Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaster wakes up the next morning feeling the most relaxed he has felt in almost a decade. Certainly not since he left, sleeping in a ship bunk or in a tent camped outside. It didn’t have so much to do with the setting, the place and time, as much as it did the two warm bodies next to him.

The first time, Jaster had woken up to Grogu crawling towards them on the bed, head cocked in curiosity and steps cautious. It was clear by the look Jaster had received that he was the first to ever be in Din’s bed other than the boy himself. His arm was curled over Din’s side, his front pressed all along his muscular back and his ass pressing perfectly along his groin, knees slotted together. Jaster had hardly needed brain power to know what the child wanted, his sister often crawling into bed with him as a young child. Whether it was a bad dream or for comfort, Jaster never turned an ad'ika away when they wanted to snuggle. He hadn’t known for sure if Din had been awake for that interaction, but he knows they all had fallen back asleep with Grogu between them. A rare act for Jaster’s busy brain, and he knows Din is a light sleeper paired with an early riser. It was a pleasant change for the both of them, a reason to enjoy the comfort, peace and warmth just a little bit longer.

This time, Din is the one spooning him, his taller body bracing him head to toe. They made a perfect sandwich with Jaster’s head tucked under Din’s chin, and Grogu curled under Jaster’s. He doesn’t remember the boy crawling out of his hammock to do it, but the boy is dead asleep and Din’s body is still rhythmically calm at his back. It startles him when Din whispers into his ear, Jaster thinking he was still asleep.

“I need you to promise me something.”

Jaster blinks the sleep gunk out of his eyes, not willing to rub them and wake up Grogu. Din’s clearly been awake for some time, coming from the smoothness of his low voice. It’s not bogged down with exhaustion still. At the same time, there’s unease in that breathy timbre of his that has Jaster instantly awake. 

“Anything,” Jaster whispers back, and his own words come out raspy despite his best efforts to wet his mouth.

“That order you gave me, to stay. Never ask me again, Jaster.”

Now all Jaster wants to do is turn around to see his face. At the same time, he has grown used to deducing his feelings by his intonation and inflection alone. How he said his words, the subtle emphasis, what he left out; it all said much more than what was actually spoken. This isn’t a promise he’s asking for, nor a compromise. This is an order, a denial, and he’s telling Jaster right here and now that he will never again obey it.

“Din, my heart,” Jaster starts, hearing how his accent has come back and thick with his own emotion. He’s ready to agree, to tell him that he already decided to never do such a thing twice. Seven years was too long, and Jaster berates himself for not trying to finish the Codex sooner, grow faster, transform into the man Din needed overnight. Jaster had never wanted to make Din wait so long, stuck guarding a family that ended up not needing the protection at all. Din interrupts him before he can explain.

“I mean it. You cannot order me to leave your side again. I will die beside you.”

Jaster sucks in a sharp breath, then holds it, fearing he woke Grogu up with how loud it sounded in the quiet bedroom and the quick expansion of his chest against the boy’s back. He cannot deny him this, it would go against both their codes as Mandalorians to decide when and where another should die. He cannot choose for another what cause they’d stand by until the end, because he would never obey such an order either. As riduure, he has no right to tell his husband he cannot fight beside him until they both fall together. It’s the thought that frightens him, that he could lead Din to his doom. At the same time, Din’s voice is guttural, and his arm that drapes over Jaster’s side pulls him closer into his body. 

“Ni ceta,” he croaks, hearing how much it hurt him. Hurts him still, “I won’t. I promise you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Din says, kissing the crown of his head, “It was necessary. Just… never again.”

“Was it? Necessary?” Jaster asks, heart aching at Din brushing him off. He saw it as his duty, part of the price to be paid for handing off the Darksaber. Never did he want Din to be burdened by this journey, be weighed down more by Jaster’s choices and his ineptitude. 

Din sighs, Jaster feeling the gust of air flutter the short hairs at the back of his head, “I spoke to Tarre about it, years ago and asking the same question. Do you want to know what she told me?”

Jaster nods the slightest bit, knowing Din will see it, throat too tight to speak. 

“You needed to find your people out in the Galaxy, along with yourself. You could not truly have that with me influencing you. I also needed time to come to terms with my new… situation. This Galaxy was unknown to me, and so had been my body at the time. It was necessary, for both of us to grow. I came to terms with it, and you need to as well. It is not a blame I hold on you for asking, for needing that security.”

Finally, his heart lightens the slightest bit. Still, he aches for the time they spent apart, wishing it hadn’t been that way. There was no use dwelling on it; the past is the past, and he can only look forward. Right now, that future included Grogu beginning to shuffle and stretch against his chest, the boy starting to wake up. He turns his head finally, maneuvering himself so he has enough room to look his husband in the face. There are no words to convey the relief and gratitude from Din’s words, so he takes advantage of his newfound status as a married man.

Jaster leans down, brushing his lips with Din’s in a soft, tender kiss. There’s a small intake of breath from him before he relaxes, letting Jaster pepper his day-old stubbled cheeks with kisses, count how many fit between his eyes, his forehead where his fringe tickled his lips. He keeps at it until he hears Grogu giggle and Din’s resounding stiffening body. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be embarrassed,” Jaster huffs a chuckle, pulling back to glance at Grogu whose brown eyes were staring at them in jubilation, “Doesn’t your buir deserve all the kisses?”

“Yes! All the kisses!”

Din’s growing smile was worth more than all the gold in the galaxy. All Jaster had to do to see it get the widest yet was beckon Grogu closer to press a kiss to the boy’s head, before pushing him onto Din. Immediately, he’s rubbing his cheek on Din’s rougher facial hair, causing the man to laugh and begin smothering their son with his own deserved kisses. It ends with the boy squealing in laughter from the raspberries Jaster’s blowing on his belly. Definitely the best way to wake up.

It seems today was determined to be a busy one. Din starts on making them breakfast while Jaster gets both him and Grogu dressed, Din still beating him at throwing on his kit. He was still putting on his flak-vest when Din finishes buckling his belts, and by the time they join him in the kitchen, it’s already starting to smell wonderful. He’s just getting Grogu into his chair before a loud sound gets his attention.

“Din-Din!” Yells an obnoxious voice, banging on the door. Jaster looks at Din in bewilderment, raising a questioning eyebrow. Din shrugged, popped his helmet back on and waved a dismissive hand towards him, shooing him away. Jaster chuckles, walking over to the annoying voice still yelling and banging.

“Din-Din, you glorious bastard— What the fuck, you’re naked,” their visitor starts dramatically before slapping their hands over their eyes. It’s a humanoid, light green-tinged skin, and dark-violet  hair that’s tightly curled and pulled into a low ponytail. They’re wearing street clothes with vambraces and greaves, but no other armour. Jaster’s got two eyebrows entering his hairline now, not understanding until Din’s raspy, genuine laughter can be heard from the kitchen. The other Mando peeks through their fingers at Jaster.

“Oh, thank the Manda,” they say, going to push past him. Jaster raises his arm and puts it on the doorframe, leaning against the other side.

“No you don’t,” Jaster says, crossing one leg in front of the other comfortably. “State your name and purpose.”

“What are you, his bodyguard?” They snort, trying to duck under his arm. Jaster moves it to block them.

“Yes. And his husband. Name and purpose,” he growls out, narrowing his eyes at them.

“Feng Zhao, he/him, Din’s… helper. May I come in now please?”

“You are lucky our son isn’t asleep, Feng Zhao,” Jaster replies, finally moving his arm and allowing him to pass. He had fun with that.

He sneaks past him now, hustling his way into the kitchen. Jaster closes the door and watches how he starts to vibrate in excitement when he sees Din’s back at the cooker. 

“Zhao,” Din greets politely without turning around. 

“Today is the day, Din Djarin. You were right.”

Jaster watches his husband freeze. He puts everything down and turns everything off before turning around. Din is crossing his arms, staring back.

“I told you. Took you long enough.”

“How did you know?” The man demands, “How did you know that those ingredients at a certain temperature would work? I mean, among other things yours truly had to figure out, but how did you know for sure?”

“Still not going to tell you. Did you submit the patent?”

“The second it yielded all the results you said it would, I submitted those babies. You and I, my favourite friend in the whole Universe, are going to be stinking rich. They’ve been accepted.”

Now Feng is truly bouncing up and down, looking at Din like he wants to hug him but knowing he’d probably get swatted. Jaster is lost, not understanding what they’re talking about. He’s sure Din had a reason not to tell him about his business adventure, and now the man is turning his head to look at him.

“I did not want to tell you if it didn’t work,” the man explains, Jaster the one now waving a hand at him.

“What have you been up to?” He says instead, wanting to get right to the heart of it.

“I devised a plan to fund your orphanages. Indefinitely.”

Jaster stares at him. He thinks his brain actually reboots for a moment, struggling to process the words. Din had asked him more about them ages ago, but he did not offer any solutions. Here he is, seven years later, offering a large fix-it. The funding, the independency of the orphanages was crucial. When Clans got involved in donating, like Vizsla, sometimes they believed that meant that had a right to the children. Who got first pick, who could take them at all if they weren’t chosen. Feng is the one to bring him out his thoughts.

“Wait, that’s what you’re going to use the money for?” The man demands, before with more understanding, “That’s why you left your name off the papers, why you set up the Corporation. You’re leaving it anonymous and unbiased. Why you pay yourself ten percent.”

“Catching on quick now, Feng.”

“That’s why you fucking haggled me forty-sixty. Why did I fall for your intimidating… everything?”

“Because your spine is weak. You just need to start using your brain outside of your lab. If you saw me coming, I’d have nothing to bargain with.”

“So what exactly have you made?”

“A carbonite chamber. Zhao,” Din says, then snaps his fingers at him and the other one’s mouth opens. This seems to be part of their agreement, that Din will introduce it, but he will not waste his breath explaining what it is. That’s Feng’s job.

“It’s a carbon-freezing chamber that can encase individuals in carbonite. It essentially uses a mixture of gases to freeze a person solid into a slab. I don’t know where he got the idea for it, but it’s every criminal’s nightmare and every bounty hunter and law enforcement’s dream come true.”

Jaster quirks an eyebrow at his husband again, this time a slightly different question. His riduur understands and gives him a nod. This was something from his future he was taking advantage of knowing about. To help fund orphanages, starting with the same ones Jaster grew up in. 

“I’ll give you a full list of potential investors as soon as it slows down. I know you don’t bother with the weak shit.”

“Give me the full list,” Din says instead, “This is more than a dollar sign. It will make more money than we can imagine once it’s operational. We need to make sure the investor is right, not the investment. I would prefer it to stay in Mandalorian space.”

“Gotcha. Alright, I’ll head out. I just wanted to deliver the news in person. Thank you, by the way.”

Din gives him a nod, then the man turns to him, “Nice to, uh, meet you, Din’s husband. I didn’t even know you were married. Bye.”

As soon as the man leaves the room, Jaster turns on Din. He has no idea what to say, but he is overflowing with love, gratitude, and honour the man would do such a thing. Would have that as the end goal for the funds he made from the thing, even giving the scientist a more than fair portion for creating it when Din had designed it from memory. Din takes off his helmet, exposing that expressive face of his. A touch of uncertainty pulls his lips into a frown, his eyebrows dipping closer together.

“You are wonderful. You know that?” Jaster says, can only think to say.

“Will you help me choose an investor?”

“Yes.”

Jaster holds out his hand, realizing more and more than Din does not necessarily believe words. He believed in actions, and when the man placed his hand in his and Jaster pulls him closer to him, he has every intention of showing him. It is a shallow gift in return, but he will give him more in the future. Him and his, their son both. 

Jaster leans up and starts with a chaste kiss, sneaking his wandering hand behind Din’s cape at his lower back. Then he pulls the man’s lower half firmly against him, weak in the knees every time Din lets him slot their bodies together. He has to keep it short, mind drifting easily to their activities from yesterday. Din had tasted so divine, he thinks there’s hints of him still when he licks his lips, and the sounds Jaster had pulled from him had been addictive to create. It’s hard to not want to do it all over again, especially now that Jaster has unlimited opportunities to get Din naked. 

Grogu’s still in the room, so he doesn’t let it go on too long or get too heated. When he’s done, he loops his arms around his bigger frame as much as he can, hugging him tight. His eyes sting the more he thinks about it, the lump in his throat getting bigger. Those osik orphanages were going to get a makeover, an absolute rebranding if Jaster could do it. He was going to ask Din so many questions he’d get uncomfortable and Jaster would have to do it in stages, but the man was going to have his influence all over it. The only thing he could deduce was lacking in Din’s own upbringing was shared history, but from what he can understand, that was done with the intent to protect, not harm. The present and oncoming future was more dangerous for Mandalorians, so education was geared towards their continued survival, not preserving historical events. Otherwise, Din’s Tribe’s culture towards the rearing of children was fascinating and awe-inspiring.

Comm-calls had never been boring, not when Jaster could find a million topics to talk about. This one had been one that spanned multiple days and calls. Din had the patience to speak on it, and he’d been emboldened by Jaster’s open curiosity. It had eventually turned into wistful excitement and understanding, why Jaster had been so focused on Din’s views. It was a Vow, the final line of their marriage ritual. We will raise warriors. How Din plans to raise his own was important to him, and making sure Din knew his own plans was just as important. Turns out, they had overlapped in a lot of areas.

Din’s Tribe did not have any Clan-born children. Not a one, expect for the original elders, but that wasn’t important nor influential. They didn’t keep their Clan names of Old, letting their children create their own legacies. It only carried on in surnames, not Clan names. Still, it was a Tribe packed with fully-fledged warriors, adhering to the Resol’nare and a Creed more devout. Foundlings were their Future, and they took that literally. Jaster wants these orphanages to become like Din’s Tribe, full of volunteers of the community, Mandalorians and neverde of all walks of life, raising and taking the place of many buire. Make the process less lonely for those left unclaimed, make it easier for people to meet the kids, form bonds that could lead to adoption or just provide support. When he was growing up, they weren’t even allowed visitors unless they could afford the fees and guarantee adoption. At least with Din’s way, kids were never left behind or left feeling unwanted. 

The other, more exciting prospect of Din’s Tribe was that they were used to dealing with a high number of Foundlings. Due to their adult numbers being lacking and war-torn worlds making orphans abundant, the kid’s population greatly outnumbered the adults in his Tribe. Din was an outlier in being an only child; the rest of his Tribe vode had no less than four siblings each. Din had told him once that the only reason he had not followed the same tradition was because he saw himself as all the children’s provider, and left the sworn position to the adults who remained in the Tribe. If he hadn’t been so busy supplying the entire Tribe and all the Foundlings financially, Jaster believes Din would have many kids of his own. Grogu had been the first in a situation that demanded Din think about claiming, and subsequently keeping. 

This brings those thoughts to the forefront of his mind. It’s one thing he’s determined to explore with Din, when their future was settled and they could discuss it, plan for it. Jaster would love nothing more than to raise an abundance of kids with him, have their home loud and boisterous and full of love. If not that, Jaster would make it so these orphanages allow busy Mandalorians fulfil their tenant and duty to children by involving themselves with those who had lost their buire in their downtime.

Din hugs him back, just as tightly and bringing him out of his pleasant thoughts. Jaster still tells him, just so he knows for sure.

“Mhi ba'juri verde.”

“Elek, riduur,” Din says, Jaster able to picture his smile finally to the sound of it in his voice.

“Ori'sol verde.”

Din laughs, Jaster’s heart melting at the delight in his voice, and his resounding, soft promise.

“Elek, Jaster. Many warriors.”

After breakfast, their day is bombardment. Myles comes to him as early as he’s able, led by his sister and giving her looks that makes Jaster do his squinty eyes. Din is no help on that front, not noticing the subtle glances and flustered voice of Jaster’s second. He tries to tighten it up in Jaster’s presence, but his infatuation doesn’t sneak by him. If it was anyone else, he’d be putting them through the wringer, but it’s Myles and Vivienne is capable of taking care of herself. When he had the chance, he was still going to razz him about it.

Jaster doesn’t have time to do it now, not when there’s apparently a kerfuffle going on near the Company’s ship. He’s got no details and no idea what it’s about, but he walks to the docking bay with confidence lining every step. There’s been years of practice to settle into the role as Alor, and most of it delved down to having a strong spine and not backing down in the face of arguing parties. He had to remain neutral until the time came to give orders, play mediator until the time came to be strict.

The only thing that gave him the urge to buckle was Din. Always Din. The man was staring at him, and it took him a long time to figure out why. He didn’t leave Concord Dawn with the same posture or the same gait, not even in the same colours. Din is looking at him with same tilt to his head as he did last night, when he had remarked on his new paint job, with the same intense stare when he first saw Jaster in the Fighting Corps arena. It had been appreciation mixed with longing reserved just for him when Din had admitted he’d worn black and red himself for most of his life, yellow and blue on two pieces, the former matching the diamond Jaster had painted around his beskar'ta. The halves where they overlapped made that attraction bubble so hotly, and caused him to walk taller instead of hesitating when he knew Din liked what he saw. 

It was hard to say what was going on at the ship when he got there. The ramp was down, and there was a large crowd at the base of it. His verde and ones he doesn’t recognize, but it’s not a worrisome situation. Nobody is throwing hands, some are even shaking them while conversing politely. The strangers bore a great number of sigils and colours themselves, marking different Clans. Jaster recognized the majority from those that predominantly resided on Concord Dawn.

One of his verd juts their chin towards Jaster, and when the other warriors catch sight of him, they all noticeably perked up. Din’s mic staticked, a little huff that Jaster knows now is his restrained laughter. He doesn’t get a chance to comment on it before one of the more eager ones is stepping forward.

“Mand’alor Mereel!”

Oh, that would take getting used to. Jaster keeps from cringing, but barely. Despite wanting the position, he wanted to serve more in the military aspect, not the politics, and he had never much liked attention. Being an orphan, attention usually meant trouble. He studied politics to understand it, to benefit from it and get around laws, to not go in blind when picking contracts across the Galaxy. To help the warriors reclaim their status as Mandalorians despite the pacifists in power claiming them savage imposters. He had no reason or desire to police Clans or Tribes like Tor had been planning, nor did he want them to swear fealty. If the time came where there was an enemy that demanded their full attention, he expected the Mando’ade of honour to respect his call, but he would not do that recklessly or without just cause. The Houses and Clans were already self-sufficient and governing in most regards, so for him to butt in would only make him enemies.

“Elek, verd,” Jaster answers, holding out his arm to which the other warrior grasps his vambrace readily in a handshake. 

The situation is not one Jaster needs to worry about. He was right; they were all members of Mandalorian Clans on Concord Dawn, eight of them. They’d all been sent by their Alor’e to make contact and introductions, inviting him for meetings at the Clan compounds. All of them are excited, asking about his Codex, about the Sol'yc Marev, about his personal views, and they leave it at that. They don’t ask intrusive questions, saving that for the Clan Heads to interrogate him about his future plans. There are even more warriors, some Journeyman Protectors, that were not sent by their Clans, but wishing to join the company all the same, waiting to introduce themselves.

There is one Mando’ad in blue that is not from Concord Dawn. He lingers in the back, a young teen still in his twig stage and yet to widen into his armour. It’s Din that draws him forward, the verd obviously hesitant to approach Jaster himself. It’s when he catches sight of the Vizsla shriek-hawk sigil on his shoulder he understands why. He has no worries; he won’t hold anything against other members of the Clan, though he does have some choice thoughts towards Ruus Vizsla. He is more surprised the young warrior has risked coming here to see him, risking potential heat from the Clan Head. He is Tor’s brother’s son, if Jaster is not mistaken, which might protect him a bit.

Then, he immediately understands. He is not quite the Mando’ad this one is eager to see.

“Pre,” Din greets, extending for the younger warrior’s hand. The teenage Vizsla was vibrating with barely restrained excitement, reaching back to shake Din’s forearm enthusiastically.

“Bajur'buir,” he greets back, breathless and nervous all at once. Jaster cannot help his grin that’s hidden safely under his bucket. Din may have challenged this verd’s uncle, which led to Jaster killing him, but it has affected the boy in strange ways like Mandalorians are wont to do. He’s skipped over vengeance and resentment and straight into infatuation. Jaster does not blame him for having a crush on his husband. The only thing he does feel bad about is that it goes right over Din’s buy’ce, and by the nervous flickering eyes glancing over to Jaster, the verd notices it doesn’t go over his. 

“Uh, Mand’alor,” he says awkwardly to Jaster next, sticking out his hand.

Jaster takes it firmly, keeping his tone light, “Well met. What brings you? One of Beroya’s students, huh?”

“Yes’sir. He’s one of the best,” He states honestly, before he flushes and clears his throat. Poor kid, “My buir sent me. He would like to speak, on your terms.”

“I’d be honoured,” Jaster says without hesitation. He won’t miss a chance to possibly smooth this over. Even though Jaster doesn’t regret what he did, he still understands the need to honour one’s memory. Mandalorians have few ways of doing that, but if Jaster could dissuade some of them from taking the route of violence, he’d take the chance. Pre seems to be genuinely happy with his answer, if slightly surprised by his willingness.

The rest all seem satisfied with Jaster’s answers, and he’s happy that none are here to pick fights. They have their questions, but all seem to agree with his and the Sol'yc Marev’s views. It’s a good sign for what is to come, all of them giving them respectful farewells, some staying to start the introduction process to join. There wasn’t a contract, but they did make an effort to let those joining know what they were getting into. They did have rules, and rotated duties for some of the menial tasks.

After that, Jaster introduces Din to the company, who’s still standing on the outskirts and staring with expectations. Nosy bastards.

“Din, Grogu,” he starts, watching as they all perk up like dogs getting ready to meet a new friend, “This is the Sol’yc Marev.”

“Actually,” Myles pipes up, “We’ve been talking about that.”

“Oh?” Jaster says, distracted from the rest of his introductions. The man should not sound so… guilty?

“We’re changing the name, Jaster,” Ordo pipes up, one of the original members that had first welcomed him, “That was Shondra’s company. She passed it to you. It’s time we switched it up.”

“I assume this was a vote I didn’t have any say in?”

“Nope.”

“You’d overthink it, alor.”

“Or nitpick….”

“Oi. Spit it out.”

“Well… You know that joke that is those pacifists calling themselves New Mandalorians?”

“Yes…,” Jaster said, slightly dreading where this was going. They didn’t come up with something totally uncouth, did they? The First Fist had always been slightly humorous because they could switch it both ways in Mando’a, confusing aruetii for entertainment by calling themselves Fist First in the same breath. Please don’t be Fist of the Manda or something equally stupid, Jaster was praying. Thankfully, he has no need to worry.

“The True Mandalorians. Doesn’t that just stick it to ‘em?”

“And sound totally wizard and professional?”

“Hard-ass. Think of the advertisements we could do. Who wouldn’t hire us?”

Jaster’s mouth opened, and for once, could not find a single fault in what they were saying. Haat'Mando'ade. He actually likes it. So instead of giving them outright praise for doing this behind his back, he gives them a free pass since they put some thought into it.

“Make sure to change it on the ship logs.”

They all perk up and start grinning, one starting to shake a rattle can of paint, already prepared to change the name on the chassis of the ship. 

“Welcome to the Haat’Mando’ade, riduur,” Jaster states fondly, feeling the man’s chuckle as they link their arms together. 

Jaster gives him a tour of the large warship, introducing him and Grogu to passing verde, bragging as much as Din lets him. Din hates it, up until he realizes it goes both ways. The other verde start conspiring with him, weaving stories and passionate tales about their adventures with Jaster, making Jaster stiffen up. Din seems delighted after that, and Jaster lets him have it. It seems to satisfy and loosen something in his husband, getting to hear what Jaster was up to without him. He can’t wait for his dinner with his aliit, and get the same stories out of them.

With the way Din’s been eyeing him, he might even get ‘punished’ for it. Hopes and prayers.

“You’ve made quite the family,” Din comments as they start heading back home. Jaster plans to ask him what he wants to do first, because he is apart of both families. They could stay, fix up and start with Concord Dawn, or they could go out in the Galaxy, explore, make more allies and fortify their reputation. Jaster would be game for both; he needs time to hash out plans for the orphanages once Din’s found an investor. Either way, Din’s his family now.

“You’re one of them,” he says instead, willing to wait to have that conversation, “They adore you already.”

“They hardly know me,” Din dismisses, but Jaster can hear the embarrassment.

“Oh, they know all about you. I’ve been talking about you for years.”

Din swats his arm, glaring at him, but it has no heat. He doesn’t continue that conversation, not wanting to hear more about Jaster’s bragging, but he does ask him for more stories. Jaster doesn’t hesitate to start telling him of his favourite missions. They hadn’t always been the highest paying jobs, but they were definitely the ones where they had the most fun. A smuggler had crash landed once, not enough to total the ship, but enough to release all the dangerous, illegal creatures they were transporting. The community nearby had been farmers, having hardly any need for weapons, certainly not blasters. Local predators were minimal and stuck to their forests, and the creatures the smuggler dropped realized quickly the villagers were easy pickings. Thankfully, they had been in the area and heard the distress call, and gotten there before any casualties. They hadn’t accepted payment, just basic necessities and a promise not to report them to the Republic for potentially killing protected creatures. It had been a heyday. 

That’s when he realizes, once he’s almost done telling the story and focused on Din’s and Grogu’s reactions, that he’s being led again. Din is taking him the wrong way, nowhere near the cafeteria or their living quarters. Jaster doesn’t wait this time to ask where it is they’re going.

“Why are you taking me to the Forge?”

“No reason.”

“You are osik at lying, riduur,” Jaster says, chuckling. Din’s deadpan voice always spoke a little faster when he was trying to hide something. Out his modulator, it sounded like a new type of raisin.

“It’s a surprise,” he explains now, exasperated and fond. Jaster perks up: another one? Din doesn’t answer any of his questions on the way to the Forge, so he has to wait and see like always. 

He’s happy to see the Goran once he gets there, shaking the man’s arm in greeting and getting through the pleasantries without reluctance. It’s good to hear what’s going on in the Clan, not just the big stuff they deem important enough to speak over calls about, but all the little details they leave out. Camilla’s got her eye on a kid at one of the local orphanages, and the Clan has been trying to support her in her obvious desire to take them on. Christoph has completed some secret apprenticeship with Jack’al that no one knew about, the special forces warrior proudly claiming— while drunk off his ass at Chris’ birthday party and forgetting he was keeping it a secret— that he would make a fine replacement for when he was ready to retire. Which was the day after. The young kids in his Clan are mostly in their teens now, some remembering him and some not, with new additions Jaster has yet to meet taking their place as the babies of the covert. Eventually, Jaster can’t contain his excitement any longer.

“Din says you have a surprise?” Jaster tries to ask casually, eyes flicking over to Din to see him look away. Still embarrassed, then. Huh.

It causes Goran Atin to chuckle, “Your riduur has brought home the most beskar I’ve ever seen, Jaster, and it took him until two years ago to tell me why.”

“Two years?” Jaster says with shock, glancing back at Din again. The man is steadfastly not looking at him. 

“Take off your left vambrace, Jaster,” the Goran orders him instead, and he doesn’t hesitate to start stripping his arm. He doesn’t quite know why, not sure what it has to do with Din’s gift and his amassed beskar. It isn’t until the Armourer lifts a box and places it on the table once he’s done taking off his piece, removing the lid to show him the inside. Jaster’s breath catches in his throat, and he thinks his heart actually bursts. He’s read about this tradition in older Clans, but had never asked Din if it was one he followed. 

Now, he knows. His Tribe did swap vambraces between riduure, so there was a piece of their heart  with them, always. In this box sits a pure beskar vambrace, shined to a gleaming silver and housing all of Jaster’s gear. Additionally, another vambrace sits beside it; black and red and equipped with Din’s futuristic technology that he hasn’t used since he installed the hook-swords. On each, near the top of the wrist, sits a small, three-fingered handprint. On Jaster’s, it must be the dark crimson red of Din’s original colouring for family, and Din’s is stark white for new beginnings. 

Jaster turns back to him slowly, worried if he moves too fast, he’ll break completely. He’s debating whether he should remove his helmet now, because he was about two seconds away from bursting into tears. Din… thought about giving him a piece of his soul, for two years. Knowing his husband, it had been longer, Din hoarding until he had whatever he deemed a sufficient amount. Din won’t take anything from the Goran unless he’s contributed double what he’s given. Even with them handing over their current vambraces, Din would have done more. That’s the kind of man he is. 

Now, Din is looking at him, once Jaster had turned to see the gifts. Jaster can see how he’s trying to carefully mask his nervousness, but Din has settled around him more than anyone else. He lets him see the tapping of one finger against his thigh plate instead of crossing his arms to hide it, the way he’s trying not to tense for rejection. He need not worry about it. 

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, Din Djarin,” Jaster says strongly, stronger than he thought with emotion choking his throat. Din makes that surprised little twitch, and Jaster holds out a hand. 

His husband steps forward readily, holding out his hand back. It’s the one Jaster wants, so he squeezes it tight to pull him closer before starting to undo his vambrace for him. The chuckle that comes out of him is rough and relieved, and Grogu is watching his hands closely from Din’s other arm as Jaster takes it off. The Goran hands him the vambrace that matches Jaster’s set, and Din holds out his arm so Jaster can put it on him. It’s somehow reminiscent of being in this Forge for the very first time with him, working in reverse, and this is where they had stood seven years ago, minutes from being universes apart. Look at where they were now, with his colours standing out on Din’s kit, the pitch black and bright crimson red somehow glaringly different yet working with the rest of Din’s silver armour. It’s the same once he clasps the silver one onto his own arm, loving how it glints in his peripheral. Grogu’s handprint stands out too, Jaster tilting his hand to see it move on his wrist. He’s beaming, wondering if Din had noticed Jaster had done that particular tradition to Vivienne, putting his red on the back of her shoulder. He had told her it was so she could remember he was always pushing her forward, always supporting her and offering comfort. Din has placed it so Jaster can always see it when he wants to easily, the colour unique to Din. 

When he’s done, he reaches out to Din, spreading his arms wide so Grogu can fit between them too, and he’s so happy how simply they come to him. Without hesitation, eagerly, Grogu with a smile and Din tilting his head in that way Jaster knows he’s doing the same. He gathers his family into his arms, pulling them close and tapping his head against Din’s. The man nuzzles his forehead into his in a rare display of affection, and Jaster melts against him. His riduur and ad fit so perfectly in his hold, Jaster doesn’t think he needs anything more from this life to feel fulfilled. 

Still, he is a blessed man. The welcome-home dinner he was promised was a riot, all the verde who could make it coming back to base to celebrate. It was a full-house, the cafeteria packed with food and dessert, everyone busting out old recipes and games once everyone’s stuffed full. It meant everyone got a sample from the little families within their family, even Din contributing his own sweet and savoury dishes. It helps that the place has had renovations, new cookers and conservators, able to house the expanding Clan. 

The room is boisterous with laughter and embellished stories, complete with an audience groaning in sympathy and yelling in victory at appropriate moments. Jaster’s laughing along with it all, then Jack’al is plopping down into the seat across from him. He’s glowing from his buzz, ne'tra gal in his hand, and the seven years has seemed to do the man good. Definitely settled into his role as a retiree, relaxed and carefree in a way Jaster has seldom seen him.

“Jack’al,” he greets joyously, reaching out with his own drink. The man readily cheers his cup with Jaster’s and an ‘Oya!’, and they’re both grinning dumbly at each other in a pleasantly, semi-intoxicated states, just happy to see one another. Din is off with Vivienne, Yvonne and her riduur, Markus. Vivienne is holding Grogu, and Din is holding Markus’ new Foundling, or so he’s been told. A young Zeltron girl, maybe six standard with dark blue hair almost black, had latched onto him. Din’s got her propped on one hip just as effortlessly as he does for Grogu, the young girl resting her head on his shoulder. Vivienne had explained earlier that Din had connected with her, the empath abilities Zeltron possessed resonating with Din’s Star-Touched powers. She calmed around him like nobody else. Seeings his husband hold her like that, how much she is soothed by him, makes him wonder. Makes him want, honestly.

“Thinking about it, aren’t you?” Jack’al states knowingly, bringing Jaster out of his thoughts. Jaster hums, and he continues, “Lucianna. She’s been here six months, and I think…”

“Go on,” Jaster says, watching the older man sigh and take another sip.

“Oh well, he’s nervous about it, but he’s got no reason to be. He’s been waiting for you to come home, to meet her. He won’t claim her without your input.”

Jaster looks back over at his husband, holding the girl with care and her now asleep in his arms. Din rocks his body side to side to encourage it, and Jaster likes seeing it. Wouldn’t mind raising another girl, seeing how strong and brilliant Vivienne turned out to be under Jaster’s measly tutelage. He’d be honoured to raise her with Din, and he’s definitely thinking about it. 

“As long as Vizsla doesn’t come after me. I was surprised to see Tre’s son today, asking me to meet his father.”

“You shouldn’t be, not after what Din did.”

Jaster’s head shoots over to stare at the other warrior, “What did Din do?”

“Osik,” the man mutters, “We… never told you?”

“What didn’t you tell me?” Jaster says with some agitation. Whatever it is, it is old news, but Jaster hates missing pieces. 

“He challenged Ruus Vizsla years ago, maybe a year after you’d left. Not to the death, not for the Dha’kad, but for personal insult. Alor Visenya was pissed when she found out, believe me. She was more worried if something happened to him on her watch, she’d have to be the one to call you to tell you— not that he’d lose. That’s the last thing she ever wanted to do, but Din beat his ass into the ground. It’s why no Vizsla’s ever challenged him for the Dha'kad.”

“He never told me,” Jaster muses, wondering why Din kept it a secret. He’s kind of flattered to be honest, more than he is upset that Din never mentioned it.

“I assume it’s because you told him to stay away from him. Specifically, you told Din not to kill Ruus Vizsla, so he kept his word. He still knows he went around it; used the beskar-tipped slugs as an excuse. Got their Goran disbarred, too.”

Jaster sighs, not all that mad about it. It’s done, and it seems to have worked out in the end. It would never have helped or hurt his chances at a pardon, and it relieved some of Din’s anger. At least Din had waited a year, growing into his unfamiliar younger body, before doing it. 

“Got footage?” He asks instead, Jaster’s only guilty vice. The only secret he kept from Din too, not wanting his husband to ever know about all the holo-vids, audio-recordings and pictures he’s amassed over the years. Those were in a heavily encrypted folder behind a rigorous firewall he designed so no one would ever gain access to it, hidden in his personal databanks. Good luck hacking that shit, even once he’s cold.

Jack’al grins, tapping at his arm, while Jaster has another sip of beer and waits. Then, Jaster hears his buy’ce beep on the table. He hits accept on his vambrace immediately, knowing he’s going to have to stow that away later. 

“Harkor’s footage,” the vu'traat warrior explains, and Jaster grins back. He really was the best of them.

Jaster will have to find time to watch it later, maybe bring it up to Din first to see if he still has his own footage. Jaster might have to trade a favour to do it, but he thinks he can persuade him….

“What’s next for you, Jaster?” The man asks seriously, but still with a familiar edge. It’s not an interrogation, but genuine curiosity.

“I’ve got an appeal ready to the Government on Mandalore. All I need is backing, a petition or something signed by the old Clans in support to legitimize our culture. We are not a dying breed, nor are we savages. Our tenants mean something, even to our neverd population. I’m going to advocate for that.”

“‘Atta boy,” Jack’al says proudly, and Jaster smiles, just as proud to hear it. His support means a lot, and he knows he has it from that alone.

He could go on forever about it if he was allowed. To think Mandalorians were lawless people, the warriors anyways, was ridiculous. Concord Dawn was traditionally a Mandalorian-centric planet, housing a great number of old Clans, beskar mines, home to the Journeyman Protectors and housing the base of the Mandalorian Protectors, charged with the protecting the Mand’alor. Right now, they were protecting the Head of State, and Jaster planned to question their loyalty if they ever offered it. Point was, Concord Dawn was a strict planet because of it. Thieving was not tolerated, most losing hands if it was severe enough, even cheating at Sabacc was punishable by death. To be so dishonourable in a Mandalorian bar would get one killed, and other crimes were just as seriously punished. They followed a code of honour that Core Worlders found strange, but it kept them from delving into utter chaos.

If the Journeyman Protectors didn’t shut that shit down, the insulted Mandalorians would— and there wouldn’t be a Concord Dawn left.

Still, Jaster does not want to make this his base. He’s grown fond of the galaxy, and once he’s fixed what he can here and is sure his Clan is provided for, he’d like to take Din on a vacation. Let the man hunt off-world, find a place to settle his Haat’ade so Din has a home to return in his Crest to. The warriors won’t all fit in here, and Jaster needs a castle to fortify if he’s going to go all the way. Pacifists were that in only name; he’s sure there’s some that weren’t above hiring others to do their dirty work. They don’t want to make the communities they protect and serve a target if they have no place to hole up. 

‘No need to worry, Mand'alor te Am'an'gyce. Your riduur's aliit has it covered.’

Jaster jumps, looking around for who had just whispered into his ear. Jack’al doesn’t seem to notice, starting to talk to Christoph who’s come over to chat with his mentor. Neither of them hear the voice calling him what roughly translates to Mand’alor the Law-Changer. It’s an oddly specific and prophetic name to be given, something deeply personal about it like Din’s own name of Udesla. It could not be claimed themselves, only observed by others. Din was unflappable, serene like the sea, but even in stormy situations. He didn’t see that in himself, thinking he was quite rude and possessing a hot temper, but that wasn’t the first thing one noticed about him. Those things weren’t unjustified, and Din was never cruel. Jaster looks down finally at the innocuous Darksaber hilt that sits on his belt, wondering if he was now victim to those whispers that had plagued Din. He had thought only Force-Sensitives heard it.

‘No. Only those unwilling to listen cannot hear us.’

Oh no, it was a two way street. That wasn’t horrific. No wonder Din’s instinct had been ‘shoot it into space’. If he didn’t know what he knows now, and still even after, he doesn’t like the invasiveness of it. That’s when the words register, wondering. Why was it commenting about Din’s aliit, especially when he was thinking of securing a base for the Haat’ade? Suspicious.

He doesn’t get to think on it much more, Din coming back over without the children, most of them being sent off to bed. People were well into their cups now, and games were running amok on every table. Swearing and laughter was starting to bounce off the walls, and the sober ones were starting to pack away the food. When his husband— and will he ever get sick of calling him that? He hopes not— slides into the bench next to him, close enough his thigh presses along his own, Jaster forgets about the ‘saber's ominous words. Din is so gorgeous, glimmering under their amber string lights that have replaced the brighter mess-hall lights. The dark vambrace stands out even in the dim lighting, marking him as taken. Jaster’s heart burns with accomplishment, a possessiveness in him satisfied at the obvious claiming. Mhi ba'juri verde. Oh, the future was looking so bright. 

What Jaster doesn’t know is that it was about to get a whole lot weirder before it gets better.

If Din Djarin could see the circle of loyal idiocy he’d created, he probably wouldn’t do a damn thing but observe in wonder and take notes. The man hardly sees himself as anything special; a hunter for his tribe, then the rapid snowballing of special things including a Foundling and a riduur that Din did not include himself in. They were special, and he was… Din. In another space and time, the beroya was the touch of temperance and quiet within this closed loop. Without him, it was like a busted, pressurized airline flailing wildly without a hose whip restraint cable. It strikes everything that comes too close, causing damage and havoc, and coming up with the most hare-brained schemes. Din would marvel in horror and fascination at what his absence has created.

“This is stupid.”

“I agree with the Lady. He’ll kill you,” another whiny voice pipes up. This one sounds quite nervous, and the most susceptible to backing out without Din as a shield behind him.

“No, not that, it’s that we’ve tried your subduing technique before,” The Lady disagrees, still sounding not all that concerned. 

“It worked. Both of you quit your blathering, unless you’re getting cold feet?” 

“Yeah, right,” the Lady snorts.

“You four really want to do this?”

“Duh,” comes another no-bullshit feminine voice, “Better than this shit-hole.”

“I’ll see that as a challenge, partner,” says a drawling, lazy voice, “But, uh, the Lady has a point. He’ll see us coming, especially with that. If they survive the trip. Are you sure this is how we want to go at it?”

“Are you kidding? There’s not a chance he’ll see us coming. Now, step into the circle. Witch, do your thing. Do not fuck this up.”

“Who’s got the bag?” Drawls the Lady’s voice, while the Witch in question mumbles about rude individuals that grew up in a bantha barn. 

“He grew up in prison, actually,” the other feminine voice comments, “I do. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Well, let’s hope this works and you all don’t die. Tell him I said hi, before you do die.”

“More magic, less chit-chat, Witch. I’ve got a Mandalorian to kill.”

Then, the sound of a high pitch whining, then the sound of disgusting squelching like organic material being put through a meat grinder.

“Oh, that better not be what happens to us.”

“Too late now, cowboy. Hold on for the ride.”

“Hold on to whaA-AAHHH!”

Then, the blissful sound of quiet. The so-called Witch hasn’t heard the natural bird chatter in weeks since they’ve accosted him. Well, he hasn’t really known peace in years since Din and Grogu disappeared. He just hopes he hasn’t killed all Din’s friends. Ah, sweet silence. Worth it.

Din’s been tense and nervous since the moment he woke up.

Jaster would be worried about it if it wasn’t directed at himself in particular, seeing how the man keeps Jaster and Grogu close to him from morning until mid-day. Sapanyc is on a hunting trip with Nej, like an actual animal hunt, not people, so she is not around to help calm Din. He’s protective, and can’t give Jaster an answer as to why other than tingly feelings. There’s no point in questioning it, so he lets Din soothe himself by following Jaster around all day. The only thing that truly worries him is that Din insists Jaster carry Grogu, usually indicating the man expected there to be a fight. A personal one, as it was Din’s strategy that if Grogu was in his arms, Jaster wouldn’t interfere. He hated the man was right. 

He keeps one eye on his husband, sticking close to his side as they traverse the streets. Jaster had the intention of just getting his bearings of the city again, seeing how the place had changed, where it could still use improvement. He also wanted to see the state of the orphanages, but seeing Din’s ram-rod straight back and swivelling head high on alert, he’s wondering if today isn’t the day for that. Maybe he should take him back home, and take his mind off it by getting his clothes off.

There is no way to ever admit to Din that was why he was distracted, thinking of the dirty things they could be doing. He’s brought  back to the present by Din shoving him sideways into a wall by the pauldron. Jaster’s head is staring at him in surprise, seeing his arm draw back before things spiral so fast Jaster can hardly keep up. 

A faint whine powers up, a distinct sound that has Din tensing further and one Jaster has never heard before, then the next thing he knows something that looks like a bolas is flying through the air. It connects with Din’s outstretched arm with a deafening sound, wrapping and sticking to his vambrace like it’s magnetized. Another sound rings out, sounding more like a whistling projectile, and a spike imbeds itself into the ground a few paces away from Din. 

People are scattering away from them in confusion as Din swears, backing away from the spike as it sparks, shooting a bright blue light at Din’s arm and connecting with the metal wrapped around his vambrace. They link together with a humming, electrified sound, and Jaster sees how the blue strand tightens up, pulling Din towards it like a winch. He wants to step in and help, both of them looking around for the shooter, and it takes Jaster a long moment to spot the glint of a sniper down the street on the roofs. 

Din spins around, pulling his blaster with one hand and taking a long shot at the figure. They duck from his bolt, the barrel of the rifle pulling back. Jaster doesn’t like this one bit, seeing the confusion and concern lining Din’s body and not understanding the reason for such an odd mix of emotions. The man’s not mad, almost a strange thread of hopefulness in the way he looks around, but Jaster still worries from his ignorance. 

A short, vibrato whistle that Din immediately turns towards, raising his blaster again. He doesn’t get a chance before high whine sounds again, another bolus wrapping around Din’s free arm before a second spike shoots in the ground behind him. It’s in line with  the other spike, and when it engages, it pulls Din’s other arm out, keeping them both wide open and hardly any room for him to step in any direction. Now Jaster’s starting to panic, seeing how Din’s restrained and unarmed. 

Jaster hears his husband growl, yanking on his arms to no avail before he lifts his head. He’s angry now, head turning this way and that and trying to see an attacker.

“You’re dead,” Din shouts, his rare, loud voice projecting down the streets, “You are fucking dead, cowards! Face me!”

Din sees the next bolas coming, hearing it before he sees it, and dodges out of the way from where it’s aiming for his leg, having to contort himself awkwardly to do it. He immediately pulls his arm against the threads of light, and Jaster can see how much effort it takes to do it, until his arm is pointing down the alley it came from. Now a similar whining is coming from Din’s black vambrace, a short high-pitched sound before these little darts fly out of his vambrace with missile-like focus. They whistle in the air around him before they shoot out, heading in four different directions. Jaster never knew he had mini-target-seeking-missiles in his arsenal, watching in fascination as a few of them travel a great distance down the street towards the sniper, having a decent range. 

Most are aimed down the alley, making bright bursts of light and popping sounds when they meet their target. Another bolus is flying out of the mayhem, wrapping around Din’s leg, one of the existing spikes shooting out another beam of light to trap it. At the same time, after another burst and pop down another alley, comes a short scream, then more loud profanity coming from the roof behind them. At least he hit two, their hiding places making it difficult to see Din’s missiles coming. He still didn’t hit the sniper, or the one Din isn’t pulling his attention away from down the darkened alley. 

It’s the sniper that gets him again. Jaster has to give them props for making an excellent shot, managing to wrap another ball and chain around Din’s remaining leg. The one he’d been trying to keep out of easy range, but now all of Din’s limbs are restrained, the spikes flaring light as they tighten up further. Din’s got no room to move, his arms and legs are spread as far as they’ll go without dislocating from their sockets. 

Jaster snaps his holster strap off, but remains unmoving. Din isn’t panicking, and he hasn’t given him an order to step in or leave with Grogu. Jaster has no idea what’s happening, doesn’t know if stepping in will only make the situation worse. Din seems to be aware of who is after him, glaring at the figure finally sauntering out of the alley. Their steps are accompanied by a slight jingling sound, and Jaster watches as Din’s shoulders and back loosen and tighten up all at once, contradictory emotions causing a contradictory reaction. 

“You know the price of defection,” the other Mando growls. They’re short, armour painted a mix of green and red, having an impressive authority packed into their body language. They’re wearing… spurs on their boots, the source of the jingling. Jaster squints his eyes at them, feeling a hint of familiarity, but sure he’s never met them before.

“I can pay you back,” Din instantly replies, voice artfully blank.

“There’s not a damn thing you could give me in remuneration for seven years, Din Djarin,” they sneer back.

“Show me the contract. I didn’t break it.”

“We both know it by heart. There’s only two acceptable reasons for you to skip work. You had custody of your son, and there’s no way in hell—“

Din clears his throat.

The other Mando trails off, staring at Din and his suspicious silence with increasing disbelief. Then, their body language changes. They stiffen, hand flying to their holster as they start looking wildly around.

“Impossible. Where are they? Who are they?” The verd demands, taking a threatening step towards Din who cannot do anything but stand and stare back, “They must be a fucking moron, not asking us for approval. I would beat their ass into the ground! What kind of dumb fuck— why are you laughing?”

Din’s shoulders hike up with every spitted word, before this loud, deep sound of laughter bursts out of Din at their accusation. It builds up until he’s hacking in the verd’s face, bending over the best he can to heave in air. He takes one look at the other’s incredulous posture before gutting himself again. Jaster is staring in fascination, having never heard him lose it so completely. 

“I’m dead, or this is a dream,” Din wheezes, “You’re going to beat me up. Then, you are going to kiss me and beg forgiveness.”

“What the fuck have you done.” Oh, the horror in their voice this time. Jaster is familiar with this.

Din hacks out another laugh, before he turns his body as much as he can with still being lassoed up. He’s lifting a hand to awkwardly point a thumb behind him, aimed right at Jaster.

“More like who: your so-called moron. Oh, you are going to eat these words,” Din says with dark glee.

Jaster would take offence if he wasn’t more concerned with how the verd takes one look at him and then freezes. Then, their head swivels back and forth from Din’s arm to Jaster’s, struggling to comprehend their mix-matched vambraces. They finally turn their head back to Din, absolutely mortified. 

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, you can bet your ass I did.”

“What- how- why?” They’re spluttering now, composure gone and the tables spun one-eighty. 

“Didn’t even have to think about it. I jumped on that faster than you can draw, vod.”

“Ah! Ah! Shut up!” The verd shouts, slapping their hands over their audio-pickups. 

Din only speaks louder, Jaster belatedly realizing Din called him vod, “Release me, or I’ll say worse.  You know what that makes me, don’t you? Do I have to put you in timeout? Or do I need to put you over my knee?”

“Ah! Fine! Fennec! Release this unholy bastard!”

“Finally. An end to your dramatics,” comes a smooth sly voice from above, muffled through a helmet. Another person chuckles beside them before the lights winching Din to the spikes disappears. The man straightens up and shakes off the balls and chains attached to him, landing on the ground with a loud thump.

“How are you here?” Din says, tilting his head at the two women jumping down from the roof. One is wearing an orange and black helmet, distinctly not Mandalorian. Din gives her a nod. The other is shorter with short dark hair and a tattoo under her eye, giving Din a mischievous grin as she reaches out a hand. Her and Din share a quick unique handshake, bumping their fists together before they pull back.

“Boba here threatened your witch with violent disruption for the rest of his life.”

“It worked?”

“He’s unhinged without you, Mando. Absolutely off his rocker. Man hasn’t left Skywalker alone since you disappeared.”

“Aw, vod,” Din says, “You didn’t have to.”

“Oh yes I did, when Skywalker told us exactly when you were. I expected you to do something insane, but this— I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The verd spits, before lunging back at Din, fists raised. A blonde haired blur comes from behind him to grab him by the cape and keep him from getting within swinging distance. Din doesn’t even flinch, obviously familiar with this group’s brand of affection. 

“The Hell did you do?” The blond haired man drawls, raising an eyebrow at Din.

“I power-moved Boba,” Din answers with great delight.

“You degenerate! Take it back! Divorce him this instant!” The verd shouts, still swinging. Jaster tilts his head at Din now, knowing the man can see his raised eyebrow and squinty eyes behind his helmet. This verd has a problem with him, he just doesn’t understand why.

“My aliit,” Din explains cheerfully, “Determined buggers. Very opinionated.”

“Ah,” Jaster says, clarity starting to dawn, “From your time?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the blonde man splutters, “Divorce? Who’s married?”

“Din!” Boba shouts, “Din is married! To him, fucking Jaster Mereel. Dead, Djarin, you’re dead!”

“You know what happens when you leave me to my own devices,” Din comments with humour.

“Chaos,” the rest answer as a single  monotone voice.

“Wait,” Fennec pipes up now, popping off her helmet to stare at Din. There’s approval in her eyes, a dark sort of glee that’s present in Din’s voice. This one also finds entertainment in riling up the ring-leader, “Jaster Mereel, as in Jango Fett’s dad?”

“Wait,” the other two say together, voice now a mix of the same tone. Admiration for the dark arts Din has apparently performed, “As in Boba’s—“

“He’s married my ba'buir!” Boba shouts, absolute horror in his whiny voice, “How did this happen? Did you brainwash him? Does he know you’re a dead man? You, you defiler! You tricked my genius grandfather into marrying a sewer-rat!”

“This sewer-rat challenged Tor Vizsla," Din says calmly while Jaster struggles to process his apparent bu'ad thinking him a genius.

That shuts Boba up immediately, stopping his attempt to advance despite the grip the other man still has on his cape.

“… Tor… dead? Death Watch?”

“Mm-hm. Emperor, too.”

“Let me go, Vanth,” Boba demands, the blonde man doing as he’s told. The man pops off his buy’ce, hooking it to his belt. The man’s got a permeant scowl, but his eyes don’t say the same thing. Right now, they’re shining with hopeful awe. He’s around their age, a full head of dark curly hair, dark skin similar to the shade of those with native Concord Dawn blood, and an accent that matches Jaster’s. Then Boba walks right up to Din and grips his helmet between his hands.

“I beg forgiveness,” the man states, before he pulls Din’s head down so he could kiss his forehead.

“Told you,” Din says.

“Wait,” one of the ladies say, the one with the ink, “I won the bet?”

“Bet? What bet?”

“They thought you’d never get hitched. I figured you’d eventually marry Skywalker for joint custody and Jedi benefits. And if not…”

“You let them make that bet with you, with our deal?” Din says, pride in his voice, “Oh Cara Dune, you better split that pot with me.”

“Duh.”

“What deal?” The other three demand while they dig in their pockets for credits.

“Fools,” Cara snorts, “We’d have been married five years ago for the couple’s discounts. Din vanished before I could propose.”

“Sixty percent off,” Din sighs dreamily. 

“You two are cheap fucks,” Boba says, pulling Din’s head back to stare into his visor, “And also so gay it never would have worked.”

“Says you,” Cara says, “Sixty percent off and an open marriage says different.”

“And the free anniversary meals.”

“And the prioritized couples boarding.”

“Joint Aldeerinian status that’s practically a Galaxy-wide pardon—“

“—Free Mandalorian spouse entry to all violent live entertainment—“

“Aren’t we glad that didn’t happen?” Vanth says, jutting a thumb at the two of them still naming all the free shit they could get.

“No, because Din has achieved ba'buir status instead. The power imbalance will destroy us.”

“So, him being King Mando did not do that?”

“It’s worse. Now he’s both.”

“Ah, ah,” Din says, holding up a finger, “Not so.”

“You got rid of the Dha'kad?”

Din’s finger lowers, “Ah. Not so.”

“Fuck, Djarin,” Boba moans, hanging his head.

“It’s worse,” Din says, to which the group groans.

“We assumed that. Spit it out.”

“There’s two now. I got rid of one.”

“You collected both— did you not learn the first time?”

“Couldn’t help it. Tor was waving it around and acting like a dick, beating up verde'ika. I challenged him on the spot.”

Jaster lets out a dreamy sigh from remembering that fight. All the heads swivel to him, and he freezes, not liking the intense predator-like focus from each of their bared faces. They are perfect for Din, Jaster seeing that look on Din’s own face before. Usually right before he outmaneuvers him.

“It was a good fight,” Jaster gets out, amazed at how his voice stays blank. One of these men, Boba Fett, is his bu'ad in another life. The man has great respect for him, it’s sinking in now why he was so upset at Din. It had switched from being angry at Jaster, who was the spouse he was raging about before he realized it was him who had married Din. Then it turned around, the man insulted on Jaster’s behalf. It was flattering, and a little scary considering he hadn’t had anyone other than his sister feel that way, and even then, she wasn’t this intense about it. Vivienne had approved of Din from the start. He wants to make a good impression, but doesn’t know how to do it. These are not his ori'ramikade who Jaster orders around to keep in line; this is Din’s Clan. 

“Did you record it?” The blonde man pipes up, narrowing his eyes. Jaster can feel Din’s eyes narrow on him just the same, little laser beams shooting into his head.

“Yes,” Jaster whispers, and it comes out as a distorted hiss through his modulator. 

“What was that, Jaster Mereel?” Din says, and Jaster immediately spins Grogu around in his birikad from being protected and hidden at his back to between him and Din like a shield. At the same time, it’s easier to run with Grogu at his front. He clears his throat, and says it with more conviction. He won’t delete it. He watches it all the time, even with Jorda’s stupid voice nattering in his ear.

“Yes, I recorded it.” He also has copies from other people at different angles for moments when Jaster had looked away. 

Din takes a step forwards. Jaster takes a step back, “You will give me those tapes.”

“What do I get in return?”

“Oh, I like him,” the man Boba called Vanth says, “Balls of steel.”

“He thinks they’re made of beskar,” Din growls, taking another step that he matches backwards, “Are you willing to find out?”

“For those tapes? Definitely.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, a power of wills. Jaster won’t give those up; they were personal copies, one of a kind, of Din beating Tor Vizsla. He had collected them from people he knew; if they got deleted, he’d have to track them down all over again. Din also seems determined to hate the existence of them, most likely because he was self-conscious under all that bravado. Eventually, Din seems to realize Jaster isn’t going to back down without a literal fight, and gives one of his big, defeated sighs.

“Aliit only.”

“Haat, ijaat, haa'it,” Jaster promises with a grin, trying to keep it out of his voice so Din won’t change his mind. He’s almost excited, seeing how Din’s other vode seem excited that Din’s allowed it too. He’ll have to make sure Din is nowhere near them when he decides to share; he cannot know how many variations he has. Din will just smelt it all down, databanks be damned.

“You look younger,” Din comments instead, to his siblings. More pointedly Boba, “You don’t need that hair transplant.”

That’s when Jaster really remembers him from the mastiff videos, then he realizes why he hadn’t quite recognized him either. They haven’t gone through as much as a drastic change as Din had, their clothes and armour still fitting fine, but he sounds younger just like Din had that particular recording. Not as rough, like he’d gargled sand and acid for days.

“Equal exchange, Skywalker said. So, we found some that weren’t worth their time left. At least we knew what we were doing; did you even know you were in a Temple for Tarre Vizsla?”

“Was it?” Din says, surprised. That’s a no.

“The walls were covered in little beskar hearts, Din,” Boba says with exasperation, “The pedestal was diamond shaped like a beskar'ta.”

Din looks sheepish, obviously not noticing those particular details. Why would he be expecting an ancient Mandalorian Jedi temple anyways? He doesn’t even deign to answer, making Jaster smile. He’s busy pulling Grogu out of his birikad so he can see his ba’vodue. When he turns him around and he catches sight of them, he immediately squeals in delight, throwing up his hands. Similarly, the same moment Din’s vode see Grogu, they all throw up their hands in the air too, exclaiming in excitement and making the boy giggle. It’s the short haired female that reaches for him first, though the others are not far behind and immediately begin harassing her to be next. 

Din takes the moment to sidle over to him, his siblings surrounding Grogu as they all marvel at their aging adjustments. Jaster loops an arm around his back, watching the family that was about to be his by association.

“Carasynthia Dune, a rebel dropper,” he starts, jutting his chin to the woman bouncing Grogu in her arms, “Helped me save a village from mercenaries for hardly any payment. Honourable and ready to go for any injustice, really.

“Fennec Shand. Wicked sharpshooter and assassin. Got her shot and left her for dead once, on a bounty gone wrong. Thought she was dead already, honestly. Boba Fett found her in the Wastes of Tatooine and saved her, returning the kindness that had been done to him. He is beroya, and hunted me down because I had reclaimed his armour. He claims he is not Mandalorian, but he is one of the most mandokarla verd I’ve ever met.

“Cobb Vanth, native of Tatooine. Stole from slavers, traded it to Jawas for Mandalorian armour, and went back to his village to liberate it. He wore the armour in defence of his Clan, and would only give it to me if I helped protect it from a Greater Krayt. He honoured this deal, and I was able to return it to Boba.

“They’ve all helped me, or asked me for help, in the eradication of slavers, demagolka, blatant abusers and criminals. They are all Haat'Mando'ade at heart.”

“If they are your aliit,” Jaster says, leaning up to nudge the side of his helmet into the chin of his, “I never expected less.”

Din never expected to be gifted what he never thought he’d see again, on top of what he’d already been given.

Yesterday, he considered himself a lucky man. He had an intelligent, warrior child, and a mandokarla riduur on his way to amassing armies. Not to lay waste, but to lay claim to their status as Mandalorians. Jaster had time to explain to him the pacifistic movement on Mandalore, something he had never learned about. The fact it was Bo-Katan’s father leading it had been a major shock. He didn’t understand that at all, still doesn’t really, how she came from such spineless stock to becoming an imposter Mandalorian; one that wore the armour, knew the history and practiced the tenants, but did dishonourable actions. Din was happy just seeing where Jaster took him in this new life, following his alor and supporting him in whatever he wanted to do. There was excitement too, because Din knew Jaster expected to know his opinions, his thoughts, his own aspirations that he’d never dared to explore.

On top of all that, was his buir. Now that Jorda had returned with Jaster, their deal had been concluded. Din had apologized for keeping him from his Tribe for so long, but the man had denied it. It had been the punishment he needed, he’d said, the education that Din must have done for Jorda in another life. The man had needed something, someone, to slow him down and expand his horizons, to look out for. Jaster had fulfilled that role, giving Jorda a purpose more than just hunting. Din understood that, not knowing what he’d been lacking until Grogu made him realize. His buir was planning on returning to the Children of the Watch, and Din had asked to come along, maybe even permission for Jaster to come with. 

Jorda had agreed immediately, which hadn’t been what he’d been expecting. He’d missed his Old Tribe, would like to see the history and culture he had missed out on, what exactly had changed. It would be good to let go of the rest of his doubt pertaining towards his Creed, no matter if he had redeemed himself in the eyes of his Armourer. When he finally brought it up to Jaster over dinner, the man had seemed enthusiastic for him, more encouraging than he had thought. He hadn’t known if Jaster would think he was dividing his loyalties if he wanted to swear their Creed again. It had been a foolish worry.

Then, his Ba’vodu. His Goran’ika. He wouldn’t dare call that to her face, but she was different. It had been hard to tell at first, but she was younger, more carefree, less burdened by war. It was a good change, one he could never have pictured. She had always been professional, curt, words executed point blank like a double-barrel. In this life, she is not so sharp around the edges, but maintains her wisdom and elegance that retains his devotion. Ylana Djarin is still his Tribe Mother in this life, even if she never goes to the Watch in this one. She’s invited him also, to the Clan compound on Mandalore. They’ve reached out a few times, polite and professional and usually speaking through her. That was how he knew they had stopped having dreams about him, once he had killed Sheev Palpatine. It had helped solidify that their future was no longer headed down the same path. Now that Jaster’s ban has been lifted, she has dared to ask. Din suspects she’s been waiting seven years to ask, and that alone makes him accept. Jaster coming along will help him meet his Clan, the one he has never met but carries their name. Aunt Ylana says he has no need to worry, as they all hailed him as their new vod the second they found out about Tor Vizsla. He's more excited than he would like to admit, only imagining the large Djarin Clan in his dreams, in those fuzzy memories of Jorda bringing him to the Compound to claim him.

That all leads to his other Clan. The one he had made for himself, the one that had found him twice. The Tribe always welcomed him back, and Din provided for them, but his home had become Tatooine. It was closer to Yavin 4 where the Jedi was shacked up, so Din made that his base for two years, almost three. They had become family in that time, and through Din, they had all accepted each other. Cobb and Boba had butted heads at first, but became thicker than thieves. Fennec and Cara had immediately hit it off. They all adored Grogu. Din loved them, and had missed them with all his heart. He had a folder dedicated to them on his buy’ce, containing all the photos and quick holo-recordings of moments in the last seven years he wished he could share with them.

Now, he was actually able to. In return, they had brought a bag with them, stuffed full of things people gave up for him. On the off chance it worked, Boba and the rest of his Clan had tracked down his Tribe, old acquantainces and friends. They gave them the chance to say their goodbyes to Din, in their own way. His Tribe took a rare holo-pic, printed and framed, with his entire Tribe standing and waving. Paz gives him the finger a split second before it loops, his Goran's arm coming up to whack the back of his head. Peli had given him her smoked Krayt-meat recipe, Greef gave toys for Grogu, they even found Omera who packed a bottle of spotchka. There were plenty more trinkets from others, and by the time Din was done going through them all, he was full-on crying. His and Jaster’s home was not big enough to house all of them, but they squeezed in for dinner. Din had claimed them all as siblings, so they were privy to his face, and that was working against him tonight as he and Boba fucked around at the stove, making their buir’s recipes. The others were telling stories, and Boba was explaining to Jaster who was at the sink, washing as they went, what each of Din’s facial tics meant. 

“See his eyebrow seizing up there? Now he’s annoyed, when it does that twitchy thing.”

Din swats out at him with his wooden spoon. Boba dodged, knowing better to not be caught unawares by incoming cutlery. Jaster laughed, and Din stopped, the one distracted by the sound. Boba shoves at his shoulder, back into his spot at the cutting board, giving him a sly grin.

“C’mon grandpa, chop-chop.”

Din shoved him back, ears burning. His vod wouldn’t let it go, but he wasn’t actually mad about it. That whole freakout had been more because Din had actually gotten married, and it had been Jaster of all people. It was why Cara and Din had made their stupid bet originally. Din had signed Boba's contract, gone to Nevarro where they got shit-faced, then they laughed all about it. Din could only, legally by Boba’s Daimyo law, miss work if he had custody of his son— which, half the time he went to work with him anyways, so—, and the other was if he was getting married. Boba had tacked that in as a joke, as a slight towards Din ever getting married, so he and Cara had schemed. 

Thankfully, Boba wasn’t actually all that weirded out by it. He never met Jaster, hardly got any information about him from his father, and that history had been lost with Jango’s death. Boba had met a few members of the Haat’ade, years and years later, but they had only hazy, fond stories to tell. Nothing concrete and specific about the man himself, other than him being honourable and  leading a cause worth dying for. Din knew this, and was grateful he knew far more. Jaster was so much more nuanced than that, and Din doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of learning all about him. 

Din serves them up, Jaster trying to help and getting forcibly removed. It’s Cobb that explains to him that this is Din’s thing, seeing it as important to offer them their plates. He always did if he made the food, including it in apart of his love language. If they were eating at his table, they weren’t leaving until they were satisfied, otherwise Din hadn’t prepped enough. He knows everyone’s favourite drinks, everyone’s favourite sides and preferences for spice, and he’s calculated everything before he even brings it to the table. Once he sits, no one should be leaving until they are all done.

The table delves into rapid conversation, scheming and planning and sharing. Jaster fits right in with them, and they accept him without question. He can tell their liking of him is genuine too, not just because he’s Din’s new husband. Each have their topics with him that keep them engaged, and Grogu looks happier than ever, able to talk with his aunts and uncles and say everything he loves about them out loud. Din returns the sentiment, the smile on his face feeling foreign. He doesn’t ever think it’s graced his mouth before, cheeks hurting and still he can’t wipe it off.

A flicker in the corner of his eye, a darkening shadow where there wasn’t one a moment before. Din doesn’t flinch or panic this time when his eyes slide over to Tarre Vizsla, watching over the table. Her face is happy and relieved, losing the sharp almost pained edge she had when he’d met her. Oh, she had been calm, but Din believes she felt the suffering of her people like a physical wound. With the way she looks now, Din thinks he is safe to say he has healed it. It was a cheap price she had asked for, Din thinks selfishly, when this is what she has given him. A fresh start, with a full family and a Galaxy that is ripe with opportunities. When she finally turns her head and looks at him, he signs discreetly with one hand, knowing she’ll understand whether she knows it or not by the look of gratitude on his face.

“Thank you.”

She smiles, and even with the laughter of his aliit loud in his ears, Din hears her response.

“Welcome home, Din Djarin.”