Chapter Text
The Jedi code was a strange piece of philosophy. It clung, famously, to a high moral standard, yet it made no comment on theft. Or on debts, or defaulting thereon.
Thus, when exasperated masters and younglings alike commented that Obi-Wan Kenobi was the perfect Jedi…well, they weren’t technically incorrect.
And on that, Obi-Wan’s case rested.
*
It started when he was fourteen. During his brief enslavement on Bandomeer, Obi-Wan had met countless beings who had been torn from countless types of families. The furtive conversations there had spurred him to consider his own place amongst the Jedi, and where his Order fit in the gradient of familial bonds, especially given his seeming abandonment at the time. Once he was more or less recovered from his ordeal—saving the awkward and tentative nature of his bond with his new Master—Obi-Wan sunk into the Archives he had been so glad to see again.
He found himself researching cultural traditions from across the galaxy, searching for a definition of the term: family. So vast, so vital, so vague. That was how he’d stumbled upon the Mandalorian tradition of adoption. And that, in turn, had kickstarted a passionate fascination with all things Mando.
This passion could not be fulfilled only by the scant materials available in the Jedi Archives. This passion required a Mandalorian library card, and a Mandalorian library card was not an insignificant thing. Sure, you got access to hundreds of Mando’a archives across the diaspora, for language and culture were of paramount importance, baked into the resol’nare. But these materials were protected by something a bit more comprehensive than the average library’s loose contract.
Obi-Wan didn’t think much, at the time, about the oath he took to guard, respect, and promptly return all items. He did honestly expect to return every holo, datapad, and flimsi tome he checked out in good condition and more or less on time. He was optimistic like that. And because of this, he didn’t consider what a Mandalorian’s oath meant: that their word was their bond, that to break it was to be dar’manda. Thus, he didn’t consider the problem of aruetiise, of outsiders. Of whether Mandos would easily trust them with such a precious pillar of their society. Of whether they would trust the word of one who had not sworn the resol’nare, and of how, not trusting their mandokar, they would enforce aruetii oaths.
It wasn’t Obi-Wan’s first failure, nor would it be his last. But failing to consider the Librarian Protectors of Mandalore? That could be a fatal mistake.
And Qui-Gon Jin’s destructive method of ‘peacekeeping’ was not known for respecting the integrity of property. Even his own padawan’s.
Even if it was borrowed.
*
Throughout his teenage years, Obi-Wan became increasingly inured to the peremptory and, eventually, threatening comms and holomails he regularly received regarding his late (read: stolen) and missing (read: destroyed) Mando’a library materials. He was good at ignoring them, since there was nothing he could do to resolve the issue. If he didn’t return an item, it was usually because it had been torn apart by blaster fire, absconded with by pirates, or otherwise swept away in Hurricane Qui-Gon. Or, occasionally, as he matured, drowned in Tropical Storm Obi-Wan.
So he couldn’t return the lost items, and he couldn’t pay for them. Even if Mandalore was willing to accept credits as recompense—which, in the case of rare items, they were unlikely to do—the fact was that Jedi were not paid. Aside from petty cash for missions, Obi-Wan rarely had more in his account than would have paid for a meal at Dex’s (assuming Dex ever allowed him to pay). So, softening the Mandos with credits was doubly impossible. If he were a Mando himself—or even able to become one, rather than being sworn to a conflicting creed—he might have paid off his debt with service. But it was not to be. He was a Jedi. The most alien sort of aruettii. And aruettiise who stole from the Mandalorian libraries paid the Beskar price.
Of course, that conclusion had not yet become apparent to Obi-Wan. Generally, thus far, Obi-Wan had not found himself in a situation he could not escape with some combination of charm and aggressive negotiation.
…well, except the slavery. And the period as a child soldier. Those had required Qui-Gon’s reluctant assistance. And so, Obi-Wan had begun to realize, would this.
*
“Library materials?” Qui-Gon repeated. “You’re quite sure they can’t be found?”
Obi-Wan set his datapad down and projected the list into the air so they could view it together.
“This one,” he said, pointing at the first title, “was lost when we ejected our cargo over the water on Mon Calamari. This,” he pointed to the next, “dissolved—or, to put it more precisely, disintigrated—in Krayt Dragon venom on you-know-which Force-forsaken Hutt pit.”
“Tatooine has many charming—”
“This one,” Obi-Wan continued, “was on the ship we lost to Hondo Ohnaka. If he knew what it was, he’ll have sold it long since; if he didn’t, he’ll have donated it to one of those backwater orphanages he recruits his crew out of.”
“I begin to see your point, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said quellingly. “You need not go on.”
Obi-Wan gathered himself. He had been gaining a bit of steam, there. Time to make his point.
“These library materials are irreparably lost or damaged,” he concluded, trying not to let hysteria creep into his voice.
“All right,” said Qui-Gon, maddeningly serene. “Then we’ll work it out with Financial.”
Financial, the most-neglected wing of the Coruscant temple, was an object of fear and loathing to most Jedi. Sure, it was a vital organ of the Jedi Order, but not a nice one, not a beating heart or such. More like a spleen—best ignored, unless it began to bleed, in which case disaster was imminent. It was staffed by dedicated and particularly exasperated volunteers, mostly from the EduCorps. It had the best caff machine in the entire Temple.
“Credits wouldn’t help, even if we had them. Even if the Library was willing to take them. Because these materials are irreplaceable.”
“Padawan,” said Qui-Gon, furrowing his brow, “am I to understand you have been bringing rare books on high-risk missions?”
Obi-Wan nearly screeched in frustration. “They weren’t high-risk,” he said, “until we got there.”
“All the more reason to take care,” said Qui-Gon in a tone that clearly proclaimed him to be Yoda’s grand-Padawan.
Though it was through his teeth, Obi-Wan did manage to take a deep breath. Then he said, in the most even tone he could muster, “You’re right. In the future, I will take more care with the library materials I seek.”
“Good,” said Qui-Gon, and opened his mouth to change the subject.
“But,” Obi-Wan continued, “you have often advised me, Master, that I should live in the present. And in the present moment, I am living as an aruetii borrower who has permanently misplaced Mando’a library materials. In other words, I am in danger.”
Qui-Gon pressed his lips together. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed through his nose.
“The Force will provide.”
I hope the Force provides you with a new Padawan when I’m dead, Obi-Wan thought but did not say. Judging by the reprimand sent through their bond, Qui-Gon heard it loud and clear.
*
Obi-Wan had long since learned to ignore comm calls coming from numbers in the Mandalorian sector. Once, however, he received a strange call from Alderaan, and couldn’t resist picking it up. He’d recently met Bail Antilles, the future Prince Consort of that system, and they had struck up a friendship. Obi-Wan had given him his comm number in case he was ever on Coruscant and wanted to meet. So, it could be Bail. It didn’t look like a Palace code, but who knew. Honestly, Obi-Wan had a bit of a crush, and he was too eager to hear from the man to examine things closely. So he picked up the call.
“Padawan Kenobi,” he identified himself.
“Hello, Jet’ika Kenobi,” said a voice. In Mando’a. Clearly not Bail.
Obi-Wan could not bring himself to respond.
“I am calling on behalf of the—” Obi-Wan hung up. He knew the rest. On behalf of the Librarian Protectors of Mandalore.
This moment didn’t call for Mando’a. It called for Huttese.
“E chu ta,” he muttered to himself.
*
It was a year later that they finally caught up to him. Obi-Wan had recently turned twenty-one, and the time for his Knighting drew ever nearer. And then, Obi-Wan had grimly reflected during his birthday celebration, he’d be on his own. Prime Mando prey.
But, of course, it was not the way of the Mando’ade to seek only vulnerable prey. No, Obi-Wan wasn’t that lucky. The Mando’ade were several planets’ worth of lusty, highly-trained warriors who relished a fair fight.
And really loved their books.
They were on Corellia when it happened. They were dressed down in standard spacers’ gear, and on his own Obi-Wan might have passed for average. Qui-Gon, however…no matter what he wore, there was no mistaking him for anything but a Jedi. Their undercover work was, predictably, going nowhere. They were hunched over a bar table—Qui-Gon because he was absurdly tall, and Obi-Wan because he was determined to drown his frustration in his pint of mediocre ale—when the Mando burst through the door.
They were arrayed in full Beskar’gam. It was primarily unpainted, the better to let the beautiful dull gleam of the beskar say its piece, but there were accents. Elegant lines of dark and light blue highlighted the T-visor of their buy’ce, and their pauldrons were painted green, with the symbol of the Haat Mando’ade picked out in darker green on the one that was visible to Obi-Wan.
Beautiful. But stronger than his appreciation was the sudden spike of fear he did his best to release into the Force. The colors of this Mando’s armor all spoke of duty, reliability, protection. This had to be—
“I seek Jet’ika Obi-Wan Kenobi on behalf of the Librarian Protectors of Mandalore,” they said, loudly and clearly. Their Basic was broad, an accent that would probably just read “Mando” to the unpracticed ear, but Obi-Wan thought he heard the same accent as on the call he’d picked up the previous year. Country, perhaps Concordia or Concord Dawn.
Osik. He hadn’t been assigned a specific Librarian Protector to hunt him, had he? Surely things couldn’t be that bad.
With his diplomat’s mask in place, Qui-Gon stood, his hands gently raised. “I’m sure that we can arrive at a way forward without—”
“Save it,” the Mando interrupted. “Or can the verd’ika not speak for themself?”
Verd’ika, or “little warrior.” A diminutive term referring to Mandalorians who had not yet taken the verd’goten, the Mandalorian rite of adulthood. In the context of a child, it would be fond. In the context of Obi-Wan, it was deeply insulting. Still, Obi-Wan was a Jedi. He released his irritation and summoned wry resignation.
“Is that any way to talk to a General?” he muttered as he stood, the humor for Qui-Gon’s benefit. His Master raised an eyebrow, and Obi-Wan faced his pursuer. “I am Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, he/him. May I know your name?”
“Jango Fett,” said the Mando. “He/him.”
Obi-Wan concealed a grimace. Jango Fett—ad be Mand’alor, the closest thing his people had to royalty. A prod at his training bond told Obi-Wan that Qui-Gon did not recognize the name.
“I understand I have wronged the sanctity of the Archives,” said Obi-Wan, “but I was not aware I had offended the Mando’ade so deeply that they would send the Mand’alor’s ad after me.” A spark of recognition; Qui-Gon had placed the name.
“The Haat Mando’ade do not practice hereditary hierarchy,” said Jango Fett with grim amusement. “I get my assignments by lot, just like everybody else.”
“Ah,” said Obi-Wan.
“Which is why,” Jango continued, “I had to win a tournament to claim this contract.” And with that, he lifted his arm and shot a dart out of his vambrance.
The business of dodging distracted Obi-Wan long enough for Jango to lunge forward. Qui-Gon had already drawn his lightsaber, but Obi-Wan hesitated. Mandalorians didn’t have fond recollections of Jedi as a whole, and, well. He was the one at fault here. Surely drawing his weapon would only needlessly escalate—
A blaster shot nearly grazed his cheek. Obi-Wan drew his saber.
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were each skilled in their own right, and they were a practiced team. But Jango Fett was a Mandalorian warrior at the height of his skill, and he had another advantage beside. While Obi-Wan and his master had no desire to participate in this fight, Jango had sought it out. And he clearly relished it.
Qui-Gon cast his gaze around the bar, and Obi-Wan gave him a small nod, tacitly agreeing to take the brunt of Jango’s attack while Qui-Gon saw the other patrons safely evacuated. Beskar was, of course, famously opaque, but Obi-Wan felt as though Jango grinned at the opportunity to fight one-on-one. And win that much sooner, Obi-Wan thought.
But—Obi-Wan furrowed his brow as he flipped to watch Jango, who had used his jet pack to leap over him, shooting a tripwire at his feet from the awkward angle—this didn’t seem like a professional bounty hunter trying to end a fight quickly and get on with his job. This was a sportsman at play. He was having fun.
Now the advantage was Obi-Wan’s, because he did want to end this fight as quickly as possible. And he was under no obligation to win it.
Powering down his saber, he tumbled under Jango’s feet and, in the split-second it took Jango to catch up with the change, gracefully stood—with his back to the wall. Jango immediately played into Obi-Wan’s hands, lowering himself to the ground and stalking forward to pin him. They were the same height, but Obi-Wan angled his head so that he had to look up, just a little, for his gaze to meet Jango’s t-visor.
“Su’cuy,” he said. He didn’t have to fake his breathlessness.
“You think that’s going to work on me?” Jango asked in Mando’a.
“You can tell I’m trying,” Obi-Wan replied, “and that’s half the battle.”
Jango sighed. “Does this mean you’re going to come willingly?”
“Any way you want me,” said Obi-Wan.
“You’re bold, I’ll give you that. I’d say Mandokar’la if it weren’t for—”
“—the library fines, I know. But doesn’t everyone love a bad boy?”
Jango chuckled. It was a nice sound. Obi-Wan wanted to chase it.
That was, of course, the problem with the flirtation gambit. Obi-Wan liked flirting, and all the rest that came with it. And Jango Fett was definitely doing it for him.
“Your buy’ce is lovely, but I do wish I could see your face.”
“I may be charmed,” said Jango—the admission made Obi-Wan’s heart flutter—“but I’m not stupid. I don’t trust Jetiise.”
“Cuff me,” said Obi-Wan. “You know you want to.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Well, I want you to.”
Obi-Wan was triumphant as Jango got out the cuffs. He’d backed him into a corner, so to speak, by asking him to do his job. Well, Obi-Wan was the one backed into a literal corner, of course. And Jango’s job was to arrest him. But. Somehow, it still felt like a victory.
Once he was cuffed, Obi-Wan grinned. “Now, your turn.”
“I’m actually insane,” Jango muttered as he took off his buy’ce. Obi-Wan caught Jango’s eye, and could tell by the brightness there that the interest was mutual.
“Go on then,” he said. “Take me.” And it was about to happen. Jango looked thoughtful, cautious, studying Obi-Wan’s expression, but all the while they were swaying toward each other, and it was slow enough but it was inevitable, they were going to collide—
The buzz of a lightsaber, and the wall disappeared from behind Obi-Wan. Off balance, he clung to Jango’s pauldrons. He couldn’t help but feel gleeful. Not only was he in the embrace of a charming being, but he’d never held this much beskar in his hands at one time, and oh Force it was beautiful—
“Padawan,” came a stern voice from behind him. He turned—not letting go of Jango—to face his Master. Having cut a hole in the wall of a perfectly innocent neighborhood bar to rescue his wayward Padawan, only to find said Padawan having kinky eye-sex with his would-be captor, Qui-Gon was understandably in a bad mood.
“Come with me at once.”
“But Master,” said Obi-Wan, voice dry as a Tatooine summer, “I have to face justice.”
“Don’t be ridi—”
“But he does,” Jango interrupted. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Have to face justice, that is. On behalf of the, uh. Librarian Protectors of Mandalore.”
“Unbelievable,” said Qui-Gon. To Obi-Wan: “Have you no shame?”
“There is no shame,” Obi-Wan said serenely, “there is the Force.”
“That is not in the Code.”
“He has me there,” Obi-Wan admitted to Jango. “Oh well. Kiss for the road?”
Jango furrowed his brow, then gave a disappointed sigh. “No, not till you can consent fully.”
“Good answer,” said Obi-Wan. “You wouldn’t want to take advantage of me in my helpless state.” So saying, he dropped the handcuffs on the ground, having picked the lock with a small hacking device he kept in his obi for such occasions. He took Jango’s gauntleted hand, brushed a courtly kiss over the cool beskar covering his knuckles, and went to his impatient Master.
“Ret’urcye mhi,” he called as they walked away. Jango made no attempt to follow.