’s mind blanked so hard it might’ve needed a manual reboot.

“…come again?”

Kal had most definitely omitted that detail. And Kal was not usually the discreet type.

Kal had a riduur at the time, didn’t he? Or—no, that had been falling apart around then. It was the reason he went to the Core to begin with. Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing you left out of a report. 

She looked up at him, expression far too innocent to be trusted. “What? You didn’t know?”

“No, I—” Jaster sputtered, eyes snapping back to the sparring ring where Lok had just countered a low feint with a fluid movement that should not be this distracting. 

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” Jaster said stiffly. The way Kal told it, Lok disappeared on him.

Arla shrugged, unconcerned. “My buir sent me to stay over with a friend the whole night. I wasn’t a toddler, I was perfectly capable of being home alone. That’s how I knew something was going on. He doesn’t do that unless he needs the place to himself.”

Jaster coughed, throat suddenly dry. “I’m sure you’re misunderstanding.”

Lok wouldn’t send his ad away for…that. 

She gave him a look that said she was young, yes, but not stupid, and she misunderstood nothing. “Sure,” she said, drawing the word out with painful, deliberate skepticism.

Jaster swallowed hard, gaze snapping back to the ring just in time to see Kal land a hit on Lok’s shoulder. Not a hard one, but enough to make Lok grin, shake it off, and circle again. That grin twisted something hot and bitter in Jaster’s chest.

He hadn’t seen Lok smile like that in weeks.

And certainly not at him.

“He didn’t mention that,” Jaster said tightly. 

Arla raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he thought you wouldn’t care.”

He clenched his jaw, hard enough to ache. He shouldn’t care. They weren’t… anything. He didn’t even know that anything happened that night. And if it did, if there was something between Lok and Kal, it was none of his business.

Except it was.

Because for all that Lok wasn’t his, Jaster still hadn’t figured out how to stop feeling like he should be. Like somewhere in the long, tangled mess of regret and duty and the silence between them, there was still a part of him that believed Lok belonged to him. With him.

Back when Lok used to look at him like he hung the stars, Jaster had seen a rookie, too reckless, and too young. 

Now he saw the man Lok had become—strong, careful, scarred in ways Jaster wasn’t there to witness—and all he could think about was how easily he missed his chance.

He watched as Lok disarmed Kal with a clean, spinning strike that sent the beskad skittering across the ground. The crowd gave a low whistle of approval. Kal grunted and extended a gloved hand. Lok clasped it, laughing softly, and something about the easy, familiar way they touched sent a hot spark of something territorial and furious in Jaster’s chest that he hadn’t felt since he was a much younger man making worse decisions.

And just like that, Jaster’s brain decided it had had enough of this.

He stepped forward before he had a plan.

“Skirata,” he called, loud enough to carry. “Up for another round?”

Kal arched an eyebrow as Lok stepped back from the circle, sweat glinting at his temple, hair coming loose at the edges. He looked at Jaster for a second too long.

Yes, sparring the loser was…unconventional. Too bad. 

Kal shrugged and moved into position. The crowd backed away slightly, the air thick with interest. And if Jaster’s strikes came a little too fast, if he drove Kal harder than was strictly necessary, if every blow was an echo of something he didn’t say, that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

Because Lok wasn’t his.

But in another life, he could’ve been.

Lok woke at 03:42 to the deeply ominous sound of sloshing.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling, half-hoping it was a dream, but the damp chill seeping into the sheets and the rhythmic squelch of something flowing just outside his bedroom door quickly disabused him of that notion.

Still half-asleep, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately stepped into two inches of ice-cold water.

“Osik,” he muttered, without the energy to properly inflect it.

By 04:00, he’d confirmed the damage. The residential grid’s western pipe system had ruptured spectacularly, transforming half the floor into an impromptu bog. Flooded walls. Soaked wiring. Shorted door panels. One corpse in the form of his favorite boots, may they rest in soggy peace.

Suspiciously, every other apartment affected was conveniently unoccupied.

“I swear,” Lok muttered, watching maintenance droids whirr through the corridor with apologetic chirps, “if I find out this was sabotage, someone’s getting launched into low orbit.”

“Ba’vodu,” came a miserable whine from behind him.

Lok turned to find Pre standing in the corridor like a tiny war refugee, swaddled in a thoroughly drowned blanket. Why he was wearing the blanket, Lok chose not to ask. Odds were, he didn’t want to know.

Pre’s lower lip stuck out in the universal expression for deeply offended childhood injustice. “Why does this stuff always happen to us?”

Lok sighed, rubbing his temples. “Because the universe has a very specific sense of humor, ad’ika.”

And apparently, his life was the punchline.

“I liked that apartment,” Pre grumbled. “I had a system.”

“You had a pile of laundry and a gravity slingshot for dismantled droid parts.”

“It was organized chaos, ” he said, like that settled it.

Before Lok could summon the energy to argue, a door slid open a few steps down the hall. Jaster stepped out, barefoot and shirt half-tucked, hair mussed in a way that shouldn’t have been legal at this hour, followed by a suspiciously alert and chipper Jango.

Jaster took one look at Lok’s bare feet and soaked pant cuffs, and grimaced in sympathy. “Water main?”

“Yep.”

“Damage?”

“Half our apartment is underwater. They said they’re relocating everyone affected, but somehow it’s just us.”

“How strange,” Jaster said, voice dry enough to soak up some of the floodwater. “You’ll stay with us.”

Lok blinked. “I—what?”

“Arla’s already here,” Jaster said, as if that explained anything. “The karyai will be tight, but manageable.”

There were many things Lok might have expected to hear at four in the morning while standing in a puddle, barefoot and vaguely defeated. “Stay in my ex-almost-something’s apartment with our children and pretend that this is normal” was not on the list.

Still, he nodded. Because apparently sleep deprivation made him agreeable.

When they arrived, it was… worse than anticipated.

The karyai setup was large. Comfortable. Very traditional. Too traditional. The communal sleeping sort of traditional that dashed all of Lok’s hopes that this offer included a spare room.

Pre perked up. “Wait, like actual karyai sleeping? All together? Like the old way?”

Jango raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised. That’s still how we did it growing up.”

Arla popped up behind him. “It’s pretty common,” she added.

Lok, still damp, barefoot, and reeling, tried to remember how to people. “We… didn’t do that.”

Three sets of eyes turned on him at once.

“Vizslas had more of a… militarized bedtime structure,” he muttered defensively.

Arla raised both eyebrows. “That explains why you kept us separate even after I stopped hating you.”

Pre turned to her, scandalized. “You hated him?”

“Uh—” Arla spun him around and shoved him toward the spare clothes. “Let’s get you dry.”

Lok rubbed his forehead. “I’m so glad everyone is learning new things today.”

Jaster, to his credit, only looked mildly amused as he handed over a towel. “If it makes you feel better, Jango hated me too.”

“I did,” Jango chimed in helpfully. “Even threw a mug at him once.”

Lok blinked. “You what?”

“See that scar through his left eyebrow?” Jango added, pointing proudly. “That was me.”

Jaster touched the spot, utterly unbothered. “First time I offered to adopt him.”

Lok looked from one to the other, equal parts horrified and… something else. He realized, belatedly, that he had absolutely no defense against this kind of domestic normalcy.

Jaster decided to make things worse by fussing over getting Pre dry and listening to the adiik’s complaints about the waistband on the borrowed trousers with infinite patience, only raising an eyebrow when he declared the sleeves were “too tight to look cool.”

Despite the exhaustion dragging at his bones and the wet chill sinking into every inch of him, Lok felt it again—that traitorous, familiar ache just beneath the sternum. The one that flared every time Jaster smiled without realizing it or extended a kindness without needing to be asked. Every time Lok remembered, too vividly, what it felt like to be the one on the receiving end of it.

He shouldn’t still feel this way. He knew better.

By 04:45, the five of them were tucked awkwardly into the large bed pit amid layers of thick padding and nested blankets, all arranged in a sunken circle in the center of Jaster’s primary living room.

Arla had claimed the space next to him, with a smile that was far too smug for someone pretending to be asleep. Jango had curled up opposite her. Pre had wedged himself possessively across Lok’s chest like a small, angry furnace.

And Jaster…

Jaster somehow ended up on Lok’s other side, half-buried under the heaviest quilt. One arm flung over his head, the other tucked beneath the pillow in a pose that no real person should look that composed in. His shirt was rumpled. His jaw was shadowed. The line of his collarbone dipped below the blanket in a way that made Lok want to scream into it.

Lok, unfortunately, had eyes. And a brain. And both of them were traitors.

Pre shifted, muttering in his sleep, and locked both arms more tightly around Lok’s middle. 

It was unexpected.

Pre wasn’t the affectionate type. Arla used to climb into his bed after nightmares, or curl into his side during bad storms. Even now, she sometimes sought him out without explanation. But Pre had never done that. He liked his space. Complained about sharing. Made a hobby of building literal barriers out of pillows and old parts to keep people out of his room. This… this was new.

And it made Lok wonder.

Wonder if something deeper was stirring under Pre’s silence. If maybe this was Pre’s version of saying I’m scared. I trust you. Don’t leave.

So he stayed still. Wrapped his arms around Pre gently, adjusted the blanket to cover them both, and listened to the slow, even breathing of the people he cared about most in the galaxy.

Across from him, Jaster shifted slightly in his sleep, exhaling a soft breath that ghosted across Lok’s shoulder. Lok didn’t dare look at him. He didn’t have the strength.

He just closed his eyes, surrounded by warmth he hadn’t earned and comfort he wasn’t sure he deserved, and told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Told himself he could survive it.

Again.

Jango scowled down at the karyai pit like it had personally failed him.

It had, just to be clear.

The scene below was offensively peaceful. The lights were dimmed, the temperature regulated to the perfect sleep-friendly degree, and the quiet rhythm of deep, contented breathing filled the room. Well, except for the part where Jaster was snoring. Not obnoxiously, but enough to be annoying on principle.

Lok was curled on the far side of the pit, half-wrapped around Pre in a way that should have been sweet but instead just made Jango want to throw something.

Pre definitely sabotaged this arrangement on purpose.

They maneuvered everything perfectly.

It wasn’t like they’d left it to chance. Arla and Jango had engineered the sleeping formation with the kind of precision that should have gotten them commendations. Arla had claimed her spot first, casually blocking off one side of Lok like a human barricade. Jango had plopped down across from her, knowing full well that Pre would crawl toward the warmest body with the least complaints, and that body was always going to be Lok. Which left one spot . One open, conveniently Jaster-shaped space directly beside Lok.

Which Jaster had somehow managed to claim without actually getting close.

They’d gone through all the effort. All the contained-flood planning. All the subtle blanket shuffling and strategic positioning. And what did they get?

Absolutely nothing.

No shared blanket. No accidental shoulder brush. Not even a middle-of-the-night shift that resulted in accidental spooning.

This was a problem.

They were supposed to gravitate toward each other. Naturally. Inevitably. Like stars pulled together by sheer force of mutual pining. Instead, they were orbiting around each other like it was a training exercise in restraint. It was unnatural.

Jango crossed his arms, glaring into the pit like he could will one of them to roll over and deal with their feelings already. Preferably in the next five minutes.

They didn’t.

The mess hall was unusually quiet that morning.

Jango sat at the corner table nursing a lukewarm caf and the bitter taste of defeat.

Arla dropped her tray beside his with a clatter and slumped into the seat like gravity had it out for her. “Any progress after I left?”

Jango took a long, solemn sip before answering. “Pre continued using your buir as a body pillow. Mine slept like he was on a military deployment. They didn’t even touch. Not once.”

Arla groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Myles slid into the seat across from them, entirely too chipper. “Let me guess. Still the reigning champions of denial?”

“They’re not just in denial,” Arla muttered. “They bought property there. Built a summer home. I think there’s a lake.”

Jango took another sip of caf and let the burn distract him from the slow, crawling despair of their situation. “Do you want to know what my buir said this morning? ‘Let me know if the vendors are short on nutritional supplements, I’ll send someone to restock.’ That’s it. No mention of Lok. Not a single glance in his direction. Nothing.”

“Stars above,” Silas muttered, dropping into the seat beside Myles. “I’m starting to think they’re not into each other.”

Everyone at the table fell silent.

Jango looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Not into each other?” Myles repeated, incredulous. “Are you kriffing serious?”

“Okay, okay,” Silas muttered. “Just offering a possibility—”

“The possibility is that they’re stupid,” Jango interrupted.

“Terminally,” Myles agreed.

“Clinically,” someone offered from two tables over.

“They’re the two most emotionally damaged disaster men in the sector,” Jango muttered. “And if they could just stop pretending they didn’t want each other, it would solve so many problems.”

Arla leaned her chin on her fist. “The factions would unify under both banners.”

“Imagine the diplomatic stability,” Jango said solemnly.

“A real war-ending bond,” Myles agreed, dramatic.

Silas paused mid-bite. “Didn’t we used to do that?”

Everyone looked at him again.

Silas shrugged. “I mean, back in the day. People joining through riduurok to solidify alliances, keep power centered, that kind of thing.”

Jango blinked. He turned slowly to Arla.

She was already looking at him, two minds syncing with perfect, brilliant clarity.

If their buire insisted on being emotionally constipated about this, that was on them. They couldn’t blame their ade for taking drastic measures.

“No,” Myles said immediately. “No. I know that look.”

“It’s too late,” Silas whispered. “They’ve entered the planning stage.”

Arla pulled out a datapad and a stylus. Jango leaned in, already mentally drafting the sub-operations and contingency branches.

At the top of the screen, in bold, precise font, she wrote:

Operation: RIDUUROK

Chapter Text

Arla didn’t mean to become a political operative before her eighteenth birthday, but honestly, the adults around her were taking too long and making too many emotionally stunted decisions for her to sit this one out. She’d tried the subtle approach. The slow-burn nudging. The “let’s all have a nice family day and pretend we’re normal” strategy. Clearly, that failed. Spectacularly.

Enough was enough.

Which was why she now found herself leaning across a too-small conference table in an unused tactical planning room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and patience long since incinerated.

Tarin Wren—political strategist, professional shabuir, and Arla’s least favorite person with excellent hair—sat down across from her with a datapad in one hand and an overpriced caf in the other.

“No,” he said immediately, not even making eye contact.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know that look,” he muttered, typing something without looking up. “It’s the look you get right before I end up with a migraine that lasts three days.”

“Okay, rude,” Arla said. And slightly accurate, but that wasn't the point. If she enjoyed making him miserable, he really only had himself to blame for that. “No migraine this time. And I’m going to solve all your problems. Promise.”

Tarin raised an eyebrow. “You want to help stage an assassination attempt?”

He’d probably love that, the shabuir. Those weren't the problems she was going to be solving, though.

“Not this time.” Arla smiled sweetly, “but I’m adding it to the ‘maybe’ column.”

For him. Honestly, if her buir didn't want him around for some di’kutla reason, she’d gladly take care of it. Unfortunately, she promised Lok not to get involved.

He gave her a withering glance. “You’re scheming.”

“I’m strategizing,” she countered. “Totally different.”

Tarin sighed like she was the problem here. Newsflash: whenever Tarin Wren was in a room, he was always the problem.

“Fine,” he grumbled, setting his datapad down like he was bracing for a public trial. “Go on.”

“So,” she began, casual as a knife unsheathing itself, “the negotiations have stalled, haven’t they?”

Wren immediately went on high alert. Good. He should be nervous.

“I have a solution,” she added, voice syrupy sweet.

Wren’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I really am,” she admitted, without shame and even less mercy. “Two words. Arranged marriage.”

There was a pause. A beat. A full blink of disbelieving silence.

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke.” She leaned forward. “We float it as a formal unification measure between the Haat’ade and Kyr’tsad. Two leaders, bound by oath, blah blah cultural symbolism. It gives everyone a reason to back the alliance, it resolves the issue of deciding who gets to be in charge, and locks in stability through ceremonial tradition, or whatever. And by we, I mean you. Obviously. You’ll sell it to Kyr’tsad. You’re good at sounding traditional when it suits you.”

“I am traditional,” Wren insisted. “But arranged marriages haven’t been traditional in centuries.”

Arla shrugged. “Neither has rule by dha’kad’au but none of you had a problem with that. Maybe if I call it the Ceremonial Blade of Binding Matrimony, you’ll be more inclined to listen.”

Tarin gave her a look that could best be described as deeply unamused. “And you want me to pitch this?”

“Yes.”

“At the next meeting.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

It was cute that he thought he had veto power.

She folded her arms and tilted her head just slightly, activating what she liked to call the Polite But Lethal posture. Yan gave her pointers.

She wasn’t surprised Wren wouldn’t support this. But she also knew it had less to do with believing the tradition to be outdated than it did with its potential to inconvenience him. The man was as smarmy as they came and if they pulled off a successful riduurok between Jaster and Lok, his sleazy aspirations—whatever they were—would undoubtedly be stunted.

Too bad she didn’t give a kriff.

“You remember that little expansion initiative of yours? The one that Lok was going to kill with a datapad and a three-page rant about civilian collateral?” She arched one brow, arms still crossed, and waited.

“That was different,” Tarin muttered, glaring.

“Was it?” she asked, innocent enough to be terrifying. “Because I seem to recall you flailing through budget allocations like someone trying to escape a net trap, and I was the one who spun it into something viable and got him to overlook the violent parts.”

She didn't do it for Wren. She did it because she actually believed in the initiative and knew Wren would kark it up because he doesn’t know how her buir works.

Her trick was simple. Lok’s brain did not function without caf. Deprive him of his caffeine, wait until he was too tired to argue, then casually mention food shortages and child welfare in the same sentence. He’d sign anything.

But she wasn’t about to give away her secrets. Kyr’tsad still thought Lok was all imposing and competent and stuff. No reason to clue them in to the fact that he was actually a lovable disaster most days. 

Tarin looked away, ears going a little pink. “I was improvising.”

“You were panicking.” Her smile was sharp. “I saved your shebs. You owe me.”

Tarin exhaled slowly. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”

They sat in tense, mutual judgment for a long beat, and then, reluctantly, Tarin caved.

She didn’t appreciate the flash of calculation in his eyes, though.

“Fine. I’ll do it. But you don’t get to hold that over my head anymore.”

Arla grinned. That was funny. He thought he could set terms.

“Also,” she added as she pushed away from the table, “don’t tell them it was my idea. If this works, I want plausible deniability.”

“Of course you do.”

“Good talk.” She patted the table and stood like she’d just solved galactic peace instead of manufacturing a legally binding emotional trap for two grown men who didn’t know how to process feelings.

As she walked out, she heard him sigh again and mutter, “This is going to backfire.”

He was wrong, obviously. This plan was pure brilliance.

Going in circles was beginning to grate.

Every day the negotiations stalled, every hour they spent spiraling around semantics and sovereignty, another crack splintered beneath their feet. Mandalore’s foundation, already strained by years of civil war, would not survive a renewed fracture.

The best-case scenario, at this point, was separate governments and a treaty no one would honor. The worst was a reignited conflict with fresh casualties and less justification.

With the conspiracy he and Lok were working to unravel, neither option felt like something Mandalore could withstand in the long run. They needed to be united against whatever force in the Republic was investing a lot of credits into ensuring they were divided. 

Unfortunately, they couldn’t make that argument, because they couldn’t trust anyone until the face behind the scheme was unmasked.

Jaster, for his part, had his suspicions about Tarin Wren.

The latest negotiation session had dissolved like all the others and got them nowhere. Afterward, Wren, Lok, Vau, and Skirata trailed behind Jaster into his office for a more frank private discussion. Kas was off-world with his aliit, having tired fairly quickly of the political osik and stating it wasn’t what he signed up for.

Jaster was sure everyone involved in this wished they could do the same.

They all knew something had to give, and soon.

The office was a bit crowded with that many bodies but they made it work.

The air hummed with restrained tension, the kind that might yet explode or curdle into something worse—apathy.

Jaster folded his arms and cut to the heart of it.

“We’re running out of time. People on both sides are losing patience, and if this goes on much longer, we’ll lose the momentum we spent the last year working toward.”

He took a breath.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” he added for what felt like the thousandth time, glancing toward Lok with the faintest edge of weariness, “I’ll challenge you for the dha’kad’au if I have to. But I don’t believe victory has to end in death.”

Wren exhaled like a man exhausted by common sense. “We won’t budge on a proper challenge,” he said, arms crossed, sharing a look with Lok that made something sharp and irrational flare low in Jaster’s chest. Sometimes, Lok looked at Wren like he was the only one in the room who made sense. Other times, like he was a threat not worth mentioning. Jaster still hadn’t decided which he hated more.

He also didn’t understand it, and Lok consistently sidestepped the question of why he kept Wren around.

“There has to be something you’d be willing to concede it for,” Vau said. ”Is there an issue with the military reforms? The proposed council structure?”

“You’re missing the point,” Wren replied. “This isn’t about bartering, it’s about values. You don’t bend tradition without consequences, and the way you keep trying to do exactly that is starting to create fractures in our ranks. Kyr’tsad might have changed under the new leadership, but we are still traditionalists. This won’t hold if you can’t show respect for that.”

Jaster fought the urge to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Tradition,” he said flatly, “doesn’t mandate death. Historically, that particular bit of theater was optional.”

Wren’s scowl sharpened. “That’s where you’re wrong. Maintaining the right to the blade doesn’t require blood. If you challenged Mand’alor Vizsla and he bested you, he could elect to let you live. But claiming it does. Always has.”

Lok, who had been quiet until then, finally spoke. His voice was low and tired. “Even if we went that route, is it really a viable solution? Say I won the challenge and chose to let Alor Mereel live—“

Wren made a noise of protest but Lok held up a hand, stopping him.

“Setting aside the issue of how that will play among Kyr’tsad after the way the initial challenges were handled, would the Haat’ade even accept it?”

Lok looked directly at Vau as he posed the question.

Walon and Jaster shared a silent look.

Indeed, that was another complication. Especially when, considering Lok was trained to wield a kad’au by the best swordsman in the Jedi Order, he had a significant advantage.

“No,” Vau finally said, voice flat. “There would be a lot of opposition to accepting you as Mand’alor.”

Jaster stepped in, trying to soften the edges of the way Walon phrased it. “The same way Kyr’tsad values the right of the dha’kad’au, the Haat’ade see authority as a matter of consensus. A Mand’alor has to be chosen, not claim the title by claiming a relic. And I…” He met Lok’s gaze, gentling his tone, “Too many have lost too much to Kyr’tsad to be willing to submit to Alor Vizsla.”

It hurt to say. Because he wanted them to. He knew what kind of leader Lok could be if given the room to be it, and he thought much of his reputation was undeserved. But desire didn’t change reality. It also didn’t change that Lok didn’t want this, and he deserved better than being trapped in the role for the good of everyone else.

“Great,” Kal muttered. “So the options are: death match or reigniting the civil war. Excellent.”

The words landed heavy in the air.

Jaster refused to accept it. The idea of that being their final choice—of the past year’s grueling effort reduced to ash and recycled rhetoric—wasn’t something he could entertain without feeling the slow grind of failure sink into his bones. Lok had given everything to end the fighting. Jaster had watched him crawl through haran and politics both, all for the sake of peace.

There had to be another way.

Wren awkwardly cleared his throat. “There is one other option,” he offered, voice uneven as he glanced at Lok.

The look alone made something primal and ugly coil beneath Jaster’s ribs. That expression—half apology, half something softer—didn’t belong to Wren. He had no right to offer anything on Lok’s behalf, and certainly no right to look at him like that.

“Well don’t keep us in suspense,” Vau drawled, leaning against the wall.

“It can be resolved through a riduurok,” Wren posited uncomfortably.

Jaster’s brain flatlined. 

Kal laughed. Loudly.

“You’re serious?” Kal wheezed, wiping at his eye. “You expect me to believe Kyr’tsad is going to sign off on that?”

“It’s traditional,” Jaster said automatically, still reeling. “An old precedent, but… legitimate.”

He’d refused to let himself go there and thought he’d been doing a pretty good job of it so far.

Wren nodded. “Exactly. It’s unlikely Kyr’tsad will see you as Mand’alor, but they'd accept you as Rid’alor and concede your position in the government. The title of Mand’alor stays with Lok, but your position becomes legally and culturally inseparable. Effectively, you’d rule jointly.”

The way Wren presented it seemed…reluctant, almost.

Jaster finally dared to look at Lok, hoping to gauge where he stood on this. He shouldn't have.

Lok’s expression was perfectly blank, carved from stone. But he’d gone pale, like the blood had been wrung from his skin and replaced with silence.

Jaster looked away first.

He swallowed against the emotions rising up and shifted his eyes to Vau, silently relying on the man’s impeccable commitment to pessimism to shoot this down while a part of him he buried begged him to jump on the opportunity.

He wasn’t proud of the feeling in his chest. It was too raw to be noble. The terrifying truth was, he wanted it. He spent a year getting to know the man Lok had become and weeks trying to pretend he wasn’t falling for him. It was always a losing battle. He wanted Lok beside him, bound to him, not as a symbol or political strategy, but as his. 

But he also knew that Lok didn’t look at him the way he used to. That whatever flicker had once been in those sea-dark eyes had dimmed and died long before Jaster had figured out how to feel anything in return.

He wouldn’t lie to himself and say he didn’t want Lok, but not he didn’t want it to be like this. It was worse that he knew Lok would say yes, not for him, but for Mandalore. Because Lok would give away every piece of himself, every scrap of autonomy, if it meant keeping one more child from dying in a war he didn’t start.

He wanted Lok to want him again. He didn’t want to trap him, and be another obligation.

Walon, to Jaster’s surprise and horror, gave a mild shrug. “The Haat’ade would probably likewise consider Vizsla Rid’alor, but that’s not an insignificant position. Might raise eyebrows, but it’s viable.”

That was deeply unhelpful. Jaster had been counting on Vau’s signature cynicism to shoot the idea down. He knew too well how suspicious Vau was of Lok, and he expected well-rationalized resistance. Not easy acceptance.

He turned to Kal for help next, but the man was still laughing into his fist like this was the best joke the galaxy had offered in weeks.

He was still…frustrated with Kal for unrelated reasons. This wasn’t helping his case.

“What do you think?” Lok asked, staring at Jaster with a quiet intensity and something way too close to fear. But his voice was steady, firm, and his mask was in full effect.

“I can see it working,” Jaster reluctantly admitted. His voice didn’t crack. That was something. But he knew that wasn’t really what Lok was asking, and he wouldn’t force him to clarify, so he added, “And I’d be willing.”

He didn’t say the rest. That he’d want it if there was even a chance Lok wanted it too.

A muscle in Lok’s jaw jumped, the only betrayal of emotion. He gave a firm nod. “We can leverage this to push back against the Evaar’ade’s movements to position themselves as the legitimate government in the eyes of the Republic.”

Just like that, Lok…moved on. Shifting into political strategy like this moment was just another line item on the agenda. Like it wouldn’t dictate the path of the rest of their lives, a path he knew Lok never wanted to walk.

Jaster’s chest twisted with something sick and strange. Like he was watching the shape of something he wanted being handed to him in pieces. Lifeless, ceremonial, and hollowed out of meaning. 

Was Lok truly this unaffected? Because from where Jaster was standing, it felt as though every word was being pulled from somewhere just below his sternum, and if Lok kept shrugging off the idea of binding their lives together as if it were no more significant than signing off on a new ration shipment, Jaster was fairly certain he was going to either combust on the spot or wind up back in the medbay explaining heart palpitations to a baar’ur who was looking for any excuse to ban caffeine again.

“How so?” Vau asked, intrigued.

“We make a show of it,” Lok suggested with a shrug so indifferent it stung. “Make a political event out of the celebrations. The symbolism speaks for itself.”

Does it? Jaster thought. Because what it said to him was that Lok would give away his wants, his future, and his body if it would keep the peace. And maybe he already had.

Kal scratched his chin. “The Evaar’ade aren’t influential enough to claim legitimacy like that anyway. Is that really necessary?”

Jaster shoved his conflicted feelings into a box and followed Lok’s lead, keeping his voice steady and his tone diplomatic. He wasn’t willing to admit to what they’d uncovered so far, not without the complete picture or with Wren in the room. But he could work around it.

“Many of the higher ups in the Evaar’ade point to our conflict to discredit us. They’re not a significant threat at the moment but their pandering to the Republic is hardly a secret. They’ve only grown more extreme since the start of the war and with the power they hold in Sundari, they can become a threat if they gain any more traction. Using the riduurok as a political event shows both unity and peace. It could be a first step toward opening other diplomatic channels as well.”

“Kryze is still relatively moderate,” Lok added, voice clinical now, with no sign that he’d just been volunteered for a political marriage like a sacrifice. “If we offer representation on the council, we might be able to stabilize things before they escalate.”

Vau nodded slowly. “It has potential. But will the Republic care?”

“I can make them care,” Lok said, and Jaster didn’t doubt him. “If we include a Republic delegation in the guest list—"

“Oh, right,” Kal interrupted, grinning. “You’ve got jetiise.”

Wren’s brows furrowed. “You mean the ones on Korda VI?”

Lok nodded, expression awkward. “We might have to go through the Council. They’re…stiff, but both of my jetiise serve there. I’ll contact them and get their take.” Lok cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Senator Organa will probably be…enthusiastic about the opportunity to visit Mandalore.”

Jaster barely managed to suppress the scowl at the way Lok’s cheeks pinked while talking about his Senator.

“That the one with a…fascination with Mandalorians?” Kal asked, amused.

Lok winced. The pink flush darkened. “He’s a little… eccentric.”

The fondness in his voice was infuriating.

Jaster made a mental note to pull Organa’s voting record. Twice. And the press circuit. And possibly have Vau investigate any suspicious campaign donors.

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be a fan of this senator.

Arla was sprawled upside down on the couch in Jaster’s very adult, very serious, very tragically beige apartment, her head hanging off the edge like some kind of reverse blood-rush meditation, which she’d read was supposed to improve cognitive function but mostly just made her dizzy. Jango was perched on the arm of a nearby chair, legs swinging while he munched on dried fruit.

The tiny comm unit in the center of the caf table—rigged into the vent system with totally legal (hopefully), completely ethical (probably) surveillance tech —crackled with just enough static to make it sound official.

“—resolved through a riduurok,” Wren’s voice said.

The room exploded.

“YES!” Arla whooped, flipping over dramatically and nearly kicking Jango in the face, which, to be fair, would have improved his aesthetic.

Jango raised his arms like he’d just scored a goal. “Operation RIDUUROK for the win!”

Myles let out an honest-to-Manda cheer from the kitchen, where he was raiding Jaster’s pantry. “How did you get Wren to propose that? That guy wouldn’t bend if you tossed him off a bridge. And he’s way too shady to see this as a good thing.”

Arla smirked, picking a piece of lint off her sleeve like this wasn’t the culmination of three weeks of light manipulation, strategic flattery, and emotional terrorism. “I have my ways.”

From the floor, where he had been face-down for the last five minutes and absolutely refusing to contribute anything useful except dramatic commentary, Silas groaned. “That’s not an answer. I’m ninety percent sure she threatened him.”

“Do you have kompromat on Wren?” Myles asked, tilting his head. “Or is it, like, a pheromone thing?”

Arla made a noise halfway between offense and disgust. Pantorans. “First of all, ew. Second, no. He just… owes me.”

Myles squinted. “For?”

Arla opened her mouth, paused, and visibly ran through several internal redactions before settling on, “A situation. Involving a sabotaged caf machine, a very cleverly worded proposal, and a shipment of illegally imported Corellian sweet rolls. It’s complicated.”

She nodded with satisfaction. “Anyway, I called in the favor.”

There was a brief, stunned silence.

“I have... so many follow-up questions,” Jango said weakly.

“No time,” Arla said, already rolling onto her stomach to adjust the signal again before flopping back onto the couch like the galaxy’s most underappreciated mastermind.

“You are terrifying,” Myles said, returning with a fistful of snack bars. “And I mean that in the most supportive, deeply concerned way possible.”

“I know,” Arla said, smiling with all her teeth. “I take that as the highest compliment.”

The comm crackled again, and they all froze, practically vibrating with anticipation as Lok’s voice came through.

“We can leverage this to push back against the Evaar’ade’s movements to position themselves as the legitimate government in the eyes of the Republic.”

The room collectively groaned.

They all stared at the comm unit like it had betrayed them personally.

“No one asked for a policy proposal,” Arla muttered.

“They’re doing it again,” Jango sighed. “They’re using diplomacy to avoid their feelings.”

“Well,” Silas said, sitting up with a grimace, “we’ve got one half of the plan in place. Now we just have to get them to actually talk about it. Preferably without political euphemisms.”

Jango leaned forward, deadly serious. “I think we need to flood the apartment again.”

“No,” Arla said immediately.

“Just the kitchen?”

“No.”

“Fresher?”

“Lok will launch you into low orbit. And that’s if Pre doesn’t get to you frirst.”

Jango raised his hands. “I’m just brainstorming!”

Arla rolled her eyes, but she was grinning, and deep down, she knew it was only going to get more complicated from here. But that was fine.

Some people joined rebel causes. Some people started cults. She just wanted her buir to stop being lonely and for Jaster Mereel to admit he was in love with a Vizsla.

Was that really so much to ask?

By the time the meeting finally adjourned, Lok did what any sensible, burned-out, deeply in-over-his-head political figure would do. 

He fled.

Specifically, into a supply closet. A literal, cramped, vaguely musty supply closet on the fourth floor of the administrative wing, wedged between two broken sanitation units and a crate of outdated field rations no one had been brave enough to throw out.

He leaned against the wall, let his head thunk back against the durasteel with a dull clunk, and stared up at the flickering overhead light like maybe it held the answers.

Maybe if he just stayed here, the rest of Mandalore would figure itself out.

Right.

That seemed likely.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Tried not to panic. Failed.

He needed a minute. Or a year. Maybe a decade. Yeah, that sounded good. Another decade to calm the way his heart was fighting its way out of his chest might be adequate. Then they could revisit the topic.

Did he just agree to get married? To Jaster?

It didn’t feel real. Most of him expected to wake up and realize this was just some twisted version of his rare, happy dreams. Where he gets everything he wants, but it no longer means anything at all.

“Hiding?”

The voice nearly gave him cardiac arrest, but his nervous system was too fried to do much more than twitch.

“Yes,” he replied, because there was no point in lying. He was literally having a silent freakout inside a supply closet. The bar for dignity had been abandoned somewhere in the hallway.

Skirata nodded like that was the most reasonable thing he’d heard all week.

“How do you really feel about the arrangement?” he asked, settling into the opposite wall, clearly here for the long haul.

Lok rubbed his temples. “Does it matter?” he asked, too tired to sound defensive, too resigned to be bitter.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter how he felt about it, or how Jaster felt about it. This needed to happen, whether they wanted it or not.

Skirata frowned, clearly not satisfied with that answer, which felt unfair given how much honesty Lok had just managed to muster.

“What?” Lok asked, too emotionally drained for this interaction.

Skirata shrugged. “I thought you’d be…happier about it.”

Lok blinked. “Why would you think that?” he asked, more baffled than anything.

Skirata didn’t know him that well. Nobody did.

Skirata tilted their head like they were trying to read him. “You do remember handing me that letter, right?”

It really spoke to Lok’s emotional state that while, on some level, he was mortified,  on another level—the one currently operating off stress-induced emotional static—he mostly just felt tired.

“Did you read it?”

He knew Skirata might have. At the time, he stupidly didn’t care.

He’d blame the alcohol but unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple.

“No,” Skirata replied. “But it wasn’t all that hard to draw some conclusions.”

“Oh?” Lok arched a brow. “And what conclusions would those be?”

Skirata looked unsure for the first time since appearing in the doorway. “Well. I teased Mereel about it being a love letter—”

Of course, Lok thought. He truly was that pathetic.

“—but he insisted it was just closure. Then watching you two interact the last few weeks…well, I thought he was just trying to brush me off. But seeing you look like you’re about to be sick over the thought of marrying him, makes me feel like I'm missing something.”

Lok laughed, but it felt empty. “No it was definitely an attempt at closure.”

If closure could be defined as several pages of unprocessed grief and wildly unreciprocated love.

And paragraphs of unresolved anger over being discarded, because even though he knew, on some level, that Jaster saw him as a kid, he still didn’t deserve to be abandoned like that. Jaster was the one person he really had outside of Tor and the pain of losing that so suddenly, without even a goodbye, hurt for years. That said, parts of it could definitely be classified as a “love letter”.

Unfortunately.

“But closure for what?” Skirata pressed.

“None of your kriffing business,” Lok said, feeling drained.

Skirata studied him with another frown but thankfully didn’t push it.

“Look,” he said after a moment, tone softening. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two. But you know he wouldn’t hurt you, right?”

“Not intentionally,” Lok said, a little hollow.

That was part of the problem. Jaster didn’t have to mean it for it to matter. He didn’t have to try to break Lok’s heart for it to happen.

“Anyway,” Lok said, standing and pulling on his buy’ce so he wouldn’t have to control his face anymore. “I need to meet with my command.” 

He slipped out of the closet without giving Skirata a chance to continue their interrogation. And just his luck, he ran straight into Jaster.

“Lok, I—“ Jaster stopped, eyeing the open closet door behind him. “Were you… looking for something?”

Lok considered all possible answers and settled on the least complicated one.

“Just needed a minute,” he said, quietly.

A look crossed Jaster’s face, like he understood. Lok doubted he could.

“I was looking for you,” Jaster said. “I wanted—”

He was interrupted by Skirata emerging from the closet. 

Jaster’s eyes darted between them, something hardening behind them that Lok couldn’t read.

“Skirata. My office. Now,” Jaster barked, harsh enough to almost make Lok flinch.

He frowned. Jaster wasn’t usually that aggressive.

“Elek, Alor,” Skirata drawled, voice laced with mock formality, and wandered off without looking back.

Jaster watched him go, jaw tight, something dark in his eyes that clashed with the soft tone of his voice. “Are you joining us for latemeal tonight?”

Lok cleared his throat. “No, uh, not tonight. I…I need to talk to Arla and figure out what to tell Pre and just—“ he cut himself off with a deep breath, already mentally preparing a to do list. “Not tonight,” he repeated, voice weaker than he liked.

Jaster looked disappointed. Not much, just enough to make it worse.

“Okay,” he said. “We should talk, though.”

Yes, they should. They absolutely should. That would be the mature, adult thing to do.

Lok was still going to do everything in his power to avoid that conversation for as long as possible.

Chapter Text

Jaster lingered outside the office door, fingers twitching uselessly at his sides, caught somewhere between barging in and walking away like a reasonable, rational adult. Which, if recent evidence was any indication, he absolutely was not.

Barging in was gaining ground as the better option, until he remembered he didn’t actually have a plan beyond punching Kal in his stupid smug face.

Would it be justified? 

Well. Lok had officially become his ven’riduur all of five minutes ago. A punch to the face seemed like the bare minimum reaction simply on the grounds of blatant disrespect.

But.

They weren’t married yet and Lok was allowed time to come to terms with it. Even if the thought of Kal’s hands on Lok made Jaster want to commit murder.

Still.

They were going to be married and while Jaster had no actual control over Lok and what he chose to do with his body, Kal answered to him. And Kal should karking know better.

Something ugly and unidentifiable burned behind his ribs as his mind helpfully replayed the image of Kal Skirata slipping out of that tiny, suspiciously-sized closet right after Lok.

Maybe nothing happened. Maybe they were just talking.

Maybe banthas flew.

Lok was wearing his buy’ce, so it wasn’t like Jaster could check for—what, exactly? Evidence?

Jaster’s jaw locked so hard it ached.

He didn’t need evidence. His mind was more than happy to supply the missing details with a vicious, traitorous creativity. Lok, backed against a wall, breath hitching, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, lips swollen from kisses he had no right to give away.

It was a beautiful picture.

It was torture.

And it sure as haran wasn’t Kal kriffing Skirata’s right to see him like that.

Before reason could claw its way back to the surface, Jaster slammed his palm against the panel and stalked into his office.

Kal was already sprawled in a chair, boots up on Jaster’s desk like he hadn’t just shoved Jaster’s entire soul into a grinder and hit 'pulse.'

"Did you need something, Alor?" Kal drawled, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

Jaster took a slow breath, because if he didn’t calm the irrational part of his brain, he was going to wrap his hands around Kal’s neck and that would cause datawork. He hated datawork.

He took a seat behind his desk slowly and sank into his chair. His hands curled into loose fists atop the desk.

There was no reason to overreact. He was calm. He was composed. He was fine.  

"I wasn’t aware we were assigning closet duty now," Jaster said mildly, though the edge in his voice could’ve sliced through beskar. “I assume you had a reason.”

“Bit forward of you, don’t you think?” Kal arched a brow, expression maddeningly neutral. "You don’t see me interrogating your closet companions."

Jaster smiled—a thin, humorless thing that probably looked more like a predator baring its teeth than anything resembling good humor. “I’m trying to understand the… timing,” he said carefully. “We come to an agreement on a political arrangement, and the first thing Lok does is vanish into a closet with you.”

Kal gave an exaggerated sigh, stretching out like he knew exactly how close he was to getting murdered and found the idea vaguely entertaining.

"Come on, Jaster," Kal said, grinning that insufferable grin of his, the one that had provoked more than one fistfight over the years. "You really think I’d pull him into a closet for a quick tumble between political meetings and marriage negotiations?" His mouth curved wider, a flash of teeth bright enough to make Jaster’s blood pressure spike. "That’s not really my style."

"Didn’t say it was," Jaster said, leaning back in his chair, affecting a posture of indifference he absolutely did not feel. "You were in there a while."

Kal’s smile sharpened, a gleam of wicked humor flashing in his eyes. "Is that a problem?"

Yes. It was a massive problem. A galaxy-sized problem with a personal vendetta against Jaster’s sanity.

He flexed his hand once against the surface of the desk and summoned the voice he reserved for incompetent junior officers and elitist Evaar’ade representatives he couldn't quite shoot.

"It’s not about the closet," Jaster said evenly, letting each word fall with the weight of undeniable authority. "It’s about optics and maintaining the integrity of the arrangement we just negotiated. About not giving the Haat’ade council or the Kyr’tsad delegation, or kriffing anyone, any excuse to question Lok’s commitment to the terms."

Yes. That’s exactly what it was about. They couldn’t afford for this to fall apart if they didn’t want to end up on opposite sides of a death match. Kal needed to be more careful.

That’s all.

Kal arched an eyebrow, skepticism radiating off him in waves so obvious that Jaster was tempted to find new and creative ways to inflict datawork as punishment.

"Sure," Kal said, dragging the word out. "Purely political concerns. Not personal at all. Completely professional. Mand’alor-level professionalism."

"Glad we’re clear on that," Jaster said crisply, because if he didn't say something official-sounding, he was going to say something stupid, and he had already humiliated himself enough today.

Kal snorted, amusement flickering back to life in his eyes. Jaster studied him for a long moment—the looseness of his posture, the cocky set of his mouth, the insufferable way he existed —and decided he hated him just a little bit more than usual today.

It would be petty to punish him.

It would be juvenile, unprofessional, beneath the dignity of a Mand’alor.

"You’re going to oversee the inventory logs for the next shipment," Jaster said blandly, reaching for a datapad with unnecessary force. "Personally. I want the manifest cross-referenced with the central database, physical inspections completed, and every serial number verified down to the last bolt."

Kal blinked at him, slow and incredulous, like he could not quite believe he was having this conversation with a grown man.

"Isn’t that what we have quartermasters for?" he asked flatly.

"Normally," Jaster agreed, not looking up from his screen, the very model of bureaucratic indifference. "But given the high value of the shipment and the… recent distractions, I think it’s best if a senior officer handles it directly. For the good of the operation."

"You’re assigning me quartermaster datawork," Kal said slowly, like he needed to verify. "Because I stepped into a closet."

"Because of your unauthorized deviation from assigned duties," Jaster corrected. There. That was…official sounding. "And because we run a professional operation here."

Kal stared at him. Jaster stared back, daring him to say something that would make him actually start throwing punches.

In the end, Kal only shoved up from the chair with a theatrical sigh, boots thudding against the floor with enough force to rattle the datapads stacked neatly on the corner of the desk.

"Anything else, Mand’alor?" he asked, dripping sarcasm.

"Yes," Jaster said, flipping to a different screen with a vicious click of his stylus. "I want a full logistical analysis on potential redistribution of surplus munitions. Five-year projection. With color-coded charts."

Kal looked personally offended by the suggestion.

"You are a petty, vindictive shabuir," he said bluntly.

"And you’re still standing here," Jaster said blandly, without looking up.

Kal gave an exaggerated, mocking salute, turned sharply on his heel, and stalked out of the office, whistling some obnoxious, tuneless melody that Jaster was almost certain had been invented purely to cause migraines.

He watched the door slide shut and allowed himself one brief, savage moment of satisfaction.

He told himself it was about discipline, respect, maintaining order among his ranks, and ensuring nothing jeopardized this riduurok deal before it was finalized.

He told himself a lot of things these days.

The atmosphere in the temporary barracks irritated Tarin Wren more than he cared to admit.

The Haat’ade, in a gesture of ostensible diplomacy, had extended the courtesy of housing the visiting Kyr’tsad delegation within one of their military annexes. A calculated generosity, if there ever was one. The structure was utilitarian to the bone: durasteel walls, reinforced blast doors, harsh overhead lighting calibrated more for interrogation than comfort. It offered enough space between bunks to maintain the illusion of autonomy and order, but it was still a cage by another name. Tarin had seen worse, though the familiarity did little to temper the distaste curling in his gut.

He stood near the entrance, arms clasped loosely behind his back, surveying the room with a mild frown.

Managing Kyr’tsad’s reaction to the riduurok was one of those things he’d prefer to delegate, but Arla Fett was nothing if not vindictive. So, here he was, watching the news settle over the room after couching the deal in terms of tradition. 

He did a decent job, if he did say so himself, of avoiding the sentiment that the agreement was some sort of weak capitulation on their part. Nothing Arla could find fault in from where she stood, propped against the far wall, watching the reaction with as much attention as himself.

To the others in the room, she was the faceless, rather enigmatic ‘ad be Mand’alor’. By now, most knew her name to be Arla, but none seemed to link her with the name Fett.

A shame. They might have opinions about that. 

Of course, Tarin himself had made the mistake of connecting the dots in their Mand’alor’s presence. He had no doubts Lok would follow through on his threat of a slow and unpleasant death if Tarin were to spread that information, so he continued to bite his tongue.

Not that it mattered. Her connection to Jango Fett was going to become apparent soon enough if it hadn’t already. There was only so far they could stretch the assumption that they simply got along.

After his announcement, Tarin anticipated anger. A sharp, visceral rejection of the riduurok between Lok Vizsla and Mereel. Instead, it was more of an aimless resentment that struggled to find its voice.

A younger verd muttered, too loud not to be heard, "Tying himself to the Haat’ade. Might as well surrender the dha’kad’au now."

That was a bit extreme. Say what you will about Lok Vizsla, the way he wrangled Kyr’tsad and bent the organization to his will was impressive. Even Tarin could concede that.

There were scattered grunts of agreement, the swell of discontent thickening like a storm front.

Tarin said nothing at first. Silence was a weapon like any other, one the foolish wielded poorly, and the wise with precision. 

Another voice spoke, older, rougher. "Couldn’t even win the war. Now he hands us over with a bow and a kiss."

Arla’s glare boring into the side of his buy’ce was growing unpleasant. 

"Vizsla has always known the value of position," Tarin said at last, voice so bland it barely registered as an opinion at all.

A few heads turned toward him. A few frowns deepened.

"You think he planned this?" someone asked, cautious, almost unwilling.

Tarin turned his gaze toward the door, studying the dull sheen of the blast plating as if the answer to their unrest lay written there. His silence offered no confirmation, only space.

They’d do the work for him.

"They trust Mereel," another offered. "If the Mand’alor... if he stands beside him—"

"He leads him," the first soldier interrupted, voice tainted with the sudden taste of possibility.

"The Mand’alor has always been...pragmatic," Tarin continued, tilting his head slightly. "Strategic, even when sentiment clouds his path."

That, at least, was true, if infuriating. And surprising. One of the many unexpected things Tarin learned about the younger Vizsla in the past year.

A scoff from one of the younger men. "Strategic? Tying himself to the man who tried to destroy us?"

Tarin’s mouth twitched, too controlled to be a smile, but something close.

It was a failure of the Haat’ade to overlook that blood had been spilled freely on both sides. They were too caught up in their own grief to truly acknowledge that Kyr’tsad was riddled with it too.

He imagined at some point, that was going to become a problem.

"Perhaps he understands not all victories are won with blood," Tarin said simply. 

"Maybe," someone muttered, "maybe it's not surrender. Maybe it's strategy."

A murmur stirred among the men. Doubt gave way to a kind of uneasy admiration. Then, rather unpredictably, into smug amusement. Grins and half-serious wagers on how long it would take the Mand’alor to ‘charm’ Mereel into co-signing troop expansions.

It was…disconcerting, not to mention objectively laughable to imagine that Lok had somehow seduced Jaster Mereel into this union as part of a grand political maneuver. If anything, their Mand’alor was more likely to trip over his own conscience than master subterfuge. 

But facts mattered less than belief. And belief was malleable. 

They’d believe this to be an advantageous match. A smart play and a demonstration of strength.

Tarin kept his silence as one of the younger officers chuckled. “Gutsy move,” the young man muttered, nudging the soldier beside him. “But if he’s got Mereel wrapped up enough to make that kind of commitment—”

Another scoffed. “You really think it was his idea? Please. Probably Mereel trying to pin him down before he bolts again. I hear the Mand’alor’s skittish. Besides, have you seen how the two of them look at each other?”

Tarin’s left eye twitched. Yes, there was that. He preferred to ignore that.

“Skittish?” The first snorted. “He got half our old command structure blown to pieces and walked out holding an adiik on one hip and the dha’kad’au on the other. If that’s skittish, I don’t wanna see confident.”

Tarin’s frown deepened.

An exaggeration, but he didn’t correct them. It would serve no purpose.

Lok Vizsla had built a reputation, and regardless of its objective accuracy, it was solid and backed up by enough fact that the only real falsehood was perception.

Most of these soldiers lacked context. They were too young to remember the beginning of the war, too green to remember what Lok Vizsla used to be before he became a walking contradiction of reformist idealism wrapped in tactical brutality. Before anyone started calling him Mand’alor the Ruthless like it was an honorific.

There weren’t many left who would have witnessed when Tor tended to taunt Lok with his…infatuation. Nor did they know the man, at least tangentially, since he was an ik’aad.

But Tarin did.

He wouldn’t say he knew the younger Vizsla in any meaningful sense, but he had known Tor his entire life. Fought at his side before the first slogans of Kyr’tsad were ever inked into a datapad. Saw the fire in Tor’s eyes when he spoke of Mandalore’s future, of unity forged through discipline, tradition, and strength unmarred by compromise. It was not ideology, it was necessity. And for a time, he believed they could do it.

But Lok had always been… complicated.

When they were younger, Tor was overprotective as all haran, and there were a handful of years where Lok would trail after them like an irritating little shadow. 

But that ended, like most things, with age. By the time they reached verd’goten age, Tor outpaced him in every measurable way. He was taller, louder, stronger, sharper, a born commander. Lok remained slight, bookish, and unyieldingly stubborn in ways that grated. When Tor began forging Kyr’tsad, Lok vanished from his inner circle.

And for good reason.

Because Lok could not be relied upon to stay quiet.

Tor was always careful about who saw the two of them interact. He had to be. If it became common knowledge that Lok disagreed with Tor nearly every step of the way, things would have gotten…sticky when it came to Tor’s claims that his mission statement was in service to the will of the Manda.

But Lok always had blinders on when it came to Tor, and would take a public stand far too often. Honestly, Tarin pitied him back then. He was young, idealistic, and completely incapable of seeing the bigger picture.

Lok had been naive, almost charmingly so. A child playing at prophecy. He never understood that Tor’s strength wasn’t rooted in belief. It was rooted in control.

Tor had loved his brother, in his way. But he had loved Mandalore more. 

Every time Lok made a scene, Tor was forced to clean up the aftermath, reinforce his message, maintain the illusion that the will of a Seer aligned with Kyr’tsad’s growing doctrine. Because that was the story they needed. The narrative that made it all feel justified.

Tarin had admired Tor for that. For the discipline it took to lie to his own people, to conceal the fracture in his own bloodline, because admitting otherwise would’ve shattered the fragile unity they had worked so hard to build. Only Tor’s most trusted saw the full extent of the damage.

And most of them were dead now, by Lok’s hand.

He often wondered when it would be his turn.

He was sure his own day was coming soon, not that he intended to go down without a fight.

He turned away from the growing noise behind him, blocking out the idle speculations of his verde, he moved toward the exit. As much as he didn’t want to, he needed to speak with Lok.

He didn’t get far before he heard the tread of another set of boots falling into step beside his.

"That was clever," Arla Fett said, voice pitched low enough not to carry, her tone a careful balance between amusement and accusation. 

Tarin didn’t look at her or slow his pace.

"Clever" was not a compliment from her lips. It was a warning.

Sometimes he wondered if she truly saw through him.

“Be happy it worked,” was all he said before turning a corner in the direction of Lok’s office.

He went looking for Lok in the office Mereel had given him for the duration of their stay, though calling it an office was generous. It was a cramped, poorly ventilated room, likely once a storage closet, outfitted with a battered desk, a single terminal, and little else to recommend it as a space fit for leadership.

It was functional. That was all Lok ever seemed to ask for anymore.

It was still offensive.

The door slid open with a reluctant hiss, and Lok didn’t so much as startle. He merely looked up, eyes shadowed by fatigue and the unmistakable tension of being pulled in too many directions for too long. His shoulders didn’t square, his jaw didn’t clench, but there was something in the set of his posture that made it perfectly clear the intrusion was unwelcome.

“Did you need something, Wren?”

The words were almost angry, not that Tarin blamed him.

He took the seat across from Lok, and studied him. Even he couldn’t deny that Lok was beginning to look…worn down. Unlike his late brother, Lok did not thrive on power.

It was one of the many reasons he shouldn’t be doing this job but that was beyond Tarin’s control at the moment.

“I should have brought it up with you first,” he said, voice low and even. It wasn’t an apology. He wasn’t sure he could offer one. But it was… a step. A concession. They needed to clear the air.

Lok turned his attention back to whatever he was working on. Probably that long-gestating operation Lok had been orchestrating behind closed doors—the one he refused to discuss with Tarin, or anyone else still carrying Kyr’tsad colors.

It grated, of course it did. But Tarin wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t understand why.

Trust was a finite currency. And in the year they’d been working alongside each other, Tarin never made the mistake of assuming he was earning it.

“You should have,” Lok replied coolly.

A moment passed in uncomfortable silence before Lok looked up at him again. “Did you need something else?”

Tarin cleared his throat, an awkward, graceless sound that scraped against the suffocating stillness.

It was not his wheelhouse, this tentative reaching toward something resembling concern. But someone had to ask.

"Are you..." He faltered, adjusted. "Are you alright?"

Lok quirked an eyebrow, sardonic gesture so familiar it was almost painful to witness. “Do you give an osik?”

Well…Tarin couldn’t really argue with that. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know you wanted to abandon the title,” he said carefully.

“Just as you knew you wouldn’t let me but declined to inform me of that, right?” Lok asked coldly.

Not pulling any punches, then. 

“You needed to do your job,” Tarin said, the justification slipping from his tongue with the ease of repetition, though it tasted no less bitter than it had the first time.

"I’m attempting to," Lok said through gritted teeth, the crack in his composure widening just enough for Tarin to glimpse the bone-deep weariness beneath. "If that’s all, you can see yourself out."

With another sigh, Tarin stood, studying his current Mand’alor.

He'd seen Lok in many situations over the past year, but even when he faltered, even when he was exhausted, he had a determination about him that Tarin respected. Now, he just looked tired. Tired, and terribly young. As if he had finally abandoned the last pretense of invincibility and was too weary to care who saw it.

He looked…well, he looked like he needed a hug. Not that Tarin would even consider offering, though perhaps he should raise the issue with Mereel.

Manda knew that false Mand’alor would jump on the opportunity.

Lok leaned heavily against the banister of the porch attached to his borrowed apartment, the chill of the night air bleeding through the thin fabric of his sleeves. He let a long, pent-up breath slip free, watching the mist of it curl into nothingness. His comm blinked steadily in his peripheral vision three times before it connected, casting a pale blue glow as the miniature hologram of Tahlis Kobr flickered to life.

"You look tired," Tahlis observed bluntly, arms crossed and her expression carved from the unimpressed stone that seemed to be the birthright of every true goran.

Lok snorted. "Is that any way to greet your buir?"

Tahlis responded with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, managing to break nearly every stereotype of the stoic armorer class without even trying.

"Spare me," she said dryly. "What happened to your face?"

In spite of himself, Lok’s hand twitched toward the side of his jaw, brushing absently across the faint line where bacta still clung to a healing cut. He sighed.

"We came to an agreement with the Haat’ade," he said, as if that explained anything.

"Don’t dodge the question," Tahlis said, sharp as the tools she forged.

"I’m not," Lok muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I’m... getting there." He shifted his weight, pressing his knuckles into the banister until the pressure gave his hands something to focus on. "The solution was a riduurok."

Understanding dawned across her face almost immediately, the hardness in her expression giving way to a weary kind of sympathy.

"Pre’ika didn’t take it well?" she asked quietly.

Lok bit the inside of his lip, glancing out toward the darkness beyond the porch. "He didn’t," he said at last. His voice cracked slightly, and he hated how raw it sounded. "He didn’t do it on purpose. It just... it hasn’t been this bad since he learned about—" He stumbled over the words, the name catching painfully in his throat, even after all this time. "—his buir."

Tahlis’ mouth tightened. She knew better than to press him for details.

"You know this isn’t on you, right?" she said, softer now. "It’s his osik’la—"

"Blame doesn’t matter," Lok interrupted, shaking his head sharply. "He needs help. And I don't trust any of the gorane here." He dragged in a breath, the confession tasting like failure. "Can you come to Keldabe?"

"For my vod’ika?" she said, without hesitation but slightly sardonic. "Always."

Lok shook his head with a small grin. "Don’t call him that. He’ll get upset."

Tahlis chuckled, the sound smoothing some of the jagged edges inside him. "I’ll do everything I can," she promised. "But you know he’s about as willing to work with a goran as you are, right?"

Lok huffed, the corner of his mouth tugging up faintly. "Yeah, well. It’s you or the jetiise. I figured he’d pick the lesser evil."

Tahlis laughed, but it softened quickly. Her gaze grew more intent, assessing him. "And what about you?" she asked. "How are you feeling about the riduurok?"

Lok hesitated, something small and traitorous twisting behind his ribs.

"I’m content with it," he said finally, forcing the words into a shape that almost sounded true.

Tahlis lifted one skeptical brow in a perfect, silent rebuke.

He sighed, slumping forward onto the banister, forehead dropping to rest against the cool metal. "It’s not the riduurok," he admitted quietly. "It’s... it feels like a life sentence."

"With Mereel?"

Lok shook his head. "No. That’s... complicated. But it’s not bad. I could be happy about that, I think." 

Eventually, anyway. He could make his peace with it, at least. Probably. Yes, he was…a mess when it came to Jaster but he’s had a lot of experiencing stomaching the hurt that came with his feelings for the other man. That wasn’t the part of all this that felt like it was hollowing out his insides.

His voice dropped even further, barely audible. "I just always looked at being Mand’alor as temporary. Like something I could give back once it was finished bleeding me dry."

Tahlis’ eyes softened, the fire behind them dimming to something almost mournful. "Sometimes the path chooses us," she said, almost sadly. "All we can control is how we walk it."

Something in Lok’s chest twisted painfully. He nodded, unable to summon words that wouldn’t betray more than he was willing to admit, even to her.

"I, uh," he rasped, straightening. "I should get some sleep."

"Of course," Tahlis said easily. "I’ll head out in the morning."

"Vor entye," Lok murmured.

She smiled crookedly. "There’s no debt among aliit."

Lok huffed a quiet, almost-laugh, and cut the connection with a flick of his thumb, the porch sinking back into stillness.

The night had barely reclaimed its hold on him before a soft, deliberate throat-clearing behind him made Lok stiffen.

He glanced over his shoulder, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck, and found Jaster standing just inside the doorway.

He flushed immediately, cursing the part of himself that could still react so idiotically after all this time. "How long have you been there?" he asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around mortified.

"Not long," Jaster said easily, the words harmless enough, though there was something behind them that Lok couldn’t quite parse. "Was that a goran?"

Lok nodded, straightening out of pure reflex, like posture alone could scrub the vulnerability from the air. "Goran be aliit Vizsla. My... ad."

Jaster’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a glimmer of curiosity sparking behind his eyes. "Your ad?"

Lok laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that betrayed him by shaking just a little too much. "I adopted her," he explained, trying not to notice how ridiculously warm his ears felt. "After... well. We needed to replace the Vizsla goran. Jorad wouldn’t accept them into the clan, so... I did."

Jaster’s lips twitched, something like understanding flashing across his face. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth in a way that made it very, very unfair that Lok was expected to stand upright and form sentences.

"Ah," Jaster said, his voice dropping into something almost... fond. He hesitated, then added, "They’re coming?"

"Pre needs them," Lok said simply, because that was the only part that mattered.

Jaster’s brow furrowed slightly. "Pre’s kara-touched?" he asked, voice cautious in a way that made Lok’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

Lok made a so-so motion with his hand, a noncommittal tilt that probably said more than he wanted it to. Pre wasn’t kara -touched to any significant degree but the entire situation around it was…complicated.

Too many things were complicated nowadays.

"Is he a Seer?" Jaster pressed, tone turning gentle, as if afraid to push too hard.

Lok shook his head. "Not to my knowledge," he said.

He was grateful for that in a way that was probably unhealthy but he couldn’t help it. He would never want Pre to have to go through everything that came with that.

He shifted, finally turning to face Jaster fully, and immediately regretted it.

Jaster’s gaze caught on the fading cut along Lok’s cheek, the line of healing skin a stark accusation under the porch light. His expression darkened, flashing with an anger Lok wasn’t prepared for.

Jaster closed the distance between them, reaching out unexpectedly. His fingers brushed lightly against Lok’s jaw, tilting his face into better view.

Lok stiffened under the contact. It was entirely too easy to lean into it and he had to remind himself this was just Jaster inspecting his injury, even if his hands were warm in the cool night air and the touch was so gentle it ached.

"I’m fine," Lok said quickly, trying to step back. He wasn’t sure how long he could survive the contact.

"What happened?" Jaster demanded.

Lok, who had precisely zero defenses against that tone, swallowed hard and muttered, "Pre didn’t take the riduurok news well."

"Pre did this?" Jaster asked, voice dangerously soft.

"Jaster," Lok said sternly, catching his wrist and removing Jaster’s hand from his face. "Pre…he's been through too much for his age. He didn’t hurt me on purpose. It was a reaction."

Jaster’s jaw worked, a visible struggle playing out behind his eyes, but after a long moment, the tension bled from his frame and he lowered his hand, the absence of it leaving Lok colder than he liked.

"You’re right," Jaster said, voice roughened by something that sounded like guilt. "He’s only an adiik. I just..." He swallowed hard. "I don’t like seeing you hurt."

Lok offered him a small smile. "I’m fine," he said again, softer this time. "Really."

Which was a lie, but all the parts of him screaming that he wasn’t fine really had nothing to do with the shallow cut on his face.

Lok shifted awkwardly, trying and failing not to fidget under Jaster’s gaze.

"So," he said lightly, grasping for neutral ground, "everything good with Skirata?"

Jaster’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly, his mouth pulling into a line of tension before he schooled it into neutrality.

"Why?" he asked. It sounded…harsh.

Lok shrugged one shoulder. "You seemed... angry. Earlier. Did they do something?"

Lok was grateful that Skirata worked closely with Jaster, for the most part. They didn’t know each other well, but Skirata’s first impression of him was very different to everyone in Jaster’s camp. It made them easier to be around.

Jaster cleared his throat. "It’s nothing you need to worry about," he said, the words clipped enough to signal the conversation was closed.

Lok relaxed, a little. "Good," he said, smiling without thinking. "He’s the only Haat’ad besides you I knew before all this and who doesn’t look at me and just see Kyr’tsad."

Something shifted in Jaster’s face, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down.

"Can we talk about the riduurok?" Jaster asked, his voice a little too careful.

Lok sagged, dragging a hand through his hair until it stuck up at ridiculous angles. He was too tired to care.

"I started working on the guest list," he admitted. "And I know we have to talk about it. I know. But... it’s been a long day. With Pre and everything else..." He lifted his eyes to Jaster’s, and he knew he must look as exhausted as he felt. "Can we put it off? Just for tonight?"

And if Lok could manage it, indefinitely, but one day at a time.

Jaster hesitated, then nodded once. "Of course."

Lok leg out a relieved breath and pushed off the banister, forcing his legs to cooperate.

"I’m going to head to bed," he said, forcing a smile as he slipped past Jaster toward the door. "Jate ca, Jaster."

He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t think he could bear whatever was written on Jaster’s face if he looked back.

It was easier to keep moving.

Chapter Text

The Jedi Temple, Coruscant:

The commlink on Sifo-Dyas' desk chirped twice before flickering to life, projecting a hologram of Lok Vizsla mid-fidget, looking about as comfortable as a tooka in a swamp.

Sifo leaned back in his chair, grinning as he took in the sight.

"You’re late," he said, as if that were the most pressing matter at hand, when really he was just grateful Lok was calling at all.

Part of him genuinely expected that over time, their relationship with Lok would fade in favor of their respective responsibilities. Instead, he’d venture to say they’ve grown closer in some ways.

When Lok lived on Coruscant, their contact was limited to the times all of their schedules lined up with enough time for Lok to undergo some training and, if they were fortunate, some extra social time, usually shared over a cup of tea.

Now, though Lok was lightyears away and knee-deep in politics Sifo wouldn't touch with a ten-foot electrostaff, they spoke at least twice a month. Sometimes longer calls, sometimes brief check-ins; sometimes canceled last minute with apologies so stiff Sifo imagined Lok typing them out like he was filing a tax report. But still. It mattered.

Lok grimaced. "Negotiations ran long," he muttered, shifting his weight like he was prepared to dodge a physical blow through a transmission.

Sifo raised an eyebrow. "Negotiations? Are those still going?"

He knew Lok was hoping they'd wrap up soon. Frankly, so was he. Lok’s entanglement with Kyr’tsad had carved lines into him that even the most forgiving lighting couldn't hide anymore, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend not to notice.

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at Lok’s mouth. "Depends on your perspective," he said dryly. "I—there’s been a development."

Sifo straightened slightly, instincts sharpening. "Good development or bad development?"

Lok hesitated for a beat too long. "Depends on your perspective," he repeated, wry but unmistakably nervous now.

That didn’t sound good. "Lok," Sifo said, voice dropping into something gentler, "what happened?"

Lok exhaled a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs. "There’s going to be a riduurok," he said.

For a second, Sifo thought he must have misheard. Or misunderstood. His Mando’a was not the best, though he did have a fairly solid grasp on the language by now. He’d been studying.

"You’re getting married?" he repeated, just to be sure the universe hadn’t folded in on itself.

Lok nodded stiffly. "Yeah. It’s... scheduled."

"And to who, exactly?" Sifo prompted. Lok had made no mention of being in a relationship, though perhaps it was another one of those unspoken things.

His demeanor about the whole thing was…concerning.

Lok’s face twisted in a way that suggested he was bracing for impact. "Jaster Mereel," he said.

For a beat, Sifo could only stare. 

"Mereel’s a good man," he said, keeping his tone deliberately even, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the note of bright amusement threading through.

He didn’t know exactly what Lok needed from him in this moment—reassurance, absolution, a detailed strategy for running away and starting a new life in wild space—but he did know this: Lok deserved something good. Someone good, who might finally make him believe he wasn’t doomed to live and die by duty alone.

From the minimal interaction he had with Mereel on Korda VI, he thought this had the potential to be that good thing.

Lok was too stubborn to admit he needed people, but this might put him in the perfect situation to finally find companionship. And if the way Lok blushed whenever someone so much as mentioned Jaster’s name was anything to go by—well. There was room for hope yet.

Lok shifted again, scowling like he could feel the trajectory of Sifo’s thoughts even across a commlink. "I’m sending you the invitation," he muttered, clearly desperate to avoid discussing Mereel directly. 

He tapped something offscreen, and a second later Sifo’s comm chimed, dutifully announcing the incoming file.

"Don’t worry, Lok," he said lightly as he scanned the details, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I’m sure it’ll be the least traumatizing diplomatic merger in Mandalorian history."

Lok, for his part, looked like he was calculating the odds of faking his own death before the ceremony.

Sifo found the image comforting, in a way. Some things about Lok would never change, no matter how many titles the galaxy tried to hang around his neck.

Lok exhaled heavily, the kind of sigh Sifo usually reserved for emergency council meetings or accidental encounters with high-ranking senators. "It’s a whole political circus," he said, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose.

Sifo leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the desk, sensing the real concern simmering underneath the dry irritation. "You expected otherwise?" he asked, not unkindly. "You’re Mand’alor. Everything you touch is political now."

Lok grimaced, as if the words had been physically painful. "I’m supposed to contact Senator Organa next," he said, voice flat. "We need to formalize Senate recognition." He made a vague, strangled gesture, as though trying to physically bat away the idea before it contaminated him. "Apparently it’s all very important."

"It is," Sifo said, more gently. It did amuse him, though, how Lok seemed immune to awareness of his own importance in the political arena. "Kivan Organa is one of the few politicians left who has a working brain and an intact conscience. You could do worse."

"Could always do worse," Lok muttered darkly. "What about the jetiise?" he asked. "How does it work with them?"

Sifo allowed himself a moment to savor the phrasing— them —as if he wasn’t currently speaking to one. "You’ll have to go through the Council," he said. "Standard procedure. They’ll assign representatives to attend."

Lok’s grimace deepened to something approaching physical agony. "Random jetiise wandering around on my planet," he said, with the dread of anticipating a full-scale plague. "That’s not happening. Tensions are high enough as it is."

Sifo bit back a laugh. "They’ll be on their best behavior. Probably."

Lok's expression did not improve. "I don’t want random jetiise. I want you." He hesitated, then amended, almost grudgingly, "And Yan. Maybe Jocasta, if she’s willing to leave the Archives long enough. I kind of want to see what happens when she meets Jaster in person."

Sifo tilted his head, pretending to consider. "Explosions," he said finally. "Possibly litigation."

"Sounds about right," Lok said dryly.

Sifo hummed, schooling his features back to something neutral. "I’ll see what I can do," he promised, carefully not mentioning that he and Yan were, at present, very much grounded by Council decree, officially ‘under reassessment’ after the…events on Korda VI. 

Let’s just say the Council was less than pleased to learn  about that excursion, though Dooku did manage to spin it quite impressively.

It helped that he was able to draw inspiration from his former Padwan and call the whole affair the “Will of the Force.” Still, there were plenty of details that didn’t make it into that report. Sifo had a feeling that was going to come back to haunt them just as soon as the Council learned of this wedding.

Lok scoffed under his breath, but there was something warmer in the sound than true bitterness. "Appreciate it," he said. "But I’m not leaving it to chance. Knowing the Council, if I gave them the choice, they’d send Qui-Gon."

The horror in his voice was so genuine, so immediate, that Sifo couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

"You say that like it’s a death sentence," he managed, still grinning.

"It is," Lok said with deadpan finality. "For my patience.”

Lok and Qui-Gon had engaged in more than one…spirited debate over the years.

It had started, as many things did, with Arla.

Arla and Xanatos had clashed almost immediately, a volatile collision of two stubborn wills. 

And Lok, fiercely protective as he is, had never quite forgiven what he saw as Qui-Gon’s failure to step in and manage the situation properly. He didn’t blame Xanatos, of course. He’d only ever blamed the adults.

Lok had still been on Coruscant when Telos IV went sideways and they lost Xanatos for good. Sifo remembered the look on Lok’s face when the news broke, how all the tension and pointed disapproval had given way to grief.

Because Lok might have argued and criticized, but he had cared, in the end. It was who he was. And it was that same battered compassion that surfaced now.

"How is he?" Lok asked, the words awkward in his mouth, like he wasn’t quite sure he had the right to ask them.

Sifo’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t particularly care to examine.

"He’s coping," he said after a moment, choosing his words with care. "In his own way."

Which was to say, poorly but stubbornly, like he believed if he just walked far enough, bent the galaxy around himself enough, maybe he could outrun the shadow clinging to his heels.

Still, Sifo wasn’t about to let the mood drown them.

"You know," he said, tilting his head with faux-seriousness, "it’s not too late to elope. I hear Nar Shaddaa offers package deals. Includes weapon upgrades and very reasonably priced bounties on ex-lovers."

Lok gave him a look so dry it could have sparked a fire in the desert.

"I’ll take that as a no," Sifo said, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Across the projection, Lok shook his head, muttering something under his breath in Mando’a that Sifo didn’t catch but felt fairly confident was not a compliment.

When the call finally ended, the full reality of the situation dawned on Sifo-Dyas, and in place of his earlier amusement he found himself…stunned.

Lok Vizsla was getting married.

To Jaster Mereel.

He was going to have to tell Yan. 

"Lok is getting married," Sifo-Dyas announced, dazed and blinking as though the words themselves were foreign and had somehow bypassed the part of his brain responsible for rational thought. He stood motionless in the doorway, still clutching the commlink in one hand.

Dooku finished the sentence he had been rereading—twice, thanks to the interruption—and lifted his gaze, arching one imperious brow over the edge of the screen, his tone a perfect exercise in dry detachment. “Do try to maintain coherence, Sy.”

Lok was not engaged to be married. The very idea was preposterous. Surely, if he had been involved in any sort of romantic entanglement he would have mentioned it to Sifo-Dyas during one of their bi-monthly calls.

There would have been conversations. Vetting. Investigations into the lineage, cultural competency, and psychological constitution of the alleged partner. One could not, after all, entrust Lok’s emotional welfare to just anyone. 

“I’m not being dramatic,” Sy said, gesturing faintly as though the words themselves would take shape in the air. “He said it plainly. He’s getting married. Even forwarded a holo-invite.”

Dooku blinked once, then carefully set aside the article he had been reading—a scathing deconstruction of the latest Senate proposal on Outer Rim taxation, which, while deeply flawed, at least operated within the boundaries of logic. He folded his hands over one knee and regarded his oldest and closest friend with measured patience.

Sy, still visibly in the throes of mild emotional shock, drifted toward the adjacent couch and collapsed into it as though the very furniture might provide existential answers.

Dooku released a sigh. “And who, pray tell, is the fortunate bride?”

Wordlessly, Sifo handed him the comm.

Dooku took it, preparing himself for the worst. The holo-invite blinked to life. It was… Mandalorian. That is to say: blunt, inelegant, and entirely lacking in grace. There were no flowing lines, no formal salutation, no indication of taste or occasion. It resembled a logistical communique more than an invitation, as if the event in question were not a ceremonial union but a supply drop.

He read it twice to be certain. The name confirmed his suspicions.

“Ah,” he said at last, his tone cooled to a glacial detachment. “A romantic gesture, evidently.”

Sy groaned into the cushions. “I told him any Jedi attendance would need to be formally approved by the Council.”

Dooku returned the comm with the same delicacy one might afford a contaminated relic, his expression not so much displeased as politely seething.

He rose to retrieve his tea from the sideboard, pouring it primarily out of a need for order in the small things, particularly when the large ones had taken leave of sense. He sipped once, then turned back to the room.

“To be clear,” he said slowly, “this… union is voluntary?”

Sifo made a noise that could have been agreement, or indigestion. “It’s a political match, more or less. Tarin Wren’s idea, to my understanding. I believe the goal is to unify Haat’ade and Kyr’tsad support. Mereel didn’t exactly propose with flowers.”

“No,” Dooku murmured, his voice clipped and arid. “I imagine he didn’t.”

And Lok deserved no less.

He stared down at his tea until it was tepid and still untouched, feeling frustration begin to settle in his chest.

Setting aside the appalling formatting of the invitation, the unseemly haste, and the absolute absence of refinement expected of so significant a rite, there remained a more troubling concern: Yan Dooku did not approve of Jaster Mereel.

Oh, as Mand’alor, sure. The man had all the makings of a solid leader and a frankness that was quite a rare find in the political arena. He was level headed, intelligent, surprisingly well-read, and compassionate enough to genuinely care about his people while maintaining a pragmatism that ensured he avoided the trap of a bleeding heart. And he had the rare ability to inspire without manipulation and to lead without ego.

The people of Mandalore were in great hands, he was sure.

However, none of those qualities made him good enough for Lok.

After all the challenges life put him through, Lok lived under the perpetual misconception that he wasn’t good enough. That his value lay only in what he could offer, never in who he was.

It led to a tendency to sacrifice himself like it might give him worth and made him entirely too selfless.

And now they intended to marry him off like a piece of diplomatic artillery.

Dooku’s mouth thinned to a sliver of disapproval.

If Lok were to marry—and Dooku remained unconvinced that was truly necessary—then it should be to someone who adored him.

Someone who worshipped the ground he walked on and erased that doubt that left him feeling unlovable. Someone with a spine, certainly, but also with poetry in their soul. Sophistication. Kindness. 

He didn’t deserve to be a prop in a marriage that would always, at its core, be a political tool. It would only feed those festering doubts and Dooku could not abide by it.

The Council chamber was unusually quiet the next morning. That in itself was noteworthy.

Dooku did not need to glance around to confirm that every Master present had turned their full attention to the holographic display hovering in the center of the room. 

A simple thing, really.

An invitation containing a suspiciously specific request for the attendance of Masters Yan Dooku, Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta Nu at the formal reception marking the union of Mand’alor Vizsla and Mand’alor Mereel through strategic matrimony.

Though, naturally, it did not phrase it quite so bluntly.

Dooku steepled his fingers beneath his chin and allowed himself a moment to savor the inevitable, dawning realization as it spread across the room like ink seeping into cloth.

The debate began, as it often did, with that most fragile of certainties: assumption.

"Strange," Oppo Rancisis said first, coiling a branchlike hand thoughtfully around the edge of his chair. "Did you not report the death of a Mand’alor Vizsla following that... spontaneous excursion to Korda VI?"

"Indeed we did," Sifo-Dyas said, his voice betraying nothing, though Dooku—seated to his left—could practically feel the effort it cost him to keep it level. "This must be another."

"A common family, it seems," Even Piell muttered, squinting suspiciously at the names. "Are they also connected to Master Tarre Vizsla?"

Before Dooku could intervene, Mace Windu’s attention sharpened, his brow furrowing into lines of cautious memory. "Did we not have a Vizsla logged on the long-term access system?" he asked, his gaze swinging toward Jocasta Nu, who sat composed and serene, if notably more interested in her datapad than in offering premature clarifications. "A descendant of Tarre. Some scholar completing a thesis, if memory serves."

Master Windu, Dooku suspected, was nowhere near as oblivious as he purported to be. Likely due to gossip fed to him through Padawan Billaba.

At the mention of the archives, Jocasta inclined her head and pulled up the relevant record. Her presence was requested because her name was explicitly listed on the invitation and she was deriving far too much pleasure from the situation.

Unlike most others in the room, she was aware of the complete truth behind Lok’s prolonged presence in the Temple, with all of its unfortunately complex context.

"Lok Vizsla," she confirmed, voice smooth but tinged with something perilously close to fondness. "A thoroughly respectful young man, by my estimation. His daughter, however..." She allowed herself a brief, pained sigh in lieu of explanation. 

A ripple of vague amusement passed around the room.

Arla had, unfortunately, been responsible for what had become known as the Shelving Incident.

Unlike her father, she was no longer allowed access to the Archives.

"We have also received multiple applications and appeals for access," Jocasta continued with barely suppressed irritation, "from one Jaster Mereel."

At that, Dooku did allow himself a small, private smile.

Mace turned his attention squarely on him next, one brow rising in deliberate inquiry. "Master Dooku," he said, voice deceptively mild, "did your trip to Korda VI have anything to do with this Lok Vizsla?"

Dooku affected a faint tilt of the head, the very picture of intellectual patience. "As previously reported, we were compelled to journey there," he said smoothly, "by a vision Master Sifo-Dyas experienced. It was, we believed, the Will of the Force."

Not a falsehood, exactly. A version of the truth.

"And yet," Master Poof said, eyes narrowed, "you are carefully avoiding the question."

"Was Lok Vizsla present?" Mace pressed.

Dooku allowed a small pause—just long enough to be irritating—before replying. "He might have been."

"And why," Mace asked, in a tone that would have turned lesser men to stone, "would a political leader of Mandalore request your presence for his wedding celebration?"

Dooku’s lips curved faintly at the corners, a ghost of condescension. "Presumably because of our role in facilitating the end of Mandalore’s civil unrest," he said, each word polished to a mirror sheen.

Across the room, Ki-Adi-Mundi’s temple pulsed visibly with frustration.

"Would you care to explain," the Cerean said, voice tight, "why the Council was not informed that one of our …guests was ascending to political supremacy?"

Dooku steepled his fingers again, adopting a posture of elegant condescension. "I submitted a full report following Korda VI," he said. "Perhaps you recall it."

"A report," Yarael Poof interjected, "which failed to contain any mention of this Vizsla."

"I deemed the specifics unnecessary at the time," Dooku said smoothly. "Tor Vizsla was dead. The civil conflict had concluded. Mandalore was, at least temporarily, at peace. These were the pertinent facts."

"And the involvement of this Lok Vizsla?" Plo Koon asked, his tone more measured but no less pointed.

Dooku allowed the barest trace of a smile to ghost across his mouth. "A regrettable oversight," he said. "In the chaos of post-conflict stabilization, minor details occasionally fall by the wayside."

Mace’s glare could have scorched stone. In fairness, the events that unfolded on Korda VI had apparently resulted in a massive shatterpoint event, so his suspicion on the topic was warranted. "You neglected to mention that a Force-sensitive Mandalorian you personally vouched for became Mand’alor."

"I merely refrained," Dooku corrected, "from burdening the Council with information it was ill-prepared to receive with appropriate discretion."

Sifo-Dyas looked very much like he was on the verge of either laughing hysterically or flinging himself out the nearest window to avoid the inevitable inquiry. Possibly both.

"I trust you will appreciate," Dooku continued, his voice the perfect balance of civility and restrained disdain, "that we acted in accordance with our mandate: to preserve peace, and to heed the Will of the Force when it reveals itself."

Windu raised an eyebrow. “He’s invited you,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You, Master Sifo-Dyas, and Madame Nu. Rather specific, isn’t it?”

"Oh?" Dooku murmured, gaze sliding back toward the invitation still hovering innocently at the center of the room. "How generous. It may be an opportunity to deepen diplomatic ties with Mandalore’s current leadership."

That, at least, was technically true. 

Of course, reaching that conclusion required another two hours of debate. Sending himself and Sifo-Dyas was…controversial following the breaches in protocol related to the Korda VI incident.

But in the end, it was approved. Not that there had been much choice. The Council was too desperate for the chance to secure Mandalorian diplomacy to decline.

Not to mention the rumors of imperial expansion in the Outer Rim that their Shadows have struggled to obtain intel on. This was an opportunity to investigate.

Dooku graciously accepted the mission to improve diplomatic relations between the Jedi Order and the Mandalorians with a side of investigation into the political and military state of the sector.

But when he boarded the transport, it was with an entirely separate goal.

He was going to stop a wedding.

The Senate Rotunda, Coruscant:

Snaggles was shedding again.

Catastrophically.

Not the elegant, seasonal sort of molting that left behind delicate tufts one might gather for weaving (a project Kivan had once commissioned, disastrously, for a winter cape). No, this was a full-scale biological upheaval. A complete epidermal betrayal. He had only turned his back for a moment—perhaps two—during a committee briefing on sector-wide medical distribution inequalities (which, admittedly, he had only attended to ogle Senator Askrev’s shoulder holsters), and by the time he returned, Snaggles had transformed the entirety of his office chaise into something resembling a haunted mop.

Kivan sighed fondly as he settled the cutie in his lap. "Yes, my radiant abyss of beauty," he cooed, scratching the patch of fur behind his left ear. "Papa knows you disapprove of political missives interrupting cuddle hour, but this one was important."

Still, Kivan mourned the chaise.

He made a mental note to send an apologetic bouquet to his upholstery specialist on Chandrila and turned back to his datapad, which had been blinking with quiet menace for the past three minutes.

The wedding invitation was still open. A crisp, no-nonsense Mandalorian datafile with a tone so blunt it bordered on hostile. The wording was utilitarian, the aesthetics nonexistent, and the RSVP instructions alarmingly direct. 

Kivan had nearly fainted with delight when he received it.

He read it again and allowed a slow, indulgent sigh to slip past his lips. "Mand’alor Vizsla," he murmured aloud, savoring the weight of it. “Well, well. Lok really did it.”

Not that he had ever doubted it, per se. Lok Vizsla had always been something of a force of nature and Kivan had once mistaken all that quiet, haunted grit for romantic intrigue.

It hadn’t lasted long.

Two weeks, three questionable daydreams, and a mildly humiliating moment involving the phrase “beskar can’t protect you from charm” —which Lok had blinked at like Kivan had spoken an ancient dialect—and the crush had been reassigned to healthier outlets.

Now, Lok was getting married to one Jaster Mereel. Kivan had questions. So many questions. A small novella’s worth, really.

He tapped the edge of the datapad thoughtfully. This wedding presented several promising opportunities for humanitarian collaboration, especially with all the rumored Mandalorian activity in the Outer Rim. He would need to speak with the Queen.

He reached delicately for the comm controls and prepared to schedule an official Alderaanian delegation.

Naturally, he would attend in person.

He would wear something stunning.

He would bring Snaggles. Lok would be excited to see him. The two of them always had a great bond.

A soft chime alerted Kivan of his next appointment. This one, at least, Snaggles could attend.

He arrived at the Alderaani Medical Pavilion, nestled in Coruscant’s upper levels, precisely on time, bearing a small bouquet of gold-and-coral starblossoms—an indulgence grown in his personal garden, meticulously arranged by his housekeeper, and entirely wasted on a child in a coma. Still, they brightened the room, and Kivan firmly believed that no recovery space should be allowed to wallow in sterile monotony. A splash of color, a good story, and a little irrational optimism did wonders for the soul.

He swept into the private wing with the gentle rustle of silk-lined robes. The child—little Tyla’ru—lay in her usual position, the beeping of the monitors offering their rhythmic, infuriatingly uninspired accompaniment. She hadn’t moved in two years, barring the therapy he was covering to ensure her body continued to develop properly, but the doctors said she might be able to hear. They always said that. And so Kivan took his seat beside her and began catching her up on the latest while Snaggles hopped off of his shoulders and took his favorite spot next to her on the bed.

“You’ll never guess what I received this morning, darling,” he began, carefully arranging his sleeves before leaning forward, voice lowered conspiratorially. “An invitation to the wedding of the century. From Lok. Yes, that Lok, who is apparently Lok Vizsla and not Naasade. I know. I gasped, too.”

He paused for effect, watching her face for any flicker of response. None came. Still, he smiled and continued, because she deserved to hear something that wasn’t another clinical update.

“It’s to be held on Mandalore, of course. Where else? Drenched in tradition and solemnity, I imagine, but I do hope there’s decent lighting. Mandalorians are many things, sweet girl, but I have rarely seen one plan an event with proper ambience. It’s all steel and stone and dramatic speeches. Quite intimidating. And delicious, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

He gave a slow, wistful sigh and reached into his inner pocket, withdrawing the holo-invite. 

He reached out, brushing a careful hand over the blanket tucked around Tyla’ru’s tiny, motionless form.

In truth, Lok Vizsla had set Kivan’s life on a different path following the explosion in the youth home on Coruscant’s lower levels two years ago. The same explosion that put little Tyla’ru in her current state.

The experience was a bit of a wake up call and while he couldn’t undo it, he could do better. He was attempting to, anyway.

But that was a tired topic so he continued on about the wedding. 

“I’m truly happy for him,” Kivan said aloud, tilting his head as he studied the invitation. “Or… well, I’m somewhere between genuinely happy and profoundly betrayed that I wasn’t asked to assist with floral arrangements. But we can’t all be perfect.”

His smile softened as he set the invite aside, gaze returning to the bed. "Of course, I shall be attending," he said loftily, tossing an imaginary cape over his shoulder. "Wouldn’t dream of missing it." 

A wicked grin tugged at his mouth. Yes, this wedding was going to be fun.

Snaggles sneezed explosively onto Tyla’ru’s shoulder where he’d curled up, a rumpled heap of fur and incomprehensible noises, dreaming of havoc as usual. Kivan patted him absently.

“I’ll bring you something,” he promised, his voice gentler now, all the performance softening into something real. “A gift from Lok’s home. Something small and fierce and brave. Just like you.”

He sat with her a while longer, telling her various tales from the time Lok served as his bodyguard, first out of necessity and later because Kivan appreciated the presence and opinion of a man who didn’t give a damn about his political or royal status. 

He stayed until his appointment alarm blinked politely at him, then reached out to tuck the blanket around her. “Rest well, little star. I’ll tell you all about it when I return.”

And with that, Kivan rose, straightened his robes with a practiced snap, and swept from the room. He had several appointments to make and a closet full of silk waiting to be weaponized.

After all, it was a Mandalorian wedding. One must be properly armed.

The Vizsla Stronghold, Concord Dawn:

“I received an interesting transmission today,” Naera said, voice almost casual, as though she were commenting on the weather and not detonating their evening.

Jorad did not glance up from his plate. Latemeal, when it was just the two of them, ought to have been a quiet, clinical affair. An unspoken agreement of routine silence, the only proper thing left between them. 

But she knew this. So, that transmission must be important.

Jorad topped off his glass, the wine a bitter shade of red that suited the occasion. "Oh?" he said, voice clipped enough to be mistaken for polite inquiry by a fool.

Naera cleared her throat. An irritating habit.

“Lok is getting married.”

His cutlery clattered against the ceramic as he dropped it, fingers going momentarily numb. He recovered quickly enough, though the sting of humiliation at his own lapse burned.

“To which poor soul?” he asked at last, voice slicing the air with something closer to cruelty than curiosity. “I can’t imagine anyone willing to endure his condition indefinitely.”

Naera hesitated, then lowered her gaze, as if she already knew what her answer would provoke. “Jaster Mereel.”

He didn’t bother to contain the scowl that twisted his face. Of course. The former partner. The so-called Mand’alor of the Haat Mando’ade. The sentimental fool with just enough strategic sense to make himself useful, and just enough poetry in his soul to fall for Lok’s ruinous idealism. And above all, a fraud.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Lok was supposed to walk into Keldabe a visionary and walk out a failure. He was supposed to learn, in public and humiliating fashion, that the people did not crave peace born of weakness. That they would never follow his naive, self-righteous delusions. An enduring reminder that no matter how loudly he proclaimed himself a Vizsla, he was and would always remain an aberration.

A riduurok was actually viable. Therefore, it could not be allowed.

Jorad rose without excuse, the chair scraping against the floor like a rebuke. He did not acknowledge Naera calling after him. Let her sit there and reflect on the consequences of her coddling. Perhaps if she had not softened Lok’s edges with mother’s guilt and whispered comforts, if she had let him bleed a little, he might have learned his place before becoming a murderer and an embarrassment to the clan.

Perhaps then, he would still have his son.

He did not return to his office and went instead to the communications terminal hidden behind the war room display—a remnant of older times, from when messages were passed in codes and survival depended on knowing who could still be trusted.

There were few left. Lok had seen to that.

He did not kill them all—not with weapons, at least—but the result was the same. The commanders loyal to Tor were dead. The traditionalists were scattered or buried. Those who remained had chosen cowardice over principle, sworn fealty to a name that should have ended in exile or execution. 

Mand’alor the Ruthless, they called him. A costume of glory meant to conceal the weakness festering beneath.

Jorad keyed in the commlink sequence of the one operative he could rely on to have maintained loyalty to Tor and see the way Lok has been poisoning Kyr’tsad for what it was.

The signal blinked twice, then connected.

“Wren.”

“Tarin.” A slow, satisfied smirk settled over Jorad’s face. “It’s time we had a proper conversation about Lok.”

Chapter Text

The True Mandalorian Matchmaking Committee was having a rough go of things.

Sure, the official riduurok announcement was a solid victory. Arla had basked in the glory of it for a solid forty-seven minutes. 

The general consensus across multiple military units and one covertly eavesdropped jetii holocall was that the matter was settled. Jaster Mereel and Lok Vizsla were officially scheduled to be bonded in political matrimony and mutual oblivious yearning.

It should’ve been a turning point. It was a turning point. Unfortunately, it was turning the wrong way.

Apparently, getting engaged and acting like you’re engaged were two very different things. Who knew?

That would’ve been tragic enough on its own, but no, that wasn’t enough. Pre had simultaneously decided to enter his villain arc. 

Precious, previously neutral, now inexplicably moody, Pre seemed to have developed a sudden and thoroughly inconvenient attitude toward Jaster that hovered somewhere between aggressive territorial posturing and outright romantic sabotage.

Arla didn’t know what his problem was, but she knew it was ruining everything. 

Everyone was so busy, the only real window they had to shove their two rulers together without work as a convenient distraction was family time. But all it took was one noise of protest from Pre and Lok would tell Arla that he understood if she wanted to go next door to eat with Jango, but he wasn’t going to force Pre to do it. And because Pre was an adiik , Lok would stay with him.

Sweet in theory but infuriating in practice. It meant Arla had to balance the mental gymnastics of meddling, countermanaging Pre, and also keeping Jango from breaking something out of secondhand frustration. All at the same time.

It was a thankless job.

On top of that, even without being fully aware of the plan, Pre realized he had this inconvenient little thing called leverage. And oh, did he start using it. The caliber of his demand for bribes was getting a bit out of control. 

First it was candy. Then it was imported candy. Then it was candy plus a promise to “never see Jaster ever again,” which was obviously not going to happen, but it didn’t stop him from demanding it. And then the kitchen staff started asking questions about why the dessert stock kept mysteriously vanishing, which led to Arla having to explain that the sweets were being used in the noble service of the True Mandalorian Matchmaking Committee’s mission.

To their credit, the kitchen staff immediately began baking specialty desserts for strategic deployment. But even those were starting to lose effectiveness.

Pre was simply more committed to keeping Lok and Jaster apart than he was to any of the usual bribes or incentives that once worked like magic on him. But any time Arla asked him why, all he gave her was an impassioned, “He’s stupid!”  

Super helpful. Really cleared everything right up.

Interrogating Lok about what was going on with Pre didn’t bring any insight. All she got was a soft “don’t worry about it, Arl'ika." That was it. No amount of poking, prodding, or snooping has yielded any insight.

The whole thing reeked of unresolved grief and deeply buried abandonment issues, which, while valid, were not helpful to the greater romantic trajectory. 

Thankfully, for the moment, she had some blackmail up her sleeve. That was helping keep Pre compliant enough, but it was a finite resource. 

She was exploring alternatives.

Goran Kobr had also shown up around the same time Pre started acting out, which Arla didn’t mind personally. It was fun to tease the goran about being her vod, even though everyone knew that was nothing more than a technicality Lok used to circumvent Jorad’s power trip. 

However, Goran Kobr coming to Keldabe meant something was up. Couple that with the suspicious amount of time she was spending with Pre, and Arla was drawing some conclusions.

All of those conclusions were strictly not Arla’s problem. That particular subplot fell outside her emotional jurisdiction. She was not equipped to handle whatever Pre was working through in his tiny, rage-filled heart.

Besides, she was already carrying this entire love story on her back. Her spine could only take so much. 

So, Arla had done the only reasonable thing: she bribed Pre with even more sugar, a new datapad game, and the heavily implied promise that if he left the house for the rest of the day, no one—specifically Lok—would be informed about the modified jetpack stunt he tried in the stairwell last week. 

With the potential saboteur temporarily neutralized, she grabbed Jango by the collar, rallied Myles, Silas, and any other competent warm body within arm’s reach, and declared a tactical regroup.

Operation RIDUUROK might have been a success, but clearly, their work was not done. Operation SMOOCH was back in session. 

The mess hall table had become their war table. Crumbs had been pushed aside to make room for maps, datapads, and one suspiciously detailed psychological profile of Jaster Mereel that Myles absolutely swore he did not compile himself.

Arla tapped the screen in front of her like a general addressing her troops.

“So,” she began, tone bright and foreboding, “we need to talk about the unfortunate outcome of Phase Kad’ika.”

That particular phase was implemented to keep their momentum going right after the riduurok announcement and fell disappointingly flat. She still maintained that, had Pre not turned on them and grown super clingy overnight, it would have been successful, but what’s done is done. 

They simply needed to recalibrate to the change in circumstances.

Jango, who had been nursing a bitter caf and even bitterer opinion of adult romance, groaned into his cup. “Please don’t call it that.”

“Too late,” Silas muttered, flipping through a list Arla had color-coded for dramatic impact. “It’s logged.”

“Phase Kad’ika was not a failure,” Arla continued, undeterred. “It was just… underwhelming. And tragically sabotaged by outside forces. Namely: a volatile combination of emotional repression, miscommunication, and one small child with unresolved issues.”

“Pre bit him, Arla,” Jango said flatly.

“He snapped at him,” she countered, because details mattered. It was an attempted bite but he didn’t break skin, so it doesn’t count. Besides, Jaster thought it was copikla.  

“But anyway. The point is, we recalibrate. We adapt. We escalate.”

That should probably be their motto at this point.

Myles perked up. “Escalate how? Like, emotionally? Or with weapons?”

“Emotionally first,” Arla said, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t ruling anything out. “The problem is, they’re stuck in ‘political arrangement’ territory. What we need is something that nudges them back toward actual romantic development.”

There was a pause.

“...Combat?” Silas guessed.

“Tried that,” Jango grumbled. “But they won’t fight each other because of ‘optics’. At least not until after the riduurok.”  

“Was that why Skirata got his shebs kicked?” Myles asked, eyes a little too eager for it to be healthy. “Too much pent up tension?”

Arla’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That was a multilayered situation.”

“Oh?” Myles arched a lavender eyebrow. “Would these layers happen to include the sudden increase in menial assignments handed down from Mand’alor Mereel? You know, the ones that mostly involve Skirata doing warehouse inventory, desk audits, and cataloging folding chairs?”

Arla cleared her throat and declined to answer on the grounds that it would definitely incriminate her. 

Yes, she may have casually implied that her buir and Skirata had a… thing. (Gross.) And yes, she may have done that specifically to light a fire under Jaster and get him to finally make a move. Not that it worked.

Hypothetically, it's possible that she hadn’t considered how…reactive Jaster would be to a perceived threat. And it’s also possible that Skirata was still dealing with the consequences of that…rumor.

But Kal didn’t know about the seeds planted in Jaster’s mind, which meant he was under the impression it was regular old jealousy. For safety reasons, it was going to stay that way.

In her defense, no one told the di’kut to push Mereel’s buttons like that. That was completely on him and he can deal with the consequences of his own actions. 

“We all know that they’ll hide behind the political side of all of this for as long as we let them, so we need to remind them they’re not just co-governing Mandalore,” Arla asserted with a solid amount of authority. “They’re married. Or they will be. And if I have to manufacture a scenario where they realize that in a moment of unexpected, inconvenient vulnerability, then so be it.”

“That sounds like a threat,” said Myles, who was grinning now.

“It was,” she replied sweetly.

She leaned forward, tapping the screen again to pull up the preliminary notes for Phase... hmm. No. The current working title was “Sweaty Proximity Crisis,” but that lacked a certain poetry. “Phase Locker Room Revelation” maybe? “Shower Thoughts”? She could workshop it later.

That plan involved rerouting half the palace’s maintenance requests, subtly sabotaging the climate control in exactly one quadrant of the recreation wing, and arranging a scenario in which Lok and Jaster ended up locked in a communal locker room, one broken door sensor, and a series of increasingly implausible mechanical failures that—completely coincidentally—forced them into prolonged, uncomfortable proximity.

It was, in all fairness, a pretty aggressive maneuver that landed somewhere between creative and crime. Something she’d filed under desperate measures just below “get them drunk and lock them in the archives.” 

Was it invasive? Technically.

Was it a misuse of palace infrastructure and a violation of at least six maintenance regulations? Arguably.

Would it work?

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did…maybe. She had real faith in the bunker and look how that turned out. She’s learned to manage her expectations. 

For now, she smiled to herself, scribbling one last note under Romantic Escalation Tactics, and circled it twice.

“How are you solving the latemeal problem?” Myles asked with a frown and finally treating this like the serious operation it was. 

Arla suspected that had something to do with the ridiculous amount of credits he had riding on the two Mand’alore kissing before the riduurok.   

The bets had gotten a lot more specific. Times. Locations. Wardrobe conditions. It was borderline unhinged. Arla respected it.

Her grin turned just the tiniest bit evil, but before she could unveil her genius plan, Jango cut in with a world-weary sigh.

“It’s becoming a real problem. Pre really doesn’t like my buir, even though he seemed fine with him before the riduurok was announced. But now, one pout and Lok cancels. Plus, he’s getting greedy with the bribes. I had to steal a power converter for him the other day.”

Arla’s eyes narrowed. “You got caught, didn’t you.”

“I got intercepted,” Jango corrected, which was not at all the same thing, “by Kal. Which meant instead of a lecture, he just handed me a box of spare parts for future bribes. But he said if our buire are still being di’kute by the time we run out of those, he’s putting me on inventory duty. So we need to speed this up.”

Arla frowned. That was deeply disappointing. If he was out here getting caught like that, clearly, she’d been neglecting her ori’vod duties and failing in her sacred responsibility as Jango’s designated bad influence. 

But correcting his criminal education would have to wait. There were more pressing concerns. Various clan heads, delegations, and other miscellaneous wedding guests would be arriving over the next week and that would only make things more complicated. The window for easy-access scheming was rapidly closing.

“Okay, yes,” she allowed, “the sudden loss of Pre’s tooka-eyes puts us at a tactical disadvantage. But I’ve accounted for that.”

Several skeptical looks were shot her way. She didn’t dignify any of them with acknowledgment. Honestly, after everything she’d pulled already, you’d think they’d have learned to just trust the process.

“For tonight, we won’t need bribery to manufacture some family time,” she declared confidently. “And Pre won’t be there to ruin it either.”

The skeptical looks only got worse but she didn’t let it get to her. They really should have more faith in how well she knew her buir.  

Okay, so Pre had mastered the fine art of weaponized pouting, and sure, Lok was susceptible to guilt trips—especially when said guilt trips came from small children with abandonment trauma and aggressively expressive eyes—but Arla knew better than anyone that there was a threshold. A line where Lok stopped letting himself be emotionally blackmailed and actually exercised his parental authority.

She knew because she’d spent her entire pre-teen life testing that exact boundary like it was her personal mission.

And yeah, she got away with a lot. But not everything. Which was how she knew that if she could just manufacture the right circumstances, then even Pre wouldn’t be able to derail her plans.

It was, admittedly, a little manipulative. But the moral high ground had been forfeited about six schemes ago. At this point, the line wasn’t even visible. It vanished in the distance like a speck in a rearview mirror.

Besides, she had a good feeling about this one.

Lok Vizsla and Tarin Wren were locked in a silent, slow-burning standoff that would’ve probably looked comical if anyone else were to enter the room. It was, in Lok’s expert opinion, a colossal waste of time. He wasn’t going to budge. There was quite literally nothing Tarin could do to change that fact.

Well, unless he was prepared to dig up some of Kyr’tsad’s vintage problem-solving techniques, but as far as Lok was aware, he valued breathing. 

Now, most days, Lok was more than willing to hear him out. He kept Tarin around for a reason and it definitely wasn’t his charming personality.

This decision was an exception. Was it ill-advised? Maybe. From a political perspective, anyway. A smidge vindictive? Absolutely. 

He couldn’t find a single osik to give.

What Lok didn’t understand was why Tarin cared enough to get heated about this. He wasn’t known for passion; he was known for precision and keeping his temper vacuum-sealed until absolutely necessary. Like most Mando’ade, Tarin had his volatile moments, but those were reserved for extreme circumstances. 

And the fact that this issue had Tarin visibly reactive set off more than a few internal alarm bells. 

The bitter, gnawing pit that had long since taken up residence in Lok’s gut twisted tighter, sour with the question he didn’t want to ask: Did Tarin ever fight this hard when Tor greenlit child torture and civilian massacres? Or was this level of outrage a privilege reserved exclusively for Lok?

Because if so, Lok would really like to know what earned him that distinction.

“You need to send him an invitation,” Tarin repeated through gritted teeth, each word sharper than the last as he tried to find the angle that might magically make Lok care. “I know you two have your issues, but he’s the Alor. It’s a matter of respect.”

Lok simply arched a brow, doing his best impersonation of Yan when someone said something particularly idiotic and he was politely refraining from eviscerating them for it. He’d been practicing. Yan would be proud.

Tarin, however, was not proud. Nope, he was still experiencing a concerning amount of frustration.

His eye twitched.

Lok mentally tallied a point on the board. That twitch always came right before Wren started talking with his hands, which promptly he did, shoving his chair back as he stood up.

“You can’t not invite the Vizsla Alor to your riduurok, Lok!”

Technically, no. He couldn’t. Mandalorian etiquette had some flexibility, but it did frown on that sort of thing. Especially when the whole point of the riduurok was to form a unified government. 

Excluding any Alor would be counterproductive. It was a provocation and a guaranteed diplomatic mess. When the House in question was ancient, obscenely wealthy, politically influential, and the backbone of a major faction within the Mando’ade—a buir to the Mand’alor no less, if only in the loosest, most reluctantly acknowledged technical sense—exclusion would be seen as an insult worthy of retaliation. 

So yes. Lok had to invite him. However, there was no rule that said he had to be gracious about it.

He checked. Twice. 

“I gave Naera a plus one,” Lok said coolly. “That will allow him to attend, if he can be bothered.”

There was a long beat of stunned silence.

Was it petty? Yes. Did he care? Not even a little. 

In fact, he’d very seriously considered writing Naera Awaud and guest just to really drive the point home. The only thing stopping him was a Kas’ voice in his head reminding him that technically, he was Mand’alor and technically, there were expectations. 

It was getting harder and harder to care about those too.

Tarin stared at him in disbelief. “Next you’re going to tell me you won’t let Jorad be your witness!”

Lok thought his silence did the talking for him. It must have, because Tarin's mouth dropped in raw shock, like he couldn't comprehend that Lok would dare.

"Who will you have in his place?" Tarin demanded, expression shifting from shock to anger.

In an ideal universe, Lok would've asked Sifo, but in that same universe, he'd be marrying for love. In this reality, he was marrying out of strategy, not affection, and having a jetii serve as his witness would be… incendiary.

"I do have two buire," Lok said, voice flat and eyes cold.

Tarin scowled. "It's Jorad's right and you know it."

“Why?” Lok asked, and this time, it wasn’t a challenge. It was a genuine, hollow thing.

Tarin actually seemed to falter at that, but he rallied. "He's Alor."

"And that entitles him to every honor?" Lok countered. "If he could, he would've disowned me the first time I failed my verd'goten. He doesn't get to use me to inflate his status now that he’s run out of ways to pretend I don’t exist.”

Tarin opened his mouth to argue before snapping it shut. Something almost apologetic flashed through his eyes, probably the product of a memory from his youth, but it vanished just as quickly. Lok thought he might have imagined it.

“This isn’t a game, Mand’alor,” Tarin hissed, infusing just enough venom into the title to make it clear it was legally and traditionally required, not personally endorsed.

“Oh, I know,” Lok replied blandly, “If it were a game, I’d be having fun.”

He didn’t need to be told how real this was. He felt it in the hollow of his chest, in the ache behind his ribs that never quite healed after Korda VI, in the way he couldn’t sleep without three weapons within reach, and in the daily struggle to accept that this was his life now.

He wasn’t signing up for an extra month, or another year, or even a decade. He was about to exchange vows that would bind him to both the title and a riduur until the day he marched on.

Sure, he could retire eventually. If he made it that far. But that end date he clung to like a lifeline whenever he felt like he couldn’t keep going was gone. Every time he comforted himself with the life he could have after felt like a cruel joke. 

If he coped by being petty with his invites, Tarin was just going to have to deal with it. There were more important things to worry about than Jorad Vizsla’s ego. 

“Jorad won’t take this well,” Tarin warned, which was a generous interpretation of what Jorad was likely to do.

“I imagine he won’t,” Lok replied. That was the point.

The real plan—one Lok was never, ever putting in writing or speaking out loud—was to bait Jorad into overplaying his hand. 

Was the riduurok an ideal venue for this? No. But he doubted he'd ever have a better opportunity to leverage Jorad's ego against his common sense.

Jorad’s seat as Alor had been a gift from Tor, and was currently one of the few remaining legacies Lok hadn’t found a way to dismantle yet. Unfortunately, short of a challenge, ousting him would require a formal vote, and House Vizsla was not inclined to do that at the moment. 

So, Lok was on a slow path toward provoking Jorad into doing something drastic enough to force it. 

Not that Tarin needed to know any of that.

“I’ll send it for you,” Tarin offered, switching tactics. “You don’t have to be involved at all. You don’t even have to see the invite. I’ll send one without a signature.”

Lok stared at the man across from him, briefly wondering if he’d suffered a head injury. “Let me make myself perfectly clear,” he said, because apparently all the previous times he said no left room for ambiguity. “If Jorad receives anything that could be interpreted as an invitation from me, you will be out of a job.”

Tarin blanched. Good. 

Unemployment wasn’t an inherently lethal threat, but they both knew Tarin would be with Kyr'tsad until he died. It was a promise Lok made months ago, and one he fully intended to keep. 

He held his stare for maximum effect, then leaned back, schooling his face into impassivity again. He could almost feel the ghost of Arla smacking him upside the head for the dramatics. He bit back a grin. Ruining the moment with levity would be a shame.

Unfortunately, for all the things one could accuse Tarin Wren of—and the list was long—cowardice wasn’t on it. 

So, rather than heeding to the obvious threat and backing down, he inhaled sharply, shoulders squaring, clearly winding up for another long-winded rant, but he didn’t get the chance to deliver it.

Thank the Manda for small mercies.

The door slid open, revealing— Jango?  

Lok straightened automatically, instincts overriding fatigue. “Is everything okay?”

Since arriving in Keldabe, he’d gotten to see quite a bit of Jango. They’ve shared meals pretty regularly and there have been quite a few random outings, but Lok didn’t think they were quite at the walk-in unannounced stage of their dynamic yet.

He hoped they’d get there. Eventually. But between the headaches of governance, the walking disaster that was the Unification Agreement, the looming riduurok, and the classified project he and Jaster were working on, free time was a theoretical concept. 

Jango seemed to understand that. Or at least, he hadn’t held it against him. They had a quiet trust, Lok thought. A foundation, if not a fortress. Something he could build on, once the dust settled.

“Do you have a minute?” Jango asked, eyes darting between Lok and Tarin, probably sensing the lingering tension. It was hardly subtle. “I wanted to ask you something.”

A pointed glare from Lok had Tarin muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I give up before disappearing.

Lok hoped he meant it.

Jango took two stiff steps toward the chair and pulled it forward with an audible scrape that set every nerve in Lok’s spine jangling. He hated that sound. He hated a lot of things lately.

Lok took a slow breath and let it out through his nose, peeling away the irritation and tucking it somewhere beneath the surface. He could pick it back up later, when he didn’t have a nervous ad across from him, waiting to be heard.

Jango looked up with wide amber eyes that transported Lok right back to another lifetime on Concord Dawn, where an eight-year-old Jan’ika chased him around with a plushy. 

The memory was faded and worn thin, rough at the edges, but still lodged in his chest like shrapnel. 

Swallowing the surge of emotion, Lok leaned forward, resting his arms on the cluttered surface of his desk. “What did you need?” he asked, keeping his voice soft, careful not to let anything else bleed into it. 

“Arla said you make tiingilar like Ka’buir used to,” Jango blurted.

Lok blinked. That…was not the direction he thought this was headed.

Okay. He sat back slowly, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of his face and offering a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He couldn’t really manage anything more at the moment. 

“We did our best to recreate it,” he said gently. “It’s not perfect, but we experimented until Arla was satisfied.”

They’d built that recipe from Arla’s memory when they were on Corellia, where many staple ingredients were not only hard to come by, but completely unaffordable, so they had to get creative. The only reason they ever got close was because Cador took it upon himself to gift them some ingredients in the early days. 

Now, those meals were just another memory wrapped in someone else’s betrayal, preserved under glass in the mental museum Lok never seemed able to stop curating.

“Can you make it for me?” Jango asked, words coming fast now. “Like, tonight? Can we come over for latemeal?”

Lok’s chest ached at the earnest expression, and burned, just a bit, at the trace of grief hiding behind it. “Of course,” he murmured without thinking it through. 

Jango nodded stiffly. “So… tonight. Latemeal. Uh. 18:30?”

Lok mentally checked his schedule. There were meetings, there were always meetings, but none that couldn’t be ignored or rescheduled or quietly sabotaged. “That works for me. But I’ll need to check with Pre about Jaster coming over,” he added, hating how careful he sounded.

Lately, Pre could barely look at Jaster without his little face curling into a scowl like he’d tasted something sour and was personally offended it had the audacity to exist. If that was the whole issue, Lok might be less inclined to accommodate it. The riduurok was going to happen no matter how loudly he protested it and he would have to accept that one way or another.  

Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite that simple and Lok wasn’t going to do anything to make this harder for Pre. 

No matter how devastating Jango’s tooka-eyes were. 

“But I want Buir to be there,” Jango said, voice lowering, eyes turning suspiciously glassy. “I want him to try it.”

Seriously, how did Jaster ever say no to him? Lok was going to need lessons. A manual. Possibly a support group.

Osik. 

He cleared his throat. “I get that,” he said gently. “I really do. But Pre’s still having a hard time being around Jaster right now. And that apartment—it’s his home right now, even if it’s temporary. He should be comfortable there.”

“What’s he going to do after the riduurok?” Jango countered bluntly. “You can keep him separate from buir for now, but that’s not a long term solution.”

The delivery was a bit abrasive, but Jango wasn’t wrong. 

Lok sighed. “You’re right, Jango. It’s not a long term solution. And this is not permanent. But Pre needs us to be patient while he comes to terms with everything. Even when he’s being…” He trailed off.

He didn’t want to call his ad unkind, but…well, even though he was only eight, he had his moments. 

“An entitled pain in the shebs?” Jango offered helpfully.

Lok barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “I was going to say difficult, but sure. That too.”

“What’s his problem, anyway?” Jango asked, full of teenage irritation. It was probably well-deserved. 

Lok sighed and raked a hand through his hair, catching on a tangle he didn’t have the patience to fight. He mentally added ‘get a haircut’ to his never ending task-list.

“The details are not mine to share,” he said. “But when Pre lashes out—just try to remember it’s not coming from nowhere. That doesn’t mean you have to take it. He needs to be held accountable for his behavior. I just… I want you to know he’s got a good heart, even when he’s hiding it.”

He paused before adding, “And if he ever crosses a line, tell me. I’ll handle it. Or at the very least, make sure you get space.”

He’d seen the way Pre and Jango provoke each other like it’s a competitive sport, and while it hasn’t gone too far yet, Pre’ika didn’t always have a good grasp on where the line was. Their lives were about to be blended and Lok didn’t want Jango thinking he was expected to put up with it just because he was older. That would only breed resentment.

Jango was giving him an odd look, and something about it felt older than his fifteen years. It was unsettling in ways that it shouldn’t be. 

Lok tilted his head, studying the boy who still existed as an eight-year-old ghost in his memories. Except the more Jango grew into his features, the more familiar he looked.

But Lok wasn’t ready to confront that. 

“I’ll talk to Pre about latemeal,” he promised. “If he’s not comfortable with it, I can make it for you and bring it over so you can have Jaster there. If…if you want me there too—” no clue why he would, but that was the impression Lok was getting, “—I’ll see if I can arrange for Pre to have latemeal with Goran Kobr tonight. We’ll make it work without putting him on edge in his own space. That okay?”

“‘Lek. Vor entye,” Jango said, and there was something too heavy in the way he thanked him.

“N’entye,” Lok replied, softer than intended.

Then Jango launched to his feet so fast the chair protested with an offended screech and went skidding backward, narrowly avoiding a wall. “I have to tell the— Buir!” he exclaimed, and bolted before Lok could process the sentence.

He watched the door slide shut behind him and sighed, hoping he’d handled that right. 

Blending aliit through a riduurok was rarely a smooth transition, and while it helped that Arla and Jango were already vode, that didn’t mean it was without its challenges. Clearly.

Lok took a moment to send a quick message to Tahlis, asking if she was available to take Pre for the night. It wasn’t an ideal solution, but then again, nothing was these days.

He then turned back to his desk with the thin, delusional hope that burying himself in productivity might trick his brain into feeling like he hadn’t completely lost control of his own life. For about an hour, he almost pulled it off. Long enough to respond to two priority dispatches and redraft a proposal that somehow read more like a threat when Tarin phrased it.

He was just starting to make headway on his inbox when the door hissed open again.

He didn’t look up right away. Eye contact led to conversations. Conversations led to complications. And complications were already outnumbering solutions on his best days. Which this wasn’t.

Also, he was busy trying to recall when exactly he’d instituted a kriffing open-door policy, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t. Unless it had happened sometime between accidentally endorsing a small-scale revolution and forgetting to eat for three days. Which was… not outside the realm of possibility.

“I hear you’re hosting latemeal tonight,” said a voice his brain had long ago, and against his better judgment, categorized as safe, steady, and statistically likely to emotionally ruin him.

Of course. Like buir, like ad. He should've known it wasn’t one of his people. 

Kyr’tsad had its faults—endless infighting, deeply questionable hobbies, a mildly concerning enthusiasm for explosions—but they respected hierarchy and protocol. Even Tarin would knock.

Sure enough, Jaster Mereel was leaning in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. The lighting was being rude. It always was around Jaster.

He looked good.

Which was inconvenient.

“That’s the plan,” Lok replied, keeping his tone neutral, his posture relaxed, and his heart rate absolutely not accelerating. Because he was a professional. A grown man. Immune, theoretically, to things like old flames and impossible hopes.

Jaster, oblivious or simply cruel, took that as the invitation it wasn’t, stepped inside, and let the door slide closed behind him.

The room suddenly felt very…small.

Lok shifted back in his chair, just enough to feign a comfort he didn’t possess, and offered Jaster the barest arch of an eyebrow.

“You know,” Jaster said conversationally as he crossed the room and dropped into the chair across from him—again, uninvited—“the last time I’ve seen you cook, you almost set the Protectors barracks on fire.”

Lok narrowed his eyes and pretended his face wasn’t already halfway to a blush. He briefly considered pulling on his buy’ce— purely for tactical reasons, of course—but decided that would look a bit desperate. 

“First of all,” he huffed, “that was over a decade ago.”

Jaster raised both brows, clearly unconvinced.

“And second,” Lok added, “the heating unit was defective.”

Which was technically true. In the same way he’d technically tried to compensate for a busted warming coil with the lowest setting on a short-range flamethrower.

It had not gone well.

It had also been his first time cooking. Ever. Give him some credit. He's learned since then. He had to.

“The fire suppression system short-circuited and we had to evacuate three barracks,” Jaster said, sounding almost…nostalgic.

Lok sighed, but his lips betrayed him with the edge of a smile he didn’t entirely suppress. 

Jaster chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and something in Lok’s chest folded in on itself. “It wasn’t even your shift,” he added, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You weren’t on kitchen duty. You volunteered . ”

Lok shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, pretending the memory didn’t strike somewhere deep and difficult. “I was trying to impress you.”

The words slipped out before his mind could throttle them back.

Jaster blinked once, like he was surprised by Lok’s willingness to admit it. Well, that made two of them.

“Is that so?” 

Okay, so that smirk was entirely unfair.

Lok made a show of focusing on a datapad. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

Nope. Lok wasn’t going to look at him because then he’d have to see that disarming grin and he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

So instead, he shrugged. “You were my partner,” he said, vaguely impressed by how steady his voice was. “I wanted you to like me.”

The words hung in the air with the kind of reckless honesty Lok usually had the good sense to swallow.

It wasn’t even in a romantic sense back then. Not yet, at least. Just a rookie in a new environment, trying to find independence from a family he never quite managed to belong to, hoping he might find somewhere he did. Overcompensating, maybe, for knowing that Jaster would have to put up with his visions and not wanting to be seen as something that got in the way.

Of course, Jaster never complained that Lok slowed him down. He only ever worried whether Lok was okay. But it took a while for Lok to trust that. 

“You didn’t have to try that hard,” Jaster said softly. “I liked you the second you told Cador to kriff off on your first day.”

“That was self-preservation,” Lok muttered.

Jaster gave a faint huff of amusement. “Looked like courage to me.”

“Well,” Lok said dryly, “you always did have questionable judgment.”

“Still do, apparently,” Jaster shot back, then softened just enough to let the moment breathe. “Do you remember that spice bust outside Mirrin’s old scrapyard?” 

“You mean the one where you dove headfirst into a dumpster because you thought you heard movement?” 

“I maintain that it was tactical.”

“You broke a tibula.”

“Tactical and committed.”

Lok shook his head, unable to suppress the crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “You reeked of rotten stimleaf for two weeks.”

“And still managed to close the case.”

“No,” Lok corrected, grinning now. “I closed the case. You spent the next two days passed out in the barracks because you got sick from expired spice fumes.”

“Semantics,” Jaster said, waving it off like he hadn’t been fever-delirious and hallucinating for thirty-six hours straight.

Lok laughed, a sound that had gotten rusty from disuse. He didn’t let himself do it often—didn’t have the time or the desire—but something about the way Jaster was looking at him made it feel almost safe. Like they could fold time in half and pretend the last ten years hadn’t happened. 

And wasn’t it pathetic that he still wished they could.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, eyes catching Jaster’s just a second too long before he looked away. “You were the worst mentor imaginable,” he said, not bothering to disguise the warmth in it.

“And you were the most insufferable rookie I’ve ever had,” Jaster replied, but the edges of his voice had gone soft.

It was too easy to fall into this rhythm. To wander into the trap of pretending nothing had changed and they were still those two stubborn idiots with badge codes and bad instincts and a standing bet on who could file more disciplinary reports in a week.

But everything had changed, and chasing the memories was like trying to capture smoke.

Lok cleared his throat, picked up his datapad to retreat to the safety of work. “Feels like a different lifetime.”

Jaster didn’t answer right away. When he did, his tone had shifted to something more hesitant. “Do you ever think about what might have happened if things were…different?”

Lok’s fingers stilled over the datapad.

A thousand images flickered across his mind—sunlight on duracrete, Jaster’s laugh echoing down a hallway, the smell of burnt tiingilar, late nights that bled into early mornings because they lost track of time again.

“Not if I can help it,” Lok said, keeping his tone light. All the memories would do is haunt him. “Feels kind of pointless. I'm not the same person I was back then.”

He meant it to sound like a shrug, but it landed more like a bruise.

Jaster’s silence was the worst kind of understanding. He looked at him in that steady, unflinching way of his, like he was trying to see past all the layers Lok had spent years learning how to wear. Like he remembered the version of Lok who believed in better endings.

Lok wished he didn’t. 

He cleared his throat, forced himself to meet Jaster’s gaze and gestured vaguely toward the datapads crowding his desk. “Anyway,” he said, with a little more effort than he would have liked, “I’ve got about seven hours of work left and a latemeal to prepare. Did you come to reminisce or was there something you needed?”

Across from him, Jaster shifted slightly in the chair, some of the humor dimming. “Yeah,” he said after a pause, like the word was being sifted through a dozen other replies before it was deemed the safest. “Actually. Jango mentioned something.”

That never boded well.

“About Pre,” Jaster continued carefully. “He said he didn’t want me around tonight. I’ve… noticed it too. He’s been looking at me like I kicked his tooka and laughed about it. But he was fine before the riduurok was announced, and I just—” He hesitated, then pressed on. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t do something. And if I did, I want to fix it.”

The words carried a careful concern that managed to feel like someone was knocking gently on a locked door in Lok’s chest. 

He hated that too. Because it made it harder to pretend.

“You didn’t,” Lok said, leaning back just far enough in his chair to simulate comfort, because actual distance wasn’t something he could find in a space this small. “It’s not really about you.”

Jaster’s brow furrowed. “Then what is it about?”

“It’s... complicated,” Lok said, the words scraping against his chest as they left his mouth. 

Wasn’t everything?

He ran a hand down his face, dragging the exhaustion with it. The truth was, Pre’s anger wasn’t clean. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could redirect with discipline or soothe with affection. It was knotted and tangled and pulsing with grief. And Lok couldn’t fix it. He could only stand there and take it when the adiik needed somewhere to throw it.

“I know keeping the two of you apart is not sustainable,” he added, voice quieter. “But right now, he needs space.”

Jaster looked like he wanted to argue, or at least offer some kind of counterpoint, but he hesitated—hands tightening around the arms of the chair like he was physically restraining the instinct.

“Spit it out, Mereel,” Lok said, tone dry enough to pass for amusement. “I can see the lecture building.”

That earned a faint huff of a laugh before Jaster cleared his throat. “Have you thought about finding him a mir’baar’ur? We’ve got a few specialists who work with adiike. Some even focus on ka’ra -touched ade. I can pull names, if you want.”

“He has one,” Lok replied, before the guilt could start to settle. “They’re a childhood trauma specialist from Alderaan. He does his sessions remotely. Progress is slow, but it’s there.”

He glanced up, met Jaster’s eyes, and felt the need to explain himself. He knew from the outside Pre didn’t look like he was doing well, and setting him up with an aruetii was probably not ideal, but he was working with what he had at the time. 

“Kyr’tsad wasn’t great about mental health when I took over.” That had to be a massive understatement but he brushed past it. “We’ve gotten better, but there wasn’t really anyone I could trust Pre with. So, I set him up with a mind healer on Alderaan with the experience to handle what he’s been through.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping again. “By the time I had mir’baar’ure I trusted locally, he already had a rapport with them. The therapy was working. There was no reason to ruin a good thing. Besides, with all the traveling I was doing between bases, most of his appointments were going to be remote regardless. And I needed the in-house mir’baar’ure for the youth centers. Priorities.”

There was a little too much force behind the explanation, a bit too much detail. Lok clamped his mouth shut before he went on.

Logically, he knew he didn't need to justify himself, but it was hard to tamp down the urge around Jaster. 

“You’re doing good with him,” Jaster said, and it was so soft, so earnest, that Lok had to work not to flinch at the words.

He didn’t know what to do with it, or how to react to it. Part of him wanted to bask in it, because the validation felt like raw relief. The other part wanted to pretend he never heard it at all.

“I’m doing my best,” he muttered. And he was. Even if it never felt like enough.

“How did you get an appointment with an Alderaani specialist?” Jaster asked.

Lok straightened a little, a thread of genuine fondness weaving into his tone. “Senator Organa referred me,” he said. 

He and Kivan had their disagreements, but after the explosion at the youth home on Coruscant, they developed something close to a friendship. And he was always there when Lok needed someone to pull strings, which was nice.

“That’s…good,” Jaster said, sounding oddly…strained.

Lok leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath, some of the weariness bleeding into reluctant amusement. “Kivan can be… a bit much,” he said, tone tilting toward fond exasperation. “He’s incapable of whispering and owns at least three capes made entirely of sequins. But he’s probably the only senator I’d trust not to sell their sibling for committee leverage.”

“High praise,” Jaster muttered dryly.

“You joke,” Lok said, “but I had to suffer through one too many galas while I was his bodyguard. At this point, being genuine is enough to make him the moral backbone of the entire shabla Senate. It’s terrifying.”

Jaster huffed a laugh, and Lok didn’t let himself look at him for too long. Not with that smile starting to tug at his mouth and the light catching the grey at his temples, like starlight filtered through scorched glass.

He knew better than to let himself go there. 

“Was there anything else you needed?” he asked, pitching his voice just shy of polite detachment. “We both have a lot of work waiting.”

Jaster’s mouth twitched faintly, but he nodded, tapping two fingers against the edge of the desk in a way that might’ve been agreement or habit. “No, you’re right. The work’s endless. I’ll let you get back to it.”

He turned to go, pausing only long enough to glance over his shoulder with a flash of mischief that was entirely uncalled for.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he added, too casual to be safe. “Assuming the food’s edible.”

Lok rolled his eyes, but it didn’t have much bite. “You’ll survive.”

Jaster raised an eyebrow. “Will I?”

Lok didn’t answer—just lifted a hand in mock dismissal and returned his gaze to the datapad in front of him, the corners of his mouth tugging upward against his will.

He waited until the door slid shut behind Jaster before letting himself breathe again. 

At precisely 17:14 standard, Arla slipped into the refresher suite, scooped up Lok’s neatly folded change of clothes from the counter, and replaced them with a single towel.

An optimistically small towel.

With her offering to the romance gods made, she retreated to the hallway, swiped Lok’s comm and fired off a quick message.

Then, like any good shadow operative, she deleted the message from both the history and the local cache, wiped it against her shirt (no fingerprints, thanks), and powered it down like nothing had ever happened.

She pulled out her own comm and sent a second message.

Step one: complete.

Next stop: Pre’s personal disaster zone.

She edged into his room, gagged slightly, and took a moment to mourn the tragic death of her olfactory system.

She started gathering the casualties—two socks, a shirt she really hoped wasn’t bloodstained, and a pair of pants that had mysteriously fused with the floor.

"How do you even live like this?" she muttered, side-stepping what she hoped was a plush tooka and not a sentient dust creature.

Laundry in arms, dignity clinging on by a thread, she detoured past the karyai and dumped both Pre’s and Lok’s clothes into the wash. Then she hit a few buttons and hoped for the best.

With her tracks covered, she sauntered through the connecting door to Jaster’s apartment.

“Su’cuy, Jaster,”  she greeted, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around suspiciously rehearsed. Oops. 

Not that Jaster was paying attention. He was busy staring at his datapad like it had personally betrayed him. He blinked once, vaguely grunted something that might’ve been a greeting, and resumed his thousand-yard stare into digital despair.

Which worked perfectly for her purposes.

Then she grabbed Jango and left. Quickly.

Because she had boundaries. There were things she simply did not need to witness, even if she orchestrated them.

Jango gave Jaster a hesitant glance on their way out, like he was waiting for the designated adult supervision to intervene.

“Don’t look at him,” she said, dragging him out the door. “He’s emotionally compromised and probably can’t be trusted to make decisions right now.”

Jango opened his mouth. Closed it. Shrugged. Honestly, fair.

“We’ll be back for latemeal!” she called sweetly over her shoulder, right as the door hissed shut behind them.

Jango gave her a skeptical side-eye as they headed toward the turbolift, but followed her anyway, because he was smart and possibly a little bored. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Kyr’tsad’s got their mess hall rotation right now,” she explained, tone just shy of conspiratorial. “Lok’s cooking—so he’s busy. Jaster’s about to be emotionally preoccupied. Possibly psychically distressed.”

“And?”

“And that gives us one hour of minimal supervision and maximum opportunity,” she said, grinning as the turbolift doors slid open. 

“I think Wren’s up to something,” she added, stepping inside. “He’s been…suspicious.”

“He’s Kyr’tsad,” Jango deadpanned. “That’s the whole brand.”

“Yes, but he’s not usually bad at hiding it,” she shot back. “And now he’s slipping. Which means either he’s distracted, or he’s plotting something important enough to mess with his baseline paranoia.”

“Great,” Jango muttered, “so naturally we’re going to go poke it with a stick.”

“I prefer the term strategic reconnaissance,” Arla said with a smirk as the turbolift doors slid shut. “But yes. We’re going snooping.”

Jaster was sitting in his karyai, ostensibly engrossed in a centuries-old tactical manuscript from the last Great Crusade, though, if someone had asked him to summarize even a single sentence from the last ten pages, he’d have stared at them blankly before pretending to be interrupted by an urgent holocall.

The problem wasn’t the manuscript. It was the chrono. And his own kriffing nervous system, which had apparently entered a co-dependent relationship with said chrono and now insisted on checking it every two minutes.

17:13.

An hour and seventeen minutes until latemeal.

Not that he was counting.

He wasn’t impatient. He was preemptively preparing for a time-sensitive social engagement. Like a responsible adult. It just so happened that this responsible adult had been changed, pressed, and ready since 16:45.

There was, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he was a bit… eager for time to pick up the pace.

Lok was cooking.

Which was… bold.

Cooking hadn’t exactly been a necessary skill for a Vizsla raised in a stronghold with staff, status, and a generational disdain for domestic labor. The Lok he used to know couldn't reheat soup without at least two droids and a prayer. 

He may or may not have bribed the entire kitchen staff to be on standby. Just in case. 

But he was approaching this with an open mind. He even left his office early, changed tunics twice and was now sitting here rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time because his brain decided to spend all its limited resources picturing Lok in the kitchen. Sleeves rolled, hair tied back, probably scowling adorably at a spice blend like it had personally wronged him, or muttering to himself while aggressively chopping something with a combat knife that absolutely wasn’t meant for food prep.

It was a normal thing to imagine. Well within the realm of acceptable thoughts. He was allowed to think his ven’riduur was attractive. Objectively speaking.

Except Lok wasn’t really his, was he?

Not in the way Jaster wanted. At least not yet. 

It was a grey area. 

He sighed, set the manuscript aside, and reached for his datapad. If he was going to sit around like a di’kut while he waited to see his ven’riduur, he could at least be productive while doing it. The list of pre- riduurok logistics was never-ending.

In hindsight, they should have planned for a longer engagement period. 

The original timeline had made perfect sense. From a Mandalorian standpoint, it was practically excessive. Then the Republic got involved. Suddenly, an event that should have taken a week to throw together now had three separate teams just to handle logistics.

It was a nightmare.

Well. Lesson learned. 

He opened his inbox and got to work.

Skimming through the confirmed attendees, he frowned. Lok’s buire were still marked as pending. They were supposed to have finalized that days ago. 

He sent a quick message to Myles, asking him to check in with Lok’s people and confirm whether the delay was a data entry oversight. They were cutting it close and really needed final numbers. Everything needed to align perfectly. There was no room for last-minute mishaps or miscommunications.

He didn’t mention the part where it made him nervous.

The purpose of the union may be a united government and a lasting peace, but it would be foolish to ignore the lingering tensions between their factions. Throw in a bunch of senators and jetiise, and—well. There was a lot of room for a lot of things to go very, very wrong. 

Despite the inherent risk, it was still the smart move. As Mand’alor, he knew that. As a person and soon-to-be riduur, he despised it.

Nothing about this event had anything to do with them. It was politics wrapped in tradition, dressed in ceremony, and weaponized for unity. And yeah, he knew their marriage wasn’t exactly the product of a great romantic courtship, but did they need to be reminded of that every step of the way?

He couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over, for the dust to settle and the chance to actually explore what their lives might be, outside of their titles and obligations.

In another life, he would’ve wanted them to choose each other. He would have spoken his vows without any doubt about who either of them belonged to. 

They didn’t have that luxury. He couldn’t change that. But even though the riduurok was the product of a political arrangement, the vows were real, the commitment to each other was real. 

He wanted to make this work for them, not just Mandalore as a whole.

His eyes flicked back to the chrono.

17:14.

Time was crawling.

He sighed and refocused on his datapad, prepared to endure another mind-numbing string of correspondence when the screen blinked. A sharp chime broke the quiet, indicating a message from Lok.

Jaster sat up straighter before he even processed what he was doing, already opening the message.

Do you want to come over?
Just for a bit. Thought it might be nice to spend time together. Without the ade.

He stared at the words.

His heart, previously pacing itself with slow military discipline, promptly tripped over itself and faceplanted into a sprint.

Jaster blinked. Then blinked again. Just to make sure the words hadn’t somehow rearranged themselves into something disappointing while he wasn’t looking.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to read too much into it.

Things between him and Lok were…fine. More professional than he’d like them to be, but nothing to indicate Lok was unhappy with the arrangement. 

Still. Sometimes he…well, he missed Lok, even when they spent most of their days working together.

They saw each other often, but they only really spoke about work. Even the riduurok was discussed in terms of guest lists and napkin colors. 

This was the first time since arriving that Lok actually expressed any interest in his company that had nothing to do with either their respective roles or ade.

That probably meant something, right?

Behind him, the apartment door hissed open and Arla strode in. “Su’cuy, Jaster,” she said casually, already heading for Jango’s room. 

Jaster managed a grunt that vaguely resembled a greeting, but his eyes were locked on the datapad. He barely registered the clatter of armor or the echo of the door sealing behind them.

Lok wanted to spend time with him.

Just him.

He sat there with the message open for another thirty seconds, doing his absolute best to make sure his face didn’t scream “My ven’riduur just asked me to hang out casually and I’m having a moment about it” before moving.

When his knock on the connecting door went unanswered, he gave it a respectful three seconds before pushing it open anyway. The lights were on, and Lok asked him to come over, so… logically, that made it an open invitation. Practically a summons. Definitely not trespassing.

He stepped through the doorway like a reasonable man with entirely reasonable expectations, reminding himself that, realistically, this was likely going to be yet another discussion about seating charts and ceremony logistics, or whether the attendance of both Clan Wren and Clan Saxon meant mandatory weapons checks at the door. 

Nothing to be excited about. Well, except the part where he got to see Lok in a domestic setting. That part was always nice.

“Lok?” he called, stepping farther into the apartment, careful to keep his tone neutral. Warm, but neutral. Not desperate. He was not desperate.

The air smelled like tiingilar. Sharp, spiced, and warm in a way that wrapped around his ribs with something terrifyingly close to comfort. 

His stomach made a frankly embarrassing noise in agreement. 

It smelled good enough that Jaster actually paused, a little disoriented, mentally recalibrating the backup plans he’d made to sneak down to the kitchens later after politely enduring Lok’s cooking. 

Apparently, Lok had learned a few things over the years.

The realization landed with a bittersweet sort of sting in Jaster’s chest. He was excited, genuinely, to learn something new about his ven’riduur. But it came hand in hand with yet another reminder of all the years spent apart and how everything between them eroded with time.

Lok had grown into someone quietly radiant, steady and tired, stronger than he’d ever been, and Jaster was left circling the edges of a life he wanted more than anything, waiting for permission to belong to it.

Shaking it off, Jaster tried to tell himself that the time and distance only meant they had so much more to learn about each other. He ignored the part of him that wondered if Lok even wanted that.

“Lok?” he called out again, but received only the same silence in response. 

He wasn’t in the kitchen or the karyai. Which was strange. Maybe he was on his way home and wanted to meet here? 

It occurred to him that Lok might have been waiting for a response before Jaster let himself in and wasn't actually expecting him.

His eyes scanned the apartment as he moved through it. The space still leaned toward neutral—all muted walls and utilitarian furnishings—but the signs of life made it feel just a touch warmer.

A blanket tossed across the back of the couch; a dead plant by the window; a cracked mug drying by the sink that definitely belonged to Arla, because it had teeth marks in the handle and a glitter sticker peeling from one side; a datapad half-buried under the throw pillows; droid parts on various surfaces.

They were small things, insignificant really, but they made the sterile space feel less temporary and more like a home.

And damn it, he knew he lived right next door, but Jaster wanted to be part of that.

He wanted to know who Lok became when no one was watching. The version that existed between duty and exhaustion, not just the one who fought and lived for everyone else.

He wanted to know which pillow he claimed when he dozed off reading tactical briefs too late at night. If he still paced when he was overthinking and muttered to himself when he was trying to solve problems that had no easy answer. If he—

A soft rustle broke through his thoughts as he stepped into the hallway. He turned, expecting…he didn’t even know. A draft, maybe. What he got was Lok stepping out of the ‘fresher in a veil of steam and temptation.

And a towel. 

Just a towel.

The rational part of Jaster’s brain promptly went offline. All higher order cognitive functions suffered a spontaneous systems failure. Every neuron slammed into a wall and died. His mouth may or may not have fallen open. He couldn’t say.

His entire internal monologue collapsed into a single, static loop: Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t lo—  

He looked.

In his defense, what else was he supposed to do? There were limits to mortal restraint.

Lok froze mid-step, blinking in confusion. “Jaster?”

That was probably a reasonable question. Maybe even an important one. But Jaster was too distracted by the vision in front of him to process syllables.

Freckles mapped across flushed skin like constellations, scattered over a canvas of old scars. Damp curls, darkened to burnished gold, framed Lok’s face in lazy spirals that made Jaster’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch. It would be so easy to reach out and learn the texture of them—if they were as soft as they looked, or if they'd catch slightly between his knuckles like they were meant to be touched.

He told himself to look away. Really, he did. But his eyes had other plans and refused to be reasoned with. They were too busy tracking a bead of water that slid from the curve of Lok’s shoulder down his chest, caught briefly in the hollow of his throat, then continued lower, tracing a line of shimmering sin straight into the realm of fantasy.

He wanted to lick it.

Wait.
No.  

No. No, he did not want that.

…Well. Maybe a little. But they weren't ready for that. Yet.

Before they could go there, there needed to be a serious, adult conversation about the political realities of their situation and boundaries and…stuff.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything was under control.

Then Lok moved and the towel shifted slightly, riding low enough to be genuinely disrespectful to Jaster’s continued emotional stability. His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach out and pull, just to see if Lok’s breath would hitch when he did. He wanted to push him back against the wall and taste the water sliding down his skin, trace every scar with his tongue and claim each one like a vow.

Right. Okay. Never mind. Control was a myth. 

A throat cleared, followed by a wry voice. “My eyes are up here, Jaster.”

Jaster valiantly ignored the heat crawling up his neck and reluctantly lifted his gaze. When their eyes met, he knew he was truly a lost cause. 

Midnight blue, and glittering with amusement. A soft, crooked smile, half-shy and all lethal, curled at the edge of Lok’s mouth like he had no idea what it did to people. 

It was a problem.

“Jas?” Lok tilted his head slightly, a furrow forming between his brows. That should not have been attractive. And yet. “Did you need something urgent?”

Yes. Air. Dignity. A restraining order for his own thoughts.

Lok’s expression shifted from confusion to concern. “Everything okay?”

Right. He needed to produce words. Preferably ones that didn’t make him sound like a malfunctioning droid. Jaster was capable of those. In theory.

“Yes,” he said too fast. “I mean. Sort of. I was just—uh—checking. On you.”

Lok’s brows crept upward. “I’m… fine,” he said carefully, as if this could still go several ways. “Were you trying to reach me? I was in the shower, so I wouldn’t have seen it.”

“Yes. Yes, I noticed. That’s—That’s why I…” Jaster trailed off, then cleared his throat like he could physically cough up a better excuse. “I was just checking. Hydration. That you weren’t—dehydrated. From the shower.”

Hydration.

Seriously? 

This… wasn’t going well. 

Lok tilted his head again, expression somewhere between amused disbelief and growing concern. “You thought I was…dehydrated. From showering.”

So. That made just as much sense as he thought. Wonderful.

Now would be a great time to retreat. Cut his losses, blow something up for dramatic cover, and disappear into the wilderness.

Unfortunately, he was committed. 

Jaster nodded. Once. Very seriously. “It happens. There’s… surface area. And water.”

That was—wow. That was so much worse out loud. He should stop.

Or he could try to fix it. It wasn’t like it could get any worse.

“Excessive exposure to warm, wet environments can be… physiologically destabilizing” He was pretty sure he read that somewhere. “You could pass out. Hit your head. You need… preventative inspection. It’s basic safety protocol. Your whole… situation is a hazard. Might even require… routine monitoring.”

Okay. So yes. It could get worse. Much, much worse. Good to know.

Lok stared at him.

Jaster stared back.

There was a beat of silence. Then another. Then a third, just to really let it marinate. 

It was finally broken by Lok’s laughter.

It started like he didn’t mean to, a soft, startled sound, and then grew into something bright and unrestrained. He threw his head back, laughter spilling into the hallway like a song, beautiful and loud and completely disarming.

And Jaster knew he’d do almost anything to be the reason Lok laughed like that again. Even make a complete fool of himself.

When Lok finally sobered enough to look back at him, he was still smiling, cheeks pink with lingering amusement, and a light in his eyes that made him look younger, somehow. 

Jaster wanted to bottle that look and keep it for the days Lok wouldn’t smile at all.

“You’re an idiot,” Lok said fondly.

Well. The evidence did support that conclusion. 

Jaster swallowed, trying to remember how to be a person. Usually, he was fully capable of speaking to attractive people without turning into a cautionary tale. Or, he used to be. At the very least, he maintained a functional relationship with spoken language.

Apparently, his entire operating system was incompatible with the sight of Lok Vizsla half-nude and blushing like a sunrise.

Lok seemed to finally remember that he was standing in the hallway wrapped in nothing but a towel. He glanced down at himself and flushed deeper, which was frankly unfair. Jaster was already trying not to fall harder. This wasn't helping. 

It took an impressive amount of self-restraint to stay where he was and not close the distance between them, just to see how Lok would react. If he’d pull him closer or push him away.

“I need to get dressed,” Lok mumbled, now staring intently at the floor. “You can make yourself comfortable in the karyai. I’ll, uh… I’ll be right out.”

Right. The polite thing to do would be to leave. Give the man some privacy. Something he should’ve done approximately three seconds after the steam cleared.

Instead, Jaster was fighting the urge to press Lok against the wall and not let him go anywhere for a very long time. 

He nodded. Or at least, he thought he did. His brain had rebooted on emergency settings. Motor function was spotty. Language support unavailable.

His mouth could not be trusted. It was one impulsive breath away from blurting don’t bother or I’ll help. 

So, he nodded again. Twice. Just to be safe.

Then stood frozen as Lok turned and disappeared into his room, leaving behind the faint sound of a closing door.

Jaster took a long, steadying breath, as if oxygen could compensate for whatever series of system malfunctions had just produced…whatever that was.

Well.

That could’ve gone better.

“Preventative inspection,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face like it might peel off the memory. “Might require routine monitoring. Manda. What is wrong with me?”

He hadn’t fumbled words like that since he was a young teenager with a crush on his fencing instructor. And even then, he hadn’t tried to cite safety protocols as justification for staring at someone’s collarbone.

Groaning, he dropped his forehead against the nearest wall, seriously debating the merits of collapsing on the floor and starting a new life as a throw rug.

Tempting. Very tempting.

But instead, he peeled himself away from the wall and trudged toward the kitchen in search of water and what remained of his pride.

Lok stared at his reflection like it owed him an explanation.

Unfortunately, it offered none. Just the same dark circles under tired eyes, uneven freckles across his cheekbones, and a subtle flush that refused to fade no matter how many deep breaths he took.

He had to leave the room. The food needed tending, and hiding in here for the rest of his natural lifespan—while incredibly tempting—wasn’t a sustainable long-term strategy.

But Jaster was out there.

Waiting.

Why? Who knew. But statistically speaking, it was probably Arla’s fault.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face.

She was well passed her verd’goten and independent enough that discipline had stopped being a realistic or effective strategy. Which meant the parental options were either A) a calm, respectful, emotionally mature discussion about boundaries and consequences, or B) vengeance. Subtle, strategic, and deeply inconvenient vengeance.

He’d think about it later.

Right now, he had a meal to finish preparing and a very large, stupidly attractive man to face. Who had—unless he’d completely misread the situation (again)—spent a solid thirty seconds staring at Lok like he wanted to devour him.

Which was…a lot to process.

Oddly enough, he didn’t feel embarrassed in the way he expected to when he thought about Jaster seeing him mostly naked. He was sure the mortification was there, somewhere. Probably buried underneath the laugh that kept creeping back up when his mind helpfully replayed Jaster’s bizarre disaster of a response to Lok asking why he was there.

It was a mess. A genuinely stunning, deeply awkward mess. 

And none of it answered his question.

It was so very different from the Jaster who was all smirks and smooth lines, with the kind of casual confidence that made it difficult to form coherent thoughts.

Lok didn’t know where that skillset had gone, but it clearly hadn’t made it into the hallway with the rest of him. 

As awkward as it was, it was also… comforting, in a way. Like the universe was finally leveling the field.

Watching Jaster’s entire personality short-circuit felt like justice. For every smile that made Lok’s stomach do that weird little drop, and every time he leaned in too close and Lok’s brain blanked like a corrupted datapad.

It was nice to know meltdowns could be mutual.

And it was endearing. Stupidly so. But it was hard to believe Jaster was reacting that way to him.  

Lok studied the tired face staring back at him, with uneven features, a jaw sharpened by stress, and a faint scar near his temple that he kept forgetting existed. 

He wondered what he looked like to someone who wasn’t raised with constant comparisons to perfection and trained to identify everywhere they fell short. 

His looks weren’t something he typically gave much thought to. Most of his days were spent covered in beskar’gam, and his body was more of a tool than something he thought of in terms of aesthetics. That tool was a bit rusty at the moment, courtesy of all the existential exhaustion and a severe shortage of sleep, but the point stood.

It wasn’t objectively beautiful. It wasn’t ugly, either. It just…was. It fought. It endured. It protected. It kept him alive.

And apparently, it made Jaster completely malfunction in a hallway.

So. That was nice.

Lok knew he wasn’t great at picking up on romantic or sexual subtext. Or text. Or bolded, underlined signage. He’d been told this. Repeatedly. 

After one particularly uncomfortable run-in with a vendor that Arla deemed “painful to witness”, she staged a full intervention that included flashcards and sock puppets. According to her, the vendor was offering much more than just a steep discount. 

Lok still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to know that. He wasn’t sure how Arla knew that. The sock puppets did not clarify.

Parenting a mouthy teenager had its challenges. That incident was one of them.

Still, even he couldn’t misread what just happened.

Sure, it could’ve been drugs. Or a mild stroke. Or maybe all nudity made Jaster uncomfortable. But tempting as it was to fall back on outlandish explanations, that felt like overcomplicating it just to avoid confronting the obvious.

Jaster Mereel was attracted to him. 

Lok had no idea what to do with that information. 

Attraction wasn’t something he could control or request. Neither was love. But somehow, it felt like less of a personal failing to simply be unwanted than to be wanted for his body but not the rest of him.

He didn’t know where that left them.

Lok bit his lip, trying to summon the resolve to walk back out there and act like a fully functional adult.

It was moments like this that made him really, deeply regret that kriffing letter. Had he known he’d end up here—if it even felt like a far-fetched possibility—he never would’ve asked Skirata to deliver it. Never would’ve let Jaster read every ugly, bleeding confession he’d carved from his heart and thrown into the void, all in a failed effort to finally let it go.

At least then he could pretend Jaster was oblivious. That by some miracle, he couldn’t see right through him.

Even a decade ago, Jaster had always been kind. He met Lok’s feelings with that same damnable mix of warmth and restraint. As if they were sweet, maybe even flattering, but ultimately unwanted.

He never shamed him for it, or made him feel bad about it, or used them to his advantage. He let them both pretend he didn’t see it. 

And Lok appreciated that. He did. But appreciation didn’t dull the ache. 

He’d made a sort peace with the fact that his heart wanted what it wanted, regardless of logic, reason, or basic self-preservation. He couldn’t shut it up, so he stopped trying. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

He was so tired of being the one who cared too much, wanted too much, and couldn’t stop hoping for things he’d never have.

And this time, Jaster knew that, too. It made pretending that much harder and it made navigating everything so much more complicated.

He stepped back from the mirror and squared his shoulders. Rolled them once. Took a breath.

He wasn’t that inexperienced rookie anymore, with a crush he couldn’t control and emotions written all over his face.

He wasn’t even the shell of a person who wrote that letter in a desperate bid for closure that might let him finally stop bleeding.

He was a grown man (most of the time). A Mand’alor (depending on who you asked). And sure, he had… feelings —but if he could fake his way through rulership every day, he could fake composure for one evening.

Right?

…Right.

Jaster was standing in the corner of Lok’s karyai, nursing a glass of water like it contained something stronger—preferably toxic—while mentally evaluating the logistics of faking his own death.

After what felt like hours but had to be less than ten minutes, Lok finally emerged from his room wearing a dark tunic and loose-fitting pants, his hair curling gently at his temples as it dried in soft gold waves.

The man had the audacity to look composed. And edible. It was almost cruel.

Jaster took another sip of water, mostly to buy time to rehearse the carefully neutral, non-disastrous script he’d been building since he managed to drag himself out of that hallway.

“I didn’t mean to intrude like that,” he began, grimacing at how formal it sounded. “I thought you wanted me to come over right away, but I shouldn’t have…stayed. It was completely inappropriate. This is your space, and I shouldn’t have—”

Lok cut him off with a hum, moving to grab a glass from the cupboard like none of it was weird. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t want you to feel…” Jaster hesitated. “Uncomfortable.”

Lok shrugged, but his attempt at playing it off was betrayed by the darkening of his cheeks and the way his eyes trailed over Jaster’s chest. “Let’s just call it even and be thankful we didn’t have to call a baar’ur this time.”

Jaster chuckled. ”Yes. That was…unfortunate.”

Lok made a strangled noise of agreement and retreated toward the kitchen, muttering something about never wearing shoes with laces again. He set his glass on the counter, already switching gears like they hadn’t just stumbled over half a dozen landmines of awkward. 

“I need to finish latemeal prep.”

Jaster pushed off the wall, following Lok to the kitchen and setting his own glass aside. “I’ll help.”

“Will that require a preventative inspection?” Lok asked, perfectly deadpan.

Jaster tipped his head back with a groan. Ka’ra, he was never going to live that down.

“Please. Can we agree to never speak of that again?"

“Shame,” Lok murmured, rummaging through the spice rack. “I was just starting to feel flattered.”

As he should.  

“I was concerned about head trauma,” Jaster muttered instead of voicing the thought out loud. 

It was a valid concern. 

“Your own?” Lok asked pointedly, not looking up as he retrieved a spoon.

Which—yes. Obviously. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

Lok just chuckled softly and shook his head, opening the nanowave to retrieve a covered dish. “Pre’s staying with Tahlis tonight,” he said offhandedly. “So you don’t have to worry about him… attacking you.”

Jaster offered a noncommittal grunt at the deliberate change in subject. He’d been on the receiving end of Pre’s death glare more times than he could count lately, so he understood why Lok might make other arrangements.

It still stung that he had to.

“I’ve been ambushed by better,” he said dryly in an attempt to keep things light.

“You say that now,” Lok replied, turning to grab the napkins and completely missing the way Jaster’s gaze lingered. “You haven’t had your hair set on fire yet.”

“Yet,” Jaster echoed solemnly, lips twitching.

Honestly, it felt like a matter of time.

It wasn’t his place to tell Lok how to handle Pre, nor did he know the adiik well enough to pass judgment. Lok was a good buir, so if he thought letting Pre dictate when he interacted with Jaster was the best strategy for now, it probably was. 

He just hoped things improved before they escalated to the point where arson became a real concern.

Lok brushed past him on his way to the stove, and Jaster watched in silent suffering as he scooped up a small spoonful of tiingilar, and tasted it with a little tilt of his head. A low, satisfied hum slipped past his lips—a soft and indulgent sound that should not have been allowed in a room where other people were trying to behave.

He might’ve been a little jealous of the spoon.

Osik.  

He was karked, wasn’t he?

Jango didn’t even like tiingilar. Okay, sometimes he did, but not when it came with a heaping side of emotional pressure.

He wasn’t even hungry. This whole plan had been Arla’s idea anyway. Well— mostly. Maybe seventy percent. Eighty, tops. He was just the logistical consultant with a minor field-work assignment and he was having some light regrets about going along with this one.

He only did it because if he and Arla were going to keep pushing their respective buire together, they needed more proximity. More latemeals. More forced bonding. Maybe a broken sink or a mysterious power outage that required sharing a blanket. 

He hadn’t worked out the details yet.

The annoying part was that he couldn’t even be mad at anyone but himself. He agreed to it, and there were plenty of opportunities to say no, so he couldn’t use that excuse either. But he only said yes because he didn’t think it would matter.

He thought he was over it. Honestly, he really did. He had told himself he was fine—totally fine—right up until he found himself sitting in Lok’s office. 

That’s when it hit him. He was not fine. He was never going to be fine.

It was way too late to undo any of it now, so he was here. He was in. He was committed. And he wasn’t going to back out because he was reliable like that, but he was going to be miserable the entire time and spend the rest of the evening on the sparring mats.

And if this didn’t get them at least one sign of romantic progress, he was going rogue. He was going to implement Phase Love Note.  

The idea was simple enough. If their buire refused to confess to each other, they’d do it for them. But everyone else said that one went too far. 

“Too invasive,” Arla said. “Too ethically questionable,” Myles said. “Legally actionable,” Silas added.

So fine. Jango was holding off. Out of respect. For now. He didn’t actually want to cross any lines, he just wanted to see some progress.

Arla was already hyped about tonight, practically skipping beside him on the way back to the apartment like this was date night for her and not their romantically oblivious buire.  

With the recent string of frustrating failures, Jango would admit he didn’t have high hopes. He had wishes. Dreams. But realistically, if these men could spend four hours alone in a bunker and make zero progress, one more latemeal with their ade present wasn’t going to do it, whether they all had proper clothes on or not.

So it was a pleasant surprise to walk into Arla’s apartment and find Jaster standing next to Lok at the kitchen island. Leaning in closer than he technically should be, laughing at something. Looking comfortable. 

Jango stopped dead in his tracks. Arla grabbed his sleeve and yanked him behind the nearest wall to spy on them. Like the emotionally mature and subtle teens they absolutely were.

“Look at them,” she whispered, peeking around the edge like a sniper. “They’re bonding. And Lok isn’t looking for escape routes. This is progress.”

“Are they…” Jango narrowed his eyes. “Are they making eye contact? Outside of a meeting?”

“I know,” Arla said, practically vibrating.“Do you think they’re touching hands under the counter?”

“I will vomit,” Jango muttered, even though his heart was definitely doing something weird and fluttery about how close their buire were standing.

They’d only been hiding for maybe thirty seconds when Lok called out, “Are you two going to keep whispering behind the wall or are you joining us?”

Oops.

Busted.

They pretended like they’d just arrived, which fooled exactly no one, and shuffled awkwardly to the table with the galaxy’s worst attempt at casual innocence.

The tiingilar was already on a warming plate, steam curling up like it was contractually obligated to look homemade and heartwarming. 

Arla reached for it first, scooped out a generous portion, and slid a plate in front of him with a proud little flourish.

Jango stared at it like it might explode.

He didn’t touch it. Not even when everyone else started eating. He watched the steam rise, tendrils curling in the air like familiar ghosts. He didn’t know why he hesitated. Maybe because it smelled like memories he spent years locking behind steel doors.

It made his heart hurt. Like a ball of grief and nostalgia, all tangled up and indistinguishable, was stopping it from beating properly. 

Thankfully, no one called him out on it. Arla dove straight into a dramatic retelling of her combat class this afternoon, complete with gossip and embellishments. Jango bit his tongue every time she exaggerated. 

Next to him, Jaster took a bite and gave a hum of pleasant surprise. “This is… really good,” he said, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Lok might know how to season things.

While Lok stumbled through his attempt to wave off the compliment, Jango figured that since he made a whole big deal about it and literally asked Lok to make it for him, he was obligated to at least try it, not just stare at it. If only to avoid looking like a spoiled di’kut. 

There could only be only one spoiled di’kut in this aliit, and that title was safely in Pre’s hands.

He was expecting disappointment, maybe secretly hoping for it, but the moment the tiingilar hit his tongue, everything stopped, like someone yanked the sound out of the room.

It tasted like home.

It was his mother humming under her breath while his father tried (and failed) to sneak extra fire pepper into the pot. It was the two of them teasing each other over the seasoning while he and Arla fought over who got to stir the pot and he licked the spoon behind her back.

It tasted like before. Like what he used to think normal meant.

His throat locked up.

He blinked hard, looked down at his plate like it might help. Swallowed.

Tried to breathe.

Nope. Too late. His eyes were already stinging, breath catching like there was something sitting heavy in his chest trying to crawl its way out.

He wasn’t crying, though. He wasn’t. There were just… spice fumes. Probably. Maybe Lok had used too much fire pepper. That stuff was lethal.

Across the table, Arla’s smug face softened, like she could feel it too. Jaster reached out without a word, a warm, steady hand landing on his shoulder like he knew. Which was somehow worse. Because Jango didn’t need comfort. He needed to not be falling apart in the middle of latemeal over tiingilar.  

“You okay Jan’ika?” his buir asked quietly, voice pitched low enough that only he heard it.

Jango stared down at his plate, tried to scrape the words out of his throat, and finally managed, “It tastes like Ka’buir’s.”

Even though Arla told him it would, he didn’t really believe it. And he didn’t think it would come with so many memories. It was just food. It shouldn’t be such a big deal.

Jaster’s hand squeezed his shoulder again, a quiet reassurance that said more than anything words could. 

Jango wiped his face with the sleeve of his kute, cheeks going pink with the mortifying horror of feeling things in public.

“We spent forever testing different recipes,” Arla explained, all too bright, like she knew if she got sentimental she’d lose it too. “Lok cooked, and I taste-tested. We tried to get it as close as we could to what I remembered.”

“I know it’s not exact,” Lok added softly, “but I’m glad it feels close.”

It was. It was close enough that it felt like something he thought he’d lost forever. 

The tiingilar they grew up with tasted different from every other version Jango had tried, no matter what clan it came from. He never knew why. He wondered, sometimes.

He tried not to.

There was a lot Jango didn’t remember about growing up on the farm because he was too young, but he knew their buire always made a big deal about it. Ka’buir was always very proud of the clan tiingilar recipe. He remembered that much.

They even started teaching Arla how to make it on her tenth nameday, just like they promised, but that was only a few months before they marched on.

It wasn’t enough time.

Jango stared at his plate for a long moment, chasing the memory of that taste, of that time, until he finally found the nerve to look at Lok.

“Can you teach me?” he asked, voice weirdly small even to his own ears. “Is it weird to ask that? Since you’re not… you’re not my buir.”  

That was the tradition. Everyone knew it. You inherited your clan’s recipe from your buire. It was one of the few things in Mandalorian culture that was almost universal. After the riduurok, couples sometimes blended recipes. Some clans had three or four variations, all in one generation. Others had one sacred version so ancient it probably predated utensils. But one thing was always true— buire passed the recipe to their ade.  

Only those without them learned from someone else.

Jaster had taught him the Mereel recipe, and it was good. He liked it. He was proud of it. But it wasn’t…

It wasn’t the flavor that lived in his bones, the one he couldn’t describe but still recognized in an instant.

This one…it wasn’t an exact recreation, but it was close. It felt like a living memory connecting them to their maan’aliit. It belonged to Clan Fett, and they were the only two left.

“I could teach you if it feels better that way, but it’s not weird. Your buir is marrying my buir,” Arla said, like this was simple math. “That basically makes him yours too. So it’s fine.”

When the words registered, Jango just… sat there, unsure whether to latch onto them or throw them back in her face. 

He hadn't really thought about that part. He'd been so focused on Operations SMOOCH and RIDUUROK, on pushing this slow-motion romance between their two incredibly stubborn buire, that he never stopped to ask what it meant for him. 

Like, yes, obviously, he wanted the riduurok to happen. And once they exchanged vows, that would automatically make them one big happy, slightly unconventional aliit.  

He wanted that, he just hadn't paid much attention to the technicalities.

Did he want Lok as a buir? Or did he just want him to be Jaster’s riduur?  

That should be enough, right? 

Jaster would be happy. That was the point. As a bonus, their aliit would officially be reunited. But Arla was already his ori’vod regardless, and Pre…

Well, Pre would be his vod’ika, he supposed. Jango always kind of wanted to be the ori’vod for once anyway. 

Pre was a bit of a pain in the shebs right now, but he was raised by Tor kriffing Vizsla for most of his life. Of course he turned out prickly and thought the universe revolved around him. But he wouldn’t always be awful, he just needed time to grow out of it. 

Jango could work with that.

He could also admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he was kind of a bit like Pre when Jaster first took him in. Just with less privilege and more trauma. Still. He could do it. He could be a decent ori’vod to Pre. Maybe even a good one. Eventually.

But he didn’t need another buir. He was happy with Jaster. Why would he need anyone else? 

And even if he did want another buir, he didn’t know if it could be a Vizsla.

Lok was… complicated.  

After his aliit was murdered, Jango was angry for years—angry at Lok for being a liar, at the universe for being cruel, at everything that burned down around him on Concord Dawn for not fighting hard enough. 

But he remembered playing with Lok that day. Remembered liking him. That memory was also the reason he hated him for six years. Because only the worst kind of person pretends to be your friend and comes back the same night to kill your aliit.  

He was wrong about Lok, and about what happened. He knew that now. That didn’t mean it stopped being complicated.

He didn’t like Kyr’tsad, or Vizslas, and he didn’t need a buir.  

He already had one. 

Lok waited patiently for Jango to meet his eyes before he addressed Arla’s bold declaration. “You don’t owe me anything just because I’m marrying Jaster. And I’m not going to expect you to see me as a buir if that’s not what you want. But I’d be happy to teach you either way.”

Which was great. Really. Very grown-up and considerate. Extremely healthy boundaries. That’s probably what his mir’baar’ur would say.

It wasn’t how Jango felt, though. He felt something hot and sharp twist behind his ribs. 

He hated it.

Because he was trying very hard to act like he was above this, and it was working, and now suddenly it wasn’t. 

Because the moment Lok said he wouldn’t expect it of him, Jango heard I don’t want you, and his brain panicked so loudly it shorted out whatever filter he had left and suddenly none of the other stuff really mattered. 

The sharp pain behind his ribs was louder than all of it.

“You don’t want to adopt me?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Lok looked like the question physically hurt him. His eyes snapped to Jango’s, wide and soft in a way that made Jango want to slide under the table and never come out again.

Lok reached across the table, wrapped a hand around his, and squeezed like he meant it. 

“I’d be honored,” he said quietly, so sincere that Jango immediately hated that too. Because it made his chest feel weird and… itchy. He pulled his hand away and fought not to squirm in his seat. It was…too many emotions.

See? He knew this latemeal would be miserable. Except miserable sort of felt like the wrong word. Maybe…intense?

“I didn’t want you to feel pressured into it because of the riduurok,” Lok added. 

Too late. He was very close to convincing himself he didn’t want it, and then he thought Lok didn’t want him, and that hurt for some reason, and it felt like being rejected, and now everything’s all mixed up.

Jango hasn’t spent that much time with him, but he knew Lok wasn’t one of those old adults who got pushy or acted like a lecture was a parenting style. 

Arla loved him. A lot. And she didn’t love easy.

Jango was pretty sure Pre also loved him, and Pre didn’t even like anyone. 

Besides, he passed his verd’goten already. It wasn’t like when Jaster took him in. It wouldn’t be someone else taking charge of his life. It was more of a—what? A promise, maybe. A gesture. It didn’t have to change anything.

It didn’t really matter.

No. It shouldn’t matter, but it obviously did.

The two seconds where he thought he was being rejected wouldn’t hurt like that if it didn’t matter, right? He didn’t think so. 

And that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t supposed to care, but apparently, he didn’t have much of a choice. He didn’t even know why he did.

Jango didn’t have the words to explain any of it, so he did the only logical thing a highly composed, emotionally mature fifteen-year-old could do in such a moment.

He shoved another massive forkful of tiingilar into his mouth, chewed like his life depended on it, and muttered around it, “You can adopt me after the riduurok.”  

It came out aggressively casual. Which was the goal. There. Now he didn’t have to think about it anymore.

After the initial shock wore off—along with the suspiciously misty eyes Lok definitely pretended weren’t happening—the conversation shifted to lighter topics and Jango happily let it. 

He wasn’t built for follow-up emotions and he’s had enough unwelcome feelings at latemeal tonight. 

He needed a break.

Which was why he spent the next ten minutes studiously not making eye contact, operating under the flawless logic that if he acted like nothing happened, then nothing did. 

Everyone at the table seemed to agree. Even Arla, who had a long and well-documented history of poking emotional bruises just to see what happened.

When dessert was finally served, Jango reached for a slice of uj cake the moment it hit the table, only to freeze mid-motion. 

Something was off.

There were pieces missing.

“Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes like he was analyzing a crime scene. “Did you pre-slice this?”

“I set some aside for Pre,” Lok said calmly, like he hadn’t just confessed to food crimes in front of a table full of witnesses.

“Suspicious behavior,” Jango muttered, piling two slices onto his plate anyway because even moral outrage had limits, and the cake was still warm. 

Still. He happened to know Pre got more than enough sweets, treats, and desserts. Seriously, they should probably be worried about his sugar intake at this point. The kitchen staff even baked things specifically for him. He didn’t need to be claiming extras from meals he didn’t even want to be at. 

Of course, saying that out loud would lead to uncomfortable questions about where Pre was getting all those extra sweets, and how often , and with whose authorization. So Jango wisely said nothing.

Now that he thought about it, there was a small chance he and Arla were… contributing to Pre’s spoiled tendencies. Slightly. Just a touch.

He shrugged internally. Pre was their vod’ika. Corrupting the youth was basically a rite of passage. If anything, they were taking their responsibilities very seriously. By the time they were done, he’d be an absolute terror.

Well. Even more of one.

“So,” Arla said casually as everyone settled in with their uj cake. “Jan’ika told me the original plan was to merge these two apartments. Are you still planning to do that after the riduurok, or are we moving into one bigger place?”

She aimed the question directly at Jaster, who was halfway through a bite and totally unprepared.

Jango perked up, suddenly very invested in the answer. He also scowled, because Arla knew he hated being called Jan’ika. Aside from sometimes when Jaster did it. But still. Only sometimes.  

“I don’t—” Jaster started, clearly caught off guard.

“No,” Lok said. His tone wasn’t harsh but the way he said it felt final. 

Jaster blinked, and Jango really didn’t like the look in his eyes. He couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, but it wasn’t good.

Jaster frowned. “No to renovating or no to moving?” 

“Both,” Lok replied.

“Why?” Jaster asked, his voice even, but not light, and definitely not warm.

“Buir’s been planning the renovation for years,” Jango jumped in. “So it was going to happen anyway. You can probably help choose some furniture and stuff. And like, designs.”

He knew absolutely nothing about how this osik worked but if Lok got input into how they remodeled, they could make it in the way he wants and then he’d have no reason to want to live anywhere else.

Problem solved.

Lok winced. Which Jango also didn’t like.

“We can talk about it,” Lok said, turning to Jaster with something that sounded a lot like regret. “If it’s important to you, we’ll figure it out. But... Pre’s still adjusting. I don’t want to overwhelm him. He needs stability right now.”

That sounded reasonable. Respectful. Thoughtful, even.

Too bad it couldn’t be allowed to stand. 

Jango could read between the lines easily enough, especially after the stuff Lok said about Pre earlier. 

The issue wasn’t moving or renovating. It was Jaster. 

Pre didn’t like him right now, and Lok wasn’t going to force them to live together. But he also wasn’t going to leave Pre behind. Even with a literal connecting door between them, Lok wouldn’t do that. He’d never risk Pre feeling abandoned.

Which meant that even after the riduurok, Lok thought they were going to keep living separately. Because Pre had issues, and Lok wouldn’t budge until Pre was ready. 

That kind of thinking could potentially push the whole projected timeline back by months. Maybe longer, depending on how stubborn Pre felt like being.

Yeah. No. This was unacceptable. 

Jango met Arla’s eyes across the table. She nodded once, telling him she also heard what Lok wasn’t saying. 

Right. They were going to have to fix this too.

He sighed and took another bite of his uj cake.

Their buire were exhausting. 

Chapter Text

A week before they were set to say their vows, the guests began arriving, and with them came the distinct, low-grade nightmare that was event logistics. 

It was…a lot. 

There were landing schedules with their own footnotes, protocols annotated by three different departments, and an entire subfile devoted to potential offenses categorized by cultural region, familial grudge, and previous vendetta.

Fortunately, they weren’t greeting every delegation personally. The schedule had been painstakingly organized so each visiting contingent would be received by the hospitality teams, processed through the liaisons until they were sufficiently flattered, fed, and settled far away from him.

The real diplomatic overtures wouldn’t begin until two days before the celebration, when they were expected to host a formal banquet—an event Jaster was already dreading. Apparently, it was “expected.”

So, in comparison, spending his afternoon holed up in his office dissecting a conspiracy wasn’t all that bad. Especially with Lok there, hunched over a console, brow furrowed with that particular expression of intense concentration that made him look far too earnest for his own good. His hair was tied back, save for the strands that slipped loose to curl against his cheekbones. The faint sound of his voice under his breath, the soft frown of concentration, the occasional eye-roll at bad accounting as he cross-checked financial records—it was a deeply compelling view. Not one conducive to productivity, but compelling nonetheless.

“The obvious goal here is to destabilize Mandalore,” Lok said, gesturing to the mess of charts now filling the holoscreen. “Fund a civil war, let us tear each other apart, and prop up the Evaar’ade as the legitimate government in the sector. But why?”

“Keep us weak,” Jaster shrugged, pretending he hadn’t been watching Lok instead of the graphs. “Seems straightforward.”

“Yes, but why? The Banking Clan doesn’t care if we’re politically disorganized. They care about profit. If you only look at the Sundari side of things, that motive might hold up, but Kyr’tsad was practically burning credits. Even I can see it was an osik investment—”

Lok’s datapad chirped, interrupting him. He glanced down, then lit up just enough to make Jaster’s stomach tighten with something that wasn’t nerves, exactly, but lived next door. 

“That’s Wren. The Alderaan delegation just landed.”

Jaster raised a brow. “We’re not greeting them, though.”

“No,” Lok said quickly, then fumbled. “Yes. I mean— we aren’t.” He cleared his throat, already standing, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his datapad. His ears were pink. “It’s just, uh—Kivan helped a lot. With… diplomatic contacts. And navigating all of this. Honestly, if it weren’t for him, I think the whole diplomatic approach would’ve imploded by now.”

It wasn’t fair.

He was far too pretty when he was bashful.

“Of course,” Jaster said, evenly, even though he could feel his molars grinding just a little.

Lok smiled, relieved. “Great. We can pick this up later, yeah?”

“Sure,” Jaster said, standing. “Actually…”

Lok paused mid-step, already halfway to the door.

“I’ll come with you,” Jaster added, as if the idea had just occurred to him. 

Lok blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Jaster said evenly, reaching for his buy’ce with what he hoped was a rational level of composure. “But it’s only polite to thank someone who’s been… instrumental in aiding our diplomatic success.”

Professional courtesy. That’s all it was. It was perfectly reasonable to personally acknowledge a helpful political contact who, for some reason, had managed to charm his ven’riduur into smiling like that. 

Not that he was bothered. He just… liked to keep an eye on all variables.

They were halfway to the reception hall when Jango rounded a corner, nearly colliding with them. His visor flicked between them suspiciously.

“Where are you going?” he asked, already matching their pace.

“The Alderaan delegation is arriving,” Lok answered. “We’re greeting them.”

“Huh. Thought you weren’t greeting delegations yet.”

“We weren’t,” Jaster said, voice dry. “We are now.”

Jango paused, then nodded as though that explained everything. “Guess I’ll come too. Good chance to learn the ropes, right?”

Jaster narrowed his eyes. “Learn what ropes, exactly?”

“You know. Political ones.”

How believable. But this wasn’t the time to investigate why Jango was interested in tagging along.

They reached the reception hall a few minutes later, just as the delegation was being escorted in by Tarin Wren, whose posture suggested he’d been given this assignment as a punishment, and he was determined to pass that sense of consequence on to everyone around him.

At Wren’s side, Senator Kivan Organa did not walk so much as glide, draped in navy, trimmed in gold, crowned by confidence and just enough self-awareness to pull it off. A creature rode along on his shoulder like a living accessory.

Jaster, who had never met the man but had viewed every existing holo for reasons that were entirely professional, took one look at him and wanted to turn around.

He tried not to bristle. He really did. But it was like trying to remain calm in the presence of glitter.

“Osik,” Jango muttered beside him. “Is that the prince guy?”

“Senator,” Jaster corrected, just a little too sharply. “From Alderaan.”

“Fancy.” Jango sounded unimpressed. “Bit much.”

Jaster hummed in agreement, though it came out a bit closer to a growl than he intended.

As they approached, Organa lit up like a festival had been thrown in his honor. “Darling,” he said, sweeping toward Lok with both arms outstretched and absolutely no shame. “You have no idea how soul-destroying diplomacy has been in your absence. I nearly expired from aesthetic deprivation.”

Jaster really did not care for that term of address. 

Lok flushed, looking mildly panicked, and intercepted the hug with a very proper traditional arm-clasp. It didn’t slow Organa down in the slightest. He pivoted seamlessly, twining his arm around Lok’s and dragging out the contact a full five seconds longer than he needed to. 

“I’d forgotten how stiff Mandalorians could be,” the senator sighed dramatically. “You’ve been away far too long.”

”It’s good to see you,” Lok said politely. Professionally, even. Jaster almost relaxed.

Almost, because a heartbeat later, Lok’s polite expression split into a bright, genuine smile. ”I missed you,” he added, all soft and affectionate.

Jaster’s heart stopped. Restarted. Decided to beat out of rhythm for dramatic effect.

The little shoulder-creature took that exact moment to launch itself onto Lok’s chest with the aerodynamic grace of a sentient hairball and perched on his shoulder.

Lok laughed. Head tilted, blue eyes crinkling, freckled cheeks flushed from joy. 

It was a beautiful laugh, and it was all for them. The senator and his plague-beast of a shoulder-rodent.

Finally, Lok turned to him, still glowing. “Jaster, this is Senator Kivan Organa of Alderaan. Senator, this is Alor Mereel. My—”

“Your betrothed!” Organa cut in, looking delighted. He swept his gaze over Jaster in a manner that felt evaluative, and not in the military sense. “Oh, very Mandalorian. I adore the cape. That deep red—so much better than that black one Lok insists on. Honestly, I suspect he’s allergic to color.”

Lok turned a deeper pink and sighed.

“Well met,” Jaster said through gritted teeth, offering his arm with every bit of the rigid formality he could muster. “This is my son, Jango.”

Organa’s attention shifted. “Jango! How perfectly formidable.”

Jango responded with a stoic nod, which Jaster silently approved of.

Jaster turned his gaze back to Lok, hoping against reason that maybe he’d reclaimed at least some part of his ven’riduur’s attention.

He had not.

Lok was still a pretty shade of pink, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and amused, completely preoccupied with the… thing now curling across his shoulder, as if it had claimed squatters’ rights to his collarbone.

Jaster forced himself to look away from Lok’s face and focus on the beast. With effort.

It was… uhm.

It—no. Nevermind. Jaster had no words. The thing was an affront to natural law. 

He stared at it, and it stared back. With intent. It blinked one eye independently of the other, tail flicking like a weaponized antenna.

“What the kriff is that thing?” Jango blurted, horrified.

Jaster was absurdly grateful he didn’t have to be the one to say it.

“Snaggles,” Lok said with clear affection, reaching up to scratch the monstrosity behind one ear. The creature made a noise that sounded like a purr crossbred with a throat-clearing cough.

“Why does it look like that?” Jango asked. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Kivan said smoothly—while staring at Lok with the sort of adoration that made Jaster’s blood pressure spike.

Well. That was an unpleasant development.

Jango took a generous step back. “I don’t trust it.”

Neither did Jaster. But not because of it’s…unfortunate appearance, which was certainly unsettling in its own right.

No. He didn’t trust it because of that smile. Bright, unguarded, and real, and none of it was directed at him. In fact, Lok hardly seemed to remember he was there at all.

Jaster’s buy’ce mercifully hid the scowl that took up residence across his entire face.

Fine.

He was just going to have to fix that. He didn’t know how, but he’d figure it out.

Pre stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and glared at nothing in particular. The tiingilar was too spicy today, and it had that weird bitter taste again, like maybe it was reheated too many times. He picked at it with his fork, even though he wasn’t really hungry. His stomach felt tight, all twisty and wrong, like how it did before he threw up during a speeder ride once. 

Ba’vodu Kasor was sitting next to him, occasionally pointing out people across the room Pre should memorize. 

Pre barely looked. He already knew their names. He already knew the whole room. It was all the same people who kept asking him about the same thing.

The riduurok.

Pre’s fingers curled around his fork. His stomach flipped again. 

He didn’t like it. Not the food, the riduurok, or the way everything felt like it was changing and no one was asking him if he wanted it to. Everyone kept saying it was a good thing. Arla said he should be happy. 

But he wasn’t. The whole thing was stupid. It made his hands itch and his chest feel too fast and too cold all at the same time, like something bad was about to happen, but no one else could feel it but him.

Ba’vodu Lok didn’t even want to get married before. He said so. And things were fine. If it was already good, why fix it? 

Who cared about the Haat’ade? They could stay in Keldabe and Kyr’tsad could go back to Concordia and nothing had to change. They didn’t need to start fighting again. They could just leave each other alone.

“Thinking hard, ad’ika?” his other ba’vodu asked, nudging his shoulder.

“Just thinking,” Pre muttered, stabbing his food without actually eating it.

“About the riduurok?” Ba’vodu Kasor grinned, like he thought this was a joke. “Are you excited?”

“Shut up,” Pre mumbled, but not like he really meant it. It just felt better to say something. And if he said no, he’d have to deal with all the questions that came after, and what was the point? 

Before Ba’vodu Kasor could say anything else, another voice slid in from the end of the table like a shadow that thought it was important.

“I bet it’s not the riduurok he’s thinking about,” Jo’ba’buir said.

Pre stiffened, his fork paused mid-stab. He hated when grownups talked about him like he wasn’t there. 

He used to like Jo’ba’buir but that was before Buir died and everything got loud and bad and angry. Jo’ba’buir was always yelling now. And Ba’vodu Lok didn’t like him. They were always fighting, but Ba’vodu Lok never kept him away. He even said it was okay if Pre still liked him.

But Pre wasn’t sure if he did.

He liked the presents. Jo’ba’buir gave good ones. But he didn’t bring anything to Keldabe. He said “The riduurok is nothing to celebrate.”

Pre agreed. Which made Jo’ba’buir happy. Maybe if he kept agreeing, Jo’ba’buir could fix it and there wouldn’t have to be a riduurok in the end. 

“He’s probably wondering why his buir won’t be there,” Jo’ba’buir continued, swirling his drink like he always did. It looked fancy and weird, and Pre tried it once, but he just ended up with a very wet table and no more juice for the rest of the meal.

Finally, his ba’buir spoke directly to him. “If it wasn’t for Lok, you’d still have your buir.”

Pre didn’t look at him. His throat felt hot. His fingers clenched tighter around his tray. He wanted to throw it. Right at Jo’ba’buir’s dumb, stupid face. See how he liked it.

But Ba’vodu Lok had rules. He said you only fight when you don’t feel safe. And if it wasn’t about safety, then you’re supposed to count twenty deep breaths.

Pre promised he’d try.

So he started counting. One. Two. Three—

“Vizsla,” Ba’vodu Kasor growled. “He’s eight. Watch yourself.”

Pre scowled. Eight wasn’t so little. He was almost nine and that was basically ten. And ten was double digits so he was almost old enough to start getting real beskar’gam. He wasn’t an ik’aad, no matter what Jango said.

Jo’ba’buir shrugged, like this didn’t matter. Like Pre didn’t matter. “Eight’s old enough to understand what his so-called guardian did. If it weren’t for Lok, Tor would still be alive and he’d still have a buir.”

“If it weren’t for Tor, he’d still have a buir regardless.”

The air felt very hot. Pre wanted him to stop talking. He didn’t like hearing about this. He didn’t want to hear this. His ears were ringing now, the noise buzzing behind his eyes.

The bench creaked when Ba’vodu Kasor’s leaned forward. “You want to twist that around? Fine. But don’t do it in front of the ad.”

“He’s old enough to know the truth. Lok—”

Pre couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up so fast his tray clattered to the floor. “I don’t care!” he shouted.

The words came out louder than he meant, echoing across the whole room.

“I don’t care if Lok killed Tor!” he said again, louder this time, voice cracking in the middle but not stopping, even though it hurt. “He won! That means he’s stronger! That’s what Buir always said, right? Strong wins. Well— Lok won. So just shut up about it!”

A fork hit the floor somewhere in the back. Nobody moved. Everyone just stared.

Pre’s face was hot. His eyes stung but he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.

He jumped off the bench and ran out of the mess hall, fists clenched, heart hammering, everything tight and loud and too big to fit inside his skin.

It was all stupid anyway. He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

Pre Vizsla’s voice still rang in his ears, sharp-edged and far too loud for someone so small. That adiik had lungs. And conviction. A dangerous combination.

Tarin Wren stood at parade rest, spine straight, arms folded behind him, surveying the scene. The mess hall had resumed its usual rhythm, or tried to. The low murmur of conversation returned, the scrape of utensils, the hum of movement, but tension still lingered in the air like the aftershock of a thermal charge. Pre’s words had hit hard. Loud, honest, too raw, and devastatingly inconvenient.

Across from him, Jorad Vizsla sat stiff and silent, shoulders squared, jaw clenched tight beneath his graying beard. His mouth was a hard, bloodless line, carved from the same stone as his ego. Uncracked, unfortunately.

He’d never seen the man smile, and suspected that if he did, it would be a grim thing best suited to funerals and executions.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Tarin said flatly. “You should’ve stayed focused on the riduurok.”

Jorad’s head snapped toward him. “What spell does Lok have the boy under?” he demanded, as if the only possible explanation for Pre’s loyalty was some kind of dark magic.

Tarin arched a brow but didn’t grace the accusation with an answer. 

“He’s just as ruthless as they say,” one of the Kyr’tsad verde at the table behind them muttered, tone equal parts awed and grim. “Claimed his brother’s ad like he was a war prize, and even got him to be loyal.”

“Don’t underestimate our Mand’alor,” someone else added.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

It was a misperception so consistent, Tarin had come to respect its architectural integrity. Lok’s early purges of the Kyr’tsad ranks cemented his reputation before his rule truly began. But the way Lok’s actions were so persistently assigned a ruthless intent should be studied, along with how he regularly unknowingly reinforced it. 

If it weren’t such a headache to keep up with, Tarin might have found the irony amusing.

Jorad’s hands were fists against the edge of the table.  “He’s my bu’ad.”

“He’s the Mand’alor’s son now,” Tarin said simply.

“He’s Tor’s son,” Jorad hissed, venom bleeding through every word. “Lok had no right to take him in—no right to keep him. That custody should’ve gone to his aliit who was already caring for him. Not the man who killed his buir in a duel to the death. The boy won’t even call Lok buir last I checked.”

Tarin’s gaze didn’t waver. “You know as well as I do that the victor of such a challenge has the right to claim the fallen’s ade as their own. It’s old law, but law nonetheless.”

Jorad sneered. “It’s an outdated tradition.”

“By that logic, so is the dha’kad’au,” Tarin said calmly, “and you should be careful how loudly you question either.  You’re starting to echo the Evaar’ade, and I doubt that’s the company you want to keep.”

Jorad’s face contorted in fury. “Don’t you dare compare me to those spineless dar’manda hut’uun.”

Tarin shrugged. “Their foolishness began with the same disregard of tradition. You don’t have to like it, but Lok’s adoption of Pre was legitimate.”

He stepped closer, boots silent against the floor, and leaned down just enough to speak beneath the hum of the room. “And I strongly advise you to be more conscious of your surroundings. You’re in a room full of verde who swore to Mand’alor Vizsla. You may not fear the consequences, but your words will be remembered.”

Jorad made a show of scoffing, loudly and completely lacking subtlety. “So this is what we’ve become?” he said, throwing his voice wider. “Blind to the wellbeing of ade? That adiik nearly had a breakdown in front of all of you. And you’re all fine with that? That’s healthy? Letting him be raised by the man who killed his buir?”

That was…audaciously hypocritical. For a brief moment, Tarin could only stare. 

“You didn’t seem too concerned when Tor wanted to drag him into battle at five.” 

Ah. So Kasor Kast had finally decided to insert himself into the conversation. This wasn’t going to end well.

The accusation was dry, cutting, and overdue.

“Funny how your standards shift,” Kasor added.

Jorad bristled, but Kasor wasn’t finished. He rarely was when it came to this subject.

“In case your hearing’s going too—Pre was defending Lok based on a standard Tor set for him. And by your logic, he shouldn’t have been raised by Tor either. Or did you conveniently forget that Tor murdered Veyli in cold blood?”  

“Veyli was a traitor,” Jorad spat.

Tarin was well trained enough not to wince at the misstep, but it took genuine effort not to let his eyes close in weariness when he watched Alor Vizsla begin to dig his own grave in front of a room full of witnesses.

House Kast had never forgiven Tor for Veyli’s death. The only reason they hadn’t burned every bridge and pulled out of Kyr’tsad was because they couldn’t manage to get Pre back. But that resentment simmered beneath the surface for years.  

Tarin was almost sure they were prepared to fracture the movement entirely when Lok adopted Pre at Tor’s pyre. He knew for a fact Kasor and his buire were ready to claim Pre before anyone thought to stop them. Lok getting there first should have triggered a war.

But then Lok earned their favor when he took it upon himself to visit the Kast stronghold and encouraged Pre to connect with that part of his family. The lingering resentment reverted to fierce loyalty when Lok made an active effort to respect Veyli’s memory, rather than electing to ignore or erase it. 

So, disrespecting Lok and calling Veyli Kast a traitor in front of her ori’vod was a spectacularly poor choice. Kasor only held his tongue because Tor threatened to never let him see Pre again. That threat didn’t hold much weight anymore.

“She was a buir trying to protect her ad and she paid for it with her life,” Kasor roared, stepping forward now. “Tor murdered Pre’s buir because of his own selfish rage. At least Lok killed him with honor.”

Well, that was predictable. As was the hushed murmur through the rest of the room, who were watching the unfortunate dramatics like a captivated audience.

Many of them were under the impression that the circumstances surrounding Veyli’s death were…different. That it was another tragedy in the tale of Tor Vizsla—the death of his riduur after he already lost his vod.  

But it wasn’t just a tale Tor fed to people. Tarin dealt with it firsthand, nevermind how much he felt the loss himself. Whatever else could be said about Tor Vizsla, the loss of his riduur broke something in him. He never truly recovered.

“Tor knew what he was doing when he fought Lok,” Kasor continued, voice stripped of its fire and replaced with steel.  “He entered it willingly. He lost. Lok won. Honorably. Accept it. The rest of Kyr’tsad has. If you can’t, do the honorable thing and challenge Lok for his position yourself.” He leaned in. “But don’t you dare manipulate an adiik just because you can’t win a fight.”

Kasor turned on his heel and stormed out without waiting for a response. 

Jorad remained frozen, jaw twitching, eyes scanning the room, searching faces for support. As if a room full of loyalists might echo his outrage. 

As Tarin suspected, the man was tragically out of touch and expected the reaction of a Kyr’tsad that no longer existed. If he wished to see Lok removed from the throne, he was going to have to do some serious recalibration. And damage control.

Jorad finally turned toward Tarin, gaze sharp, imploring, demanding.

Tarin met his gaze with the cold steel of silence. 

Jorad knew better than to expect backup from him. Or should have. Some of them didn’t have the privilege of being the Mand’alor’s buir and declaring disloyalty so openly without consequence. There was nothing Tarin could say now that wouldn’t cost him. 

And while Lok might tolerate Jorad’s slander when directed at himself—would likely dismiss it with little more than a tired shrug—anything that threatened Pre was met with fire. It was unlikely he’d let even Jorad get away with it, should he hear about it.

Which was precisely why Tarin had advised against dragging the adiik into this. And if Jorad insisted, he should have been strategic about it. There was potential there, but only if played right. Triggering the adiik was quite possibly the worst approach.

It was truly disappointing.

Tarin couldn’t shield Jorad from the backlash. Nor was he particularly inclined to. He had little patience for incompetence.

Of course, Lok’s passive aggressive campaign against his buir wasn’t helping things. This miscalculation was a product of Jorad’s bruised pride. That hardly excused it.

Jorad’s lip curled when Tarin made no move to support him. He turned back toward the room with a snarl. “Seriously?” he barked, loud and indignant. “None of you have a problem with this? You see nothing wrong with Lok killing his own ori’vod and forcefully claiming Tor’s ad when he had aliit ready and willing to care for him?”

He stood now, voice carrying across the hall, hands gesturing wide like he could rally a crowd that didn’t exist. “Where’s your loyalty? Is this what Kyr’tsad has become? Tor didn’t build this movement from nothing to watch you all betray him in death.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

Dren Vor, a veteran of Concord Dawn and one of the few older verde that Lok deemed worthy of survival, spoke up from two tables over. “Our loyalty is to the Mand’alor. As it should be.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It was almost undeservedly kind. “You lost an ad. You’re grieving. That’s… understandable. But Lok is your ad too, and he’s our Mand’alor. He earned it. You need to accept and respect that. Or,” he added, glancing toward the exit Kasor had taken, “you challenge him.”

Aro, a younger sniper and one of many adolescent recruits that elected to join Lok’s ranks after he restructured, chimed in from beside Vor. “Be careful though. A lot of verde have tried to take that title from him. None of them are still around.”

Jorad flushed deep, angry red. He looked back at Tarin one more time, anger bleeding into disbelief. As if he couldn’t understand why a verd like Tarin Wren, Tor’s former second and now Lok’s, wasn’t standing beside him.

Well. As previously stated, that would be stupid. Really, Jorad should know better than to take such a stance so publically. These were the types of grievances best shared in private. 

Tarin stepped forward until they stood close enough for no one else to hear.

“I suggest you stand down,” he murmured. “Before you say something the loyalists won’t forgive.”

Jorad’s nostrils flared, his fists clenched, but he said nothing. He turned sharply and swept from the room in silence, rage trailing in his wake like the smoke of a battle long lost.

The noise kicked up again as soon as he was gone, covering the sound of Tarin’s sigh. 

That mess was going to be a nightmare to clean up.

Jaster couldn’t stop replaying that bright, blinding smile on Lok’s face. 

It was the kind of smile Lok rarely offered anymore, except maybe to adiike or, apparently, certain infuriating Republic senators who didn’t know when to shut up and keep their compliments to themselves.

Worse, Jaster had discovered a royally inconvenient fact shortly after being introduced to said senator: Kivan Organa was a flirt.

Not just a casual, cultural sort of flirt. No, this was full-throttle, Alderaanian court-trained, silk-tongued nonsense wrapped in jewels and poetry. And Jaster, who had spent a lifetime mastering the art of stoicism, now found himself fantasizing about legally permissible ways to commit minor diplomatic violations. 

To Lok’s credit, he never reciprocated. At least not in Jaster’s presence. Not that he was keeping track. 

It was just—look. There were patterns. He noticed things. That wasn’t irrational jealousy, that was situational awareness.

Whether Lok’s non-responsiveness was out of some residual respect or because he was genuinely oblivious remained a subject of debate. A debate Jaster was unfortunately having with himself at increasingly regular intervals.

It was a small mercy that Mandalorian flirting bore so little resemblance to the courtly choreography of Alderaan that Lok’s utter cluelessness remained a statistically viable theory. After all, if you weren’t being insulted mid-sparring match or handed a refurbished weapon with a passive-aggressive note, it probably wasn’t romantic.

“Alor, did you read the briefing?” Walon Vau’s monotone drawl cut cleanly through the mental image of Organa touching Lok’s elbow again.

Jaster sighed and looked down at his datapad. “Of course I did,” he muttered as his eyes skimmed the text for the first time.

There was a pause.

“You’re holding it upside down,” Vau said dryly.

Kal made an unfortunate noise halfway between a snort and a cough. “So that’s a yes to the proposal, then?”

Jaster gave him a look that could have singed flesh, then glanced back at the datapad and began mentally cycling through gruntwork he could assign to Kal. 

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to follow through. Vau had already flagged it as a misallocation of personnel and told Jaster to be petty on his own time.

It was fine. Skirata still had a schedule that would keep him occupied and far away from Kyr’tsad where he wouldn’t run into any emotionally vulnerable Mand’alors with questionable taste in senators.

Not that Jaster had arranged it that way. 

He was saved further embarrassment by the office door opening. Myles and Jango both entered like they had an appointment —which they might have. Jaster wasn’t exactly keeping track of his schedule at the moment. He was… distracted.

“Did you meet the prince?” Jango asked Kal as he dropped into a chair. 

“Senator,” Jaster corrected automatically. Prince felt too indulgent. That title came with poetry. Senator came with meetings.

“Organa?” Vau asked, glancing up from his datapad. “From Alderaan?”

“That’s the one Lok worked for, right?” Kal asked.

“Yes,” Myles replied, looking vaguely nauseated. “He arrived this morning. We just ran into Lok giving him a…tour.”

Jaster’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t see a reason why Lok would need to handle that personally. They had a hospitality team for that. Several, actually. 

“And?” Vau prompted.

Jango shrugged. “Just saying.”

Kal leaned forward slightly, grinning like he was about to stir trouble. “What do we know about Organa?”

“He supports reconstruction efforts, refugee aid, youth outreach,” Vau recited, tone flat and efficient. “Financials flagged some irregularities, but they all traced back to anonymous donations. Mostly to programs for underprivileged youth. Public record is clean. No significant diplomatic offenses. He’s a bleeding heart with money.”

Kal’s grin widened. “Sounds like a great guy.”

“He’s… something,” Myles muttered, face twisting like he’d just bitten into something bitter. “The thing on his shoulder’s worse.”

“What do we know on the non-political side?” Jaster asked, injecting just enough steel into his tone to make it sound tactical.

“Why?” Kal asked, clearly entertained.

“It pays to be thorough.” 

Vau made a noise that might have been a sigh or just irritation escaping his chest cavity in the form of a low-frequency death rattle. “We combed through every tabloid and press leak,” he said, voice devoid of inflection. “Beyond a handful of minor scandals—mostly fashion-related, tragically—and some political controversy during the year or so Lok was assigned as his bodyguard, there’s not much. As far as public image for a politician goes, he’s practically sterile, both on Alderaan and galactically.”

It was meant to be reassuring. It wasn’t.

Jaster exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, datapad forgotten in his hand. “That can’t be everything.”

“It is,” Vau said, sounding like he regretted being here. “Unless you’re requesting a breakdown of his sock sourcing or would like to be personally briefed on his preferred cologne rotation. I think one’s called Sunset Reverie.”

Jaster frowned. He wasn’t looking for a sanitized biography or a curated list of philanthropic achievements. He wanted the truth. Something personal. Something ugly, preferably. Something that would make Lok grimace if it got brought up in casual conversation. That seemed fair.

“I want more,” he said, voice deceptively calm.

Kal was already halfway to smirking. “Of course you do.”

“It’s not enough to know he’s generous and votes correctly,” Jaster added, managing not to grind his teeth. “If we’re working this closely with him, we need to make sure we have all possible intel. Anyone who’s that clean is suspicious.”

Vau fixed him with a look that managed to blend exhaustion and judgment into a single, flat expression. “We do have other responsibilities, Alor.”

“This’ll only take a minute,” Jaster said, already pulling out his commlink. “I’m going to contact Rook.”

Vau continued to stare at him. “For what possible reason?”

“Due diligence,” Jaster said mildly.

“Oh,” Kal said with dawning amusement. “This is going to be petty, isn’t it.”

“It’s perfectly professional.” 

“Sure,” Kal agreed. “Professionally petty.”

Jaster ignored him. 

“What do you want, Mereel?” Kas Rook asked the moment the call connected, already exasperated.

Jaster offered a tight smile the other man couldn’t see. “It’s great to hear from you too, Rook.”

“Can we not?” Rook said flatly. “I’m back in Keldabe in two days. Can this wait?”

Jaster cleared his throat. “I wanted to know what you can tell me about Kivan Organa.”

There was a pause that felt distinctly judgmental. Jaster might’ve been projecting. 

“Lok’s senator?”

He didn’t appreciate that phrasing, but let it slide. “The senator from Alderaan,” he corrected coolly

Rook sighed. “What do you want to know? He’s osik at following orders, bit of a nerf-brained idealist, and completely out of touch because he was raised with a gold spoon shoved up his shebs. But he tries. If he does something out of line, just tell him. He’ll fix it. Loudly. Probably with a dramatic apology and a handwritten sonnet.”

“Does he have a history of stepping out of line?” Vau asked, leaning in slightly.

“He has a history of being dense,” Rook replied. “If he’s a security problem, it’s because he doesn’t think, not because he’s scheming. He means well. Is that all?”

Jaster hesitated. The question on his tongue tasted like surrender. “Actually… what can you tell me about the relationship between him and Lok?”

There was another long pause. This one was definitely judgemental. Jaster could almost hear the eye-roll.

“Seriously?”

“It’s a valid question,” Jaster said, stiffly. Which it was. He just didn’t like how obvious it sounded out loud.

“And one you should be asking your ven’riduur. Speaking of which, I have to go pick up your engagement gift before I get myself on a ship to Manda’yaim, so unless you—”

“Engagement gift?” Jaster asked, ears perking up despite himself. “We exchanged knives already.”

Silence.

“Please tell me,” Rook said slowly, voice dark with rising despair, “that you got him something else. Something personal. Not committee-approved and couriered through three layers of staff.”

“I—”

“Oh for kriff’s sake!” Rook groaned. What followed was a full-spectrum tirade that began in Mando’a and veered wildly into at least three galactic trade dialects. The man found seventeen different ways to call him a fool, an idiot, and emotionally stunted.

Jaster was too busy being impressed to feel offended.

“Listen,” Rook snapped when he finally came up for air. “I get to Keldabe in two days. If you don’t have a real gift ready by then, we’re going to have problems.”

“Don’t we already?”

“Bigger problems,” Rook growled. “Now I have to go. And Mereel?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t deserve him.”

The call cut, leaving the truth of those words to hang in the silence.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get him an engagement gift,” Jango said, dragging him back to reality with all the mercy of a blaster bolt to the knee.

“I was going to,” Jaster lied poorly.

“Sure,” Jango replied, unimpressed and dripping with adolescent judgment. He didn’t even try to hide the eye-roll.

Truthfully, Jaster assumed they were sticking to the traditional blade exchange. Since it was technically a traditional courting gesture and since they hadn’t exactly had a courtship, it was treated as more of a formality and efficiently delivered by courier. 

Which, in hindsight, might have been a bit... cold.

But engagement gifts weren’t really a thing, traditionally. It wasn’t in the manual. How was he supposed to know he should be getting one?

Kal clapped his hands once. “New agenda. We fix our Mand’alor’s love life before Rook gets back and kills him.”

“It’s not—” Jaster began, because denial was the only tool he had left in his arsenal.

“Gift brainstorm,” Kal interrupted, already making a list. “Something Lok would love. Ideas. Go.”

Myles shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know what he does when he’s off-duty.”

“I’ve seen him nap,” Jango offered helpfully.

“Thrilling,” Kal muttered. “We’ll get him a pillow.”

“We could ask Arla,” Myles suggested. “She’d know what he’d actually want.”

“No,” Jaster said instantly. “We’re capable adults. We can figure this out.”

If he couldn’t even brainstorm a personal gift for his ven’riduur without consulting a teenager, they had bigger problems.

Kal didn’t comment, but something deeply smug was happening behind that grin.

They cycled through a few lackluster ideas—some kind of armor engraving, a custom holster, a private sparring chamber Jaster had definitely already commissioned but never gifted. None of it landed.

“What makes him happy?” Vau asked eventually, tired of the flailing.

“His ade,” Jaster answered automatically.

Vau raised a brow, unimpressed. “We’re not wrapping Pre in a bow.”

“Snaggles makes him happy,” Jango added, face twisted in mild disgust. 

“What’s that?” Kal asked, squinting.

“Organa’s pet,” Myles supplied, clearly wishing he didn’t know. “It’s a Momong. Allegedly. But it’s…something’s wrong with it. It doesn’t look right.”

Jaster privately thought that was putting it mildly. It looked like a monkey, a moth, and a taxidermied nightmare had been shoved through a broken atmospheric condenser and reassembled by someone holding a grudge against evolution. And yet, Lok adored it. Let it perch on his shoulder like a crown made of spite and fur. Let it crawl into his lap. Let it sleep on his chest. 

Which was fine. Completely fine.

“So,” Kal mused, “he likes children and weird animals. Not great, but workable. I don’t recommend adopting an ad for an engagement gift. Maybe save that for the anniversary. But a pet? That’s doable. You said this…Snaggles is a Momong?”

“An ugly Momong,” Jango confirmed.

“Is that part important?”

“Yes,” Jaster muttered.

Kal ignored him. “Maybe he’d prefer a normal one. Something less cursed-looking.”

“And how,” Jaster said slowly, “are we getting a Momong in two days? Maybe he’d like a striil? That seems more practical.”

“No,” Jango cut in immediately. “Absolutely not. You can’t take the easy way out. This is too important.”

Kal tapped briskly at his datapad, clearly enjoying himself. “I have my ways. Is there a clear image of this creature somewhere? I’ll forward it to my contact. See what we can do.”

Jaster narrowed his eyes. “Who’s your contact?”

“That’s unimportant,” Kal said far too quickly.

Jaster arched a brow. The kind of slow, inevitable arch that usually preceded long, painful reports. 

Kal had one particular “contact” that made the Hutts look gracious and he was well aware of Jaster’s extensive opinions on the topic.

Kal sighed. “Don’t start.”

Jaster groaned. “Do not let him swindle an invitation out of you. He is not allowed on my planet.”

“Relax. I’ll handle it. You’ll have a fluffy distraction delivered before Rook gets here and murders you for emotional incompetence,” Kal said, too cheerful. “It’ll make Lok forget all about this Snaggles nonsense and—what was it again— his senator.”

“Organa is not Lok’s—”

“Sure,” Kal said, standing and pocketing his datapad. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a black market pet smuggler to contact.”

As the door closed behind him, Jaster glanced at the remaining occupants of the room and cleared his throat. “I’m not jealous of a Momong,” he said, just for the record. 

“Sure,” Myles said, without looking up.

“If you say so,” Jango added, clearly trying not to laugh.

“No,” Vau agreed, “you’re just jealous of the man the Momong belongs to.”

Jaster scowled and turned back to his datapad, flipping through the tabs with more force than necessary. “Weren’t we discussing the reconstruction oversight proposal?”

For all the galaxy’s pretense of sophistication, few worlds could rival Mandalore in the art of orchestrating an arrival that felt at once militaristic and performatively courteous. One was not welcomed so much as processed.

Dooku stood motionless at the threshold of the boarding ramp, cloaked in a silence that neither of his companions mistook for indifference. He was reserving judgment. It would be issued later, in full, with footnotes.

Beside him, Sifo-Dyas had adopted a vaguely affable expression that Dooku did not trust in the slightest. Jocasta Nu, in contrast, adjusted the fall of her robes with the faintest sniff, though whether it was directed at the climate, the Mandalorians, or their senatorial traveling companions remained unclear. 

The boarding ramp lowered with a light hiss and a rush of warm, arid air. A single figure awaited them at the foot of the landing pad, standing at parade rest in cerulean armor traced with angular white markings Dooku did not immediately recognize. The right pauldron, however, bore the unmistakable sigil of the True Mandalorians.

Not one of Lok’s people, then. That was worth noting.

“Welcome to Mandalore,” they said, voice gravel-edged but cordial. “I’m Myles. He/him. I’ll be escorting you to your quarters.”

After the expected formalities and the brief exchange of names, positions, and pronouns, Myles gestured toward a waiting transport. The vehicle, though unremarkable at first glance, was clearly reinforced beneath the matte finish. Dooku counted at least two mounted blasters discreetly tucked behind magnetic panels.

Ah, hospitality.

The ride to the palace was brief, smooth, and gave Dooku just enough time to inventory the firepower of a planet pretending it wasn’t on alert.

The palace itself was a curious blend of austerity and pride. The architecture leaned brutalist, all hard lines and heavier shadows, but was occasionally interrupted by mosaic panels or banners stitched with bright colors and battle-sigils. 

They were led through two secure checkpoints, past a silent wall of guards in varying shades of beskar, and into a modestly-appointed wing clearly designated for offworld dignitaries. Their quarters, while not ostentatious, were undeniably comfortable. Two spacious rooms flanking a shared lounge.

Two rooms. And, pointedly, only one bed per room.

Dooku wasn’t sure if that was Arla’s or Lok’s doing. But it was one of them, certainly.

“Looks like we’re a bed short,” Myles said, hesitating at the threshold. “Apologies. Must’ve been an oversight—I’ll have another one brought up—”

“Oh, it’s not an oversight,” Sifo said pleasantly, cutting in before Dooku could.

“Are you sure?” Myles asked doubtfully.

“Quite,” Dooku said curtly. This wasn’t a topic that needed to be thoroughly discussed. The implications were rather obvious.

“But there are three of—” Myles began, then stopped. “Oh.” He coughed. “Understood.”

He moved on without further comment.

“Your mealtimes are listed in local time, along with a list of all formal events and optional tours. And these”—he tapped a section near the bottom—“are the contact details for on-call aides should you need anything.”

He turned and gestured to the hallway. A younger Mandalorian stepped forward, clad in pale grey armor with a deep red sash slung diagonally across his chest.

“This is Alen,” Myles said. “He’ll be your liaison throughout the visit. Any logistical or cultural queries can be routed through him.”

Alen inclined his head with the kind of textbook deference that suggested he’d been practicing in a mirror.

Dooku gave a dignified nod in return. “Very well.”

Sifo offered a warmer smile. “It’s good to meet you, Alen.”

“You’ll have some time to freshen up before the welcome meal,” Myles added. “Alen will return to escort you.”

And with that, he took his leave.

“Efficient, at least,” Jocasta murmured, already turning toward her suite. “Let’s hope the rest of the itinerary is as well-managed.”

Dooku moved toward the nearest window, fingers laced behind his back as he surveyed the panoramic viewport overlooking the city’s fortified skyline.

Three Jedi Masters being welcomed into the Mandalorian palace and treated as foreign dignitaries was, by any objective measure, historic. And while he could not complain about their treatment thus far, he had to wonder how long it would last.

Still. There was time. And tea, he hoped. Preferably Alderaanian, though realistically, he would settle for anything that wasn’t served in a recycled shell casing.

An hour later, suitably reassembled into the trappings of diplomatic civility and fortified by a cup of tea that was almost acceptable, Dooku found himself once again navigating the architectural contradiction that was Mandalorian statecraft. The dining hall they were led to was vast in the way military structures often were. Ironwood beams reinforced a vaulted ceiling that paid homage to ancient strongholds, long tables stretched like military formations, carefully set with minimalist tableware.

Guests filled the space in neat pockets of conversation—some adorned in diplomatic robes that signaled senatorial affiliation, others in armor with paint schemes that, to an untrained eye, might appear decorative. 

“Master Dooku,” came a smooth, vaguely familiar, cultured voice. 

He turned to find Senator Kivan Organa of Alderaan standing at the far end of the table. His posture was relaxed, chin lifted in a way that suggested he was entirely aware of every eye he drew, and more importantly, how to wield such attention properly. He was, Dooku thought with a mix of fondness and fatigue, entirely himself.

“Senator Organa,” he greeted, voice neutral but not cold. “I see you remain impossible to overlook.”

“I consider it a public service,” Senator Organa said brightly, closing the distance and clasping both of Dooku’s hands like they were longtime friends and not reluctant acquaintances. “It’s been too long. You look infuriatingly well.”

Dooku allowed the ghost of a smile. “I’m told it’s the preserved contempt.”

Kivan beamed. “Charming as ever.”

Dooku took a measured step back as the senator launched into a familiar rhythm of small talk.

As far as political personalities went, Kivan Organa was tolerable. Occasionally even effective. He was also, Dooku had noted long ago, one of Lok Vizsla’s more agreeable associates.

Despite his eccentricities, he was surprisingly genuine. He was loyal, and displayed an abundance of care for Lok when he ran off to Korda VI, despite having no responsibility to him. He was also, at heart, a romantic. 

He would make a much more suitable partner for Lok Vizsla.

The only obstacle, of course, was that Kivan came with… that creature. But Lok seemed to have an inexplicable affection for the Momong, so that might work in his favor. 

He was still contemplating the relative merits of political matchmaking when another familiar voice reached him.

“Ba’buir!” Arla greeted cheerfully before she launched herself at Sy, reminding everyone that she considered formality to be an abstract concept. “Took you long enough.”

Sifo caught her easily, laughing. “It’s good to see you too, Arla.”

She targeted Dooku next, grinning. “Still resisting the title, huh?”

“I am not your grandfather,” Dooku replied evenly. “And such a designation would be improper.”

Arla blinked once. Then laughed. “You keep saying that like it’ll make it true.”

Before Dooku could formulate a suitably scathing rebuttal, a second Mandalorian appeared at Arla’s elbow.

“Arla,” the newcomer said, “I need to know if we’re still on track for the week-three projection. There are credits on the line.”

“Silas,” Arla groaned with theatrical despair, “not in front of the jetiise.”

Sifo-Dyas raised a curious brow. “Projection?”

“There’s a betting pool,” Silas explained.

“About the engaged couple,” Arla clarified, eyes gleaming. “There’s a whole list of categories: first public kiss, first ‘accidental’ sleepover, mutual confession of undying love, first scandalous holonet headline... You can bet on any of them.”

“Odds adjust weekly,” Silas added helpfully. “Some of the phrasing is a little… colorful.”

Dooku’s gaze slid toward Senator Organa, who was now distracted by a bowl of candied nuts. “And the participants?”

“Oh, everyone’s in on it,” Arla said proudly. “Even Kyr’tsad’s running a side-pool. But don’t tell Wren. He gets twitchy.”

Dooku, never one to act without due deliberation, took a long moment to consider his options. “Put me down for fifty credits.”

“On which outcome?” Arla asked, entirely too gleeful.

“The wedding will not go through.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. 

Sifo choked on his drink.

“You’re betting against the riduurok?” Arla asked, aghast.

“Decisively,” Dooku confirmed. “Do log it properly.”

“You’re joking.”

“I do not joke.”

Silas, still in disbelief, pulled out a datapad and input the wager. “This is going to crash the entire pool.”

“Then I shall consider it an act of economic correction.”

Arla and Silas wandered off, arguing about probability curves and whether or not Jango qualified as a market manipulator. Sifo turned to Dooku, frowning faintly. 

Dooku knew that look. He did not care for it. “It’s called wishful thinking, Sy.”

Sifo sighed. “Well. I suppose we better get to work.”

Moments later, he was promptly accosted by a Corellian historian armed with symposium pamphlets. Jocasta, meanwhile, had already wandered off in the direction of a stack of unguarded archive access forms.

Dooku found himself conversing with a Duro diplomat, exchanging vaguely pointed observations on Mid-Rim resource distribution rights, when his gaze drifted toward the far side of the room.

He stilled, gaze narrowing just slightly.

Indeed, Sheev Palpatine stood near the far wall, half-shadowed by one of the stone pillars, speaking to an unfamiliar Mandalorian in Death Watch colors in that hushed, conversational register that suggested conspiratorial intimacy without ever being impolite. 

An interesting choice of company.

Under most circumstances, Palpatine’s presence would have warranted no particular interest. He had a talent for appearing where he did not belong, and being welcomed for reasons no one could quite articulate. In this instance, however, seeing him was more than just unexpected. With the way Lok reacted to him a few years ago, the sheer degree of instinctive revulsion and unease, Dooku could not fathom a reality in which Lok Vizsla would have knowingly permitted Sheev Palpatine within five klicks of his territory, let alone through the front door.

Dooku’s mouth tightened. He had been conducting his own covert investigation for a while now. It had yet to yield anything conclusive, but he had his suspicions. He only lacked evidence. 

Lok’s account of a presence drenched in darkness had been oddly precise for someone untrained, but Dooku had interacted with Palpatine multiple times and had never perceived him as anything other than an ordinary sentient.

He never doubted the boy’s instincts. What troubled him was his own failure to replicate them.

It was, in his opinion, another point to support his theory. Hiding one’s presence was a known Sith technique. It stood to reason that between Lok’s improved shielding and his beskar, Palpatine had simply assumed no one nearby could sense the shift. Perhaps he had even dropped the veil, just briefly, confident no one would notice.

A miscalculation, if so. And a rare one.

Unfortunately, without evidence, the theory remained academic. And if the Jedi Council’s appallingly tepid response to his earlier suggestion of Sith infiltration was any indication, presenting a case built on instinct, metaphor, and the emotional testimony of a Mandalorian would result in professional embarrassment at best.

Still, Palpatine's presence here did not bode well.

“I don’t recall Naboo confirming attendance,” Dooku remarked lightly. 

The Duro diplomat gave a faintly confused smile. “Their ambassador reportedly fell ill just before departure. Palpatine volunteered to take her place. Quite a last-minute adjustment, I understand.”

How convenient.

“Ah.” Dooku inclined his head as though this satisfied him. “How very... civic-minded of him.”

The conversation drifted on but Dooku’s thoughts did not return to the subject.

He glanced once more toward the far wall, but both Palpatine and the unidentified Mandalorian had moved on.

The notification of a canceled meeting flashed in front of him like a mercy he wasn’t sure he deserved. Lok stared at it for a solid thirty seconds, unsure if what stirred in his chest was relief or dread. At this point, he wasn’t sure which was worse—being overbooked or being given time to think.

He spent a good ten minutes in silent negotiation with the corner of his desk, where a stack of untouched reports leaned like they were judging him. He could have used the unexpected time to rest. Or finish his backlog. Or schedule another security sweep, just for the illusion of control. 

Eventually, after more internal debate than he would ever admit to, he found himself heading down the corridor toward the quarters assigned to the jetiise.

They’d arrived the previous day, along with half the Senate’s diplomatic entourage, and in the interest of political balance, he’d refrained from greeting them. The optics of favoring anyone, but particularly the jetiise were…tricky. 

And if he was being honest, he hadn’t been entirely sure he was prepared to see them. Seeing Sifo, especially. That kind of safety was dangerous. It made him think he could let his guard down.

But now, with nothing to do but drown in anticipation and anxiety, it seemed foolish not to try.

The door opened almost immediately after he knocked.

Lok’s mouth had barely begun to form the shape of a greeting when he was pulled into a tight, crushing hug.

His arms hung kind of uselessly at his sides, missing the memo that he should be returning the hug. It wasn’t that he minded—he didn’t. At all. Quite the opposite, really. It was just—were they supposed to be hugging? 

After a beat that lasted both too long and not nearly long enough, Sifo-Dyas pulled back and ushered Lok inside, leading him to the couch in the central seating room. 

“Yan’s meditating,” he said, tilting his head toward one of the rooms, “and Jocasta decided to terrorize a poor historian leading a cultural tour.”

Lok snorted and allowed himself to collapse into the cushions. “That sounds about right.”

“Tea?” Sifo offered, already halfway toward the beverage station.

“Caf,” Lok replied, despite the fact that he’d already had two cups. Possibly three. But the first rule of being Mand’alor was that one could never have too much caf. He followed it religiously.

Sifo gave him a flat look over his shoulder. “You’re lucky Yan’s otherwise occupied. He’d make you drink something floral.”

“Oh, the horror,” Lok mock shuddered, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Yan could be…pretentious about his beverages. 

Sifo chuckled under his breath and busied himself with the caf, the bitter scent filling the room.

“Lok,” he said gently, without turning. “How have you been sleeping?”

Lok fought the urge to fidget. He looked down, then away, then back again, like his gaze had nowhere to go that wouldn’t betray him. “I—” He tried to loosen his shoulders. They refused. “Not well.”

He could feel Sifo listening in that silent, jetii way that didn’t require eye contact or commentary to be effective. Probably feeling him out in the Force or some osik.

He couldn’t say he missed that particular quirk.

Sifo handed over the caf and sat beside him, close but not crowding. “Is it all the stress of the riduurok?”

Lok took a sip to cover the automatic grin at Sifo’s outdated pronunciation. It burned a little. He welcomed it.

“That certainly doesn’t help,” he said wryly. “But no. It’s… not just that.”

He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He had to actively remind himself that they did this now. They spoke about visions instead of Sifo hinting and Lok dodging. But that started over comm, where there was a certain level of safety that came with the physical distance. It felt less…vulnerable. 

“I’ve been having a recurring vision,” he admitted.

Sifo’s posture shifted, subtly. “Bad?”

Lok huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tired. “Well, it’s not good.”

They never were. 

He took another sip of caf, giving himself a moment to breathe and gather what felt like fragmented glass into something coherent.

“I keep seeing an assassination attempt,” he said finally. “Against Jaster.”

Lok stared into the caf, like the answer might float to the surface if he looked hard enough. “It happens in his apartment. I’m there. I think. But I can’t make out the attacker. I think they use a slugthrower, maybe. I—I told him.”

“You told him,” Sifo repeated, like that was somehow more shocking than the vision itself.

“The first time, I thought it was happening. I… may have broken into his apartment.” Lok’s smile was brittle. “He didn’t appreciate that. Or maybe he did. I don’t know anymore. We increased security, but the vision keeps coming.”

“And you still can’t see the attacker?”

“Nothing useful.” Lok sighed, leaning back against the cushions. “It’s like it’s deliberately obscured.”

“Do you think it’s preventable?”

“I have to believe it is,” Lok murmured. “Because if it’s not, then I don’t know what the point of all this is.”

Sifo’s voice was quiet, careful in that distinct way that made every word feel like the tip of a lesson. “You know we can’t always prevent what we See. You can try. You should try. But don’t let it consume you.”

“I know,” Lok muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, which had officially lost its battle with gravity sometime around mid-morning and now stuck out at increasingly disrespectful angles. “I know. You’re right.”

Sifo offered the barest smile, the kind that curled only one corner of his mouth. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. “Do you want to meditate with me? I can guide you through sharing the vision. It might help you work through it.”

“Maybe later,” Lok said, because it was more polite than the outright refusal they both knew he wanted to give.

Talking about it was one thing. Letting Sifo in like that—letting anyone in like that…he wasn’t ready for that. Probably never would be.

At Sifo’s silent, probing look, Lok sighed. “I just...I’m not quite ready to have an audience while I spiral.”

And the vision would send him into a spiral. He had a lot of experience watching Jaster die but it was worse now. They might not be what Lok longed for, but he still couldn’t survive losing Jaster. He couldn’t lose more than he already had.

“You’re very attached to spiraling alone.”

“It’s my coping mechanism.”

“You should get a better one.”

“I’ve been meaning to. Just haven’t found one that comes in black and matches my boots.”

Sifo chuckled as the door to one of the rooms opened.

“Meditation would do you some good,” Yan commented, stepping into the sitting room.

“Don’t you start,” Lok muttered into his caf. “You always think that.”

“Because it’s always true.” Yan’s brow arched. “Your presence is unsettled.”

Which was putting it mildly. Lok was fairly certain that if anyone tried to map his emotional presence in the Ka’ra right now, it would resemble a particularly aggressive storm system colliding with an active minefield. But sure. Unsettled worked.

“Welcome to my life.” 

Yan, of course, ignored that. “Perhaps something more active would help. If you’re not inclined to sit still, there are alternative forms of meditative discipline. A movement-based approach might be a better fit for you.”

“Are you asking me to spar?” Lok asked.

“I’m suggesting a guided somatic experience with focused breathwork,” Yan replied, arching a single aristocratic brow in that infuriating way he had. “The meditative benefits of physical engagement are well documented.”

“Oh, sure,” Lok said, setting his cup down with a chuckle, “you want to ‘physically engage’ me to help regulate my unbalanced state. Got it. Next time just say you’re bored and want an excuse to knock me on my shebs.”

Sifo snorted behind his own cup. “He’s just dressing it up in Core etiquette.”

Truthfully, it wasn’t a terrible idea. He hadn’t trained with someone who could properly push him in months. And anyway, it was easier to get slammed to the ground by a jetii than to talk about how he couldn’t sleep because he kept dreaming of blood and Jaster’s lifeless eyes.

So he rolled his shoulders and gave Yan a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. We can use one of the training yards. But if this is secretly about your ego needing a win—”

“I don’t need a win,” Yan sniffed. “I simply enjoy achieving them. And a Jedi doesn’t cater to their ego, Lok. You know this.”

“Wait,” Sifo said carefully, sitting forward. “Do you think a public spar might cause... problems?”

Lok, who was stretching the stiffness from his shoulders in anticipation of being flattened by a jetii four times his age, paused mid-roll. “Problems?”

“A Jedi fighting the Mand’alor…” Sifo said. “We haven’t encountered much hostility, but I wouldn’t say anyone is overjoyed about our presence. Especially not Kyr’tsad. Sparring with a Jedi, publicly…”

He trailed off, grimacing, as though just realizing what he’d said.

And yes. Technically, it was a valid concern. Especially with the campaign to convince everyone that Kyr’tsad was a very reasonable, non-volatile, legitimate government faction and not, in fact, a reformed death cult with political aspirations.

Still, Lok couldn’t help his chuckle. “You have a lot to learn about Mando’ade, Sifo,” he said. 

“...I’m afraid to ask.”

“Watching their Mand’alor wield the dha’kad’au against a jetii?” Lok said. “That’s a spectacle. If there’s one thing Mando’ade respect, it’s combat skill. It might be the only thing that actually helps. I wouldn’t be surprised if Yan found himself with a lot of…interest after demonstrating his skills.”

Sifo’s scowl was rather cute. “Yan is spoken for,” he said, taking a dignified sip of tea.

Lok snorted. He was unfortunately aware.

Yan looked faintly amused.

Lok turned toward him, lips quirking into something that probably resembled a smile if one squinted at it sideways in low lighting. “That said,” he drawled, “we should probably avoid an audience. Just in case you’re planning to embarrass me.”

Manda knew Yan could put him on his shebs in ten seconds flat. Possibly five if he was feeling petty.

He led Yan and Sifo to the training courtyard tucked behind the eastern wing of the palace, away from the diplomatic procession routes and elevated just enough to catch the late afternoon sun as it filtered through the shielded skylights overhead.

Sifo made himself comfortable on the sidelines, content to observe.

He tugged the dha’kad’au from its clasp and held it loosely at his side, watching as Yan adjusted the dial on his own lightsaber. The familiar snap-hiss of ignition echoed through the courtyard.

Lok eyed it. “I don’t think the dha’kad’au has a training setting.”

Yan didn’t look up. “Of course it does. It once belonged to Tarre Vizsla, who, I will remind you, was not only a Mandalorian but a Jedi Master. He would have designed the hilt with full modulation capabilities.”

Yan extended a hand, and Lok passed it over without hesitation.

Maybe he could convince Yan to keep it? Surely the life of a jetii got boring after so many years. He might be looking for a change.

Lok sighed. Wishful thinking was pointless.

Yan turned it over with a slight frown. “Hm,” he said after a moment. Which was, of course, Yan-speak for this is unacceptable but I’m trying to remain calm.

“What?”

“The adjustment mechanism is jammed. Possibly the product of corrosion.”

“I’m hearing a lot of judgment in that ‘possibly,’” Lok muttered.

“The blade has been tragically neglected,” Yan said, handing it back. 

Lok accepted the weapon, carefully not wincing.

“We are going to dedicate time to proper lightsaber maintenance,” Yan announced in that tone that heavily implied it would be pointless to disagree.

With a shrug, Lok thumbed the activation switch, and the dha’kad’au snapped to life with its familiar, unruly growl—more of a snarl than a hum, really. It never purred the way a jetii’kad did. It buzzed like it had opinions. He twirled it in a loose arc, the weight familiar and unsettling all at once.

It would never be his preferred weapon.

“For now,” he said dryly, “I’ll try not to remove any of your limbs.”

Yan merely arched a brow. They both knew Lok wasn’t nearly good enough to manage that, but it was fun to pretend.

The darksaber thrummed in his hand like it was waiting for him to focus.

Right. Focus.

He took a breath. Centered himself. Let the world narrow.

Time to get thrown across a courtyard in the name of inner peace.

The first few passes weren’t meant to impress anyone, which was convenient, because Lok wasn’t sure he had anything impressive in him today. Still, the rhythm was familiar, even if the footing felt off.

The first onlookers trickled in before they even reached the midpoint of the warmup sequence. A pair of guards off-shift leaned against the wall, trying to look bored and failing. Two more Mandalorians appeared on the overhead catwalk shortly after. Then came a couple of junior Kyr’tsad officers who probably shouldn’t have been there but were clearly not about to miss the chance to watch their Mand’alor throw hands with a jetii.

Lok flicked a glance toward Yan as they reset for the next sequence. He wasn’t vain and he could take a loss, but the crowd was growing and Sifo had a point.

Yan met his eyes, arched a brow, and gave the faintest incline of his head. Lok let out a breath.

He settled into the starting position, ignoring the heat of observation crawling up the back of his neck, and thought that if Jaster happened to hear about this later, he wouldn’t mind.

The match began in earnest, though it wasn’t until the third proper exchange that Lok realized Yan was no longer holding back quite as much. Still restrained, yes, but there was more intention behind each movement now, more challenge threaded into the turn of his blade, as if he were slowly tightening the screws to see when the machine would start to creak.

Lok could respect that. Even if his shoulders were already protesting the change in pace.

Then, as if he hadn’t just executed a pivot that nearly took Lok’s legs out from under him, Yan said, almost conversationally, “You haven’t mentioned the wedding.”

Lok twisted out of the way, his boots skimming the stone, and blocked high. “I’m starting to think I should’ve skipped the ceremony and just released a holonet statement,” he muttered, shifting his grip on the hilt. 

“A fine idea,” Yan said, circling slowly. “Have you considered that there are other options?”

Lok deflected a blow, spun the blade with a flourish that felt much smoother than it actually was, and responded, “Such as?”

“A leadership structure that does not require a marriage contract forged under duress.”

“Duress is overstating it,” Lok said, breath tight as he shifted his stance. “I said yes.”

“You say yes to many things you don’t want.”

Okay. That one stung.

“I’m not being forced,” he said evenly, aiming the words somewhere between defense and denial. “It’s a logical solution. We need a unified front. Jaster’s respected. I’m—”

“Exhausted,” Yan finished for him.

“I appreciate the concern,” Lok said. “But it’s already done.”

“Nothing is ever truly done,” Yan replied. “Until the vows are spoken at the very least.”

“We considered alternatives. There aren’t any.”

Yan didn’t look convinced.

They clashed again, a series of tight, deliberate strikes exchanged between breaths. Lok managed to drive him back two steps, only for Yan to pivot and catch him with a low sweep he barely dodged in time.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Yan pressed. 

“I’m dodging a saber,” Lok grunted, countering a thrust that sent a shiver through his arm. “Feels like the more immediate concern.”

“You’re dodging both.”

That was probably true. It was also not the kind of thing Lok had the energy to admit right now—not with three dozen people watching. He circled wide, using the motion to scan the edges of the crowd. Still growing. Wonderful. 

“You’re really doing this now?” Lok asked, angling to meet Yan’s next strike. 

“You’re easier to talk to when you’re too distracted to deflect effectively.”

He might have had a point.

They traded another volley of strikes—short, sharp exchanges that drew more noise from the audience. A cheer when Lok landed a solid parry. A collective gasp when Yan countered with a disarming twist Lok barely avoided.

By now, the courtyard had begun to hum with a different kind of energy. The crowd had grown into a proper audience, including his beloved ad, who Lok identified by the loud, “Get him, buir!” she shouted across the courtyard.

“You’re doing marvelously, darling!” Kivan called, voice lilting. “And if you do happen to lose, do it gracefully—I told Arla I’m betting on the Jedi.”

Lok could feel the flush start in his ears and spread like fire under his collar. He pretended it was exertion. Kivan was…something else. Something that did not mix well with public sparring or personal pride.

He shifted forward, letting the dha’kad’au drag a low arc toward Yan’s shoulder—feinted, spun low, and came around in a high, cutting sweep. Yan blocked it easily enough, but not before Lok caught a flicker of motion on the edge of his peripheral vision.

Jaster. Standing just past the crowd, buy’ce under his arm, dark eyes locked squarely on Lok, burning with something he didn’t dare to name.

For half a heartbeat, everything else faded.

And then Yan nearly took his arm off.

He spun to block the blow in an instinctive, sloppy move, the dha’kad’au bucked in his grip, vibrating bone-deep.

“Focus,” Yan said, his tone less chastising than anchoring.

Lok grit his teeth and shoved it down. All of it. Buried the ache, the heat, the instinct to look back at the eyes he wanted to get lost in, and adjusted his grip. 

The next strike landed with more force than he'd intended, and Yan parried it with a subtle shift and a hard look. 

They continued, falling back into a rhythm and putting on a performance until his responsibilities inevitably caught up to him.

“Mandalor Mereel,” Myles’s voice, sharp and clipped, cut through the din. 

“Mand’alor Vizsla,” came a second voice, more aggrieved than commanding.

Tarin Wren stood at the edge of the courtyard with a datapad in one hand. “As compelling as this has been, you are very much not where you're supposed to be. You have a schedule.”

“And obligations,” Myles added pointedly, directed at Jaster.

Yan lowered his saber.

Lok deactivated the dha’kad’au with a sigh. “You’re no fun.”

“A shame,” the jetii said with perfectly polished civility, eyes suspiciously amused. “We'll have to continue another time and determine who the better swordsman truly is.”

Lok shook his head with a huff that bordered on fond. “Right.”

As though there weren’t a minimum of eight opportunities for Yan to disarm him that they both ignored for the sake of their growing audience. And that was just what Lok noticed. There were probably at least two more that had slipped past entirely, masked in fluid footwork and deliberate misdirection.

Still, he appreciated it.

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Vor’e,” he said quietly. “For putting on a show.”

The older man inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Your left-side guard is still inconsistent. You favor your right too strongly in pivot-heavy stances.”

Lok bit back a laugh. That was much more like him. “I’ll work on it.”

“See that you do.”

Lok opened his mouth to respond, but was promptly ambushed by Pre, who came barreling toward him from the edge of the courtyard, skipping all protocols of personal space as he launched himself at Lok’s knees.

He smiled despite himself, because Pre was so rarely this expressive, and seeing it always made him happy. Even when it was inconvenient.

“That was so cool,” Pre breathed, words tumbling out so fast they tripped over each other in their eagerness to be heard. “I wanna learn how to use a kad’au like that—can I have one? Can I start now? You didn’t even fall! Not once! And it was like vrrmmmm —” he mimed a saber swing so wide it nearly decapitated a passing aide.

Lok crouched automatically, catching Pre with one arm and steadying the adiik before he took out an entire diplomat with his exuberance. 

He ruffled his blonde curls affectionately, hoping to stall the request through distraction. “We’ll practice your beskad forms later,” he said, voice soft despite himself. “You’ve got to master the basics first.”

Pre narrowed his eyes and Lok withheld a sigh. 

Then, Pre turned and sized up the two jetiise standing nearby like he was deciding which one to challenge to a duel. His gaze landed squarely on Sifo-Dyas, who had remained in the background, observing from the edge of the courtyard. 

“Are you Arla’s ba’buir?” Pre asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes,” Sifo said with a small smile. 

Lok still had trouble processing that but decided this was not the time.

The crowd rustled.

It wasn’t a gasp, exactly, but it was close. A low murmur of interest. A few glances exchanged across clan lines that said Did you know? I didn’t know. Is that allowed?

Clearly, they never met Arla. She didn’t have much regard for things like permission. 

Pre, unfazed by the diplomatic implications of anything he’d just stirred up, nodded solemnly. “Okay. Arla’s basically my ori’vod now, so you should teach me how to use a kad’au. Like, properly. With twirls and flips and the wrist-thing.” He mimed something that sort of resembled a flourish. 

Lok felt the heat bloom in his face before he could stop it. He stood quickly, muttering an apologetic, “Sorry about that,” to Sifo, who was doing an admirable job of looking both amused and serene.  

“Pre’ika—”

“What?” Pre blinked up at him. “He’s a jetii. He’s Arla’s ba’buir. And you’re busy.” His lower lip jutted out in a weaponized pout. “Ba’vodu —come onnnn,” he whined, tugging Lok’s arm. “Can’t I just try the twirl part? Just once?”

“We’ll talk about your training later,” Lok said firmly, though he crouched again to make eye contact. “Promise. After latemeal.”

“But—”

“Later, Pre.”

He waved over Kasor Kast, who detached himself from a cluster of spectators and approached. 

“Go with your ba’vodu,” Lok said. “I’ll see you at latemeal.”

Pre made a noise of betrayal. “But—!”

“No buts. I have work.”

Pre shot one last longing glance at the dha’kad’au before he grudgingly allowed Kasor to escort him away, still muttering about footwork and “wrist-thingies.”

Lok exhaled. Slowly. He wasn’t sure whether the ache in his chest was exhaustion, secondhand embarrassment, or something a little closer to pride.

Probably all three.

He turned back toward Tarin Wren, who had not moved. 

With no small effort, Lok straightened his posture and nodded, resigned. “Let’s get on with it.”

Tarin said nothing, just spun on his heel and stalked off, expecting Lok to follow.

He did.

As he turned, his gaze swept the crowd one final time—and landed, briefly, on his buir.

Jorad stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching. Lok couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. Even at this distance, he could feel the disapproval radiating from him like heat off scorched stone. He could imagine the scowl perfectly—the tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the subtle shake of his head like he was witnessing the slow decline of Vizsla honor in real time.

Jorad didn’t say a word, but Lok heard him loud and clear.

Before he could work up the energy to care, a young verd called across the courtyard in a hopeful chirp. “Can I try next?”

There was an audible pause. A tension spike.

“Kriff off,” Arla snapped before Yan could even contemplate how to respond. She stepped up to him with her beskad already drawn, eyes gleaming with challenge. “He’s mine.”

There was a beat of incredulous silence.

Then Yan inclined his head like he was entertaining the world’s most charming threat. “Very well,” he said smoothly. “Let us see what you’ve been working on.”

Lok caught the glint of anticipation in her eyes as she circled the jetii. His mouth curled into a small, unguarded smile before he could stop it. 

It lingered as he turned away.

Mandalore was becoming problematic.

Not in the catastrophic way that demanded immediate correction, but in that particular strain of volatile unpredictability that produced ripple effects too diffuse to anticipate and too persistent to ignore.

The loss of Tor Vizsla, while unfortunate and ill-timed, was not insurmountable. He had never been anything more than a crude instrument: an ambitious mongrel, cunning enough to be of use, prideful enough to believe himself irreplaceable. His leash had frayed toward the end, and his demise, while inconvenient, was not without its advantages.

It would have been simple enough to install a replacement. Another puppet with a taste for chaos, cloaked in a veneer of Mandalorian honor.

But then Lok Vizsla stepped out of the grave. That had not been accounted for.

Lok Vizsla was not the meek, insignificant sibling Tor had described. And he was certainly not dead. No, he was very much alive, and worse, he was effective. 

Apparently, Tor had been lying. 

Lok Vizsla’s rise to power had been rapid and ruthless. Where the other Vizsla preached of a great crusade but accomplished nothing, this one quietly expanded his power without a care for glory. And now, he thought he could consolidate his reign over all of Mandalore.

He did not yet know whether he was witnessing the emergence of a rival or the refinement of a tool.

He intended to find out.

The Unification posed a threat, yes, but threats, properly understood, could be converted into opportunity. The wedding was, admittedly, a tiresome excuse for a diplomatic affair, but it offered access. 

Sheev Palpatine kept pace with his entourage, a genial expression affixed to his face like a well-fitted mask, offering the expected nods and polished comments as their guide droned on. He smiled on cue. Asked about local stonework with a twinkle in his eye that suggested genuine interest. 

All terribly dull.

It wasn’t until they were passing the training courtyard that the tour's tedium fractured. It opened before him like a theatre, and on that stage, his problem performed.

Mand’alor Vizsla was engaged in a duel with Jedi Master Dooku, a choice that in itself was fascinating. 

He felt the grin tug at the edge of his control and forced it inward, smoothing it into a diplomat’s appreciation.

Lok Vizsla was Force-sensitive, of course. That had never been in doubt. His gift for foresight had been documented.

What could not have been predicted was the trace of a shadow lingering on the edge of his presence.

He would not need to lure Lok Vizsla to the Dark. The man had already touched it. Already knew the thrill of its power. 

And when the duel ended, the man they called Mand’alor the Ruthless crouched before his bastard nephew in a gesture that reeked of sincerity and weakness. 

Darth Sidious’ smile became real for just a moment. 

Mandalore, it seemed, might not be so problematic after all.

Chapter Text

The art of going unnoticed was, in Dooku’s opinion, among the more underappreciated disciplines of the Jedi repertoire. It was not a skill he had prioritized in his youth—nor one he had ever found particularly compatible with his stature, bearing, or preference for tailored robes—but necessity was the great equalizer, and it presently demanded that he practice the elusive craft of discretion. He was hardly a Shadow, but he was fully capable of navigating foreign territory undetected. Getting from the guest wing to the familial terrace should have taken five minutes. 

It took twenty-seven. 

He blamed the beskar. It was inconveniently obfuscating. Not impossible to detect, but sufficiently muddling that locating specific Force-presences became less a matter of skill and more a matter of educated guesswork paired with considerable irritation. 

Still, with a not-insignificant investment of time, patience, and one near-collision with a laundry droid, he arrived at the outer gardens adjacent to the family wing. His robes were still in order, his composure intact, and no one had attempted to detain him. A marginal victory, perhaps, but one he would accept.

The objective of this exercise was exploratory. If he intended to prevent the impending wedding from proceeding without sparking a major diplomatic incident, he required information. And he could not gather that information by attending yet another “cultural enrichment” activity designed to keep the offworld guests occupied.

Though his measures might seem drastic, he would like it noted that he attempted to take the restrained route, involving an open dialogue with Lok wherein Dooku could communicate that he was ready and willing to help him formulate an exit strategy. To no one’s surprise, Lok had proven wholly unreceptive to his overtures of concern and subtle suggestions that he reconsider his looming nuptials.

That reaction only served to further cement Dooku’s resolve.

Avoidance was not a tactic utilized by the content. That Lok was deploying it only demonstrated that Dooku’s instincts were correct. Someone needed to intervene before vows were exchanged that would trap Lok for the rest of his natural life. Possibly even beyond that, depending on Mandalorian spiritual beliefs. He would need to do some reading to confirm the metaphysical specifics.

In theory, the most effective route would involve a direct, rational conversation with Mand’alor Mereel—an approach Dooku fully intended to pursue. Unfortunately, his only opportunity to interact with Mereel prior to the ceremony was the formal banquet scheduled for that evening, which, while ideal for exchanging polite threats over wine, was not conducive to genuine discourse. 

It did not help matters that he was on his own in this endeavor. 

Sy was delusionally optimistic about the union. He had cited the way Mereel had looked at Lok during the sparring demonstration as evidence of genuine affection, which somehow translated into the pair being a good match. He went as far as calling it romantic and directed Dooku to some questionable references that came in the form of romance holonovels, categorized by tropes that included “arranged marriage”, “forced marriage”, and “marriage of convenience”.

To appease him, Dooku had skimmed three. Possibly four. There were… metaphors. And anatomical conjectures. He was still recovering.

Jocasta, on the other hand, had recused herself from involvement altogether. Her reasons were more understandable, at least. She was currently being courted—professionally—by the local curators of Mandalore’s primary artifact vault, having been promised exclusive access to their collection and a private tour by their chief historical advisor. Which, given Jo’s particular inclinations, was functionally equivalent to being seduced.

According to Lok, this was all part of Mereel’s grand plan to gain eventual access to the Jedi Archives. Dooku estimated a forty percent likelihood of success. Fifty, if the man had a good indexing system. 

The result of all this was that Dooku was left to operate alone while his colleagues pursued the respective roles of indulgent pseudo-parent and vacationing scholar. Fortunately, he was competent, and he had succeeded under worse conditions and with far fewer resources. He was perfectly capable of successfully conducting a bit of reconnaissance on his own without getting caught.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, jetii.”

Dooku stilled.

Well. This was unfortunate.

He turned slowly, composing his features into something that suggested polite contrition without conceding fault, prepared to offer a convincing explanation for his presence. Something about having gotten lost en route to the public gardens and—through no fault of his own—ending up in a secluded, heavily guarded private garden. A mistake easily made, surely, given the labyrinthine design and obstructive signage.

Then he caught sight of the speaker. 

Ah. Perhaps not so unfortunate, then.

Mand’alor Mereel stood a few paces away, clad in partial armor and damp with sweat, a towel held casually in one hand. Evidently, Dooku had wandered into his morning routine. 

How very diplomatic of him.

That Mereel didn’t look particularly hostile—irritated, perhaps, but not adversarial—and he sensed no threat in the Force was encouraging. And if this encounter went poorly, he could always try again later, adjusted for whatever social pitfalls he was about to tumble directly into.

“Mand’alor Mereel,” Dooku greeted, inclining his head. A full bow would have been more appropriate, but Lok had warned them against doing so. Repeatedly. “Forgive the intrusion. I had hoped to speak with you before the banquet.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he internally winced at their implication. It was one thing to gather information discreetly. It was another entirely to imply that regulations—and by extension, security measures—were mere inconveniences to be bypassed at will. Hardly the image he wished to project. 

Mereel quirked a brow, wiping his neck with the towel before slinging it over his shoulder. 

Dooku politely refrained from grimacing.

“Alright, jetii,” Mereel said, his tone one of wary tolerance. “I’ll be honest—I don’t appreciate you sneaking around. But you’re Lok’s buir, so I’ll overlook it. This time. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that your general presence here has stirred enough tension already. If my security team hears about this, it becomes a problem. Tayli’bac?”

“I am n—” Dooku swallowed the denial. 

Referring to him as Lok’s parent felt excessive. The lines were blurred, certainly, but Dooku liked to think he maintained some degree of professional distance. He preferred to consider himself a... mentor. Perhaps an advisor or confidant. Something more appropriately ambiguous.

Clarifying that now would serve no purpose. Worse, it might sound like disavowal. So, it was probably a better idea to accept the title.

Force, if Arla heard about this, he would never know peace.

“Lok’s wellbeing is important to me,” he said instead. “I have no intention of inflaming tensions between our people.”

Mereel gave a small, noncommittal nod. “Then say what you came to say.”

Dooku stepped toward the balustrade, fingers grazing the cool edge of the carved stone as he looked out across the skyline. The city was quiet this early, the air cool, the colors soft. It lent the moment a false sense of calm.

He considered his options. He lacked the leverage for a threat, and the foolishness required for flattery. The unvarnished truth would have to suffice.

It worked in his favor that Mereel was a man of honor. A unique trait among those of his political station. 

“I came to ask that you call off the wedding.”

There was a pause.

“Me’ven?”

Dooku turned back to face him, his tone even. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow this union to proceed as planned. I would ask that you end it.”

Mereel’s eyes hardened, his posture tensed, and his entire Force-presence locked down. It was an impressive skill for a Force-null and made him inconveniently difficult to read. Not that his response left much room for interpretation. 

“That’s not going to happen.”

Dooku sighed, eyes returning to the horizon. “I had hoped you might be willing to consider the matter outside the framework of politics.”

“You can’t separate the two,” Mereel said, voice tight. “This isn’t just about me or Lok. It’s about our people and Mandalore as a whole. Surely you can understand that.”

“I do,” Dooku replied, meeting his gaze. “I won’t insult you by pretending the political advantages are lost on me. Your people are divided. This alliance could unify them while simultaneously legitimizing your government in the eyes of the rest of the Republic. I see the value.”

“Then you understand why it has to happen.”

“I understand why it’s expedient,” Dooku corrected. “And I sympathize with your position. But this marriage…you are asking Lok to forfeit the rest of his life and resign himself to an existence designed and defined by duty. He deserves better.”

Mereel’s expression was impressively controlled, save for the way his jaw tightened. “He agreed to it.”

“Of course he did,” Dooku countered calmly. “Because he defines his worth by what he can offer and he’s willing to give away everything he is as penance for his brother’s sins. That doesn’t mean you should let him.”

“You know, I didn’t necessarily expect approval,” Mereel said, not quite bitter. “As a parent, I would protest my child marrying for politics on principle as well. But I also didn’t expect the jetiise to send a diplomat to sabotage the union.”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Jedi Order,” Dooku said firmly, stepping forward. “I’m here on behalf of Lok. He won’t consider himself, and someone has to.”

Mereel stared past him, toward the garden wall, toward something only he could see. “You think he’d be happier without me.”

“I think,” Dooku said, voice softening, “that you don’t understand what you’re asking of him. We were both on Korda VI. You know as well as I do how much this cost him. Has he not sacrificed enough?”

“This arrangement wasn’t made lightly,” Mereel replied, stiffly. “Neither of us entered into it blindly. I appreciate your concern for Lok, I do, but your expectations don’t align with the reality of our situation. Does Lok deserve better? Of course he does. But I cannot give it to him, nor will he let me. You’re a jetii. You, of all people, should understand the cost of putting duty first.”

“I do,” Dooku tilted his head slightly. “Which is precisely why I also understand that if every path leads to ruin, it is the obligation of those involved to carve a new one.”

“Do you think we didn’t explore every alternative?” Mereel demanded. “We did. This was the only resolution that did not lead to more bloodshed.”

“I think,” Dooku said, “that you were trapped in a set of limited options. But fortunately for you, I specialize in constructing alternatives.”

“And you’re offering your services?”

“I am,” Dooku confirmed.

Mereel raised a brow. “Wouldn’t that violate your mandate?”

Dooku sniffed. “Let me worry about that. What I need to know is, if there is another path here, will you call off the wedding? Even if it’s less convenient?”

Mereel looked past him, to where the city was beginning to stir. Something almost tragic passed through his eyes before it was smothered beneath resolve.

“I can’t postpone it,” he said quietly. “Once the challenges start, there’s nothing I can do. But there’s a meeting between the leadership of both factions tomorrow morning. I’ll allow you to join. If you make a case for an acceptable alternative, then yes. I’ll call it off.”

Has he not sacrificed enough?

The words clung to the inside of Jaster’s skull long after the jetii’s silhouette vanished down the stone path. He remained in the garden, motionless save for the restless tap of his thumb against his thigh, watching Keldabe wake up, wishing he could pretend he didn’t hear them.

The sentiment itself wasn’t new. He’d heard it before, most often from the tight, invisible knot of guilt perpetually strangling the base of his throat. But hearing Dooku say it aloud made it real.

And harder to ignore.

It made the whole situation feel more…helpless. This wasn't what he wanted either. He wanted a courtship, and a choice. He wanted Lok to have a choice. 

But choice had never been something either of them were given in abundance. Sometimes, all you could do was take the osik life threw at you and make the best of it. Sometimes, the only path forward was the one paved in compromise, and kriff, was Jaster well-acquainted with compromise.

He understood where Dooku was coming from. Truly. He didn’t appreciate the delivery—or the breaking and entering—but he could see that it came from a place of love and concern. And fine. Jaster agreed. Of course Lok deserved better. After everything, Lok deserved the freedom to find happiness, not forced to live with a reminder of his pain.

It was a nice thought, but unrealistic. 

For all Dooku’s self-proclaimed skills in diplomacy, the jetii clearly lacked a fundamental understanding of Mandalorian politics if he thought he could find an alternative resolution of the same clean caliber. 

Oh, Jaster was letting him try. He was quite looking forward to sitting back and watching the reaction to whatever the jetii managed to come up with. And equally excited to see the jetii’s reaction to discovering that every negotiation meeting inevitably included at least three physical fights featuring office supplies repurposed as throwing knives.

Still, no matter the strength of Dooku’s resolve, there was simply no other way to release Lok from the obligation of rulership without reigniting the war. If they were married, Lok could keep the dha’kad’au, and Jaster could shoulder the weight of leadership. 

Sure, Lok would have to serve on the council and wear the title, at least for appearance’s sake, but the burden wouldn’t be his to bear. Jaster could protect him, shield him from the worst of it, let him finally breathe again. At the very least, they could share it. Though, if it was up to Jaster, he’d set Lok free. 

This wasn’t the life Jaster would have chosen for himself either, had fate been kinder. Some days, he swore he’d prefer a life shoveling manure for a struggling farm on a backwater planet over putting up with the osik that came with being Mand’alor. At least manure had the decency to smell like what it was.

The difference was that Jaster ended up here as an extension of a mission he chose to dedicate himself too. Lok earned the title as punishment for going through a pain most couldn’t imagine in the name of protecting his ad. He kept it because he cared about the future of their people, and to walk away would require a level of selfishness Jaster didn’t think Lok was physically capable of.

Even if given the option, Jaster doubted Lok would walk away without a guarantee that he’d be leaving behind a government just as stable as the one they could build together.

When he knew he couldn’t hide from reality anymore, Jaster reluctantly dragged himself back inside. He moved through the rest of his morning routine mechanically, rescheduled his morning appointments—ignoring Vau’s numerous and increasingly threatening objections—and went to find his ven’riduur.

It was long past time they had n honest conversation. They discussed the riduurok all the time—it was the event that consumed most of their waking hours these days—but they didn’t discuss them. They talked about politics, guest lists, seating charts, and floral arrangements. Things that were always more urgent but were ultimately little more than convenient distractions.

Lok was very good at focusing on distractions. Today, Jaster didn’t plan on letting him.

He found Lok right where he knew he’d be: buried behind a datapad, squinting through the headache-inducing glow like if he just stared long enough, the numbers would rearrange themselves into something less offensive. 

The temporary office wasn’t much to look at. Cold walls, uninspired furniture, the faint scent of recycled air and overworked circuitry clinging to everything. Functional, in that impersonal way Lok favored. 

The new office—strategically placed right next to Jaster’s—was nearly complete. It would have actual windows. A chair that didn’t look like it had been salvaged from a battlefield. Maybe even a plant.

He lingered in the doorway longer than necessary, watching as Lok hunched over the desk with the sort of single-minded focus that might have been intimidating if it weren’t so kriffing endearing. His hair stuck up in three different directions, freckles washed out by datapad light, lower lip caught in his teeth in that way that made Jaster’s chest feel like it was trying to invent new rhythms.

It was ridiculous. Objectively. No man should look that appealing half-folded over a spreadsheet.

Eventually, he cleared his throat to get Lok’s attention. 

Lok blinked up from the datapad. He scrubbed at his eyes and offered a polite smile that looked strained at the edges. “Do you need something?”

Well, Jaster supposed that was as good an invitation as any.

A throat cleared. 

Lok blinked up from the datapad, dragging his attention away from the mind-numbing MandalMotors financial statement. It took a second longer than it should have for the numbers to dissolve and reality to come back into focus, another to realize the shadow in the doorway wasn’t a new hallucination spawned by sleep deprivation.

Jaster stood there, framed by the cold, lifeless threshold of Lok’s temporary office—well, actually, now that they were getting married, this office might be permanent. 

He should have asked for one with a window. Or one of those sunlamp things that help with mood regulation. He didn’t see a point of being a bother when he thought it would be a few months at most. However, now that eternity was on the table, maybe ambiance should be as well.

He scrubbed at his eyes, dry from too many hours of blue light exposure and self-inflicted despair, and forced a smile that probably didn’t look nearly as polite as he hoped. 

“Do you need something?” 

Jaster took it as an invitation and made himself comfortable in the chair across from Lok. He didn’t say anything at first, opting instead to study him with those deep, warm eyes that had no right being that expressive. There was a furrow between his brows, the kind Lok wanted to smooth out with his thumb.

“I’m still going through the financial reports,” Lok said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been trying to track the exact source within the Banking Clan, but I…I’m not finished yet.”

Did Jaster expect him to be? They last discussed it only two days ago and it was, frankly, way too much data to cover in that time with everything else going on. If he could delegate it, it could’ve been done by now, but without knowing how deep this ran, it was hard to know who to trust. 

But they hadn’t discussed a timeline, it was more of a ‘let me know what you find’ kind of thing, so maybe Jaster had unrealistic expectations.

Instead of acknowledging Lok’s status report, the furrow in Jaster’s brow deepened. Lok’s hand twitched. He had to clench a fist in his lap to stop himself from reaching out to erase it. 

“I wanted to talk to you about the riduurok?” Jaster eventually said, somewhat awkwardly.

Lok straightened in his seat. Ah, yes. The riduurok. The topic his heart kept trying to obsess over while his mind worked overtime to avoid.

He’d been doing a great job at dodging Jaster’s attempts at a one-on-one conversation on the issue, at least as far as anything beyond logistics went. 

He could pivot this conversation, too. Divert it toward the banquet logistics. Maybe the table placement war between Clan Rook and House Wren. Hell, he’d talk about napkin folds if it meant he didn’t have to discuss feelings.

But something told him he wouldn’t be getting away with it this time.

“What about it?” Lok managed, relieved that his voice remained steady.

“Are you really okay with doing this?” Jaster’s voice was a soft murmur, but there was something hard in his eyes. A silent, steely demand for honesty.

Lok shrugged, hoping it came across as casual but severely doubting he managed to look anything other than uncomfortable. “It’s what Mandalore needs, right?” he said, which was both true and irrelevant.

But he couldn’t admit that it felt like a curse packaged as a blessing. Or a blessing, packaged as a curse. It depended on the day.

He wanted it more than anything. And he couldn’t help wondering if it would be the thing that finally broke him in half.

The corner of Jaster’s mouth quirked up. “That’s not what I asked, rookie,” he said, voice low and far too intimate.

Lok’s cheeks burned and he pretended they didn’t. It wasn’t fair. It had no business sounding that fond.

At least Jaster knew better than to tease him with their past in public. His people would riot if they heard Jaster call him ‘rookie’.

Clearing his throat, Lok laced his fingers together and pressed them to the surface of the desk to stop them from shaking.

He was an adult, for kriff’s sake. He could do this.

Taking a final deep breath, he finally met those deep brown eyes, all too aware of just how easy it was for him to drown in them. “We can make it work, right?” 

The question came out far more confident than he felt. 

When Jaster hesitated, Lok kept going, as though more words might ease the discomfort he felt every time he thought about Jaster rejecting him outright. He knew the other man didn’t want him, but he really didn’t need to hear it. 

It didn’t matter. This marriage had to happen, regardless of how they felt. If it remained unspoken, at least his pride might be spared.

“I mean, we already get along,” he clarified. “Our ade are already vode. Well, not Pre, technically, but he and Jango are getting along better, I think. And we like each other well enough, right?”

It was a decent sales pitch. If he were selling a policy merger instead of a lifelong commitment to a man who didn’t love him.

“Lok—” Jaster began, but Lok steamrolled right over it.

“Successful marriages have been built on less,” he rambled, running a hand through hair that was well overdue for a maintenance cut, staring at a random scuff on the wall behind Jaster’s head. “And I think—”

“Lok,” Jaster repeated, firmer this time.

Lok’s eyes snapped back to him and he fought to remain still. To appear unaffected. Cool. Calm. Collected.

Yup, that was him. Not a nervous, fumbling wreck over the fear that Jaster only wanted to talk because he didn’t want this. And because he’s brilliant, he managed to find some obscure solution that would make the need for this marriage obsolete, and then Lok would never get to have him. Not at all terrified at the prospect of spending the rest of his life by Jaster’s side, forced to endure the constant ache of loving a man who simply didn’t love him back. And absolutely no part of Lok was entertaining the fantasy that maybe, with time, Jaster could grow to love him too. Or at the very least, be content with him. 

Nope he was completely unaffected. On the surface, at least. He hoped.

He ignored how his pulse pounded in his ears. “Do…” he forced himself to meet Jaster’s gaze even as it burned. “Are you not okay with it?”

Jaster’s expression hardened—not much, but enough to make Lok’s stomach twist. 

“Just answer the question, Lok.”

“I’m okay with it,” Lok rushed out. Are you? He wanted to return Jaster’s demand to answer the question, but his vocal cords must have been on strike, because they didn’t work.

Jaster looked doubtful for a moment before he sighed, leaning back in his seat. “You’ve already given up a lot of yourself to secure Mandalore’s future.” 

Something in his tone made Lok bristle. It was too close to pity. “I did what I had to do,” he replied, pushing the words through a closed throat and clenched teeth.

“I know,” Jaster murmured, everything about him softening, the trace of pity replaced with a look so warm Lok wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to carry the burden of the sins he deserved to suffer for until the day he marched on.

Jaster let out a sigh. “I just wanted you to know that if you want something different for yourself, we can find another way,” he said, tone back to being soft, but it was also resolute.

They both knew it was little more than an impressively delivered lie.

“I think we could be happy,” Lok said, clearing his throat and reaching for the hydroflask that sat on the corner of his desk, like it might cover up the way his voice cracked on the words.

I could make you happy, he wanted to say.

He knew Jaster’s opinion on marriage—learned it on his nameday, actually, the last one before Jaster disappeared. They were eating homemade tiingilar out of portable containers, talking about anything and everything, when the subject eventually drifted to aliit. Jaster told Lok he didn’t know if he’d ever take a riduur, but if he did, it would be because he loved the person so much, he couldn’t accept a life where they weren’t his. 

This wasn’t that. It would never be that. This was duty, wrapped in practicality, and tied with a frayed ribbon of mutual respect. But for as long as Jaster never found that person, Lok could be enough.

They were attracted to each other, at least. That much was obvious, even if neither of them acknowledged it. It wasn’t a foundation, but it was a starting point. 

He could give Jaster his body. Lok didn’t know what it would do to him, over time, knowing that's all Jaster wanted from him, but it was something.

“We could,” Jaster agreed with a slight grin. The expression faded too quickly and he shifted in an uncharacteristic betrayal of discomfort. He cleared his throat, looking unsure of his next words.

Lok’s stomach sank.

“I read your letter,” Jaster murmured, tone almost apologetic.

There was no force in the universe powerful enough to stop the flaming blush that instantly colored Lok’s cheeks. He shrunk back, wishing his chair would swallow him whole. Or, haran, he wouldn’t complain if the ceiling chose that moment to cave in and simply crushed him. 

He’d written that damned letter to forget him. Poured every ugly, bleeding feeling into those pages like that would be enough to scrub Jaster’s name from his bones, to spit out the heartbreak and self-doubt he’d carried for years and finally let it go.

He’d done it with the certainty that their lives were parallel lines never meant to cross again. He could afford to be honest because honesty was safe when you never had to face the fallout. So he’d given it to Skirata in a drunken act of defiant closure and told himself that would be the end of it.

And for a while, it worked. It might have worked forever if he hadn’t ended up chained to the shabla dha’kad’au on Korda VI.

He never imagined their reunion would happen over the worst moment of his life, or that it would force him into a role he never wanted. Or that Jaster would spend the next year turning casual check-ins into hour-long conversations, offering a listening ear and advice that was nothing short of a lifeline when Lok was drowning in responsibilities he couldn’t keep up with.

He didn’t consider how easy it would be for all the feelings he locked behind a door and sealed shut to come flooding back like they never left at all. Or that they’d grow into something impossibly deeper.

Looking back, what he felt for Jaster at nineteen was real, but it was couched in a naive, youthful infatuation. What he clung to through the years was a feeling that belonged to memories of a better life, when the air felt lighter and wasn’t tainted with a deep sense of wrong. He clung to that happiness because life starved him of it, and the feeling refused to fade because sometimes—when the nights were too dark, and too cold, and too empty—it was the only thing warm enough to keep him going.

What he felt now was different. It was older, like it stayed latent in his heart and matured with him. And now that he was back in Jaster’s orbit—now that he remembered what it felt like to fall into his dark eyes, to feel his deep laugh gliding over his skin, to see that smile even when he did nothing to earn it—the feelings didn’t come back to haunt him like they used to on cold, lonely nights. They didn’t wrap around him like a blanket of desperate comfort. 

They consumed him. Like a wildfire that burned through his chest every time Jaster so much as looked at him. He kept waiting for the fire to go out, but with every soft smile, every look of encouragement and absent touch, Jaster unknowingly stoked the flames, ensuring that it would burn for an eternity.

It was cruel, even though Lok craved it. And it was worse, knowing he could no longer pretend Jaster was oblivious to the way Lok’s heart beat for him.

He spelled it out in clear, aching words—written in anger, inked in the pain of abandonment, signed with a long overdue goodbye, and sealed in the forgiveness that comes when you let go of something you will never take back.

Every embarrassing, private emotion was spilled out in a mix of confessions and unanswered questions—when he wondered why Jaster never reached out to him; when he wavered in his faith and he let Tor convince him, because the man he knew and loved wouldn’t just leave him behind like that; when he still couldn’t convince himself of Jaster’s guilt, but couldn’t understand why he didn’t matter enough for even a short message letting him know he was alive.

He never would have sent it if he thought he’d have to face Jaster like this, knowing he read it, with no wall of denial left to hide behind. There was no way to pretend any part of Jaster felt the same. If he did, he would have said something. Acknowledged it in some way.

The silent and subtle rejections were painful enough, Lok didn’t need the words to confirm that he didn’t feel the same.

Jaster cared, he knew that. They could build a good life on that foundation. He genuinely believed that. But it would never be what he longed for.

He felt…exposed, and vulnerable, and it ached because you can’t demand love. 

He’d laid himself bare and given Jaster access to his entire soul. But even when they’d vow the rest of their lives to each other, Jaster still wouldn’t want it.

“I think we could be happy,” Lok said, and his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He grabbed his hydroflask like it was a shield, took a sip he probably didn’t need, and stared resolutely at nothing.

“We could,” Jaster agreed, grinning before he could stop himself. The grin faded as quickly as it came. He shifted, discomfort growing beneath his skin.

Because yes, they could be happy. But he didn’t know if Lok ever would.

The doubt lived in all the things they left unspoken between them. Jaster still kept that letter in his desk, and every time he thought they might manage to build what they could have had, he was reminded that you can’t build a home with a pile of ash.

He’d already hurt Lok too much to ask him to start rebuilding what he’d once been forced to burn down.

The past didn’t vanish just because they stopped talking about it. And if they were going to make this marriage mean something more than duty, they had to look back—just once—before stepping forward. Jaster wasn’t here to pry open wounds for fun, but he also couldn’t walk into a lifelong commitment pretending the damage didn’t exist.

“I read your letter,” he said, trying to be delicate about it.

He didn’t expect it to go over well, but he wasn’t prepared for the way Lok recoiled. The flush that raced across his freckled cheeks was immediate, violent, and unmistakably mortified. He shrunk back like he was trying to disappear into his chair. Like he wanted to be anywhere else. 

It made something in Jaster’s chest twist, painfully and with a familiar kind of guilt that had become a companion over the past year—like a second heartbeat made entirely of regret.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him. Kriff, he’d known it was a risk bringing it up, which was why he only ever skirted the topic and never pushed. But then Dooku happened, with his diplomatic warnings and weaponized compassion, and suddenly Jaster found himself re-evaluating everything he’d been telling himself.

That they could make this work. That Lok was fine. That they would figure it out as they went.

Except Dooku didn’t think Lok was fine. Dooku thought Lok was burning himself alive for the sake of Mandalore, and Jaster suspected he might be right.

So here he was, poking at emotional wounds, potentially ruining everything.

“I don’t see why we have to talk about that,” Lok finally replied. The words came out strangled, like they had to fight their way out of his throat, and he kept his head down, reaching for his hydroflask again only to fidget with it rather than take another drink.

It made that knot in Jaster’s chest twist, coiling tighter until it burned behind his eyes. He hated this. The obvious discomfort, the shame written into every line of Lok’s body. How he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Lok would take back every word he wrote, even though Jaster deserved the blow delivered with each painful truth they told. 

He wanted to erase it, somehow. Get on his knees and beg for forgiveness for causing the hurt that drove Lok to write that letter in the first place. For abandoning him to Tor’s mercy when he needed someone outside of his family to turn to, and then judging him for it when he ended up in the trap set by the only person he had left. For believing, even for a second, that the rookie who had only ever treated him with kindness and respect—who had shown him, so many times, that his heart was too big for his body—was capable of standing by and supporting his brother’s crimes. 

Mostly, Jaster just wanted to apologize for not being on the other end of the invisible string Lok clung to for so long. It was a truth he couldn’t change—while Lok suffered in loneliness and longed for the connection they once shared, Jaster severed it and told himself it was the right thing to do.

I know you were forced to leave everything behind, but did you have to leave me, too? 

It was a line Jaster had read too many times. Haran, he’d read the entire thing so many times in the past year, every word lived in his memory. But that line hit harder than the others, because the answer was no. He didn’t have to. But he let himself believe the lies that made him want to. 

Lok suffered the punishment of crimes he didn’t commit, too. Jaster just couldn’t see it until he watched him kill Tor, and saw a part of him die along with his brother. And no amount of retroactive devotion would undo that.

The letter wasn’t a message or a confession. It was a burial. A symbolic, emotionally devastating pyre where Lok lit the memory of them on fire and walked away. And now here Jaster was, dragging the smoldering corpse back into the room like a kriffing idiot and asking, “so... did you mean it?”

Because if Lok told him it was over—really, truly over—that he was signing on for a life he could never find happiness in, Jaster would find another way.

Even if there wasn’t one.

“We don’t,” he said softly Lok deserved that much, at least. He wished Lok would look at him, hoped that if he did, he’d see the remorse shining in his eyes. “I just don’t want you to think—”

That I’ll pretend none of it happened. That I expect you to fall back in love with me after you fought so hard to move on from the hurt. That I’ll ever ask for more than you’re willing to give.

He wanted to promise that he wouldn’t abandon him like that again, and that they would be happy. They’d just have to figure out how to get there. Together.

But Lok cut him off before he could put any of that into words.

“You know I’m not actually a rookie anymore, Jaster.” 

There was a bite in Lok’s voice suddenly, but Jaster preferred feeling the heat burning in those glaring eyes over the cold he felt when Lok avoided eye contact like it was too hard to look at him. 

And, okay, yes—there was a part of Jaster that was a little into it. The way Lok’s eyes snapped to him, dark blue and stormy, how his shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight… yeah. That did things.

It wasn’t ideal.

And highly distracting.

A sliver of self-preservation instinct stopped Jaster from giving in to the urge to grin and remind Lok he’d always be his rookie. Teasing didn’t feel like it would land well at the moment.

He didn’t always know where the line was anymore. Sometimes, he wondered if he still had the right to tease Lok at all. Not that it stopped him—a flustered Lok was too tempting a prize to pass up—but there were times when he wondered if beneath the blush and stammered replies, the teasing struck a memory that caused pain. 

He was scared to find out, though, because then he might have to stop.

“I understand what this is,” Lok continued, eyes still flashing. 

Was it wrong that Jaster found Lok’s anger endearing? Or that it sent an entirely inappropriate thrill down his spine when Lok’s voice took on that slightly growly edge?

Probably. But it was new. The rookie Jaster knew a decade ago didn’t get angry. The Mand’alor, on the other hand, had a limit. And while it was generally at the end of an impressively long fuse, it burned into an explosion that could rival any emotionally repressed verd. 

It was beautiful.

“It’s a political arrangement, and honestly, pretty much a political necessity at this point. Despite what you seem to think, I’m capable of accepting that. There’s no reason we need to overcomplicate it,” Lok said reasonably, leaning backward as the fight drained out of him, though the words remained firm. 

Jaster said nothing. Mostly because if he opened his mouth, he might scream.

“We’re both adults,” Lok went on. “And as long as we establish the parameters and communicate our boundaries, we’ll make it work.”

This time, Jaster felt the twist right in his heart. 

Parameters. 

The word felt so…clinical. Despite what Lok seemed to think, he wanted complicated. Complicated meant passion, it meant heat and desire and maybe, eventually, love. Simple meant detached. It meant duty and obligation and coexistence.

What kind of future was that?

Of course, they needed boundaries. He’d respect whatever limits Lok needed him to, but the way he said it made the whole thing sound so cold and…inflexible. It made him want to tower over the desk and demand Lok rethink that mentality—right now—because they were getting married, not signing a business deal.

He wanted a life. Not an arrangement. Was it wrong to hope that, one day, they could have that? 

The flat words sounded like they stemmed from an acceptance that bordered on endurance. Lok was recognizing this for the inevitability it was, but his stance was clear: their marriage as an arrangement, another necessary sacrifice. 

It felt like a door closing on the love Jaster never got to appreciate. Like being sentenced to a lifetime of longing for a man who was once forced to let him go, and now no longer wanted him back.

Jaster let the silence stretch, just long enough to gather the scattered remains of his composure and glue them back together with a generous helping of willpower and a thin layer of professional detachment. Or something that looked like it, from a distance.

“What does that look like for you?” he asked.

Lok straightened in his chair. His hands returned to the hydroflask, spinning it once like he could find the answer printed on the other side. 

“Our units already share a door,” Lok offered, carefully neutral, clinically pragmatic, utterly infuriating. “That seems like a good arrangement. It lets us operate as a shared household without, you know…imposing on each other too much. And it doesn’t give anyone a reason to talk.”

Imposing.

Jaster felt the word stab him directly in the soul. “So you want us to have separate lives,” he concluded numbly.

“What? No.” Lok’s head snapped up, startled. “I mean—no. That’s not what I meant.”

It wasn’t defensive. It was confused, and a little exasperated, like Lok couldn’t fathom why Jaster would interpret his suggestion that they live parallel, minimally intersecting lives as a desire to live parallel, minimally intersecting lives.

“We have to take Pre’s comfort into account,” Lok added quickly, as if that would patch the gap that had just cracked between them. “He’s… still adjusting. And given his resistance to the marriage, I think easing into things will probably be for the best.”

Jaster nodded once, forcing it to look like agreement and not disappointment. “And after that?”

“After the riduurok,” Lok said, back to full diplomatic poise, “I think we can start working with Pre to reestablish a routine. His mir’baar’ur thinks structured predictability will help. And if you still want to do the renovations to merge the apartments, we can discuss that after Pre’s had some time to adjust.”

Jaster nodded again, the motion automatic and hollow. It sounded like a blueprint for a friendly cohabitation. Possibly with an attached footnote about dividing conservator space. That wasn’t a marriage.

And maybe that was fair. Maybe it was all Lok had left to give. But Jaster felt it like the echo of a loss he hadn’t even earned.

“If that’s what you want,” he said. “But what about us, Lok?”

Separate living arrangements, he might be able to stomach. Eventually. Separate lives…no. He wasn’t willing to accept a marriage that functioned on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. He couldn’t.

Lok’s brow furrowed. “What about us?” he asked, and haran, he looked so sincere in his confusion Jaster could’ve screamed. “Like I said, we get along. That’s a good baseline.”

“For a friendship.” 

Lok hesitated. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “As far as arranged marriages go, that’s not a bad outcome, right?”

It was the uncertainty in his voice that kept Jaster from dissolving into pure existential despair. That tentative lift at the end. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as Jaster.

“I don’t…” Jaster began, then paused. His voice felt too large for the moment. He tried again, softer this time. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking your life or your choices away. But we’re going to swear the riduurok. That’s real.” 

For a second, he thought he saw something flicker across Lok’s face. Hurt. Then it vanished, smoothed out into the practiced neutral armor Lok had learned to wear.

“Of course it’s real,” Lok said. And when he met Jaster’s gaze, his voice was as flat as the guarded look in his eyes. “I honor my vows.”

It was both the right answer and the wrong one. So Jaster tried again.

“So what about us?” he repeated quietly. “Do you see us being friendly, platonic roommates for the rest of our lives? I don’t want to take anything you’re not ready or unwilling to give, but I do want to go into this with clear expectations.”

Lok studied him with dark, unreadable eyes. Then, very slowly, a flush crept over his face. But when he spoke, his voice held far more confidence than the stammering rookie Jaster remembered. 

“Are you asking if we’re going to have sex?”

Jaster’s brain politely provided several helpful visuals and promptly crashed.

“I—uh.” His mouth made the shape of words, but the meaning lagged behind somewhere. 

Lok let out a soft chuckle, the sound just barely strained. “We’re adults, Jas. It’s just sex. If we’re attracted to each other…”

He trailed off and gave a helpless shrug that said ‘why not’. As if that didn’t send Jaster’s thoughts veering straight off a cliff and into a canyon of unprocessed longing.

“And are you?” Jaster asked, the question slipping out before his common sense could wrestle it to the ground. “Attracted to me?”

Lok’s blush darkened, but somehow, he maintained eye contact. “I thought you read the letter.”

“I did.” Not that it made much of a difference. Every line in that letter had been drenched in the kind of vulnerable affection that came with a painful expiration date. Besides, neither of them were who they used to be. “But ten years is a long time. I’m… older.”

Lok’s gaze flicked down his body, lingering in places that made Jaster deeply aware of his physical existence. Lok bit his lower lip and looked deeply unimpressed by the objection. His eyes burned and Jaster’s heart did a complicated, unhelpful thing that definitely qualified as clinical-grade cardiac distress.

“Yeah,” Lok said, a little rough around the edges. “You are.”

Okay. That was definitely attraction.

Jaster’s restraint faltered. “And how do you know I’m attracted to you?”

Lok’s flush deepened to something approaching emergency status, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and continued his vendetta against Jaster’s blood pressure. “You mean besides your very professional attempt to check if I was dehydrated the other night?”

Jaster closed his eyes. So. That backfired. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”

“I never agreed to that,” Lok said sweetly.

“There was steam, Lok,” Jaster muttered. “Excessive steam. It was a reasonable concern.”

Lok tilted his head. “Were you planning to file a medical report? I’m sure Vorrin would love to read that.”

Jaster groaned and let his head fall into one hand. Lok looked far too smug for someone blushing to the tips of his ears.

Still. Mutual attraction was a start.

He could work with that. Sure, attraction didn’t guarantee anything—it wasn’t a promise, wasn’t even a direction—but it was something. A spark. A starting point.

If he didn’t make his intentions clear, Jaster had no doubt they’d fall into a comfortable, platonic routine. And while Lok might accept this marriage, might even entertain the possibility of something more, he’d never be the one to test its boundaries.

Which meant Jaster would have to.

Starting with seducing his ven’riduur. 

Respectfully, of course. 

“You alright?” Jaster asked in a low murmur, entirely too close. His shoulder brushed against Lok’s as he leaned in, a move that would’ve been easier to process if it hadn’t arrived with the soft weight of a hand settling against the small of Lok’s back. “You seem distracted.”

Lok took a long drag of his shig. Spiked shig. Don’t judge.

“Just wondering why we bother getting creative with interrogation methods when we could just put people through this,” he replied, gesturing to the room with a swirl of his glass. “I’d confess to anything if it meant I could leave early.”

Jaster chuckled and leaned back just enough to let Lok breathe again, though his hand lingered briefly, brushing Lok’s waist as if by accident.

That was…new.

Until today, their boundaries of physical touch were strictly professional, for the most part. For some reason, Jaster decided to toss that silent rulebook out the airlock. Not that Lok minded—he would say something if he did—he just…

He was trying not to overthink it.

The banquet was a blur of glassware and polished ambition, too many voices murmuring in too many languages. Food had been served and consumed, toasts made, and now, in the break before dessert, the real torture began.

Mingling.

Kivan called it the soul of diplomacy. Lok was beginning to think Kivan was a sadist.

“See you on the other side,” Jaster murmured, too close to his ear, before splitting off to be accosted by their guests.

Lok stayed in place, bracing to do the same. He stood near the center of the dining hall, or rather, was stationed there like a rare artifact on display, as a revolving door of dignitaries, senators, planetary governors, and vaguely titled attachés passed by, offering greetings and congratulations so steeped in self-interest that he was surprised they didn’t slip in the puddle of their own bootlicking.

It had to be the most insincere thing he’d ever experienced. Most of them had never heard of him before Kivan helped him turn this riduurok into a galactic headline. 

All of it bled into a dull, buzzing drone in his skull. The faces sort of blurred together, even those he’d seen in passing while working for Kivan. One face, however, he recognized instantly.

Sheev Palpatine.

What the kriff is he doing here? 

He definitely wasn’t invited.

This was why micromanaging was a good idea. It stopped osik like this from happening. He was positive that if he hadn’t delegated, that man wouldn’t be here.

Lok did not know much about Palpatine, nor did he care to. But he knew what he felt the one time they were in the same room and he never wanted to feel it again. Nor did he want that man on his planet, near his aliit.

Interestingly, he felt no trace of that inexplicable dark shroud now. In fact, the Naboo politician felt…innocuous. He made a mental note to follow up with Dooku. 

Two years ago, he preferred to avoid the topic. It hit too close to home, so when Dooku attempted to keep him updated on what, if anything, he discovered, Lok brushed it off and deflected. If it was important, Dooku would figure it out. If he was overreacting, he didn’t want to hear it.

That was before Palpatine maneuvered his way onto Lok’s planet. Into his capital. Into his home.

“Mand’alor Vizsla,” the Naboo politician greeted, voice oily with unearned familiarity. “A beautiful event. You honor your people—and your future—with great ceremony.”

Lok offered him a glance. “Mm.”

“All that activity in the Outer Rim must be keeping you busy,” Palpatine said lightly. “I imagine an event of this scale hasn’t been easy to coordinate.”

Lok took another sip of his increasingly disappointing drink and tried not to imagine hurling it at the man’s expensive robes. “You should put less confidence in rumors,” he replied, just on the friendly side of blank. 

He glanced over to Jaster, hoping the man would sweep in and save him, but Jaster was tied up in an animated conversation with Alor Ordo.

Lucky shabuir.

Palpatine chuckled like there was some hidden joke in his words. “Of course, I imagine your Jedi guests would have quite a few thoughts about that. They often do, don’t they? Old wounds, Mand’alor. So many centuries of conflict. Such… tangled history. It’s rather admirable that you’ve managed to look past all that.”

Lok said nothing. The man’s voice had a texture to it, something that made Lok’s teeth itch. It crawled into the edges of his hearing like a half-remembered lullaby and made him want to reach for his dagger just to feel the hilt in his hand.

Instead, he stared past Palpatine’s shoulder, hoping some catastrophe would erupt and provide an exit strategy.

“Not much for conversation, I see,” Palpatine murmured, the words shaped like a jest, though he delivered them with the expectation of amusement rather than the intent to earn it.

Lok didn’t bother dignifying it with a polite smile. If the silence turned stifling enough, maybe Palpatine would do his sanity a favor and relocate to someone else’s personal space.

“I must admit,” Palpatine went on, “I’ve always had a mild fascination with galactic history. Particularly the repeated conflict between Jedi and Mandalorians. Such enduring opposition. One can only hope this… union signals a change. Although it’s interesting, isn’t it? In the past, the Mandalorians rarely allied with the Jedi. They found more common ground with the Sith. I read an opinion piece once that proposed the alliance stemmed from mutual respect—shared values, perhaps. Conquest. Strength. The same language, spoken in different dialects. I imagine that’s something you might appreciate.”

Lok briefly wondered whether Palpatine simply enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice.

“History is a compilation of lessons,” Lok replied, because he probably had to say something. “One of the primary lessons being to never trust a dar’jetii. They dealt in temptation and rewarded loyalty with betrayal. Falling for their lies was a weakness, one we would do well to never repeat.”

Palpatine looked a bit taken aback by his response, but he recovered well. “What an intriguing perspective,” he said, the words sharpened to a gleam. “Although I suppose it’s all hypothetical now. The Sith were exterminated centuries ago.”

Lok shrugged. “Another lesson on the fallibility of hubris.”

“You are wise, Mand’alor,” Palpatine raised his glass like he was offering praise, though the words felt more like an insult.

Not that Lok cared much. They weren’t his words to begin with. They belonged to late night ramblings from a life left behind, and a man who seemed to be enjoying his conversation with Alor Ordo and making no move to rescue Lok from this foray into mild torture. 

“I have worked with many Jedi over the years,” Palpatine continued. He must not possess the ability to shut up. “I have to say, their reception here has been unexpectedly tame. I would have thought their presence might be misinterpreted as an insult, considering their historic… involvement in Mandalore’s current condition. Their intentions can be so difficult to parse.”

Did he truly have to say that? Lok had his doubts. 

“My ancestor was a jetii,” he pointed out. “And one of the greatest Mand’alore our people have known. Perhaps we should be trying to emulate that instead of holding onto grudges that don’t belong to us.”

Lok’s eyes scanned the room while Palpatine launched into some commentary on Tarre Vizsla and the dha’kad’au, desperately looking for an escape route. The first one he spotted was tempting—Pre was precariously close to toppling the dessert tower. But Kasor was watching him and the last thing Lok wanted to do was draw Palpatine's attention to his ad. The man felt…slimy, and Lok wasn’t about to doubt that instinct.

Then he spotted Tarin entering the hall. Jorad followed two steps behind him, the distance between them too calculated to be coincidence. Lok narrowed his eyes, something about the interaction settling awkwardly in the back of his skull. He brushed it aside, adding it to the neverending ‘later’ pile in his mind.

“Excuse me,” he said the moment Palpatine paused for breath, already turning. 

Was it rude? Certainly. But the Mandalorian reputation for being curt and uncivilized had to be earned somewhere. 

Lok was simply doing his part.

It was a fundamental truth of politics that one could gauge the value of a gathering by the number of petty insults disguised as compliments delivered before the main course. By that metric, the banquet was an unqualified success. Dooku had endured no fewer than six oblique references to the Jedi Order’s “evolving relevance,” two veiled remarks about Core World elitism, and one direct inquiry about whether he’d ever been mistaken for a marble statue. He had replied, blandly, that the mistake was mutual.

The wine was acceptable, the decor less so. He would have passed judgment on the seating arrangements as well—whoever had seated the Nimbanel trade delegate beside the Rodian magnate clearly harbored violent intentions—but his attention was currently occupied with something far more pressing.

At the epicenter of the banquet hall, Sheev Palpatine was conversing with Lok Vizsla.

It should have been a benign observation, and it might have, if not for the careful lines of Lok’s posture. In Dooku’s experience, that was a level of restraint that suggested he was actively suppressing the urge to remove someone’s kneecaps. Palpatine, by contrast, was performing his usual act of affability.

Curious, and mildly concerning, though a relative improvement to watching Mand’alor Mereel seek out every excuse for casual touch over the course of the evening, as though this union were not merely an arrangement. One that would be dismantled soon enough. He did not enjoy the prospect of Palpatine interacting with Lok given the suspicions he harbored about the Naboo politician. And still, it was, in some ways, preferable.

Dooku began moving, carving a path through the crowd. A ripple of polite nods followed in his wake. By the time he reached the scene of concern, the moment had already fractured. Lok turned sharply on his heel and walked away. 

Palpatine blinked once, the expression of surprise surfacing for a single breath before it was smoothed away and sealed beneath a diplomat’s smile. When he turned to Dooku, he had resumed the curated expression meant to imply he was delighted by every social obligation thrust upon him.

“Master Dooku,” he said warmly, as if neither of them had noticed the way Lok had departed like someone escaping from a collapsing building. “How very good to see you. I must admit, I hadn’t expected the Jedi to send such a distinguished delegation.”

“I’m sure the surprise is mutual,” Dooku replied with the faintest arch of an eyebrow.

Unfortunately, the subtlety was wasted and soared directly over Palpatine's head.

That was probably for the best.

Palpatine’s smile deepened. “A remarkable event, wouldn’t you say? One almost forgets how rich with symbolism these Mandalorian customs are. This union—” he gestured toward the empty space Lok had just vacated, “—it certainly feels symbolic.”

Dooku’s brow lifted a fraction higher. “Of what, precisely?”

Palpatine’s grin did not so much falter as it calcified. “Why, the Mandalorian Empire, of course. A renaissance of strength and cultural restoration. Surely you can appreciate what that might mean for the balance of the Outer Rim, especially with the recent rumors that have been circulating.”

Ah, yes. Rumors of Mandalorian activity that Dooku was supposed to be investigating. And he would, just as soon as the more pressing matters were resolved.

“I’m sure many things will shift in the Outer Rim,” Dooku said, tone as dry as the Kalleran dust season. “The question is in which direction, and at whose urging.”

Palpatine’s eyes crinkled in that distinctly reptilian way he had when he thought he was being clever. “Indeed.”

After a brief exchange of hollow pleasantries—words lacquered in civility and stripped of all substantive meaning—Palpatine drifted toward his next conversational victim, leaving Dooku in relative peace to once again survey the glittering battlefield masquerading as a banquet.

Lok was nowhere in sight, which was not altogether surprising. Disappearing midway through a diplomatic function was, he imagined, something of a signature move. Tarin Wren, his second, had also vanished—an observation Dooku noted and elected not to dwell on.

Sifo-Dyas was embroiled in what could only be described as an enthusiastic debate with Arla and the younger Fett—Jango. If Dooku had to guess, the topic involved the betting pool. The one they were all going to lose. Spectacularly.

The odds may have appeared unfavorable for the moment, but Dooku was not a man easily dissuaded by appearances. There was still time.

Jocasta Nu had taken up a highly defensible position near the dessert table and was making short work of a curious tart that Dooku was reasonably certain she would later deny having touched. Her appetite, like her memory, was both formidable and selectively curated.

Eventually, Dooku’s gaze landed on a Mandalorian in full armor, surveying the crowd from the far end of the room, standing as though auditioning for the role of "militant statue." They might have slipped Dooku’s notice were it not for the pattern of their armor marking them as the same individual he had witnessed in conversation with Palpatine on a previous occasion.

Now, there was an interaction worth pursuing.

Dooku moved through the crowd, keeping an eye on the Mandalorian through the occasional interruption for polite conversation, until he arrived at the edge of the hall and claimed the vacant space beside the unidentified member of Lok’s contingent.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, jetii,” the stranger said, voice gravel-dry and laced with distaste. 

Dooku took a slow sip from his glass, more to savor the moment than the wine. “An encouraging start,” he replied, tone composed and faintly amused. “It’s always refreshing to be greeted with such a complete absence of pretense.”

The man turned his head slightly, just enough to assess him. “Master Dooku,” he said, the title drawn out with deliberate distaste, as if sampling a flavor he already knew he disliked. “Your kind doesn’t belong here.”

Dooku refrained from sighing. Barely. “I take it,” he said mildly, “that your animosity is personal.”

“It’s generational,” the man growled. “We don’t tend to forget being hunted across the stars by the same sanctimonious cult that now presumes to meddle in our affairs.”

“Ah.” He turned slightly toward the man, brow lifting in faint mockery. “Aged bitterness, then. Like bad wine.”

That drew a dry, involuntary snort, quickly suppressed. The man straightened. “You’ve got a mouth on you for someone surrounded by people who wouldn’t hesitate to put a knife in your ribs.”

“Given the tone of this banquet,” Dooku said, “I imagine there are at least seven people within arm’s reach who’ve already fantasized about it.”

The Mandalorian huffed, almost amused. “I suppose the trick is knowing which ones might follow through.”

“Oh, I never make the mistake of assuming they won’t.”

The man relaxed fractionally, or at least pretended to, leaning back against a pillar with a casual posture. “So what’s your opinion of all this, jetii?”

“I don’t believe I was invited to have one,” Dooku replied.

The man tilted his helmet, intrigued. “You don’t support it, then?”

Dooku’s expression did not shift. “What gives you that impression?”

“If you did,” the man said dryly, “you’d have no issue being upfront. You should know, you’re not the only one. Many of us don’t agree with using our traditions as some political posturing tool to entertain the Republic.”

“I was under the impression that stopping it would cause irreparable harm to the newly unified government of Mandalore,” Dooku said carefully. 

The man scoffed. “There are more important things to worry about.”

A sentiment Dooku found himself increasingly unable to dispute.

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced,” he said, finally. Though the man certainly knew his name.

The Mandalorian turned to face him more directly. “Jorad Vizsla.”

Dooku arched a brow, interest flickering in his gaze. “The Mand’alor’s father?”

Jorad gave a sharp nod.

“Ah,” Dooku murmured. “I see. Then your hesitation is entirely understandable. I imagine this is not quite the romantic union you once envisioned for your son.”

Jorad’s silence held for a beat. It felt…calculative, rather than considering. “I only ever wanted the best for my son and his legacy,” he eventually said, somewhat harshly. “This…farce is not that.”

Dooku studied him. Encased in beskar and brimming with disapproval, the elder Vizsla was difficult to read, but he sensed no lie. After spending the better part of his day attempting to draft politically viable alternatives to a situation that had already spiraled beyond his liking, this attitude was…intriguing. 

Perhaps, Dooku considered, a temporary alignment might not be the worst investment.

“I find,” he said slowly, watching Jorad’s body language for a reaction, “that we are more aligned in perspective than I anticipated.” 

The elder Vizsla perked with interest, which was promising.

Good. It was not a card Dooku was inclined to play just yet, but it was always prudent to keep one tucked in reserve.

Chapter Text

Coruscant:

He should’ve used the front door.

An idiotic idea, obviously—he wouldn’t have made it three steps past the front desk. But still. At least through the front, he could’ve avoided the uncomfortable confrontation with a nurse barely out of training looking at him like he might harvest organs for sport.

Which, for the record, he didn’t. It doesn’t count if you get paid. Then it’s a job.

Also, in his defense, the private wing was usually empty at this time of day. He should’ve been able to enter through the window undetected, just like all the other times he’d done it.

Now, Alric Cador had a particular talent for osik-slinging. He’d honed it over decades, until it was less a skillset and more a lifestyle. So proficient, in fact, that entire sectors had written him off as an insufferable, chatty di’kut with the strategic insight of a toaster and the moral integrity of a Hutt accountant.

It kept people from looking too closely.

But for all the legally-dubious and morally ambiguous situations he'd talked his way out of, none had involved trying to sneak into the private recovery room of a seven-year-old orphan in a coma. That felt like a different category of transgression. 

Still. The basics applied.

First rule: project confidence.

He straightened and stared down a young nurse like she was the one in the wrong.

She gulped audibly.

“Can I… help you?” she asked, voice teetering between customer service and concern for her personal safety.

Okay, this might be one of those outlier situations where his physical size works against him. He had a tendency to forget that his beskar’gam was a bit imposing to people who existed outside the criminal class.

“Unlikely,” Cador said flatly, then softened it with a slight tilt of the head. “I’m here to check on a patient. Her name is Tyla’ru. She should be in a private room, long-term coma care. Room Cresh-5, I believe.”

The nurse frowned. “And you are…?”

“Oh,” he said smoothly, “that’s complicated.”

Which, to be fair, it was. He wasn’t family. If you wanted to get technical, he’s never met the adiik. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he kept coming here.

He just… did.

“Are you a relative?” the nurse asked apprehensively.

“Yes,” he said blandly. “Let’s go with that.”

The nurse didn’t look convinced. “Have you visited before?”

Cador rolled his eyes behind his buy’ce. Yes. He’d been here once a month for the past two years. This was just the first time he karked up and got noticed.

He pivoted into a different gear: charming, worried, slightly scattered. “I only just heard she’d been placed in care,” he said, adding a note of mild panic to his voice. “I came to Coruscant looking for her, only to find out her facility got bombed two years ago and she’s been in a coma, I—” he let out a shaky breath for effect, “I just rushed here. Didn’t think about protocols or... visitor passes.”

Her frown deepened. “You don’t look related.”

He tilted his head. His helmeted head. “How do you figure?”

She faltered. “Well—uh—you don’t have lekku.”

Right. Those.

Cador sighed. “I’m Mandalorian. Family is more than blood. Adoption is popular. Look, I understand she’s unconscious, but I’d really like to see her.”

There. The impatient, concerned relative routine. Solid performance. 

He wondered why he didn’t just run back out the window when he had the chance.

The nurse seemed to waver. “Actually…” she began, voice softening. “She's not unconscious anymore.”

The words hit like a sucker punch, lodged themselves somewhere behind his ribs and rearranged everything he thought he was doing here. “She… woke up?” he croaked, and winced. Hopefully the modulator on his buy’ce flattened that out.

The nurse brightened, clearly relieved to be delivering good news for once. “You showed up just in time, actually, Mr…?”

“Cador,” he said, automatic.

“Right. Mr. Cador. She woke up a little over a week ago. We’ve tried contacting her regular visitor, but we haven’t heard back. Since she’s overdue for discharge, we contacted Coruscant Family Services and—”

“You were going to put her back in the system?!” The words ripped out of him sharper than intended, too sudden to be spun into civility.

The nurse recoiled slightly, eyes wide. “I—well—it’s procedure, and—”

Cador barely heard her.

He wasn’t what anyone would mistake for morally upright, but he did draw some lines. However loosely defined they may be.

‘Child slavery’ landed firmly on the ‘demagolka’ side of things. And he happened to know that CFS was a well oiled pipeline in the slave trade. Tyla’ru had only been in the system a week before the explosion. Another week and she would have mysteriously disappeared from all records.

The nurse tried again. “Would you… would you like to meet her?”

He wasn’t sure. Strictly speaking—while he didn’t condone what CFS did and wouldn’t mind watching the whole organization burn—this wasn’t his problem.    

Tyla’ru was only alive because Organa couldn’t bring himself to unplug her. Death had been a long, slow inevitability. No one expected her to come back. Least of all Cador.

He visited because… well, who knows? Because it was his fault, maybe. He couldn’t tell you. Didn’t really care all that much, to be honest. It was something to do in a life where there wasn’t much of that left.

But he never thought he’d actually meet her.

The thing is, he wasn’t a good man. He didn’t do things out of pure-hearted altruism. He might not be sure of his exact motivation, but he did know it was selfish. He had no desire to know the adiik. 

Well. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice now. He couldn’t refuse, given the whole concerned relative routine he just pulled off. 

So he passed his silence off as shock and faked a healthy dose of relieved enthusiasm.

Of course he’d like to meet her. 

Cador didn’t really hear whatever it was the nurse was saying as they stepped into the room. Something about her vitals, the muscle strength, her “positive emotional resilience”—whatever that meant.

Once they were inside, he froze.

It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize her. Of course he did. He knew every inch of her face—the scars on her left lekku from the blast that had nearly killed her, the tiny nick near the corner of her jaw, the lilac hue of her skin. 

But she was always…statuesque. So still it was more like talking to a mannequin than a person.

The features that felt carved from marble were animated now. Her lekku twitched curiously. Bright, cerulean blue eyes studied him. 

He’d never seen them open before.

He should’ve said something, but for one long, ungainly moment, he just stood there. Staring.

She was remarkably healthy, all things considered. The fact that she was still here at all was something of a miracle.

Or, more accurately, a product of Organa’s guilty conscience rendering him unable to let her go and accept that his actions led to a child’s death.

Of course, it was not all that surprising that now that she's awake, that kriffing senator was nowhere to be found. That would require genuine care about her fate.

But he couldn’t blame the man. After all, it might interfere with his calendar and Manda knows how tragic it would be to miss out on the opportunity to sit around, sipping vintage Chandrilan wine at some diplomatic retreat, trading anecdotes about humanitarian disasters over silk napkins. Oh, but it’s for charity. That makes it noble.

He should probably be grateful the good senator splurged for top of the line care. It would almost make him think the man cared, except the proof he didn’t was in his absence. 

Cador hadn’t seen Kivan Organa since the day of the explosion. Didn’t even bother sending in his formal resignation. And if he never saw the man again, it would still be too soon.

Tyla’ru’s nose scrunched up, and her brow furrowed with confusion. “Who are you?”

He could feel the nurse staring at him, waiting for him to explain which obscure branch of the family tree he’d crawled out of. But he was drawing a blank at the moment. 

He cleared his throat. “I’m…it’s complicated.”

For some inexplicable reason, the adiik lit up. “Oh, I know you,” she said. 

Cador’s brain buffered. “You do?”

“Duh.” She waved a hand like it was obvious. “You can call me Tyla. I like it better than Tyla’ru, which is what all the doctors and droids call me. It’s so annoying. Did you bring snacks?”

She didn’t recognize him. Obviously. They’d never met. But her picking up on the fact that she should play along was impressive. Or stupid, because he could be anyone.

They were going to have a chat about trusting strangers.

Well, not them—her and whoever ended up adopting her. Someone in Keldab’ika would. They didn’t like him much, but they’d take her. 

He nodded to himself. That was a sound strategy. All he’d have to do is sneak her out of here. Then he could drop her off at the forge and wash his hands of the whole thing.

Cador relaxed by a degree. Enough to slide into the chair beside her bed, his usual awkward rigidity disguised with a casual posture. “Snacks,” he repeated. “No. I wasn’t aware snacks were required.”

Tyla gave him a look. A withering look. The kind that seemed wildly advanced for an adiik who’d just recently rejoined the realm of the living.

“Well, they are,” she said primly. “Hospital food is the worst. It’s all mush and weird smells and sometimes, it has foam on it. You’re not supposed to eat foam”

She flopped back on her pillow. “So if you’re going to interrupt my day, you should at least bring something. It’s basic manners.”

Cador lifted a brow beneath the buy’ce. “I’ll make a note,” he said dryly.

Tyla beamed at him like he’d just passed an unspoken test. “See? I knew I liked you.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

Which was becoming a trend.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pale and small beneath the hospital gown but visibly eager. “Did you come to take me out of here?”

Cador tensed. “Hopefully,” he said carefully.

Tyla didn’t seem particularly concerned. “Okay. But before we go, you should tell them I hate the big scanner. It smells like old socks and sounds like dying banthas. It was awful. They really need to get a new one.”

Cador’s mouth twitched again. “I’ll… make a second note.”

A throat cleared in the doorway. 

Cador turned slowly, already halfway into a scowl. 

Standing just inside the door, radiating the sort of officious energy that only came from excessive training in bureaucratic cruelty, was a tall, angular Devaronian with an unfortunate goatee, clad in a slate-gray Coruscant Family Services uniform. Data-pad clutched like a blaster, hair slicked back with way too much gel.

Smarmy kriffer. Cador could practically smell it on them.

They scrutinized Cador with a judgmental frown. “I’m Agent Verrix from CFS,” they said in a nasally voice, pulling out their badge like legitimacy might lower Cador’s guard.

It wouldn’t.

“I’m here to process Tyla’ru for reentry into our care. Since no guardian is listed, she’ll be placed with a temporary facility until we can find a permanent solution.”

That sentence made Cador want to shoot something.

“She has family,” he said flatly.

The agent blinked slowly, like he didn’t understand the words. “And where, exactly, are they?”

“I’m right here.”

Verrix gave him a once-over. A very slow, very obvious once-over. “I don’t see proof of guardianship in her file. I presume you would be able to provide that?” 

Their tone suggested they doubted it.

Cador grit his teeth. “Not on my person.”

Verrix made a show of tapping something on his pad. “Until we receive proof of guardianship, she’s under our jurisdiction. I will be taking her into custody until such time that you can provide the necessary documentation. You can find information about the relevant forms on our holonet site.”

Sure. He’d get right on that.

Cador turned to check on Tyla, who had gone still. Too still. Her hands were clenched into the blanket on either side of her legs, the fabric twisted in tight fists. Her eyes were too wide, and full of fear.

Yeah. No. Verrix wasn’t going to be taking her anywhere.

Cador stood, letting the full weight of his stature loom over the agent and settle in the air like a silent threat.

Before he could speak, Tyla’s voice cut in. “You can’t take me. I have a dad. He’s just not here right now.”

Verrix sighed like he was being personally inconvenienced by compassion. “Your parents are dead, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Tyla clutched her thin blanket tighter, eyes filling with tears. “That’s not true,” she said in a small, shaky voice. “My birth-parents are dead but my dad isn’t. He just went on a trip. He’s coming back. He promised.”

Cador didn’t appreciate the feeling that sparked in his chest. It was…unpleasant. Was it possible for teary-eyed adiike to cause heartburn?

Tyla’s lip wobbled.

Okay, that CFS di’kut’s days were officially numbered. Along with whoever thought letting them work with adiike was a good idea.

It took effort—and a silent reminder that delayed gratification was a thing—but Cador restrained the urge to slit the shabuir’s throat. He shifted his focus to the distressed adiik and rested a hand on her shoulder.

That was supposed to be comforting. Right? His buir used to think so, at least.

He forced his voice into something gentle. “Where’s your family, ad’ika?”

She sniffled. “Mandalore,” she whispered.

Kriff. That…was convenient. It explained why she trusted him so easily.

It also complicated things. But that was a long-term problem. For the moment, it worked in his favor.

“I’ll take her,” he said abruptly. “To Mandalore. To reunite her with her family.”

Verrix looked up from their pad with a thin, condescending smile that Cador fantasized about punching directly off their face.

“Unfortunately, sir, that’s not up to you. The child is in CFS custody. Unless you can demonstrate legally recognized ties, she comes with me.”

“Legally recognized?” Cador asked, more to stall than anything. “By Coruscant or by her homeworld?”

An idea was forming. A very bad, stupid, awful idea.

Verrix sniffed. “The Department acknowledges local laws, as long as a guardian is physically present to take custody.”

Perfect. 

Time to make a mistake. It was the sort of desperate move that came with lifelong consequences, but…well, it wasn’t like his life was going anywhere anyway.

He might as well have one selfless act under his belt.

Cador turned back toward Tyla. She was still watching, eyes wide, mouth pressed into a tense line. He sighed. 

“Sorry about this,” he muttered. 

Technically, he shouldn’t be doing this without her consent. Hopefully, the Manda would factor in his good intentions and deem him forgivable. If they could look past all the other Kyr’tsad osik, that is. If not…well, it’s hardly his worst crime.

Here goes nothing. 

He took a breath. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Tyla’ru.”

Then he looked at the agent and repeated it in basic for good measure. “I know her name as my child. There. Now you have your proof of guardianship.”

A loud sniffle drew his eyes back to the bed. He stared down at his ad. Kriff— his ad.

Osik.

He was a buir now.

This was not part of the plan. Not just this plan. The general life plan. 

It was fine. He’d process that later. Probably over a drink. Or five.

First, he had a smarmy CFS agent to get rid of.

He straightened back to his full height and stepped closer to the shabuir. Not violating their personal space, exactly, but close.

The agent’s eyes flicked nervously to the adiik and back again. “Unfortunately, as Mandalore is not part of the Republic—”

“Feel free to take it up with the Mandalorian government,” Cador cut him off. “Or kriff it, we can take a quick trip to Keldab’ika if you’d like to verify our laws yourself. But I should warn you, we take the safety of Mandalorian children very seriously. I wonder how the Mand’alor would react to learning that a Mandalorian child was harmed while in CSF custody.”

A deliberate pause. 

“I hear he’s not very forgiving.”

Hopefully, the whispers of “Mand’alor the Ruthless” have reached this di’kut. Cador was fairly sure it was a bunch of exaggerations—he knew the man, ruthless wasn’t a word he’d associate with him—but in the last five months, the underworld was practically buzzing with rumors. Something about a Mandalorian crusade burning its way through the Outer Rim. Entire governments were said to be decimated, populations forced into conversion camps, children stolen, dissenters executed, etc. etc.

Like he said, a bit outlandish if you helped the man run away from his entire life because he thought his brother killed a single adiik. But the truth wasn’t really relevant at the moment.

Judging by the pale shade of Verrix’s skin, he’d heard something. Probably brushed it off at the time, but Cador’s assertion had him wondering if it was real. If it was worth the risk.

Good enough.

Verrix cleared their throat. “...Right. We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings or…diplomatic incidents. I’ll log the oath and initiate conditional discharge datawork.”

Good boy.

The next hour was a whirlwind of datawork, signatures, medical summaries, and bureaucratic sludge that Cador suffered through by sheer force of bitter will. The nurse tried to congratulate him on his “new chapter.” He almost asked if that chapter came with a drink voucher.

It wasn’t until they were on his ship, safely in atmo, that he realized Tyla was very…quiet. Given the whirlwind of sass and volume she’d unleashed back at the medical center, the silence was… ominous.

He flicked a few switches on the control panel. “What’s wrong, ad’ika?”

Tyla was curled in the copilot seat, knees tucked under her and a cheaply stitched tooka doll from the gift shop clutched to her chest. Her lekku twitched nervously, and she kept her eyes on the viewport instead of on him.

“Did you adopt me?” she asked, uncertain.

Cador sighed, turning back to the nav controls. “Technically.”

“Why?”

He glanced over. She was giving him the full wide-eyed treatment. Big cerulean eyes. Little crumpled face.

He looked away. He was going to have to build up an immunity. “Because I couldn’t let them take you.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small. “So is it, like, pretend? Just until you bring me to my dad?”

There was a weighted pause.

“No, ad’ika, it’s not pretend,” he said, trying to be gentle. “We…we can discuss it with your buir when you’re reunited with them. Maybe draw up some sort of…custody arrangement.”

Preferably one where Tyla stayed with her buir 99.9% of the time and Cador popped by to check on her when the urge struck. That could work. He did that with Arla Fett for a while. It was…nice.

Of course, she hated him now, but that was fine. She was in good company.

Tyla brightened a bit, eyes sparking mischievously. “You don’t need to split custody,” she said.

Cador made the mistake of relaxing.

“You could just get married!”

“Me’ven?” he choked out, a little too high-pitched. He cleared his throat.

A surprise ad was enough, thank you. He hadn’t signed up for a riduur.

“Yeah!” Tyla nodded eagerly, the motion setting her lekku swinging. “Dad loves Mandalorians. He says they’re delicious!”

Cador choked on air. Then his own spit. Then possibly a bit of his soul. He coughed, waved a hand, and decided the safest option was to pretend he hadn’t heard that.

He leaned forward. “What aliit are you from ad’ika?”

Excitement gave way to confusion. “What’s ‘aliit’?”

He stared at her.

“I don’t know what that means,” she added, almost apologetic.

Cador narrowed his eyes. “You said your buir was Mandalorian. Was that a lie to get me to take you?”

Her mouth fell open in offended shock. Then she sat up straighter and placed her hands on her hips. “I did not lie,” she huffed indignantly. “I never said my dad was Mandalorian. I said he was on Mandalore. He’s visiting.”

Kriff. This one had an attitude. Though, in hindsight, the use of ‘dad’ should have made him wonder. But they were speaking in Basic and he wasn’t paying enough attention. He was too busy leveraging it.

“Ad’ika,” he said carefully, “you were asleep for a long time. I doubt they’re still there.”

“He is.” She scowled. It was… copikla. “He told me. I might’ve been sleeping, but I could hear things. I heard him tell me all about it.”

Cador paused.

“You could hear things?” he asked, slightly panicked, trying to do a quick mental inventory of exactly what he let slip over the last two years.

There might have been times he wasn’t exactly…filtered. It was nice to be able to talk without putting on some kind of face for it. And she was supposed to be unconscious. Comatose. On a collision course with death. Not secretly running audio logs.

She nodded, far too pleased with herself. “Yep. Which is how I know my dad is on Mandalore. He even said he’s gonna bring me a present.”

The look on her face was a scary kind of innocence. “So are you going to take me to him,” she asked sweetly, “or were you lying about that too?”

That was low. 

Cador took a breath. “First of all, don’t use that osik against me. It’s bad form. Second—no, I’m not lying. But if your buir doesn’t live on Mandalore and is only visiting, they’re going to be hard to find.” 

Especially when your face is on the informal do-not-land list. 

“We might need to wait until they come back.”

Tyla rolled her eyes like he was being the difficult one. “I know where they are.”

That was unlikely. “Fine,” he said. “Where?”

She beamed. “They’re going to their friend’s wedding!”

His hand stilled on the lever. 

“What friend?” he asked, voice strangled. It was somewhat rhetorical. There was really only one option.

“His name is Lok, I think.” She scrunched her nose in concentration. “Yeah. Lok. He’s getting married to a Jast-something.”

Cador slumped forward onto the console. As he feared, then. The Manda must be cackling. 

“I can’t take you there, ad’ika,” he said. “We’ll have to wait until they come back.”

“Why?”

Because one or both of the riduure might shoot me on sight.

“I wasn’t invited.”

Tyla raised a skeptical brow. “So? Dad says Mandalorians love kids. If you show up and explain that you’re helping me find my dad, they’ll help too.”

Flawless logic, in most other circumstances. Yes, if he showed up, they’d help her. That left no guarantees about what they’d do with him.

“Yeah,” he said aloud, “we can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He scratched at the edge of his buy’ce. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly Lok’s favorite person.”

“What did you do?” she demanded, all accusatory.

“Who says I did anything?” he shot back. “Why can’t it be mutual? Or his fault?”

Her look said she didn’t buy that for a second.

He huffed. “Fine. I might have lied to him. A bit.”

She looked disappointed in him. For some reason, that made his chest feel weird. Maybe he’s just allergic to adiike.

“Lying is bad,” she told him solemnly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m getting that.”

“Did you say sorry?”

He winced. Not…explicitly. There’d been some yelling. One solid punch that was definitely well earned and long overdue. A variety of explanations that, in hindsight, sounded more like justifying his actions.

“I… meant to,” he said eventually. 

Oh look. More lies. But he wasn’t about to explain to an adiik that he didn’t think an apology was necessary. 

Tyla sighed, full of tiny, disappointed wisdom. “You can’t fix it if you don’t apologize. So take me to the wedding. I can see my dad, and you can say sorry.”

“I can’t crash his wedding.”

The best thing he could do was exactly what Lok demanded—stay far away from him. But barring that, he could at least have the decency not to disrupt the man’s kriffing riduurok.

He ruined enough for him. No need to add to the list.

“Why not? Are you not sneaky enough to get in?”

Cador bristled. “I am plenty sneaky.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s rude.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re scared of getting in trouble.”

“Well. Yeah. A little.” He scratched his neck. “Lok’s... very powerful. And he doesn’t exactly have a long fuse these days. From what I hear.”

Tyla crossed her arms. “So you’re too scared to bring me to my dad.”

“I am not scared, I—”

“Then take me to the wedding,” she said, like it was the next logical step. “I want to see my dad.”

Cador dropped his head into his hands.

This was a very bad idea.

Possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. And he just adopted an adiik who already had a buir on a whim.

Osik. 

It was fine. They wouldn’t crash the actual riduurok. He’d contact someone in Kyr’tsad to explain the situation and facilitate the reunion through them.

Yeah. That should work. No wedding gets disrupted, and he gets to keep all of his teeth.

It’ll be fine.

Keldabe:

“What the kriff, Kal!”

Jaster wasn’t generally prone to angry outbursts. He liked to think of himself as passionate, yes, but measured. Composed. Someone who could be trusted with authority and small children. Anger, in particular, was a dangerous emotion. Powerful if channeled properly, catastrophic if allowed to run free.

So the fact that he was currently yelling at Kal in the middle of a hangar at an aggressively early hour was… not exactly on-brand. He didn’t blame the nearby staff for eyeing him like he’d cracked.

He did blame Kal. For many things, historically. But right now, specifically, he blamed him for the shrieking monstrosity currently hissing and thrashing against its cage.

The situation was making him…a little stressed.

He had a leadership meeting in under an hour with the combined forces of Haat’ade and Kyr’tsad, plus a guest speaker in the form of one overprotective jetii who may or may not manage to incinerate the entire riduurok agreement. The odds weren’t great for the jetii, granted, and when Dooku failed, the challenge period would begin on schedule. That would mark the traditional start of the actual riduurok, and while Jaster didn’t mind a good fight, he had a feeling at least half of Kyr’tsad would queue up just for the chance to stab him publicly.

Once those were over, it was as good as done.

The actual vows would be in a private ceremony in the Keldabe forge, with only himself, Lok, the gorane, and their witnesses. That would be followed by a celebration that had a statistical certainty of devolving into chaos.

So, when, exactly, was he supposed to find the time to fix this?

There was no way in haran he could give it to Lok. The man would call the riduurok off on the spot, political fallout be damned, and leave Jaster to explain to the Alore why they’re going back to war.

“What? It’s not that much worse than Organa’s,” Kal said defensively.

“It’s not even the same species!”

”Okay, so it’s not technically a Momong. But Lok likes weird animals, right? I’m sure he’ll love this…” Kal looked at it, grimacing as the beast launched itself at the bars again, jaws snapping audibly as it tried to chew its way out of its cage. “…thing.”

Jaster gave him a long, flat look.

“I’m serious!” Kal insisted, visibly flinching when the thing let out a guttural screech that made a nearby technician drop his hydrospanner. “I’ve had the…experience of meeting Snaggles. This one isn’t half as hard to look at. And at least it’s supposed to look like that.”

“It’s feral, Kal.”

“Okay, so it could use a bit of domesticating. But maybe that’s part of the appeal? It could be a new shared hobby. Or a…post-riduurok…bonding activity. You’ll even get to name it together.”

Jaster sighed, turning back toward the cage. Kal was right. It was easier on the eyes than Snaggles. Marginally. If Lok had a soft spot for aesthetically challenged pets, there was a chance—a slim one—that this would go over well.

“I don’t want to live with that thing,” Jaster admitted.

Not that it would be an issue, because Lok saw no reason to complicate things.

No. He wasn’t going there. That was negative thinking and it had no place here.

Lok was just being cautious. He did have a valid point about Pre. And honestly, it was kind of adorable that he thought Jaster would let the whole ‘separate but connected units’ thing become their normal.

He refused. And he had a plan. One that involved seducing his riduur so thoroughly, he didn’t have enough energy or working brain cells left to even consider leaving Jaster’s bed.

The plan involved giving him this…gift. Because it was supposed to make him happy, soften him a bit. Followed by a day filled with literally fighting people for the right to Lok’s hand, peppered with as many strategic, casually possessive touches as Jaster could manage in public, he was going to drive Lok insane by the time they were able to sneak away from the celebration. 

This…pet? Beast? Sentient accident? Whatever it was, it was a tonal misstep.

But he didn’t have a backup gift. So.

It was fine.

He’d hide the creature in his room for now, somewhere it couldn’t maul anyone important, and track down Arla for emergency help acquiring a new, less rabid token of affection. Something with feathers. Or shiny buttons. Or a tragic backstory.

Yes.

That could work.

“Kal, find me something to cover this cage in.”

He didn’t want to risk being spotted carrying it around, after all. 

There was a small, unassuming box on Jaster’s kitchen table, and Lok couldn’t seem to stop staring at it.

He’d put it there himself. That didn’t stop it from feeling like  a trap he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted sprung.

Technically, it was an engagement gift. Though they hadn’t discussed exchanging anything, and no one expected him to contribute, and this wasn’t official. Or required. Or wise.

It was… complicated. Everything between them always was.

It seemed like a good idea when he first asked Kas to retrieve it. It felt almost rational then. Like he could give this one small, personal offering and make some tiny part of the whole charade feel less performative.

Now it just felt pathetic. Like the foolish, aching gesture of a younger man, belonging to another lifetime. Which, to be fair, it was. 

He bought it on a whim. Then immediately panicked and wrapped it in cloth, stashed it under his old armor, shoved it in a locked chest, and buried it under his bed in the Vizsla Stronghold. Where it remained untouched for nearly ten years, collecting dust and resentment in equal measure.

Until now. Or maybe not now. Maybe this was a mistake, too.

He’d meant to give it to Jaster before their meeting this morning—before things officially began and they had to put on a show. But Jaster wasn’t home.

Lok picked up the box and began fidgeting with the corner of the lid like it might whisper advice if he worried it long enough. Preferably instructions that didn’t involve public humiliation.

He just…wanted some part of it to feel real. And it might be a stupid thing to give as a gift, but it was a piece of them that didn’t belong to everyone else.

There’d been no courtship, and even though they technically exchanged blades, it was nothing more than a formality. He submitted a design to his goran and Jaster did the same. Then they were overbooked and Pre was upset and clingy and it was just easier to have them delivered by courier.

Another item ticked off the task-list. 

The challenges were a performance, a traditional dance to reflect a long-abandoned ritual. All of it felt like a display, even the vows. A show for their guests.

Because that was why they were doing it—for their people, for their planet. For their way of life and its future.

Not for each other.

Lok let out a breath, the box in his hands feeling too sentimental. He should leave.

Any second now.

He was definitely going to leave.

…Which was, of course, the exact moment Jaster walked in.

His head was down, arms wrapped awkwardly around a crate covered with a black cloth that writhed like it contained a live bomb. Or a very enthusiastic nexu. Or both.

It was… making noises. None of them friendly.

“Uh, Jas?” Lok ventured, eyebrows already halfway up his forehead as the crate gave a particularly violent lurch.

Jaster startled and spun, clearly caught in the act. Which act was…up for debate. “Su’cuy, Lok,” he greeted, way too brightly for a man actively wrangling a hostile crate. “What are you doing here?”

“I—uh.” Lok glanced at the table. Then at the box in his hands. Then back at Jaster. “I was looking for you. You said I could let myself in.”

“I did,” Jaster confirmed, hauling the crate over to the corner and setting it down with a thud. 

It promptly hissed.

Unbothered, or pretending to be, Jaster walked over to him. “Everything okay?”

He sounded concerned, and for some reason, his hands were on Lok’s arms. It was a sort of casual touch they didn’t do, but Lok was a bit too occupied by the angry crate threatening vengeance in the background to compute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said distractedly. “What’s in the crate?”

He turned to look at Jaster and—osik. 

They were close. Close enough that he could see every thread of gold woven through deep brown irises, flecks of amber making his gaze look warm enough to burn. 

It was entirely unfair. He should be fined.

His mouth was—

Nope. Bad idea.

Lok took a deliberate step back, like putting physical space between them might reduce the heat in his face and the fluttering panic in his chest. 

Air. Air was good. Breathing. A sensible precaution.

“Right. Okay. So… anyway.” 

His eyes darted between the howling crate and Jaster, who was now sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

Lok squinted. If he wasn’t mistaken, Jaster was blushing.

“Jaster?” he prompted, curious. He was half a second away from opening it himself. “Do I want to know what you brought home?”

Yup. Definitely blushing.

Jaster clearly did not want to answer that. “Did you need something?”

Nice subject change.

Lok arched an unimpressed brow. Then sighed. He held up the box, the nerves creeping back in. Maybe it was stupid, but he wanted to do this. If only for his twenty-year-old self who desperately longed for the chance to. 

“Actually, I came to give you something.”

Jaster’s expression softened instantly, and he took it from Lok like it contained something precious.

“It’s not much,” Lok muttered, suddenly wishing for his buy’ce to hide behind. “We didn’t have a courtship, so I just…”

He trailed off, licked lips that were suddenly dry, and fought the instinct to wince at himself. “I wanted you to have it,” he finished lamely. “As a pre-riduurok gift, I guess. Something—” real “—that wasn’t about politics and formalities.”

Just us.

Jaster was watching him too closely, eyes full of something too sharp, too gentle, too much. Lok tried to look away, but Jaster caught his chin and tilted his head back up.

The touch was light, but grounding. Warm, like being held together. And he couldn’t think when they were this close.

“Vor entye,” Jaster said softly.

Lok shook his head and stepped back again, heat prickling across his face. Seriously, what was with the touching all of the sudden?

“N’entye.”

Jaster gave him a small, sincere smile. Then he looked down at the box. Lok barely resisted the urge to fidget. Or pace. Or flee to hyperspace.

Jaster opened the lid and froze. His brow furrowed.

Lok tensed. That wasn’t the reaction he expected. Not that he expected anything, but still. He’d hoped for something softer. Maybe even one of those rare, private smiles that felt like the hugs he couldn’t ask for.

Instead, Jaster looked baffled.

He doesn’t remember. Lok tried not to let his heart sink. He knew the chances Jaster remembered were practically non-existent. Apparently, he’d been holding onto more hope than he realized.

Jaster reached into the box and pulled out the…artifact. Allegedly.

It was a small, palm-sized ceramic creature—nuna-like, vaguely. If one squinted and accepted that it had been sculpted by someone with only a passing familiarity with animal anatomy and a deep-seated vendetta against proportion. The thing was flat, in a sitting position, with bulging eyes and a hauntingly cheerful expression. It looked like a mistake. A lovingly glazed, tragically enthusiastic mistake.

Jaster turned it over in his hands, studying it like it might be a coded message or a very unfortunate curse.

Lok clasped his hands together, then deliberately unclasped them before he started nervously wringing his fingers like an awkward teenager. “You probably don’t remember it,” he started awkwardly, internally berating himself for thinking this was a good idea, “but one of our first shifts together, we were patrolling the market and it was in one of the stalls. I think it was the first time you gave me a lecture about something.”

He winced at his phrasing but pushed past it. “You went on about how it might be a stylized representation of the Lost Nuna of Zygerria—used in clandestine political symbology to mask resistance movements during the third annexation era?”

Jaster blinked at him.

Yeah, Lok had been pretty sure he made it up, even back then. Now, he had no doubts. Not that it mattered.

“I’d never heard of it, obviously. But you were so…” passionate “...happy when explaining it. So when I saw it again, I bought it. I don’t know why, I just—” wanted to remember you like that, to hold onto the feeling even though I’d never get it back “—anyway. I packed it away and forgot about it until…” he trailed off, fighting the blush crawling up his neck. “I’m going to shut up now.”

Saying it out loud, he knew it sounded stupid. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take it back.

Lok finally glanced up, bracing for laughter. Or pity. Or, worst-case scenario, that small polite nod people gave when they were calculating how best to throw your embarrassing emotional offering into the nearest trash chute.

But Jaster wasn’t laughing. He was watching him with an impossibly soft expression, so tender Lok almost looked away again on instinct.

“I remember,” Jaster murmured. He set the box down gently and stepped forward. “When did you buy it?”

Lok hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much honesty he had in him. But then again, he already got this far. It wasn’t like Jaster was oblivious to his feelings anyway. 

“A few months after I joined Kyr’tsad,” he admitted, voice quiet like it might make the words sound unimportant. “I was excluded from another mission with some osik excuse, and I was sulking. I didn’t really plan to buy anything—I was just wandering the market because being at the Stronghold was…” He swallowed, forcing the truth out. “Lonely.”

“And?” Another step closer.

“It wasn’t that long after you left,” Lok shrugged, trying not to sound as fragile as he felt. “I knew you were—you moved on and I wasn’t expecting to ever hear from you, or see you again, but I missed you. So when I saw it, I—oh.”

Jaster closed the distance between them without warning, pulling Lok into a hug. For a heartbeat, he hovered on the edge of it. Not resisting. Just…unsure.

Then he sank into the embrace.

Jaster pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together. His breath was soft against Lok’s cheek. Close enough to feel, close enough to ache.

Lok selfishly let himself breathe in the comfort. He didn’t know how to ask for it, but he would take it. 

“I did try to reach out, you know,” Jaster murmured, his tone sounding like it meant to be reassuring.

It wasn’t.

The words shattered something.

Lok stiffened. He jerked back slightly, only to be caught by Jaster’s firm grip. Jaster only let him pull away enough to see his eyes. To read the sadness written there.

“You…what?” He didn’t really care that his voice broke. 

It wasn’t possible. He’d waited. He waited. Sat on the floor with his comm in hand like it was a lifeline. Begged it to ring. Talked himself into letting go when it didn’t. Talked himself into accepting that Jaster had walked away without looking back. He made his peace with Jaster leaving him behind. He had to. He even thought he understood it sometimes.

“I tried.” Jaster sighed. “You didn’t block me, did you?”

“What?” Lok’s voice jumped. “I didn’t even have your frequency.”

Jaster nodded, a shadow passing over his expression. “That’s what I figured. I contacted you once, but Cador answered. He said he’d pass along my message. When you didn’t call back, I tried again, but I was blocked.”

Lok recoiled, this time managing to pull away fully. Jaster let him go without protest.

He—he needed space. He needed to think. To…recalibrate.

The pieces weren’t hard to fit together. Cador blocked him, obviously. Then probably deleted the log to make sure Lok never noticed anything.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that Cador was Tor’s pawn even before Kyr’tsad. He joined the protectors shortly after Lok stated his intent to, but close to a year before Lok actually did. His admitting to being one of the attackers involved in Lok’s stabbing only confirmed it. 

And still, somehow, it hurt to learn about yet another quiet violation in a long string of betrayals that Lok had forced himself to carry like shrapnel he didn’t have time to remove.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold himself together, and forced himself to look at Jaster. “Why didn’t you try again? With a different code?” The question spilled out before he thought to stop it. He didn’t even bother masking the hurt. “Did you really think I would block you?”

Did you not know me at all?

The look in Jaster’s eyes was all the answer he needed. A flicker of guilt, of quiet resignation, of heartbreak. 

He didn’t try again because Lok joined Kyr’tsad. Because Jaster took that as a statement of his loyalties and a testament to his beliefs. Because there was no longer a point.

It was hardly a surprise. He’d suspected as much. Didn’t even blame him, because it was the fault Lok’s own blindness. But it was nice to pretend, sometimes, that Jaster never thought he was capable of it. Now he couldn’t.

And Ka’ra, but it hurt. It hurt in a way Lok didn’t have words for anymore. He’d exhausted the vocabulary of grief a long time ago.

He was so tired of hurting.

Jaster opened his mouth, likely to say something sincere and well-intentioned and completely impossible to handle. Which meant Lok needed to derail it. Immediately.

He didn’t want to talk about it. There was no point. The apology was written all over Jaster’s face, but what good would it do? Obviously, Jaster recognized that he was wrong. That didn’t make it hurt any less. 

Mercifully, the universe intervened in the form of a shriek.

The crate let out another high-pitched, bone-scraping wail, and Lok seized the opportunity with both hands and a prayer. He turned to it with forced, theatrical enthusiasm, the kind of brittle performance that had long ago replaced therapy.

“So,” he drawled, voice tight with humor that was more armor than anything else, “Are you going to tell me what nightmare you brought home, or am I supposed to guess based on the volume of its suffering?”

Jaster frowned, clearly reluctant to let the conversation shift. “Lok, I think we should talk—”

He looked at Jaster then and for once, he didn’t bother hiding the cracks. He let the mask slip, let the bone-deep exhaustion show. Let Jaster see how close to the edge he really was. 

Because he couldn’t do this if he didn’t set a boundary somewhere.

Jaster’s mouth closed around the rest of whatever he’d meant to say.

“Let’s leave the past where it belongs,” Lok said quietly, not unkindly. “If I keep looking back, I’ll be paralyzed. So let’s just… move forward.”

Something flickered in Jaster’s eyes—something unreadable and sharp, like regret with nowhere to land. But before Lok could even try to name it, the crate rattled again, hard enough to dislodge a holo mounted on the wall. 

Jaster startled, then flushed. Again.

“I, uh… spoke with Rook,” he admitted, clearing his throat like that might help. “He mentioned he was picking something up for you. Thought I should get you something, too.”

Lok’s eyebrows flew up. “Since when do you talk to Kas?”

“I needed some information,” Jaster muttered, suspiciously evasive. “Nothing important.”

Which meant it was absolutely something important.

Lok stared at him, deeply skeptical. Then decided he didn’t want to know.

Jaster moved toward the crate, hesitated, then turned back to him with a sheepish little shrug that made Lok’s chest tighten. “I saw how happy Snaggles makes you,” he said, not quite meeting his eyes. “And I figured… once the wedding’s over, Organa will take him back. I just—thought maybe it’d be nice. To have something of your own.”

Lok eyed the vibrating crate dubiously.

“Snaggles,” he said slowly, “is a soft, cuddly, angel with a taste for jam and a healthy respect for chaos. That,” he pointed to the still-snarling box, “is clearly one of the lesser-known terrors of the Outer Rim.”

Jaster winced, but he looked so sheepish and hopeful and adorable about it. Like he genuinely thought this might be something Lok wanted.

Which, okay. That was unfair.

Lok felt his resistance cracking. He managed a small smile—the kind usually reserved for Pre’ika when the adiik brought home broken droids and insisted they were ‘projects.’ 

“It was thoughtful,” he said gently, and meant it. 

Because he would miss Snaggles. That cutie had claimed a part of his heart without asking, and he’d probably be sadder than he’d admit when he eventually left with Kivan. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, having something else to fill the space. Just…also maybe not this thing, but there was no reason to crush Jaster’s spirit. He’d figure something out.

Jaster, clearly buoyed by the encouragement, stepped forward and lifted the black cloth from the crate.

A high-pitched screech pierced the air.

Lok stared. The creature inside was foaming at the mouth and attempting to gnaw through durasteel.

“…You got me a Kowakian monkey-lizard,” he said blankly. A pissed off one at that. He wasn’t sure if should be offended by the subtext. “Did you not know Snaggles is a Momong?” 

It wouldn’t be the worst mistake. Snaggles had a pretty unconventional appearance.

Jaster looked instantly, adorably flustered. And like he might crawl under the table. “The vendor said he was… ‘spirited.’”

“Oh, he’s spirited, alright,” Lok muttered, watching the thing claw its way up the bars. “Possessed, even. I think you got scammed.”

Jaster looked utterly defeated. Lok couldn’t stand to see that expression, so he sighed and crouched beside the crate.

Jaster made a small, aborted gesture of warning. “I don’t know if letting it loose in the apartment is—”

“Don’t worry,” Lok said mildly, crouching lower. “I’ve got it.”

He hoped. 

He approached carefully, voice softening. Poor thing was probably just scared. “It’s okay. You just don’t like being trapped, did you? That’s fair. Cages are awful. I get it.”

The monkey-lizard, snarling moments ago, quieted at the sound of his voice. When Lok opened the latch, it bolted straight at him. Instead of flinching, he caught it one-handed mid-leap, shifting it against his chest.

“There we go,” he murmured, scratching gently under its chin. “Not so scary now, huh? Just misunderstood.”

Jaster stared like he’d just watched someone tame a rancor with a bedtime story. “How did you do that?”

Lok flushed. “I’ve always been good with animals,” he muttered. “Better than people.”

Jaster looked like he had a comment. He wisely swallowed it.

“So,” Lok said, still scratching the…pet. If we’re being loose with the term. “What’s his name?”

Jaster scratched the back of his head. “He… doesn’t have one. I thought you should choose.”

That was—kriff, that was cute.

As a joke—and it was a joke—and because Jaster was standing there looking impossibly adorable with his stupidly broad shoulders and obnoxiously earnest eyes, Lok tilted his head and said, “How about Jas’ika?”

Jaster choked. “No.”

Unfortunately, the monkey-lizard had opinions. Loud ones. It let out a delighted screech of agreement, claws flexing, tail curling happily around Lok’s arm.

Lok grinned. And not a smirk, either—not the practiced political smile, or tight-edged mask he wore when everything felt like too much. It was a real, helpless smile that reached his eyes and cracked something open in his chest.

“Oh no,” Jaster groaned, horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Lok couldn’t help but laugh. He needed that laugh, which was maybe why he kept going.

“We are not calling it that,” Jaster insisted, clearly trying to reassert control over his life and failing spectacularly.

“Alright, alright.” Lok tried to sound reasonable, gently petting the beast. “How about…Kreepa?”

The monkey-lizard shrieked in offense. 

“Snarls?”

Hissing.

“Okay, fine. Wrath Junior.”

It attempted to bite him.

Lok raised an unimpressed brow. “That’s rude. I’m trying to help.”

Jaster sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Probably coming to terms with his fate.

Lok shrugged and looked down again. “You just like Jas’ika, don’t you?” he cooed. “Have you made up your mind?”

That earned a pleased gurgle. Like a smug little monster that knew it had won.

Jaster made a noise halfway between a groan and a prayer for death. “I’m never going to live this down.”

For reference:

This is what Jaster wanted, okay, this is the pastels:

And this is what he got 😩: