Rating: G (as long as it's understood that Protective Dad Jango is indeed correct here, and you should most definitely not try to chase fireworks, on the off-chance you have a jetpack or something similar!)
Characters: Jango Fett (who is a much kinder character in my AU, and sided with his clones and the Republic), Boba Fett, Colt, Havoc, Blitz, and some OC kids
Continue reading below, or READ ON AO3 HERE
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Jango was getting used to being the patriarch of his own little clan. He had Boba, he had the Rancor Battalion trio he had recently adopted as adults, and he even had the latter three’s own adopted children—several cute cadets, and two little foundling girls!
As he lazed in his bed on Concord Dawn, he still got jumpscared this particular morning, however. The boys were all little echoes of himself, and Alma was a Kaminoan, so she also registered as a normal sight in his brain by now. But Taki… well, bless her, he loved her, and her voice was as sweet as any other Mandalorian ad’ika’s he might meet in the village streets. But her gold, sparkly, pupil-less Arcona eyes were a bit disconcerting to wake to, pressed almost on top of Jango’s own brown human ones today.
“Gy-AHH-huh!” Jango, to his credit, recovered himself rapidly, yawning over the covers. “Mmmff… Taki, it’s a holiday, I thought we were all gonna sleep in…”
The little girl’s voice was urgent, tugging on the bedsheets with her tiny, spidery brown hands. “Grampa Jang! Buir an’ Ba’vadu Bo say they’re gonna go light fireworks an’ chase after ‘em with their jetpacks! Why can’t Salsa an’ me have jetpacks toooooo?!” she cried.
Jango shot straight up at this, suddenly very much awake. “WHAT?!!!” he thundered out of bed, nearly sending Taki flying. He barely noticed that her brother, little cadet Salsa, was indeed also there, peering hopefully over the side of Jango’s bed with her.
The clone host had grown quite close to the Rancor trio, during the final stages of the war, there on Kamino. He was getting more comfortable with calling any clone who wanted to be his “son,” but he had decided to go one step further, and make it official, in the case of Colt, Havoc, and Blitz. They got along very well with both him and Boba, and he thought he knew them deeply.
Well, he did, in many ways, and loved them dearly of course—but he had only observed them in the stricter setting of Kamino, instead of in the battlefield, on the other planets the ARCs had visited. And so it was only now—out here on Concord Dawn, in the happy freedom of the post-war world—that Jango was learning what Colt and Blitz apparently already knew: how Havoc got his name.
The blue Rancor lived up to it with every fiber of his being. And apparently had even been corrupting Boba now, dang him! As well as his own ade, Salsa and Taki.
Jango would not waste time explaining to the latter right now that they were not allowed jetpacks until their own verd’goten. He had his own sons to deal with at the moment. The very harried head-of-household nearly tripped out the front door, dancing in one pant-leg, as he somehow attempted to get his boots on while running.
“PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!” Jango yelled to Boba and Havoc on the front lawn. The two hadn’t even gotten the firework in place yet, but the eldest Mandalorian’s brain was working faster than his eyes, at the moment.
“But it’s Dawnfounder’s Day!” Havoc spread his gloved hands, indeed almost chuckling in that same Dawn drawl that Jango and all his progeny shared—clearly unfazed by said progenitor-cum-father’s temper. “We’re allowed fireworks, aren’t we?”
“We will have them tonight, when it’s properly dark, and we will NOT get ourselves KARKING BLOWN UP by flying after them like a right bunch of shebese!!” Jango’s brown eyes were livid with paternal fright.
It was Havoc’s turn to turn a little paternal then, as he now crossed his muscular arms in a huff. “Don’t cuss in front of my kids, Buir!” he narrowed his eyes.
But Jango wasn’t through. “I will PERSONALLY recite to Taki and Salsa every single curse word that I KNOW, in Basic AND in Mando’a, and then get out a dictionary and see if there are somehow any curse words left that I DON’T know, and then I’ll teach those to them TOO, if you don’t take your jetpacks off RIGHT NOW!!” he thunked his fist several times in his palm as he spoke, for emphasis.
Boba intervened, spreading his own little green-armored limbs and waving them around. He still had the cutest giggle—at fourteen, he was the only one of the children who had already gone through his verd’goten, and wore the same adult armor as his father and now-adopted, age-accelerated brothers. “We were gonna keep a safe distance, Buir!” he reassured, as unafraid of Jango’s bark as Havoc was. “Like, light ‘em on a long fuse, an’ then run backwards and take off from the next field over!”
But Jango would not be placated. “I DON’T CARE!!” he flung his own armored limbs (a paler, more silvery blue than Havoc’s) in exasperation. “No distance is long enough for that to be safe!! Bob’ika, what did we drill together all those years for? I THOUGHT I raised you to be more cautious than this!”
The differences in Boba’s and the other clones’ upbringing had been talked through, healed, understood. Jango, to his credit, had worked to ensure all four of his now-children felt loved and on equal standing with each other. All of them acknowledged that the Rancors had grown up as normal clone soldiers, and Jango had decided to make them his sons later in life, while Boba had grown up as Jango’s from the cradle. So, certain aspects of their relationship would always be different. But the elder Mandalorian did not want the Rancors, or Boba for that matter, to feel he was playing favorites with either of the others. Thankfully, love knitted them all together now, differences and all—enough so that the subject was occasionally open for teasing.
As Havoc did, liberally. “You didn’t raise US to—” he began to interject, waggling his eyebrows.
“And YOU!!—” Jango spun around from Boba to Havoc, waggling his eyebrow right back, and poking an accusing finger straight into Havoc’s blue kar’ta beskar. “You are a trained soldier who ought to know better!” he panted and puffed, barely catching his breath enough to cross his own arms now. “I may not’ve guided you personally, and taught you bounty-hunter tricks in my own apartment like I did with Boba. But I know scragged well I taught you boys common sense and battlefield safety in all your training holovids—”
“None of your training vids ever told us not to race fireworks with jetpacks, Prime-pa!” Havoc couldn’t help but giggle as merrily as Boba, half-covering his mouth, and using the nickname he knew always drove Jango up a tree.
“I didn’t think I needed to explain that sapients should not run, jump, or fly in any way closer to live explosives, instead of further away from them!!!” Jango shrieked, nearly to tears. “It should go without saying!!!” He pulled fistfuls of his curls at the temples.
How. HOW could someone who was literally his biological duplicate have inherited so little of his shrewd sense?!! Jango had done plenty of dangerous things throughout his career, yes indeed, but at least he had always been SELF-AWARE when he did them!!...
Thankfully, Colt had moseyed over, having heard the noise. When he found out what Havoc and Boba had been up to, he was nearly as horrified as their buir, and took to chiding them, hands on red-armored hips. And somehow, both Havoc and Boba took his reprimands a bit more seriously.
Yes, good for you, Colt. A soldier with an actual HEAD on his shoulders! PROPER clone of mine, strong mind and body! Perfect leader. GOOD Colt. Jango finally caught his breath, grateful for the lad.
Colt’s own boys, Dash, Dance, and Prance, had toddled behind him, and now stood with Taki and Salsa, their brown eyes big and wide (and dreadfully cute) as theirs. “…C’n we at least have one early firework, Ba’buir?” Dance pleaded, rocking back on his little heels.
Jango melted at being called “Grandpa” in Mando’a—his heart swelling to the tune he’d never actually known he would earn, one day. He cracked a smile at last. “ALL right,” he sighed, “one. And I’ll light it, and there will be no jetpacks for ANYone.” He looked expectantly over at Boba and Havoc.
The children’s eyes (and perhaps Colt’s earlier lecturing) made their father and small uncle give in. Havoc and Boba thunked their blue and green jetpacks to the ground.
Smiling in satisfaction, Jango knelt, situated the first firework in their small family cannon-launcher, and lit it, rolling back. They all watched as the sparkles lit up the day-blue sky, with a cheerful screech and a “pop” and a flowery crackle.
It wasn’t as gloriously bright and colorful as it would seem against the black of night, but there were many more fireworks saved up for that purpose. And at least it made the impatient children cheer, giving them a preview for that evening. “Wheeeeeeeee!!...” Taki and the cadets danced around, while Blitz’s little Alma also giggled, and clapped her lanky hands from the table on the porch.
***
A few minutes later, Jango was lounging in one of the lawn-chairs set up next to the outdoor table, for their family’s little summertime celebration today. Colt came up and nudged him. “You want I should make the baked beans an’ barbeque today, Dad?” he chuckled.
Jango looked up at the lad very fondly again, managing a rich chuckle of his own. “Elek,” yes, he sighed thankfully, “bless you, Colt.” For the second time that day, he was grateful for the head Rancor’s responsible streak. Though in a sense, Boba was the “first brother,” in most ways Colt had slipped into the mold of the eldest child, and did a splendid job helping Jango run the household. He even was the most talented cook among them, learning all of Jango’s old recipes with delight. The elder Fett couldn’t have been more proud of him.
Not to be outdone, though, Blitz—the baby of the Rancors—sidled up and placed a glass in Jango’s hand. “Kullgroonade!” he announced, grinning with all the sunshiny warmth of his yellow armor. “Alma an’ I made it for later today.”
Jango shifted a bit forward in the chair, and smiled at the citrusy drink—it was a nice bright color, kullgroons growing yellow like Blitz’s paint, but with just a hint of green in them, too. And the drink was all nice and cold and sparkly in the sun, loaded with ice.
Alma was nearly as tall as Jango and the grown clones, now, despite being a child, thanks to the height difference in their species. But she still made such a cute picture, propping herself up on Jango’s chair-arm, big black Kaminoan eyes nearly booping into his. “Ya like it, Grampa?” she beamed as wide as him and Blitz, with her species’ split lip.
Jango took that as his cue to try the drink. He took a nice, long sip. “Ahhh… good. Sweet, but plenty tangy too!” he approved, planting a little kiss on his adopted granddaughter’s cheek. “Just like all good Mandalorian girls are s’posed to be,” he winked, making her giggle happily.
He couldn’t WAIT to see her in a helmet of her own. Alma’s thirteenth birthday was still a few years off, but Jango had already given Kaminoan youth measurements to the town armorer. Making a Mandalorian helmet and armor for a non-humanoid species was always rather fascinating. And he couldn’t help but share Blitz’s pride, in transferring THEIR ways onto a Kaminoan, after the clones had sometimes been under certain of the less-nice Kaminoans’ heels.
After giving Alma another grandfatherly nuzzle, his rough face twinkly in the sun, Jango let the happy child skip off with her buir. He raised his arm, crooked, up to said sun meanwhile, to keep it out of his eyes. Jango squinted at his own reflection, in his shiny silver wristguards.
…He was only forty-four standard years old, going on forty-five—the fact of cloning and all had allowed him to become a grandfather before many men’s time. And yet he was indeed starting to look like a “normal” grandfather, nevertheless. He had sprouted some silver streaks in his curly black hair, these past few years—and he was getting a little paunchy too, his breastplate now propped comfortably upward on a cloth extension, instead of tucking neatly into his belt, like it once did.
Blitz was the chubbiest of his four sons, now, being the most gluttonous of the Rancors. It seemed most clones did tend to gain weight, after the war, Jango had observed of his progeny (so he didn’t feel too bad about gaining some himself—it apparently was in his blood)—but Blitz was one of those who absolutely delighted in food, and so had really packed it on, needing even more of an extension for his armor than Jango had, so far.
Well, who could blame him, with both Colt and Jango as the family cooks? the patriarch flattered himself. Fighting techniques weren’t his ONLY skills!
Jango settled back in the chair, and enjoyed the warm sunbeams for a moment, still gathering his breath from earlier that morning.
…Yes, his belly he blamed on Colt and Blitz. His gray hairs, meanwhile, he blamed entirely on Havoc and Boba. Especially Havoc.
Jango raised his vambrace back up again, to inspect the latter. He nearly panicked, clawing at one side of his hairline—oh, those were new, he just KNEW it. At least twenty must have sprouted in the last hour!
He slammed his head back in the lawn-chair, and took a large chug of the kullgroonade.
In the homestead’s foyer, there was a metal plate, adorned with the Fett clan’s house rules. Mostly Mandalorian sayings about the virtues of family and bravery.
Jango was going to engrave “DO NOT CHASE FIREWORKS” to the bottom of the list with this vambrace’s kriffing blowtorch!
Hello! If there's still space in the kiss meme queue, Kenfetti and 48? - Mills
Well... here I am a year and a half later...
Kiss 48 - Out of habit
Jango froze, halfway to the exit of the command room as he realized what he’d just done. It had been habit, something he had trained himself to do—if that training had been easier than it should have been, then Jango tried not to think about that—during the almost month long undercover position he had taken.
He’d just kissed Obi-Wan a temporary goodbye.
He turned slowly to look at Obi-Wan who seemed to have realized what had happened the same as Jango—and he had kissed back, Jango wasn’t the only one operating off of habit.
The command room had gone completely silent, a surprised shock taking hold. Jango quickly scanned the room to analyze reactions. From horrified shock, Skywalker, to resigned expectation, Commander Cody, it seemed everyone had an opinion.
Vos let out an amused cackle, which might very well be the worst possible reaction. “Don’t tell me you made someone else fall in love with you, Obi,” he said.
Jango wondered if it would be appropriate to throw him out of the airlock. Probably not, Jango acknowledged. Not that he was sure that would stop him. Especially since Vos was still laughing.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Nonsense, Quinlan. Jango is still adjusting from our undercover venture. It was quite the show we were forced to put on. If you recall, you and I had our own difficulty readjusting when we returned from our own undercover assignment some years ago.”
Jango wasn’t sure what was worse, the thought of Obi-Wan and Vos doing the sort of things Obi-Wan had been doing with him, or the realization that Jango was genuinely bothered by it. He’d kissed Obi-Wan out of habit, not out of sentiment. Who cared if Obi-Wan had once had something—what if he still had something?—with Vos? Jango certainly didn’t.
…right?
No reason to be jealous of Obi-Wan’s past conquests. It wasn’t even a conquest, it had been a mission. And it wasn’t like Jango was Obi-Wan’s conquest, it had been a mission. A very successful mission, because neither Jango or Obi-Wan—and kriff, when had Kenobi become Obi-Wan and how had Jango not noticed?—were the sort to do anything poorly.
And if the extreme competence he’d had a front row seat on had given Jango some… new appreciation for Obi-Wan—Kenobi—then that was only reasonable.
“That helps your argument a lot less than you think it does,” Vos said cheerfully. His eyes were glittering with mirth as he looked at Jango. “Don’t worry, Fett. Loving Obi-Wan is only something you do for the rest of your life.”
“Quin,” Obi-Wan warned, while Jango pictured strangling Vos. “I believe we were in the middle of planning our approach of the Separatist forces. Leave Jango be.”
Jango wasn’t worse, the fact that he knew Vos wouldn’t believe either Jango or Obi-Wan when they said it was leftover habit from their undercover mission—it was, wasn’t it?—or the fact that Obi-Wan was so quick to dismiss it. Because if there had been any sentiment behind the habit… Did Obi-Wan feel it too?
Kriff. If Jango was even asking himself that question, then he was already in trouble.
