#jedi through gritted teeth: that is...technically true...

[wantonlywindswept]

Definitely True Facts About Commander Vertex #3

He has negative Force bacteria.

[forgotten Fox AU tag]

"Midichlorians," Patches said, for the third time, his head in his hands. "They're called midichlorians."

"Tiny little buggers that live in your body," Jek scoffed. "I might have barely scraped by my biology modules, but that sounds like bacteria to me."

Patches whimpered.

Jek grinned and reached over to pat his babiest of brothers on the head. Their youngest medic really was too easy to rile up. 

Still, at least Patches was capable of taking a break on occasion, even if it was just to sit at Jek's bedside in the medbay while he recovered from a round of Force cleansing. He always felt a little like the mess hall slop after every session, squishy and mostly-liquid, though the effects had been lessening as the treatments went on. 

Turned out that working in close proximity to an evil Sith overlord for an extended period of time could be 'damaging' and 'harmful to the spirit', and as soon as the Jedi got the okay from Marshal Commander Thorn they'd instituted regular healing sessions for the Guard. Some of them weren't overly affected--the ARF division hadn't been allowed in the Senate Dome that often anyway, and the medics rarely left the infirmary, much less Guard HQ--but the majority of them were on rotating schedules to get their minds checked for Sith residue or whatever.

It was even worse for the Force-sensitives.

No one was more surprised to find Force-sensitive clones than the clones themselves, and a frankly unsettling percentage of the Guard tested for above-average midichlorian counts. That was just those who agreed to submit to the assessment, too--a lot of the Guard refused to do even that. It wasn't like they could be Jedi, and with the war over, what did it even matter?

(Except it did matter, a lot, because apparently evil Sith overlords could also drain the life force from sentients around them, and particularly enjoyed ones with the Force. Palpatine got a little tasty burst of power like they were some kind of energy snack, and it wasn't like the Guard weren't already exhausted anyway.

That kind of siphoning left even worse traces of Sith influence; Jek's cleansing sessions made his bones feel like wobbly gelatin, but Glitch's sessions hurt.)

"I bet Defib's m-count is the highest in the Guard," Jek mused absently as he watched their CMO stalk around the medbay between the beds--and the Jedi--with a scowl on his face. 

Patches lifted his head to give Jek a horrified look.

"Don't say that where he can hear you."

Jek, who lacked both bones and a sense of self-preservation, merely shrugged. Defib had refused testing, scoffing that he didn't need the Force to heal, but he wasn't named after a defibrillator for nothing: he'd brought more than one brother back from the brink of death against impossible odds.

Jek had his suspicions about Patches, too. 

Even with Defib hovering suspiciously over their shoulders, the Jedi healers--there were four of them, led by Master Rig Nema--moved around the medbay with an almost unearthly poise. Jek was more familiar with ordered chaos in the infirmary: medics shouting across the room to each other, rushing back and forth to see how far their meager supplies could stretch. The Jedi were quiet, coordinating with each other soundlessly while still seeming to be aware of everything else happening in the room.

The mesmerizing little dance wasn't even interrupted by the main doors opening, which drew Jek's attention to Commander Vertex stepping into the medbay. The commander had his bucket tucked under one arm, and sharp eyes surveyed the room in a quick glance.

Patches waved at Vertex, because he was adorable. 

Vertex waved back, because he was a sap.

Defib immediately veered off his self-appointed task of looming to intercept Vertex before he got too far into the room. They ducked their heads together in a brief conversation with far too much angry gesticulating on Defib's part, and the calm competency Jek had come to expect on Vertex's. Jek watched, fascinated, as Vertex managed to settle the fuming medic with just a few words and a gentle touch to his shoulder. 

Defib made a bitchy face, but he did seem to lose some of his protective bristling; at Vertex's nudge he sidled over to his desk in the corner of the medbay, dropping into his chair to finally take a break and...to angrily chew on a ration bar?

Incredible.

The Jedi, meanwhile, had continued on with their Force nonsense, which lasted up until Vertex tapped one of the healers on the shoulder and their serenity shattered with a resounding squawk.

The poor Rodian who made the noise spun around, flailing wildly, and would have fallen back onto one of the beds if Vertex hadn't grabbed her to keep her upright. The other three Jedi's heads snapped up in eerie synchronicity, startled expressions on their faces, and Master Nema took a jolting step forward before seeming to register what had happened.

In the frozen stillness that followed, Defib's sullen crunching took on a distinctive note of glee.

"Apologies," Vertex said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"When did you even..." 

"How can we be of assistance, Commander Vertex?" Master Nema asked, stepping away from her patient to take the place of the still-baffled apprentice healer. Both she and Vertex smoothly ignored the disbelief radiating off the other Jedi, who were looking at Vertex like they didn't know how he had appeared. 

Jek wondered that sometimes, too, but it didn't bother him.

"Hey," he said, nudging Patches with his elbow as the two bigwigs conversed, "What do you bet that Commander Vertex has negative Force bacteria?"

Patches stared at Jek like he'd kicked a baby massiff, and then slowly sunk lower in his chair with a low, despairing whine.

So easy.

[blackkatmagic]

Did I see a request for JangoKit prompts? If mymy eyes did not deceive me, please receive this humble offering: Jango and Boba ending up in deep and dangerous waters, in danger of drowning due to a deal gone wrong/betrayal (maybe Dooku?) only to be saved by a certain Nautolan Jedi who was following medics orders and spending his leave underwater ;) Have fun! IgnisFelicis

Jango probably should have expected something like this, but he’d been so angry.

“Boba!” he snarls, hauling at the cuffs around his wrist, at the piece of metal he’s tied to, and feels them cut into his wrists. Feels blood, and fear, and an edge of pure desperation he hasn���t experienced since he saw Jaster murdered in front of him, but the beam doesn’t move. It doesn’t even shift.

“Dad!” Boba cries, and he’s struggling too, wriggling and twisting and trying to get free, but the damned Sith bent a strut down across his chest, pinned him to the deck of the half-gutted ship, and—

With a lurching drop, the nose falls as the next wave rises, and Boba goes under.

This is all because Jango got arrogant. This is all because he thought he could set a trap for the man who led the massacre of the True Mandalorians, and he’d failed. Dooku got them instead, and now Jango is going to have to watch his son drown to death.

The sound that leaves his throat is hardly human, all rage and grief and helplessness, and he throws himself forward against the bonds again. Blood splatters the deck, the dark water that washes across Jango's boots, and he strains—

The nose comes up again, and Boba resurfaces, choking, coughing, spitting seawater. It feels like a blow, even if Jango knows it’s only a momentary reprieve, and he slumps forward, breath coming in ragged pants as he tries to think, tries to figure out a way through this with both of them alive, or even just Boba alive. “Slow breaths,” he says, loud enough to carry over the howl of the wind. “Boba, breathe.”

“Easy for you to say,” Boba manages between coughs, and he looks too small with his clothes plastered to him, his curls stuck flat to his skull. Futilely, he shoves at the metal pinning him, but it doesn’t move any more than Jango's, and he slumps back, closing his eyes. “Dad,” he says, voice thready. “Will anyone know we’re gone?”

Jango grits his teeth. His clones will. They always keep track of when Jango's around, have always treated Boba like an older brother the handful of times he’s been around them. and right now, facing all of this, that feels like the biggest irony of all.

By Mandalorian custom, they should be Jango's sons. They are Jango's sons. And they're the only ones who will realize Jango it when Jango doesn’t come back. But because he’s never acknowledged any of them, because they're not technically family, no one will listen if they try to say something.

Jango wrote them all off as weapons, as instruments of revenge against the Jedi, and now that fact means no one will even think to check where Jango is.

“Maybe,” he says, as much of a lie as he can tell his son, and Boba's face twists. He shoves at the metal again, but there's a wave coming, and the bow is dipping, and Jango feels terror surge like a white-hot lance through his chest.

“Boba, hold your breath!” he snaps, and with a massive, horrible creaking the ship dips, twists, and the wave swamps them.

The salt stings Jango's eyes when he forces them open, the murky glow from the one light hanging off the broken mast just enough for Jango to see that they're sinking. The whole ship—or what’s left of it—is sideways, and dropping through the dark water at a dreamlike pace. Jango's lungs ache, and he twists again, pulls at his hands—

Just beyond the circle of light, a shape moves.

There are predators in this water, Jango thinks, and his heart lurches. A better death than drowning, maybe, but still a bad one, and not one he ever would have wanted for Boba.

And then, swift, with a whirl of long tentacles, a Nautolan plummets through the murky glow, catching hold of a ripped section of railing that didn’t manage to survive the fight with Dooku. He looks at Jango, then kicks off towards him, and Jango feels a flare of pure horror. He lurches back, jabbing an elbow towards Boba, lashing out when the Nautolan tries to touch him, and the man draws back. His head cocks, and—

Peace, my friend. I only want to help.

A voice. A voice in his head, and of kriffing course the bastard is a Jedi, but—

Right now, with Boba dying, Jango will take it, and reconsider his own morals later.

Save my SON, he thinks, as loud and fierce as he can, and the Jedi jerks. His huge dark eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate. In a flash of green skin he’s gone, diving towards the prow of the ship, and Jango closes his eyes in relief. His lungs ache, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold his breath, but at least Boba is safe. At least Boba will survive.

He opens his eyes again, just in time to see the Jedi go arrowing up towards the surface, Boba in his arms.

The Jedi will take care of Boba. Especially if he tells them about Dooku. They're not going to hurt a kid, and despite all their conflict with the Mandalorians over the years, despite Galidraan, Jango is sure of that. He watches until the Jedi's shape vanishes into the darkness, then slumps back. Considers opening his mouth, breathing in, ending things quickly instead of drawing it out into an agony—

In the darkness, a green blade ignites.

Jango's head jerks up, instincts sending adrenaline splintering through him. He has no blaster, though, no blade, and after one fraught second he realizes it’s the Nautolan again, the same man. He dives closer, wraps an arm around Jango, and he’s hot in contrast to the frigid water, startlingly so. Jango almost gasps, but before he can, the Nautolan’s mouth seals over his, and air fills his lungs. In the same moment, there's the hiss of a lightsaber, and Jango's hands come free, trailing the chain of his cuffs.

Jango doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the Jedi, hauls him closer and takes another breath of air from his mouth, feels the way his mouth curls in a smile. Under any other circumstances, Jango might object, might shoot him for it, but right now he can't even bring himself to care. He grabs his tentacles and gives a sharp tug, but the only reaction it gets is the shake of a suppressed laugh, and half a moment later they're breaking the surface. The Jedi's arm wraps tight around Jango's back, and he up like he’s wearing a jetpack, right onto the waiting ramp of a small cruiser.

“Dad!” Boba cries, and before Jango can even lift his head Boba is on him, arms wrapped tight around his chest. Jango drapes an arm over him in return, flat on his back on the ramp, and tries not to choke as he coughs up seawater.

“Forgive me,” the Jedi says quietly, leaning over him and shoving his head tentacles back over his shoulders so they don’t fall on Jango. “I could not take you both at once.”

It takes Jango a second to realize what he’s apologizing for, and when he does, he scoffs, tipping his head back against the plating. “Told you to get Boba,” he says roughly. And then, because he knows when he’s in someone’s debt, “Thanks. I owe you one.”

The Nautolan smiles, and he’s handsome even among a pretty species, with high cheekbones and paler spots speckled over his shoulders and down his back. There's humor bright in his face, too, warm and friendly. “Not at all. It is a Jedi's duty to help those in need, and I was nearby.”

Jango tightens his arm around Boba. “Shut up and accept it, Jedi,” he says, harsh. “I owe you my life, and you can write that off it you want. But I owe you my son’s life, too, and that means a hell of a lot more.”

There's a pause, and the Jedi tilts his head, watching Jango with those pretty dark eyes. “Ah,” he says, gentle more than anything, and his smile is all warmth, “but you gave me a kiss. I think that makes it less a debt and more a trade.”

“What the hell—” Jango starts.

Boba lifts his head and rolls his eyes, attempting to slide out of Jango's hold. When Jango stubbornly refuses to let go of him, though, he huffs, and says, “Dad. Just kiss him again and it’s fine, right?”

Jango will never understand ten-year-old logic, he’s sure.

“Boba,” he says, annoyed, but the Jedi laughs.

“One kiss was enough,” he says easily, raising his hands, and shifts back, offering Jango a hand. Jango takes it, letting the Jedi pull him up to sitting, and he eyes the man.

“You saying it wasn’t good enough for to try for a second?” he asks, and the joking shouldn’t help, but—it does. The tight knot of panic that was curled around Jango's heart and lungs is easing, loosening. He can breathe again, and for more reasons than just getting pulled out of the water.

Mischief flickers across the Jedi's face, brightens his eyes, makes him grin. “Well,” he says judiciously. “You were rather distracted at the time.”

Jango stares at him, eyes narrowed. there's a part of his brain that’s rushing forward, plotting revenge against Dooku, with the Jedi and his whole Order as the blunt instrument of it, but—

There's also indignation, and amusement, and something sharper, hotter, brighter.

“Tell me your name, Jedi,” he demands, reaching out, and finally lets Boba wriggle away.

The Nautolan laughs as Jango's fingers sink into his tentacles, haul him closer and off-balance. He catches himself on Jango's shoulders, and says, “Quite the demand, my friend. Why so insistent that you know?”

“Because I'm going to make you forget it entirely in about thirty seconds,” Jango says, halfway to a threat.

It makes the Jedi grin, lazy, pleased. “Kit Fisto,” he says. “And you would be Jango Fett, the Jedi-Killer. I’ll admit, I hadn’t thought people meant a little death when they referred to you that way.”

Boba groans, plugging his ears, and Jango laughs despite himself, rough from the saltwater but pulled up deep from his bones.

“Guess I’ll have to kill you now to keep you from spreading the word,” he says, and drags Kit into a kiss that’s half dare and half thanks, and entirely relief.

[On AO3]