Chapter Text
All-out war across the Galaxy creates a profitable environment for an enterprising bounty hunter like Jango Fett.
Or it would, once upon a time.
He’s absolutely, one hundred percent supposed to be dead. More than that, he’s retired. He drinks tea every morning while watching the holonews and teaches his pre-teen how to build his own armor. He's adopted - or been adopted by - a baby tooka.
He has a house. Or something closely resembling a house at least: it has a herb garden. He’s never really managed to keep anything in it alive for long, but the damn thing still counts. Last month he built Boba a new bed and taught the kid some new curses in the process - he can strip down the service rig for a star cruiser but no sentient being has a chance of interpreting those kriffing assembly instructions.
Life is quiet and simple and semi-respectable.
So naturally, his skills as a bounty hunter have never been more in demand.
He still has friends in the Guild, or at least people who won’t shoot him on sight, so he stays in the loop. Credits come and go but gossip will always be a valuable currency.
Which is why he gets word of the chit only a few hours after it goes live.
The Guild isn’t stupid enough to get directly involved in the political shit-slinging that’s going down between the Republic - and the Jetiise - and the CIS, and no one is suicidal enough to put a hit on a Jetii High General out there in wide circulation. But Jango’s never really given much of a damn about the kind of jobs he’s taken in the past. He’s on lists.
And this list, chiming loudly right in the middle of his morning tea, announces to Jango and every other ruthless credit grabbing beroya out there that Jetii Master Obi-Wan Kenobi is worth a cool ten million Republic Credits alive. And half that again dead.
And that? That puts Jango right off his kriffing breakfast.
“We’re going to kidnap a Jetii?” Boba sounds far more excited by the prospect than most twelve-year-olds probably should. And, because he’s Jango’s boy, because he’s too kriffing smart for his own good, he catches on way too quickly. “Wait. Are we kidnapping your Jetii?”
“We’re doing nothing,” he says quickly. Boba has school work. What kind of responsible father would he be if he let his kid walk into this kind of clusterfuck at the expense of his education? “You’re staying here.” He can water the damn herbs.
Boba crosses his arms over his chest. He’s a short little shit, just like Jango was at his age. And just like Jango, he gives only a third of a kriff about doing as he’s told. “You know I’ll just follow you.”
Now Jango loves his boy. He has... mixed feelings about the others, but he cherishes every stubborn hair on Boba’s head. But sometimes, times like this, he’s reminded that Boba is him, blood and bones. Somewhere, his Buir is looking down on him and laughing his ass off.
“Fine,” he grunts, acquiescing with less of a fight than he should and not because he wants his boy to meet his... “No firearms.”
Boba’s face lights up and fades in the space of a millisecond. “Aw, dad!”
Getting to Obi-Wan isn't a problem. That stupid, handsome face is the most famous in the Galaxy right now, and while Republic Intelligence does a fairly competent job of keeping the frontline details of the war off the holonet until after the fighting, the same can’t be said for the Jetii’s legion of adoring fans.
It’s like he said: gossip is the currency of the world, and it doesn’t take more than an hour searching the forums to pinpoint his current location.
General Kenobi and the 212th Legion are currently docked at Spaceport 71 for refueling, personnel transfer, and to take on supplies. They’ll be there for forty-eight hours. More than enough time for a rival beroya to make their move. And while it’s not like he thinks any of them are going to get the best of his idiot Jetii, it’s better safe than dead.
Besides, Jango has one considerable advantage at play here.
Two, technically.
Like any good father trying to teach his young son the ways of the universe, his plan involves using the kid as bait.
It’s easy enough for Jango to move unnoticed through the station security points - he leaves one of the kids trussed up and unconscious in a service closet and slips into armor that fits like a glove - but a quick check at the ship's manifest makes it clear that there aren’t supposed to be any cadets either on the famed Negotiator or the station.
Fortunately for both of them, Boba has inherited all of Jango’s looks and only a mild version of his scowl. He’s downright adorable when he sets his mind to it and they make that work for them. With Jango well concealed, he lifts Boba up onto his hip, lets the boy wrap both arms around his neck and marches with purpose towards the room he knows will be Obi-Wan’s.
The ship is exactly as he remembers - a little more scratched and dented in places - but he knows the halls like the backs of his hands. With no hesitation in his walk, and with Boba suitably wide-eyed and frightened-looking, every clone they pass gives them a carefully wide berth. They all know a cadet isn’t supposed to be here, so either Boba is lost or AWOL. Either way, none of them want to get their vod’ika in trouble.
Jango has no kriffing clue where they’ve gotten that softhearted tendency from. None at all. Poor little shits.
At the General’s cabin, Jango raps sharply on the door. He’s ready with an excuse if Obi-Wan isn’t alone, and he’s ready with a sedative if he is, and he’s...
... oh, he’s not ready for the warm, familiar voice that calls, “Enter,” from the other side of the door.
Too kriffing late now.
The door opens, giving him entry to a space that’s somehow completely impersonal and get entirely Obi-Wan. His... his... target... is sat at a small table in the middle of the room, surrounded by stacks of projectors, holodisks, and datapads.
Obi-Wan himself looks exhausted and hurt and thin, a shadow of the bright, vibrant teenager he fell in love with. He doesn’t even resemble that sanctimonious shit he encountered back on Kamino.
But he’s still the same soft-hearted, gentle bastard Jango remembers, his eyes falling on Boba before he rises and circles around the table.
He doesn’t immediately run Jango through with his saber, punch him in the face, curse at him or cry, and Jango isn’t disappointed, he’s not.
He’s a little disappointed. So much for Obi-Wan’s beloved Force revealing Jango’s true identity to him. So much for that cosmic, soul-crushing, kingdom destroying love Satine used to sing of. It’s not like Jango ever believed in it.
“Are you lost, young one?” Of course Obi-Wan knows Boba shouldn’t be here. Of course he sounds worried.
Jango sets Boba down and the boy lifts his wobbling chin up at the concerned Jedi. Obi-Wan raises a cautious hand, touches the boy’s cheek with abject gentleness, and goes pale.
He looks up at Jango, then back at Boba.
Then back at Jango. “Can you - will -” he clears his throat and shakes his head. “Please remove your helmet.”
The game’s up then. This is it.
Two years since Geonosis. Thirteen years since he last had Obi-Wan in his arms.
Fifteen since he last let himself love the infuriating Jetii.
His helmet comes off. He meets Obi-Wan’s gaze unflinchingly.
And of all the possible reactions Obi-Wan might give, the last thing Jango is expecting is for him to smile softly, laugh, and says, “Cody’s right: I do have a concussion.”
Jango’s heart skips a painful beat. If Obi-Wan is injured then that explains why he looks so ill, and why he didn’t immediately try and throw them out of an airlock. It doesn't explain why he's working. Stubborn, foolish, softhearted, self-sacrificing -
Boba turns his face from Obi-Wan and up to Jango. “I thought you said he was smart?”
“For a Jetii,” Jango protests.
Obi-Wan manages to look almost affectionate, though he’s still blinking at Jango with wide, bewildered eyes. “Well, now that does sound like something he’d say.”
Jango lets out a disgruntled grunt. “We’re not kriffing hallucinations. How are you so shit at taking care of yourself?”
“Occupational hazard?” Obi-Wan shrugs. “I’d offer you tea but you’re clearly a figment of my imagination; in which case you’re non-corporeal, or semi-corporeal at least, I’m not entirely certain how these things work.” Boba obligingly pokes him sharply in the leg. “Oh.” Obi-Wan says a little faintly. “Well, in that case, I shall make you tea and kindly request that you choke on it.”
Jango grins. Now there’s his tracinya. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say you’re angry with me.”
“Really? What could possibly give you that impression?”
“You did fake your death?” Boba offers with an innocent shrug.
“And yet that is by far the least idiotic thing your father has ever done,” Obi-Wan snaps.
Oh, here we go...
“If this is about Nar Kreeta-”
“This is not about Nar Kreeta, though now you mention it-”
“I apologized for that!”
“This is not about Nar Kreeta!”
“Maybe we could save this for after the actual kidnapping part of the mission?” Boba asks, looking at the door to the room as though he’s expecting someone to burst right through it any second. Which is entirely possible.
Of course, Obi-Wan rounds on Jango, fire and damnation and utter fury in his eyes and kriffing hells Jango wants to kiss him. “That’s why you’re here? To kidnap me?” The furious string of insults that follow is, blessedly, not in a language Boba has learned yet. He’d like to keep some dignity in front of the boy, something that’s getting harder to maintain the angrier Obi-Wan gets. Little gods, but he’s beautiful when he’s mad. Even now. After all these years.
“Lesson fifty-three,” Jango says to Boba. “Don’t tell your target you’re planning on abducting them until after you’ve drugged them.”
Which is when Boba flashes him a wide grin and holds up the empty hyponeedle he dosed Obi-Wan with when poking him in the leg. "It's not a firearm!"
Sweet, merciful gods, but he’s proud of the kid.
Obi-Wan’s next insult is unfortunately in Mando’a. Boba snickers. And Obi-Wan promptly pitches forward into Jango.
“Time to go, Jet’ika,” Jango says, shoving his shoulder under Obi-Wan’s arm and hauling him up against his side. He’s not unconscious, but he’s well and truly out of it, warm and mostly limp in Jango’s arms.
Not how Jango’s imagined their reunion might go.
Or would’ve. If he had. Which he hasn't.
Obi-Wan curses him again, his voice whisper soft and almost sad.
“Are Jetii allowed to swear?” Boba asks curiously. Obi-Wan answers with a chain of insults that would make a pirate blush. “Wow.”
“Don’t repeat any of those,” Jango says sternly. “Ever.”
“You left me,” Obi-Wan then slurs, his eyes finally closing as the dose fully kicks in.
“Pretty sure it was the other way around,” Jango says, childishly getting the last word with an unconscious man. He braces Obi-Wan against his side as he slips his bucket back on, then lifts him up into his arms.
“He’s gonna be real mad when he wakes up,” Boba points out.
Jango’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Time to go,” he says instead. “Ready?”
Boba nods, serious and focused once more on the mission. In time, he’ll be better than Jango could ever hope to be. Racing down the hall in front of them, his loud calls to clear the way send troops diving to the side, clearing a path for Jango to run, Obi-Wan in his arms, all the way to medical.
Where chaos awaits, the medbay right in the middle of a full restock. Jango knows all the actual medics are on the upper deck overseeing the transfer of injured patients from the Negotiator to Station 71’s own medical facilities. He knows because he’s already checked.
So when the junior troopers in the medbay see their unconscious General, all Jango has to do is summon all his authority and shout orders - with a voice they know as well as their own - until they scatter in search of someone high ranking enough to deal with the situation.
They’ll all get raked over the fire for it. Might even get decommissioned. He’d feel bad for them if they weren’t damn near participating in Obi-Wan’s abduction.
The last one leaves and Boba tips over one of the supply crates that’s waiting to be unloaded.
Jango is careful when he lowers Obi-Wan inside.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t die,” Boba says brightly, climbing in after him. It’s a tight fit for the two of them, but his boy’s not scared.
The lid closes. Locks.
And, with a spring in his step and activation of the levitation field, Jango propels the crate forwards and strolls right off the ship with the Republic’s most valuable military asset.