Could I Please Request A Drabble With Mace Meeting Jaster? Time Travel Shenanigans Would Be Loved And

Could I please request a drabble with Mace meeting Jaster? Time travel shenanigans would be loved and heart-eyed, but are not required.

“A Jedi is hiring a Mandalorian for a job?” Jaster asks, one brow raised, and can't help the thread of incredulity that creeps into his voice. “Perhaps you're confused, Jetii, but our people have been enemies for millennia.”

“I'm well aware,” the Jedi says, unmoving. Jaster has, admittedly, never been quite this close to a Jedi, and he can't help but be faintly impressed at the man’s stoneface, particularly given the bright-eyed Chalactan girl peering around his side. Her hands are hooked into his sash without any apparent fear of being shaken off, or any apparent concern for her Master’s dignity, and Jaster finds himself reluctantly amused despite the man’s temerity.

“Oh?” Jaster asks, leaning back in his chair. His blaster is within easy reach, and the Jedi is far enough away that Jaster has the advantage. “Bold of you to approach me with a job offer, then.”

“Is it?” the man asks, and reaches up, folding his hood back. Jaster stills, startled, because he hadn’t thought there were Korun Jedi—Myles has always been very insistent that the Korun people have their own Force traditions, and outsiders aren’t welcome to step into them. He’s a handsome one, too, tall and broad shouldered, with a lean strength to him that even the loose, comfortable robes can't hide. Steady, he meets Jaster's eyes, and says, low, “It seems to me, Mand’alor, that our status as enemies means no one will suspect me of having hired you.”

Ah, Jaster thinks, smiling. Like that, is it. He hums, then says, “Jango, who don’t you show this lovely padawan the gardens? I'm sure she would like to see them.”

“What?” Jango demands, outraged the way only a fourteen-year-old can be. “Buir, I'm not leaving—”

Jaster levels a pointed look at his son, and his mouth snaps shut. He scowls, deep and affronted, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You shouldn’t be meeting with a Jedi alone,” he says grumpily. “Myles is going to yell at you.”

“Myles will survive,” Jaster says, though it’s likely true. “Master Jedi, I hope you don’t object to speaking privately.”

“Of course not,” the Jedi says, perfectly calm, and glances down at his padawan. “Depa. Be polite.”

That is, Jaster reflects wryly, an incrediblyfamiliar tone of voice. He’s willing to bet the girl gets herself into almost as much trouble as Jango, given how practiced it sounds.

And, on cue, the girl beams up at her Master without hesitation. “I'm always polite, Master Mace,” she protests, perfectly, wickedly innocent. Mace doesn’t answer, just sighs, and Depa laughs, rising up on her tiptoes. She hauls him down, no thought given to dignity, and plants a loud, showy kiss on his cheek, then hops back two steps and turns that smile on Jango, who freezes like he was just dipped in carbonite, his eyes going wide.

She is, Jaster thinks with amusement, a very pretty girl. He wonders how quickly Jango will manage to stick his foot in his mouth this time. Within ten minutes, judging by last time. Jaster doesn’t precisely have high hopes for their interaction, but at least this isn't the daughter of a high-profile client that Jango is going to offend. The Jedi needs them, not the other way around, and given Jedi morals, he likely won't turn to the Death Watch the instant he’s insulted.

“Depa,” Mace says, a warning, but Depa ignores it, grinning at Jango and folding her hands behind her.

“I would love to see the garden,” she says cheerfully. “Jango, was it?”

“Jango Fett,” Jango says, only a little mulishly, and takes a careful step forward, like he’s worried she’s going to bite him. “It’s this way, I guess.”

He couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if he tried. Jaster rather suspects he is.

As the door slides shut behind their two witnesses, though, Jaster's amusement fades slightly, and he turns his gaze on Mace, narrow and thoughtful as he considers the man, his presence on Mandalore, the quiet, entirely understated way he arrived.

“This isn't a mission from the Jedi Order,” he says, weighing. “I might even go so far as to say they have no idea of your presence here.”

“They don’t,” Mace says bluntly. “I'm here on my own business, and acting on information the Jedi Council isn't privy to.” There's a pause, and then a rueful curve just touches one corner of his mouth. “Believe me, Mand’alor. I do not go behind the Council’s back easily. This is vital, and I'm willing to provide the funds to prove it.”

Jaster smiles, a little humorless, a little thin. He’s not fond of being played, and this sounds very much like Mace is trying. “I have plenty of credits, Master Jedi. Why should I find yours any more appealing than anyone else’s?”

Mace doesn’t hesitate this time, just raises his chin. “Because I have something that is far more valuable than credits,” he says calmly. “I can provide you with information.”

It is, Jaster will admit, a tempting prospect, but he’s still wary. “Jedi information? Access to the Archives, perhaps? If I wanted dry Jedi tomes on political law—”

“No,” Mace interrupts, flat, and takes two steps forward, until he’s right across Jaster's desk. “Far more important and immediate information. Such as the name of the traitor who will kill you. And the location of Jango Fett's older sister.”

Jaster freezes, hardly daring to breathe. Arla was gone by the time he’d made it back to the Fett homestead on Concord Dawn, and no trace of her has ever surfaced. Jaster has been looking, because Jango speaks of her endlessly, but—

“That,” he rasps, voice half-caught in his throat, “could be considered blackmail, Master Jedi.”

Mace tips his head. “Proof of my desperation,” he says, and there's no self-consciousness to it, just blunt honesty. A pause, and then he says, faintly rueful, “I’ll give you her location whether you take the job or not. The Death Watch has her.”

Jaster was afraid of that. He breathes out, slow, careful, and—the willingness to offer up half of his bargaining chips makes him more inclined to trust Mace, even if a flicker of wariness still remains. “And the job is?”

Mace doesn’t waver, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. “I want you to assassinate the senior senator from Naboo. Sheev Palpatine. He’s a Sith apprentice.”

Of all the things that Jaster was expecting, that most certainly wasn’t among them.

It takes him a long moment to scrape together a coherent response, another still to get the words right. “Apprentice,” he echoes. “Usually, an apprentice follows a master. Who is the Sith Master, then?”

“A scientist and a banker,” Mace says coolly. “Palpatine is the more dangerous target, and a better duelist. I can handle the Master, but the apprentice I would leave to someone more adept at assassinations.”

It would hardly be the first time the Mandalorians have been hired for such a thing, and Jaster is more than willing to do it. Knowing that Mace will be fighting his own battle allays some of Jaster's fears as well, and he leans on one arm of his chair, considering the man.

“A fraught mission,” he says, “on both parts. You have a plan, I assume.”

If anything, Mace looks amused at that. “The Jedi do not plan,” he says, a trace of humor in the words. “I trust the Force to see me through, however. And as I am training Depa, I will have all the time I need to see things through.”

Jedi, Jaster thinks, and doesn’t roll his eyes. Quite. “And would you care to tell me where you got this information, Master Jedi? Particularly about a traitor within the ranks of the True Mandalorians. I must admit that one surprises me.”

Mace is silent for another moment. “From the future,” he finally offers. “I traveled back with the help of a Force nexus. In the time I came from, the True Mandalorians were wiped out, and the Sith won.”

Something cold slides down Jaster's spine, and he rises slowly, comes to his feet to face the Jedi. Mace meets his eyes, holds his gaze, and—

He looks tired, Jaster thinks, calculating, considering. Tired in a bone-deep, weary way that Jaster had managed to miss before, buried as it was by his determination. Traveled back from the future, through time itself, and Jaster didn’t know such a thing was possible.

Not possible for most people, he thinks, watching Mace. And not optimal even for this one.

“Very well,” he says after a long minute of silence. “But on the condition that you stay here and provide your information throughout the mission. I won't have a Sith kill my men because you think you have better things to do.”

The relief that slides over Mace's expression is subtle, but—Jaster catches it easily. “Agreed,” he says. “We will rely on your hospitality, Mand’alor.”

“Jaster, please,” Jaster says, and moves around the end of his desk, taking Mace's arm. Muscled, he thinks, and that’s likely a good sign. Not a useless Jedi, hopefully. Not if he’s certain he can take on a Sith. “I think the use of first names is allowable now that you're my guest.”

“You have a liberal interpretation of guest,” Mace says dryly, but he doesn’t pull away as Jaster leads him out of the office, and Jaster is willing to count it as a win.

[On AO3]