me, seeing you reblog things involving Hakoda and his kids:
“I can't be believe you took the credits, Sokka, this is supposed to be a learning experience—”
“It is not, this is a teaching experience and we are the teachers, Katara! And if I have to spend months teaching a bunch of weird off-worlders—”
“—they're people just like us—”
“—then I want compensation, because I'm not a monk—”
Hakoda sighs and pulls his bag down from one of the overhead lockers. He could try to stop the argument, but at this point he knows better. It’s better to wait until Katara drenches her brother, or Sokka puts his sister in a headlock, and then step in. Sokka and Katara might be teenagers, closing in on adults, but some things very definitely never change.
Bato tosses him the bag with his armor, grinning. “Good luck,” he says, and Hakoda gives him a rueful smile.
“You could have taken this job, too,” he points out, but at precisely that moment Sokka squawks loudly, Katara yelps, and there's a loud thud.
“I think,” Bato says without an ounce of sympathy, “that I'm fine just playing pilot this time.”
Hakoda is the chieftain of the Southern Water Tribe; it’s beneath his dignity for him to beg Bato to smuggle him back to the Four Nations, no matter how long they’ve been friends. Still, he winces as he sheathes his whale’s tooth scimitar across his back, then takes the club Bato hands him. “And miss the family vacation?” he jokes, then reaches out. Bato snorts, but reaches back, hauling him into a bruising-tight hug for a long moment.
“I carry my family with me wherever I go,” Bato says in his ear. “Even when I don’t have to listen to Sokka and Katara shrieking at each other.”
Hakoda thumps him lightly in the ribs, though he’s laughing when he pulls away. “Keep an eye out for the rest,” he says, a little rueful, because Sokka and Katara leaving without telling Toph, Zuko, and Aang where they were going probably means Hakoda is going to have at least two of them crashing in very soon, trailing trouble. Zuko might manage to hold out longer, if only because of the amount of responsibility he has, but—Hakoda’s seen the way he looks at Katara, and he’s not holding out much hope for restraint where teenage feelings are concerned.
“I’ll send them your way,” Bato promises without mercy, and steps back, letting Hakoda go. Resigned to it, Hakoda waves briefly as he starts down the ramp, and because Bato knows him far too well, he calls, “Keep an eye on all of those Mandalorians, Hakoda!”
Hakoda is a grown man with two nearly-grown children; he doesn’t flush, even though he knows exactly what Bato is implying. “Keep an eye on all of those otter penguins, Bato,” he retorts, and turns—
Practically runs into two confused stares, because his children always choose the very worst time to remember they have ears.
“Is there something wrong with the otter penguins, Dad?” Katara asks, brow furrowing.
“Of course not,” Hakoda says blithely. “Bato just likes them, and I want him to be happy while we’re gone. I figure watching the otter penguins will keep him occupied.” He resettles his club, loops an arm around each of his children, and steers them out into the lashing rain. There aren’t any Kaminoans out to meet them, though given who hired them Hakoda supposes that’s reasonable. Instead, a bulky figure in armor is waiting just inside the doors, a shadow against the blinding white of the halls.
“No arguing in front of the Mandalorians, please,” he jokes, and Katara and Sokka both give identical offended huffs in unison, then stop short, looking accusingly at each other. Hakoda sighs to cover his amusement, stepping past both of them as the door of the facility slides open, and he steps in just as the waiting figure straightens.
“Jango Fett,” Hakoda says, and holds out a hand. “I apologize for the delay. Messages take a long time to reach the Four Nations.”
Jango isn't wearing his helmet, and Hakoda can see the flicker across his features, the relief that’s hidden in an instant. “Chief Hakoda, right?” he says gruffly. “Didn’t expect you to come personally.”
“You asked for our strategists and best warriors,” Hakoda says, with no little pride, and puts his hands on his children’s shoulders. “This is my son, Sokka, our tribe’s tactician, and one of our bravest. And this is my daughter, Master Katara.”
Jango tenses, and ever so faintly Hakoda sees his hand twitch towards one of the blasters strapped to his thigh. “Your daughter’s a Jedi?” he demands.
Hakoda blinks, caught off guard, but before he has to come up with an answer, Katara snorts. She folds her arms across her chest, giving Jango a look that dares him to make another comment, and says, “Waterbending master. There are no Jedi from the Four Nations. Our Force traditions are different.”
“That’s the only reason you're here,” Jango says coolly. “My mother used to tell me stories about her family back in the Nations, and I figured you could be useful.”
Katara's eyes flash, her mouth going tight, but she just draws herself up to her full height. Doesn’t otherwise move, doesn’t so much as make a threatening gesture, but Hakoda is suddenly, acutely aware that every last inch of this planet is nothing but ocean, and there are three moons in the sky above them, all nearly full.
Jango's eyes flicker to him, then back to Katara, and he stops. Takes a breath, and says more carefully, “My son. He’s been…showing symptoms. Of bending.”
