Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Alor, (boss) you’ll want to see this.”

Bruce leaned forward in his throne, nodding at Dick as he took the datapad. His son stepped back, resuming his position as aran, (guard) one pace to the left and behind him, eyes scanning the room slowly. 

You could never be too certain, even in the heart of Keldabe. Kyr'tsad (Death Watch, a Mandalorian terrorist organization) attacks weren’t just commonplace, but a way of life in the capital of Mandalore. 

A dikut'la (idiotic) way of life, but hopefully not for much longer. 

Bruce took the datapad, reviewing the contents. He couldn’t help the noise of disbelief that left his mouth, garbling in his helmet’s vocoder. 

“The Jetiise (Jedi) are sending a representative?” he asked, scoffing. To his right, Jason tilted his helmet, a sure sign he was rolling his eyes. 

“The Jetiise (Jedi) are sending a representative to get shot out of the sky, you mean,” his son said, amusement lining his voice. There was a hint of bloodlust there, too, underneath the humor -- the Manda (spirit of Mandalore, kind of like the Force) sang around Jason, twisting and caressing him like a cherished son. 

Bruce smiled under his helmet, knowing his heir couldn’t feel it. Yet. 

“They are sending one," he said, nodding at the datapad, “and we wouldn’t be worth our Beskar'gam (armor made of Beskar) if one Jetii (Jedi) proved a threat to us.”

“The Republic is our enemy,” Tim said, from the foot of the throne where he was lounging, cleaning his beskad, (spear made of beskar) “In case anyone forgot.”

Steph sent him a droll look, cleaning a pair of vibroblades next to him. “Not technically."

She was right -- as much as it clearly irked Tim, who twitched his vibroblade like he was considering leaping over and tackling her. It wouldn’t be the first fight in the throne room -- and hardly the last. 

“Are they asking you to stop pillaging planets?” Duke asked, standing next to Dick, his armor also in the distinctive red of the aran. (guard)

Damian -- too young for armor, and henceforth encircled between the two arane (guards) -- scoffed, a perfect imitation of Bruce that had the Manda (spirit of Mandalore, kind of like the Force) dancing in amusement. "Buir (parent) isn’t pillaging planets! He’s saving them.”

“Oh, so you got the sophisticated propaganda,” Steph said jokingly, getting a vicious glare from Damian. 

Jason’s helmet tilted again, a stillness overtaking him that commanded attention, even Bruce’s. 

“He wouldn’t have to take them, if those shabuire (assholes) would treat their people right.”

Bruce inclined his head, silently agreeing with the point. No planet joined the Mandalorian Empire by force -- but the sudden leap into neutral space had spooked the Republic into grandstanding anyway, threatening conflict without declaring all-out war. 

They wouldn’t win, Bruce thought to himself, the Manda (spirit of Mandalore) laughing alongside him. It had been a long time since Mandalore waged war on Coruscanta, (Coruscant) but Mando'ad draar digu. (A Mandalorian never forgets.)

And neither did the Manda (spirit of Mandalore) it seemed. Bruce snorted as the handle of the Darksaber burned briefly at his side, the kad'au (lightsaber) intrigued at the thought of returning to Coruscant again, held aloft in glory. 

“I don’t like it either,” he said, calming the discussion that’d sprung up in his silence, “But an envoy in good faith is not one we will be turning away.”

“We will be watching them the entire time,” Dick vowed, Duke nodding along next to him. 

“In case it isn’t good faith," Tim muttered into his oil cloth, prompting a smile from Steph. 

Bruce turned to Jason, tilting his helmet. 

“We’ll have to dust off the ceremonial throne room.”

His son, predictably, twitched in annoyance, likely scrunching up his nose under the helmet. “I hate that room.”

“It’ll be yours one day,” Bruce said, amused as he stood from his normal, un-gaudy throne, “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even have any bloodstains on it.”

"Buir." (parent)

He laughed, removing his helmet as he walked back into the safety of the keldab, (stronghold or the interior of a building) his children trailing behind him.

Clark reviewed the briefing pad one last time as he entered Mandalorian space, sending out a brief prayer to the Force that his mando'a (Mandalorian language) wasn’t rusty. Or, as rusty as it had been when he’d opened the Mand'alor's (sole leader of Mandalore) response, stumbling over the formal prose as he’d translated for the Council. 

Spoken mando'a (Mandalorian language) was just easier. Hopefully the tower control would back up that assertion. 

He pressed a hand to his robes, smoothing them out as he watched the dashboard for the expected transmission. Sure enough, the second he crossed into the edge of Kalevala’s orbit, a light lit up, indicating a transmission. 

“Delta-7 Aethersprite, identify yourself or be shot down,” the tower said in mando'a, (Mandalorian language) brusque. 

“This is Jedi Master Clark Kent, requesting diplomatic accompaniment to Manda'yaim (Mandalore) to meet with Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) Wayne.” He replied in kind, his voice steady. 

There was a long period of silence. Clark refused to twitch, radiating calm even though he was alone in his ship. 

Eventually, the voice clicked back through. 

“Granted. Prepare for escort.”

Bruce leaned back into the unyielding back of the fancier throne, missing the other, much-used room across the palace. 

"Alor, (boss) the Jetii's (Jedi's) ship just landed.” Dick murmured in his ear, confirming what he’d already felt a few seconds before -- a shiver in the Manda, (spirit of Mandalore) something new and unpredictable. 

"Vor'e," (thanks) he said, turning to Jason, standing to his right in full armor. “Ready?”

“I don’t like this,” his son replied, the line of his shoulders tightening, “How can you be so calm?”

Bruce heard the implication under the words; how can you be so calm after Galidraan?

His hand tightened around the hilt of the Darksaber briefly, the Manda (spirit of Mandalore) twisting unhappily as his thoughts turned to the massacre that had taken both of his Buire. (parents) The Jetiise (Jedi) had admitted fault, eventually, for their part in the deadly meeting, but it hadn’t brought them back. 

Bruce and Alfred were the only survivors, save for a handful of verde. (soldiers) His father’s second in command had deferred to him, there, handing him the Darksaber after Bruce had ripped through Jetiise (Jedi) with his bare hands, inconsolable in the face of his Buire's (parents') deaths. 

At nineteen, he’d gripped the hilt in bloody hands, and taken the title they’d bestowed upon him: Mand'alor. (sole ruler of Mandalore)

His father had been a reformer; Bruce was, in his legacy, a conqueror. Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) of an Empire. 

“I have a feeling,” he said, watching Jason’s helmet tip in annoyance. “Trust the Manda. (spirit of Mandalore) It won’t lead us astray.”

There was a muffled noise from Jason’s modulator -- most likely a snort. “You’re not angry?”

He felt the Darksaber burn at his hip, a swell of heat in time with the fire in his own soul. The Manda (spirit of Mandalore) curled around him, fanning the flames in his chest. 

“I didn’t say that.”

Jason tilted his helmet, but didn’t press. The Manda (spirit of Mandalore) didn’t speak to him yet, even if it followed him everywhere. But it would, one day -- and he’d understand, then, how it felt to hold the fire of their entire people in his heart.

“Guards are bringing him in now,” Dick said softly, comm flashing on his vambrace. “Jedi Master Clark Kent, 32. Not on any of our records.”

Bruce sat back, relaxing a fraction. He’d been too young for Galidraan, then. Thank the Ka'ra. (stars) "Vor'e, (thanks) Dick. We’re ready.”

"'Lek." (Yes)

Clark’s landing on the pad in front of the royal palace was without fanfare, though he hadn’t expected any. A squadron of guards met him as he disembarked on the ramp, spears in hand. 

“The Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) will meet you now,” the front one said in accented basic, dipping his helmet slightly. “Follow us.”

Clark nodded, smoothing a hand down the front of his robes again. "Vor entye." (Thank you; Literally: I accept a debt)

He hoped he’d gotten the pronunciation right; he knew his accent was a little more Kalevalan than they’d appreciate, and had spent most of the hyperspace trip practicing a more neutral sound. 

The front guard paused, but his expression was unreadable with the helmet. The Force didn’t help much, either, muffled around the man’s head where pure beskar undoubtedly sat. 

“No debt,” he said, finally, then turned. “Follow us, please.”

He was led into the palace with little ceremony, drawing glances from the Mando'ade (Mandalorians) they passed. They approached the large broad doors of what had to be the throne room, and Clark faltered briefly. 

There was something interesting in there. The Force began to swirl in curiosity, nipping at his heels to keep moving toward it.

The guards opened the doors, stepping to the side to allow him to enter first. Clark nodded at them, taking a breath and stepping closer to the presence. 

He felt more than saw the Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) at first, still twenty paces away from the throne itself. He gasped as the sensation of being watched rolled over him, something twisting around his mind, up and down his body, evaluating him. 

The Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) himself was inscrutable in the force, something old and powerful wrapped around him as tightly as a second skin, protecting him from emitting even the muffled echoes his men did from behind beskar.

As soon as it’d reached out to him, the presence left, twisting back toward the throne. Clark shivered despite himself; it wasn’t dark necessarily, but it wasn’t very light, either. 

He bowed perfunctorily at the end of the throne room, not looking up. 

"Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) Wayne. Thank you for having me.” He said in mando'a, (Mandalorian language) releasing the deep bow. “I appreciate your safe passage to speak with you today.”

Finally, he dared to glance up. 

The Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) was in jet black armor, seated almost lazily in the throne. His visor was darker than that of any of his men, unmarked by paint. The only color was a crimson cape thrown across his shoulders -- the red of fresh blood. 

Red and black -- the colors for relentless and justice, respectively. 

Behind the throne, just to the side, a second Mandalorian stood, dressed in a darker red, accented with brown. Honor for a parent, and valor? Clark hoped he remembered that correctly. 

"Jetii," (Jedi) the Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) said, his voice soft, but overlaid in the Force -- like dozens of others were speaking at the same time. “Welcome to Keldabe.”

The tone was far from welcoming. Clark, again, hadn’t anticipated a warm welcome. He was standing in front of the famed Jedi-Killer, after all. 

"Vor Entye, Mand'alor," (Thank you, sole ruler of Mandalore) he said, twisting his hands in the sleeves of his robes so they didn’t show. “My name is Clark Kent, and I am a Master of the Jedi Order on Coruscant, and a representative of the Republic.”

There was a pause. 

“You speak Mando’a like a Kalevalan,” the Mand’alor said in basic, the words flowing smoothly, only slightly accented. Wayne had grown up traveling the galaxy, he remembered. Of course he’d speak basic as well as he spoke Mando’a. 

So much for all that practice. Clark winced internally. 

“I spent a few months on Kalevala in my youth, and picked up the language from several speakers.”

The Mand’alor made a noise, though through the vocoder, he couldn’t quite tell what it was. He was still relaxed, languid on the throne like this was a minor inconvenience, and not the meeting of two near-mortal enemies. 

Clark was surprised he’d taken the meeting at all. Then again, maybe they thought they could take a Jedi Master. 

Glancing at the lightsaber on the Mand’alor's belt, he guessed he probably could. Something in the Force warned him not to challenge the man to any kind of fight. 

Amusement poured off the Mandalorian next to the throne, slightly muffled by the beskar. The Force nudged at him, directing him to look a little closer, but Clark couldn’t figure out why. 

In basic, he began again. 

“The Republic has sent me to open communications, and perhaps a line of negotiations, should you be amenable to that.”

This time, it was definitely a snort he heard from the Mand’alor. Despite himself, he felt his cheeks heat up. 

“You’re unhappy about Geonosis, then?” the Mand’alor asked, sounding like he wouldn’t exactly be put out if Clark agreed. 

“The Republic would like to--”

“I’m not asking about The Republic, Jetii."

Clark drew up short, cheeks growing even more red. “I--I don’t, uh, exactly know enough to make an informed dec--”

“And they sent me a baby Jetii, too,” the Mand’alor muttered darkly, getting a short bark of laughter from his companion. “Have you ever negotiated with planetary leaders before?”

“Well, I--” Clark fumbled for an answer, “not necessarily planetary leaders, but some dignitaries--”

"This is an insult," the Mand’alor said to his companion in Mando’a, uncaring if Clark translated, clearly. “I should take Naboo, for such insolence.” 

Clark hoped that was an empty threat. He couldn’t be sure it was. The Haat Mando'ade (True Mandalorians; A faction Bruce belongs to) took planets like a vicious storm; in and out, crumbling empires in the blink of an eye, and cowing the planet to their heel. 

“You wouldn’t know what to do with Naboo, ” his companion replied, his voice younger. A son, maybe? Clark knew the man had several children. “And they wouldn’t know what to do with your sense of…style."

The Mand’alor grunted, turning back to Clark. “Well?”

“Um…sorry?”

“Geonosis,” the Mand’alor replied. “Is that why you’re here?” 

Clark swallowed. “Um. No? We’re just here to open, um. Friendly communications…”

He trailed off as the Mand’alor reached up, removing his helmet with a flick of the clasps. 

A handsome face stared down at him, dark hair mussed. Mand’alor Wayne had piercing blue eyes and soft looking lips -- not something he’d expected. 

“We’re not friendly?” The Mand’alor asked, with a wide grin that was more threat than not. He seemed to loom larger than life for a moment, the strange presence curled around his mind flaring with heat, reminding Clark exactly where he stood. 

He felt his cheeks redden again, this time for a different reason. 

“We could be,” he said, standing his ground and letting a hint of stubbornness into his force signature. "Alor."

Mand’alor Wayne blinked lazily down at him, eyes searching him up and down, the same way the presence had, earlier. He seemed to find what he wanted, lips quirking slightly. 

“I’ll listen to what you have to say,” he began, holding up a hand as Clark’s head lifted, "Tomorrow, Jetii. The universe does not revolve around The Republic, as much as your leaders may wish it did.”

Chagrined, Clark nodded, glancing toward the door. "Vor’e, Mand’alor."

The Mand’alor stood, his cape swirling around him.

“Leave your kad'au with my guards. They’ll show you to your rooms.”

“I will not be parted with my weapon,” Clark said immediately, “Surely you can respect that?”

He looked pointedly at their beskar, though the effect was slightly ruined by the Mand’alor’s willingness to remove his helmet. Perhaps it was an intimidation tactic. 

The Mand’alor paused, raising an eyebrow. The sensation of being watched increased, until Clark reflexively threw up his shields, unsure who would emerge victorious if it went beyond looking.

“Fine,” he said, something dangerous swirling around them in the Force, “I don’t think I need to remind you of what I’ve done to your kind,” he paused, gaze hardening, "without a weapon or armor.” 

Clark nodded. 

His sudden stiffness seemed to amuse the Mand’alor, who turned on his heel with a soft snort, heading for the door behind his throne. 

“Ret'urcye mhi, Jetii.” (Goodbye; maybe we'll see eachother again)

Clark watched the door shut, wondering if, beneath the threats and disinterest, the Mand’alor actually had a sense of humor. 

Chapter Text

The second the Jetii (Jedi) walked into the throne room, Bruce was karked. (screwed/fucked)

Jason must have seen the slight twitch to his shoulders; his helmet comms were full of laughter a moment later, thankfully shielded from their guest’s ears. 

“Quiet,” he growled, watching the Jetii slowly walk toward the throne, “I know exactly what you’re going to say, and I’ll remind you it’s entirely unnecessary.”

“He’s your karking (fucking) type,” Jason gasped, “Who knew Jetiise could be attractive?”

“Jason.”

The Jetii -- tall but slim, thick dark curls bouncing as he bowed to the Mand'alor, (sole ruler of Mandalore) revealing keen blue eyes -- was dangerous. He could tell that much without the Manda (the spirit of Mandalore; the Force) swirling around the man, whispering back to Bruce about power and kyber and heels-in-the-dirt struggles. 

“Mand’alor Wayne. Thank you for having me.” He said in Mando'a, (Mandalorian language) straightening. “I appreciate your safe passage to speak with you today.”

“And he speaks Mando’a!” Jason crowed over the internal comms, absolutely thrilled. “Say the riduurok (Mandalorian marriage vows; usually completed verbally with a partner) now, or someone else will, Buir." (parent)

Bruce ignored his terror of a child, watching the Jetii carefully, heeding the Manda’s unspoken warning. Something important was about to happen here. “ Jetii. Welcome to Keldabe.”

“Vor entye, Mand’alor,” (Thank you, sole ruler of Mandalore) the Jetii said, twisting his hands in the sleeves of his robes. Anxious, then. “My name is Clark Kent, and I am a Master of the Jedi Order on Coruscant, and a representative of the Republic.”

Bruce muted Jason’s internal comms with a flick of his HUD, the Manda dancing in amusement around the throne. 

“You speak Mando’a like a Kalevalan,” he said, switching to basic. It wasn’t an accent he usually liked hearing, but from the Jetii’s lips, it was poetry. 

Kent winced, almost imperceptibly. “I spent a few months on Kalevala in my youth, and picked up the language from several speakers.”

Dick began grumbling over the comms, clearly re-evaluating their guest -- and his records in their system. 

“Buir,” Jason said, overriding his mute breathlessly, “He even knows the culture.” 

Despite himself, Bruce made a considering noise. It was rare to see any familiarity with Mandalore in a Jetii, especially after Galidraan. How he’d gotten so close to their planet without leaving records was a mystery. 

“Ask him if he likes tiingilar,” (a spicy Mandalorian dish) Jason asked. Bruce gave him the equivalent of a warning tap through the Manda, knowing his son, like all Mando’ade, was beholden to listen. 

Below, still looking up at the dais, the Jetii cleared his throat. 

“The Republic has sent me to open communications, and perhaps a line of negotiations, should you be amenable to that.”

This time, he snorted, amused at the Republic’s transparency. “You’re unhappy about Geonosis, then?”

It was almost cute, the way Kent licked his lips, briefly stalled. “The Republic would like to--”

“I’m not asking about The Republic, Jetii.”

Kent blushed, an attractive flush that went up his cheekbones and down his neck. “I--I don’t, uh, exactly know enough to make an informed dec--”

Bruce turned to Jason, not bothering to activate the internal comms again. 

“And they sent me a baby Jetii, too,” he complained, getting a sharp laugh from Jason -- who clearly thought that was funny for dirty, non-political reasons -- before turning back to the man. “Have you ever negotiated with planetary leaders before?”

“Well, I--” the Jetii stammered, “not necessarily planetary leaders, but some dignitaries--”

“This is an insult,” he said to Jason in Mando’a, wondering if the Jetii could follow along. “I should take Naboo, for such insolence.” 

“You wouldn’t know what to do with Naboo,” Jason replied, buy'ce (helmet) tilting as he followed Bruce’s line of thinking. “And they wouldn’t know what to do with your sense of…style.”

He felt more than saw the Jetii give him another once over, smiling to himself under his helmet. So he’d understood, after all. 

“Well?” he asked, turning back to the Jetii. 

“Um…sorry?”

“Geonosis,” he replied, briefly captivated by how blue the man’s eyes were. Had he ever seen that shade of blue before? “Is that why you’re here?” 

The Jetii swallowed, watching him closely. “Um. No? We’re just here to open, um. Friendly communications…”

Bruce took the hint the Manda was practically screaming in his ear, and reached for the seals on his helmet. He pulled off the buy’ce, hearing Jason’s cut-off gasp as the internal comms shut down. 

Face to face, he let himself smile, the Manda delighted and caressing his face, trying to bring them closer. 

“We’re not friendly?” he asked, letting the implication settle between them. 

Kent went bright red, eyes widening. In the Manda, he simultaneously radiated interest and anxiety, before something steely edged into his gaze. 

“We could be,” he said. Then, with a hint of mocking: “Alor.” (Boss/Leader)

The rightness of hearing Kent call him Alor nearly sent him into the Manda, his focus threatening to leave him altogether. The flames in his chest burned higher for a moment, whispering to claim the man, the Jetii, in front of him for his own. 

He looked Kent up and down again, traveling past the unassuming robes and fencer’s build to the very essence of the Jetti, the shields around his mind and soul. Where was he hiding that edge of Mandokarla? (the right stuff; in this case, the qualities of a Mandalorian)

The Manda gave him the equivalent of a light smack, keeping him from wandering too far from this plane. He focused back on the throne room, blinking. 

“I’ll listen to what you have to say,” he held up a hand, the Manda swelling in excitement, “Tomorrow, Jetii. The world does not revolve around The Republic, as much as your leaders may wish it did.”

“Vor’e, Mand’alor.”

Ka'ra, (stars) that went straight to his dick. 

He stood before Jason had the opportunity to add something out loud, turning for the door. 

“Leave your kad'au (lightsaber) with my guards,” he said, indicating Dick with a nod, “They’ll show you to your rooms.”

“I will not be parted with my weapon,” the Jetii said, frowning. It was almost cute. “Surely you can respect that?”

The pointed look at his beskar'gam (armor) was bold, for a negotiator. He raised an eyebrow, feeling the Manda swirl around him, inquisitive. Still reaching for the damn Jetii. Still holding back, for some reason. 

“Fine,” he said, letting the edict flow into the Manda around him, knowing the Jetii could feel it, too. “I don’t think I need to remind you of what I’ve done to your kind,” he paused, gaze hardening, "without a weapon or armor.” 

He watched the Manda dance before the Jetii’s gaze, holding the image of Galidraan just out of his sight, threatening to overtake him in vision if Bruce merely said so. 

But Kent had been a child at that time. He didn’t deserve the bloodiness of those memories, even if the blood was partially on his hands. 

With an internal sigh, he let the Manda release Kent, turning on his heel. 

“Ret'urcye mhi, Jetii,” (Goodbye, Jedi. Literally: maybe we'll meet again, Jedi) he said, stepping out of the throne room with a small smile at his own wordplay.

He didn’t dare look back.

Clark was firmly, if not unkindly, shown to a diplomat’s rooms in the eastern wing of the palace, his bag retrieved from his ship and delivered alongside him. 

The rooms were not as spartan as he’d feared, full of warm-toned, utilitarian, furniture and furnishings. He set his bag down on the wide bed, heading into the refresher to wash his face. 

He was still warm at the cheeks, a low flush overtaking his skin since he’d met the Mand’alor. The strange sensation of being watched hadn’t changed, either. It was almost like the whole building was sentient. 

The Archives were woefully lacking on the powers of the rightful Mand’alor, only that their possession was rare. He was fairly certain Wayne’s father, the former Mand’alor, hadn’t had them, nor the Mand’alor before him, either. 

A wartime power, then. Fitting for a wartime Mand’alor. 

And Wayne was built for war -- there was no doubt about that. The Force around him was like the pulsing of battle drums, steady and urging, echoing beyond them, forward and backward through time. 

With just a look, he’d pinned Clark into place, power swelling around him. 

Stars, he thought, throwing cool water across his burning face. Calm down, it’s just the adrenaline. 

He lifted his head from the faucet, blinking away flashes of jet-black armor and piercing blue eyes. It wouldn’t do him good to dwell on someone so complicated -- that kind of musing almost always ended in a vision, and not the gentle kind. 

The Mand’alor seemed like the kind of person to evoke visions in others. Clark grinned weakly at that thought, wiping his face with the small towel set out on the counter. Just his luck. 

The chrono in the bedroom indicated there were a few hours left before the night cycle. Clark sat on the bed, at a loss for what to do. 

Waiting for the guards to bring latemeal seemed…tedious. He could meditate, he supposed, but that was risky in unknown territory. Especially if he was balancing on the edge of a vision. 

Open the door, the Force whispered, nudging him. Clark frowned, standing and grabbing the handle. 

The red and brown Mandalorian from before stood across the doorway, armored hand raised to knock. 

“Hello,” Clark said pleasantly, “How can I help you?”

The Mandalorian paused. His helmet tilted, considering him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, “Your face is red.”

“I was washing it,” Clark said awkwardly, “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m here to take you to latemeal,” the Mandalorian said, only a hint of untruthfulness resonating into the Force. He was a very convincing actor. “You Jetiise eat food, don’t you?”

“The guards said--”

“The guards can go kark themselves,” the Mandalorian said. Down the hall, one of the posted guards sniffed. “I can say that, because two of them are my brothers.”

“Ah,” Clark said, putting the pieces together, “You’re the alor’ad?” (heir; child of the leader/boss)

The Mandalorian reached up, undoing the seals on his helmet. A young face met his a second later, just past the cusp of adulthood. Dark hair fell in short waves past his ears, a white streak running through the front. 

“Jason,” he said, holding out a hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“Clark,” he said, shaking the man’s hand and wondering where this was going. “Likewise.” 

“So,” Jason said, bouncing slightly on his heels, “Latemeal? I hear Alfred’s making his famous tiingilar, if you know what that is.”

That did sound tempting. Clark glanced back at his lightsaber, still sitting on the bedside table. Jason followed his gaze. 

“I promise you, on the honor of Clan Wayne, that no harm will come to you at latemeal,” he said, his carefree tone dipping into something darker. “Or on the stairs back up here.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “And after that?”

“Can’t account for heartburn,” Jason said, smirking. The Force seemed amused by this, prodding at him. “Come on.”

With a nod, Clark allowed himself to be led out of the room, walking past the guards with a brief acknowledgement. 

One of them said something in rapid-fire Mando’a to Jason that he couldn’t quite catch, but which clearly amused the alor’ad.

He was so much lighter than the Mand’alor, even with the spine of beskar Clark could sense underneath the humor. Less scarred and embittered than the older man, for all it served him well. 

The scent that greeted him at the bottom of the stairs nearly sent him tumbling into another memory: the rich tang of tiingilar and the accompanying spices, slowly braised across coals. 

Jason led him through a crowded kitchen bustling with servants, guiding him toward a broad table in an empty corner of the room. 

With little ceremony, Clark was pushed into a chair, joining several helmet-less Mando'ade (Mandalorians) at the old wooden table. 

“This is Clark,” Jason said, in way of introduction, gesturing at him as he took his own seat, “Say hi, Clark.”

“Um,” he said, gazing at the group of near-identical looking boys, “Hi?”

“This is who Buir is all worked up about?” one of the younger boys asked, his accent ever so slightly Coruscanti. (from Coruscant) “He’s a Jetii.”

“Please excuse my brother, he was dropped on his head as a child,” one of the Mando’ade said, reaching across the table to shake Clark’s hand. “I’m Dick.”

“Clark,” he said, nodding at the others. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a suspicious stamping noise under the table, and the boy next to Dick grimaced, then spoke. “I’m Tim.”

“Damian,” the one who’d spoken first said, sneering at him. Upon closer inspection, he wasn’t wearing armor at all -- just some sort of thick blastweave, or woven cortosis. Maybe he was too young? 

“The rest are out on patrol or other duties,” Dick explained. “You met Duke earlier; he was the guard who brought you to the throne room.” 

“You’re both in the palace guard?” Clark asked, glancing at his red armor. The Mando’ad grinned, nodding. 

“Yep. Helps to keep a close eye on everything.”

He tried in vain to remember how many children the Mand’alor was rumored to have, and drew up short. Six? Seven?

Before he could ask another question, a platter full of tiingilar was set in the center of the table, pots of rice accompanying it. Jason murmured something to the man who’d dropped it off, too low for Clark to hear. 

“How’s your spice tolerance?” Tim asked, glancing at him warily. “We have milk…”

“I like tiingilar,” Clark insisted, not wanting to seem rude. He grabbed a fork, thanking Dick when he was served a portion. 

Jason muttered something in Mando’a he was pretty sure translated to not sure his face can get any redder, then dug into his own tiingilar with gusto. 

He realized his mistake as soon as the tiingilar hit his tongue, knowing suddenly that, of course the tiingilar in Kalevala would be milder than the real, traditional dish. Spice exploded across his taste buds, tearing the breath from his throat as he struggled not to choke. 

With a brief prayer to the Force, he swallowed, forcing a smile onto his face. 

“Nice,” he said, proud when his voice didn’t shake, “I haven’t had tiingilar in years.”

Damian looked mildly disappointed by his non-reaction. Jason just shook his head, exchanging a glance with Dick. 

They ate in somewhat companionable silence, the kitchen bustling behind them in the distance, uncaring of their presence. Clark answered various questions about the Jedi and his life as the Mandalorians got his measure, slowly building trust. 

It was almost like any other diplomatic mission, and for that, he was grateful. Children were children, regardless of the planet.  

“Can you use the Manda?” Damian asked, finally warming up to him after Clark had described the lower levels of Coruscant, and all the trouble he’d gotten into as a padawan in them. “Like Buir does?”

Manda?

Tim, catching his questioning glance, interjected: “He means the Force. We call it the Manda.”

Clark opened his mouth, then shut it. So that’s what he’d felt in the throne room. The Manda. 

“Probably not in the same way,” he said slowly, thinking of the way the heat had gathered around the Mand’alor, slow-beating drums and the fire of a thousand suns, imbued into his very essence. “Jedi can touch the Force--the Manda --but we use it very differently.”

He held a hand out, lifting Damian’s empty plate into the air with a gesture. The boy looked awed, watching the spinning plate with wide eyes. 

“Jetii.” a voice growled behind them. 

Clark flinched, dropping the plate as his concentration slipped. He stood immediately as the shards bounced across the kitchen floor, coming face to face with the Mand’alor. 

Wayne stood in the doorway of the kitchen, helmet off. His expression was murderous.

This close, Clark didn’t have to imagine the waves of danger and get away coming off of him in the Force -- he could practically taste the Mand’alor’s fury, hotter than the tiingilar. 

“Mand’alor,” he said, bowing shallowly, “I was just--”

He faltered, pressing a hand to his head as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Stars, the trip must have been getting to him. 

“I--”

This time, the blurred vision sent him to his knees, his head exploding in light and pain. Little Gods, this one hurt. He bit down before he could scream, tasting blood. 

Distantly, he felt armored arms wrap around him, catching him before he hit the floor, and let the vision overtake him. 

Chapter Text

Bruce was late for latemeal. 

Unfortunately, Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) Wayne was still on a holo call, and he stayed silent as the clan leaders spoke over one another, sending Alfred a brief apology over his HUD. 

He liked Alfred’s tiingilar (spicy Mandalorian dish). It was one of the few dishes from his childhood he could still bear to eat, since his lieutenant had always been the one making it -- not his Buire. (parents)

The thought of eating uj'alayi (spicy Mandalorian cake) cake still made him want to seize up, even this many years later. His Buire made it together, dancing around each other in the kitchen as they cooked -- far from Mand’alor and Ori'ramikad, (supercommando, or Mandalorian special forces) simply existing as Riduure. (spouses)

The memories were still painful. The Manda (spirit of Mandalore; the Force) poked at him when he drifted too far, reminding him to keep his mind on his people -- the ones still alive and in front of him. 

The call ended an hour after latemeal, closing on a tentative agreement to redistribute forces in the south of the planet. Bruce shut off the holo transmission, removing his helmet with a sigh. 

He missed his children. Skipping latemeal wasn’t something he did often, not unless he had to. Maybe, if he ran down to the kitchens, he’d catch them all before they went their separate ways for the night. 

The sight of the Mand’alor sans helmet and sprinting down the halls had long since become commonplace to the palace staff. A few nodded as he flew past, clasping a fist to their chests with a brief, if not fond, Alor. (boss/leader)

He entered the kitchen -- still smelling of tiingilar -- just as the Jetii levitated Damian’s plate, hand outstretched toward his son, smiling. 

The sudden lurch of fear froze him in the doorway, a flare of overprotectiveness giving way to anger in the Manda.

How dare that Jetii use his tricks near his children, after Galidraan. How dare he put them at risk--

“Jetii,” he growled, feeling the Manda overlay his words, imbuing them with power. Kent was Mandokarla (the right stuff; the qualities of being a Mandalorian, in this case) enough -- he’d have to listen. 

Kent flinched, the dish falling to the floor and shattering. He spun around, white as a sheet, and bowed. 

“Mand’alor,” he said in basic, “I was just--”

The Manda laughed in his ear, and Kent’s eyes glazed over. The Jetii put a hand to his head, like he was dizzy, swaying slightly. 

“I--”

Bruce watched the vision approach from the Manda, unable to interfere as it threaded around the Jetii. It was his anger that had sparked it, though he hadn’t intended to inflict it upon his guest. Little Gods, but these powers were strange, sometimes. 

Kent went to his knees, gripping his head with a low moan. 

Bruce stepped forward just as the Jetii pitched toward the floor, catching him before he could slam his face into the tile. 

With a sigh, he pulled the Jetii into his arms, watching as the vision took him completely under.  

"Kark." (fuck)

Silence overtook their corner of the kitchen. 

“You broke the Jetii,” Jason accused in Mando'a (Mandalorian language), looking mildly offended, “I promised him he’d be fine if he came to latemeal!”

Bruce looked down at the Jetii in his arms, eyes moving sightlessly, chest rising and falling as the vision continued. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, and knew it was the truth. He’d meant to warn the Jetii, maybe scare him off from his children. But not a vision -- he knew from his own experience how painful they could be. “He…”

Kent hadn’t done anything wrong, but Bruce’s overreaction would cost him, nonetheless. It had been a parlor trick -- lifting a plate in the air -- nothing more. 

He pressed a hand to the Jetii’s forehead, stealing a glimpse of the vision that had enveloped him. Like he’d guessed, it was the snowy backdrop of Galidraan, splattered with the first drops of blood. 

Kent moaned in his arms, and Bruce felt a brief flash of sympathy. There would be more blood in that vision. The whole memory was red-tinted to him -- soaked with blood. 

The Manda seemed torn, blanketing them anxiously. It seemed like the vision of Galidraan had been inevitable for the Jetii -- maybe even since he’d stepped foot on Manda'yaim (Mandalore) -- and he’d clearly been pushing it off. 

Blood began to leak from the Jetii’s nose, and Bruce sighed. The longer you held off a vision, the worse the side effects would be.    

“Call the Baar'ur, (medic) tell them I’m bringing the Jetii to the medbay,” he said, standing and gripping Kent’s body against his chest. He clipped his helmet to his belt, shifting both hands to the Jetii. “Have them hang fluids and anti-nausea packs.”

“‘Lek,” Dick said, already tapping at his comm. “Do you need help?”

Bruce was already at the stairs, shaking his head. “He’s light.”

“Yeah, he looks kinda thin,” Damian said. A smack rang out behind him, most likely Tim. "Me'copaani?" (What/what do you want?)

“Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?” (You want a smack to the head, brother?)

"Nayc." (No)

Clark opened his eyes in the middle of a battlefield. 

Around him, Mandalorians in Beskar'gam (armor) fought forward, blasters and beskad'e (spears) brought up against the distinctive glow of lightsabers. Behind them, the dead and dying were piled in the snow, blood soaking the frozen earth. 

He knew exactly where he was -- the snowy peaks were unmistakable: Galidraan. 

The vision wrapped around him, bringing him toward the front. He followed the shouts of Mando’a and blasterfire, anticipation curling in his gut. 

Watch, the Force instructed, Watch them. 

Clark didn’t bother to look at the Jedi, knowing, somehow, they weren’t important. They’d had their own losses on Galidraan -- painful ones -- but this wasn’t the Jedi’s story. Not really. 

In the middle of the melee, he spotted an armored Mando’ad who had to be the Mand’alor’s father, a Mand’alor in his own right. He was fighting a pair of Jedi with the distinctive hilt of the Darksaber, the blade buzzing against the wintry air. The plasma sparked where it met the kyber of the Jedi’s lightsabers, sending shockwaves through the Force. 

At his back, a woman in beskar’gam fought with twin blasters, picking off any Jedi who tried to get close to the Mand’alor. She shouted orders into her wrist comm, directing the rest of the Haat Mando'ade (True Mandalorians; the faction the Waynes belong to) around them. 

Wayne’s mother, most likely, if he was remembering his history lessons well enough. Which meant Wayne -- Bruce -- was close by. 

The Force nudged him, and he turned to find Wayne in blue and silver armor, his helmet missing, blood dripping down his face as he stumbled toward his Buire. 

Clark felt a wave of sorrow. The future Mand’alor was young -- barely 19, if the Archives were correct -- and painfully reminiscent of Jason, with long limbs, dark hair, and dark eyes. 

He had a beskad clutched between his gauntlets, blasters missing from his holsters. The beskad was clearly borrowed -- it was far too short for Wayne, and covered in bloody handprints. 

“Buir!” Wayne shouted, ducking a lightsaber. “Buir!”

The Mandalorians around them were steadily succumbing to the Jedi, taking what few they could with them. Soon, the Waynes were some of the few left standing, Wayne -- Bruce -- desperately fending off a Jedi with just his beskad. 

Galidraan had been a massacre for several reasons, but the Jedi strike team the Republic had sent was one of the largest; they’d been prepared for an enemy army, not a band of supercommandos. 

Death Watch -- Kyr’tsad, Clark remembered -- had set up the Haat Mando’ade, knowing the Republic would show no mercy to alleged murderers on system soil. The false reports hadn’t been discovered for months afterward, and by then…

By then, nearly every Haat Mando’ad who’d been on Galidraan was dead. And Mandalore had fallen into a reunification at the hands of their youngest Mand’alor that had launched an Empire. 

Clark watched as one of the Jedi darted past the Mand’alor’s guard, catching him deep in the gut with his lightsaber. The woman fighting with him -- Wayne’s mother -- picked off the Jedi with a double headshot, but it was too late. 

She dove for her husband’s body in the snow, snarling at the Jedi above her. Darksaber in hand, she rose up with a grief-stricken noise, pushing the Jedi back several feet with a vicious strike. 

By the time Bruce fought to his mother’s side, she was down in the snow, armor cracked down the middle, a hole burning in her chest. The Jedi took the Darksaber, not sparing her a glance as he returned to the battle. 

The noise the future Mand’alor made was inhuman, shattered with grief. He fell to his knees beside his Buire, checking for their pulses. Clark knew he’d find none, and the thought had his throat burning. 

The sound of blasterfire, closer this time, seemed to shake him from his reverie. 

Wayne bared his teeth, gripped his beskad, and dove for the nearest Jedi with deadly grace. He caught their parry and forced them back, just like his mother had, spinning the beskad in a flurry of blows that rained down on the Jedi. 

It was an act of desperation. Pure, unadulterated grief and rage flowed through him; Clark was shocked it didn’t overtake the boy entirely. 

Three more Jedi approached, searching for survivors among the crumpled bodies. 

Wayne lost his beskad in the ensuing clash. He caught himself on one knee, plunging a bare hand directly into the snow to balance. His chest was heaving. 

“Surrender, child,” the Jedi warned him, lightsaber inches from Wayne’s face. 

Wayne spat blood into the snow, glaring up at the Jedi. “Nayc.”

“Very well.”

The Force shivered, a warning about something significant to come. Clark heard the beginning of the Mand’alor’s war drums in the distance, faint. 

Wayne launched himself at the Jedi, weaponless. He wove around the Master’s guard, kicking out his knees and putting him in a headlock almost faster than Clark could see. 

The Jedi’s lightsaber fell from his hands, powering off.

With a crack, Wayne broke the Jedi’s neck, letting his body drop to the snow. The Force ached, pulsing briefly at the act of pure violence from such a treasured child. 

Clark watched in horror as five more Jedi approached the future Mand’alor. He’d known Wayne had killed six with his bare hands -- but it was vicious to see in person. Absolutely vicious. 

Wayne was more animal than man as he attacked the newcomers, blood dripping from his face and hands. He tore through them, using their shock to his advantage. He darted around their lightsabers, reached past their guards, and twisted.

Jedi rarely trained in close-quarter, hand-to-hand combat, and it was their downfall. There were six bodies in the snow soon after, one so twisted, the head had separated from the spine entirely. 

Wayne stood over them, face blank. His chest was heaving from the exertion, releasing gasps of hot breath into the frigid air. 

The battlefield thinned out, the remaining verde (soldiers) fighting for their lives. Even with Wayne’s kills, they were losing. Badly.  

A sole Mandalorian circled back on a jetpack to join Wayne, the Darksaber hilt in his hand, soaked in blood. 

He landed with the other fist against his chest, bowing his head. 

“Alor.”

Wayne flinched at that title, closing his eyes. When the Mando’ad held up the hilt, his entire body shuddered, grief leaking from his Force presence. 

“Alfred--”

The Mando’ad shook his head, answering whatever unspoken protestation Wayne had been about to voice. “It’s yours, Bruce.”

“It doesn’t belong to me,” Wayne said in clipped Mando’a, gritting his teeth. Anger poured into the Force -- anger, and the distinct undercurrent of shame. “Take it, and fight for our people, Alfred.”

Even Clark could feel the way the Darksaber pulled to him, aching for a worthy wielder. He bit his lip, watching with renewed sympathy for the Mand’alor. He’d lost so much, only for the Darksaber to be thrust upon him. 

And he was so young--

“It calls for you,” the Mando’ad -- Alfred -- said, his words ringing with rightness in the Force. “It calls for the rightful Mand’alor.” 

He held out the hilt again. Wayne took a deep breath, tears shining in his eyes. 

"Vor'e," (Thank you) he said, reaching for the Darksaber. “I--”

The second his hands closed around the hilt, Wayne moaned, falling to his knees in the snow. His eyes clenched shut, his hand tightening around the hilt despite the pain. 

The Darksaber began to hum in the Force, the far-off battle drums from before increasing in tempo, pounding in fury and righteous anger, vowing bloodshed. 

He watched in amazement as the presence he’d felt in the throne room -- the Manda -- settled around Wayne’s mind, encircling it in the heat and fire of a thousand souls. 

It was the souls of the Mando’ade, he realized belatedly, tracing the phantom lines from their Mand’alor outward, to the verde still on the field, and those farther away. 

The Mando’ad -- Alfred -- hovered near Wayne, watching him anxiously. He hadn’t interfered, somehow knowing not to touch the boy. 

The last thread slipped into place, locking the Manda around Wayne’s heart, mind and soul. The spirit settled into the heat, curled protectively around its Mand’alor. 

With renewed grace, Wayne stood slowly, the Darksaber at his side. He opened his eyes -- now the piercing blue Clark remembered from their first meeting -- and turned to his companion. 

The Mando’ad brought a fist to his chest, inclining his head. 

“Alor.”

Wayne smiled, but didn’t respond. He turned to the battlefield, reaching out through the Manda to his people. His Mando’ade. 

The Mand’alor raised the Darksaber, rallying the nearby verde with a cry that rang out across the battlefield. 

“Oya!”

Clark felt the vision begin to slip from his grasp. For a moment, he fought it, refusing to let himself be pulled back toward the future. He wanted to stay in the vision, to see what Wayne did next -- 

“Jetii.” 

Wayne -- his Mand’alor, years older, in his jet-black armor -- appeared in front of him, buy’ce tilted. The Manda was curled around his mind, fond and softer, somehow, than in this vision. 

“Time to come back, Jetii,” he said, inscrutable in the Force, “Wake up.”

With a snap, Clark fell towards awareness.

Chapter Text

Bruce stepped into the medbay, shifting the Jetii into one arm so he could hold up a hand, already anticipating the attack. 

“Now, look, he was going to--”

"K'uur," (hush/be quiet) Baar'ur (medic) Thompkins said, cutting him off with a look that made him feel all of eleven again. She pointed at the nearest cot. “Put him down there, and let me see what you’ve done now, you dikut." (idiot)

“I didn’t--”

“Ne’johaa!” (Shut up!) she said, grabbing a pair of gloves as he set the Jetii (Jetdi) down. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Because you already heard it from Jason?” Bruce asked, defeated. He stepped back, letting the baar’ur approach the Jetii. 

“No, because I can recognize your particular brand of osik (shit/bullshit) from a mile away,” she said, running a scanner along Kent’s prone form. “And because Dick told me, while you were on your way up.”

Bruce sighed, looking at his feet. Betrayed by his own children, yet again. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said, softer this time. Leslie shrugged, still scanning Kent. “The vision was hovering over him in the Manda (Spirit of Mandalore; the Force) since he touched down on Manda'yaim. (Mandalore) I don’t think I could have stopped it if I tried.”

The scanner beeped, and Leslie shook her head, setting it down. 

“Take your armor off if you’re going to stay,” she said, glancing at him as she opened up the IV kit, “You know the rules.”

Bruce glanced down at his armor, momentarily stunned into silence. Was he staying? 

It was partially his fault, after all, that Kent was in the medbay at all. Perhaps, if he hadn’t pushed so much of his anger into the Manda, seeing the Jetii so close to his children, the vision would have come later -- maybe in the man’s sleep, where it would hurt less. 

Then again, sometimes visions just happened, comfort and ease be damned. He at least owed it to Kent to be there when he woke, and apologize. 

With a shrug, he began undoing the clasps on his armor, setting the pieces on the rack Leslie kept by the door. When he was done, he drifted back to the cot, looking over the baar’ur’s shoulder as she completed another scan. 

“Kryptonian,” Leslie said, frowning at her scanner, “You don’t see that every day.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Kryptonian?”

“His blood came back as a 99.9% match,” Leslie said, pulling a bag of fluids closer so she could hook it up to the line, “Something interesting for you to talk about when he wakes up.”

Bruce didn’t appreciate the heavy-handed suggestion. The baar’ur snorted when she saw his expression. 

“I need someone to monitor him, and you’re the only ka'ra- damned fool around here who can hear the Manda,” Leslie said, then looked thoughtful. “Except for this poor aruetii. (foreigner/outsider) Could be useful to keep him around in case you have another…episode."

“Yes, thank you Leslie,” Bruce said, waving her off, “I’ll watch the Jetii.”

The baar’ur laughed, heading toward the other end of the medbay where the private rooms were. Silence fell over the main bay, broken only by the soft grunts of pain Kent made. 

Kryptonian. 

Leslie had been right -- you didn’t see that every day. But now that he was looking, the telltale dark hair and deep blue eyes were apparent. Only a Kryptonian would have that coloring, and the ever so slight sheen of silver running through both, only visible under careful examination. 

Krypton had imploded nearly thirty years ago. For Kent to have survived, when so few of his people had managed to escape the planet…

A pang of sadness rolled through the Manda, for once not his own. Bruce shook his head, taking a seat next to the Jetii. 

Kent groaned, his nose beginning to bleed again. The Manda poked at him, fluttering with worry. 

Bruce laid a hand across Kent’s forehead, frowning. Oh, he thought, seeing the end of the vision approach, he’s fighting it. 

The Manda, for whatever reason, didn’t want Kent to see past his claim on the Darksaber on Galidraan. Perhaps it was simply sparing him more bloodshed, or additional deaths of his fellow Jetiise.

“Time to come back, Jetii,” he said, a thread of command in his voice, “Wake up.”

Kent moaned again, twisting against his hold. The vision snapped, and blue eyes blinked open beneath his hand, wide and dazed.

Clark opened his eyes to find the Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) hovering above him. 

“Alor,” (boss/leader) he gasped, struggling to sit up. He was lying on a cot, and -- where the hell was he? “I am so, so sorry. Ni ceta--" (I'm sorry; literally, "I kneel")

"K’urr,” the Mand’alor said, expressionless. He was more inscrutable in the Force than usual, and Clark wished he could know what he was thinking. “I don’t need your apologies, Jetii."

He was an entirely different person from the young Mand’alor Clark had seen in his vision, blood-soaked and vibrating with the fury of his people, the Manda. Oh, that anger was still there -- but Wayne hid it well. 

“I’m sorry, anyway,” Clark said, speaking both to the Mand’alor and the young man he’d seen. 

He felt a tug on his arm, and found an IV in the crook of his elbow. Huh. 

“I shouldn’t have gone near your children without your permission. I’d kneel, but,” he bit his lip, “I think I would pass out again if I tried right away.”

Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his seat. He wasn’t wearing his armor -- when had that happened? -- just the kute (flight suit/under armor suit) most Mandalorians wore under their beskar'gam. (armor made of beskar) 

“You don’t have to kneel.”

“Um. Okay,” Clark said, nodding along for the sake of pretending to understand, “In five minutes?”

The Mand’alor opened his eyes, and Clark felt his breath leave him in a soft gasp. Stars, but that gaze was otherworldly. 

“You didn’t mention you were Kryptonian.”

This time, Clark managed to sit up fully, resisting the full body flinch the mention of his home planet usually caused. 

“It wasn’t relevant to the negotiations,” he said, letting his tone go cold, freezing around his Force presence. "Alor."

Wayne raised a brow, but didn’t comment on the sudden tension between them. With a sigh, he pushed to his feet, turning to grab something from a nearby cart. 

Clark stared at the wipe the Mand’alor held out to him, dumbfounded. 

“For your face,” Wayne said, “Your nose started bleeding when I carried you here.”

With that, the Mand’alor headed for the door, grabbing a stack of armor from a stand near the exit as he left. His armor. Why had he taken it off?

“Good! You’re awake.”

Clark turned, coming face to face with an older woman in scrubs. She had a weathered face, littered almost equally with smile and frown lines. 

“I think I’m still dreaming,” he said, glancing back at the door the Mand’alor left through. “He -- the Mand’alor -- carried me here?”

“Uh huh,” the woman said, untwisting his IV lines with a practiced hand, “Real softie, that one. Did the same thing for Jason when he had the Alderaanian flu a few years ago,” she tapped at the IV, “Poor kid couldn’t stop coughing.”

“That sounds awful,” Clark said vaguely, still trying to process everything she’d said before that. 

“'Lek, (yeah; shortened form of yes) and the dikut slept on the same cot with him all night, just to make sure he kept breathing,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “Buire, (parents) am I right?”

“...Yeah.”

“Well, you probably never had to deal with that nasty strain,” she said, “Kryptonians are immune to Alderaanian flu, aren’t they?”

Clark couldn't suppress the flinch this time. He steeled his expression, praying he wasn’t hooked up to a heart monitor. 

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it--

“I’m sorry -- who are you?” he asked, not unkindly. “I’m Clark, the rep--”

“Yeah, yeah,” the woman waved a hand, cutting him off. “I know who you are. The whole palace does, hotshot. I’m Baar’ur Thompkins.”

“Vor entye," (thank you) he said, for lack of a better thing to say. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Not any trouble,” the baar’ur said, clapping her hands together. “Now! Let’s do an exam.”

Clark eyed the door, and then got the sudden impression that Thompkins would tackle him if he tried to make a run for it. Plus, he was still hooked up to…an alarming number of wires and tubes. 

“Kark.” (fuck)

The baar’ur cackled. 

“That’s the spirit!”

Bruce entered his study to find the entirety of his children -- minus Cass, who was on a scouting mission -- assembled in front of his desk, waiting patiently. 

Or, as patiently as a group of Mandalorians could be in each other’s company for an extended period of time. He suspected there’d already been a mild brawl, judging by the looks Damian and Tim were giving each other. 

“Me'copaani?” (What do you want?) he asked, already knowing the answer. He sat behind the desk, setting his helmet on the polished top. “I know it’s not a sitrep, since Leslie was awfully chatty earlier.”

Dick had the good graces to look mildly apologetic. Jason, true to form, didn’t. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to kriff him or kill him,” his son said, shrugging, “Getting Leslie involved was insurance.”

“What, you thought I was going to toss him out the window on the way to the medbay?” Bruce asked, leaning back and pinching his nose. “Don’t answer that. Kriff.”

“You don’t like Jetiise, ” Damian said, matter-of-fact, “the ori'ramikade (supercommandos) at the tavern talk about what you did to them, on Galidraan. They said--”

“Jare'la (stupid; asking for it) bastards with too much tihaar (strong, clear Mandalorian spirit) for their own good,” Alfred said by way of entrance, standing in the doorway of the study with his helmet under his arm, “And too much time, if they’re gossiping about their Mand’alor."

Bruce felt a pang of relief at the appearance of his oldest friend, feeling the Manda wrap around Alfred in welcome. 

“The Jetii is fine,” he said, getting back to their earlier topic, “he had a vision -- nayc, I won’t tell you what it was, Damian -- and Leslie is monitoring him in the medbay.”

Duke looked placated by this knowledge, shoving his helmet back on with a brief handsign at Dick. Bat’balut. (patrol; I'm patrolling)

“Can we see him?” Tim asked. Bruce sighed, exchanging a look with Alfred. 

“I don’t want you around the Jetii," he said, getting a series of dismayed expressions in return, “Not until I know what he wants -- what his Republic wants.”

“You’re afraid,” Jason baited, close to a sneer. “You’re afraid of them, aren’t you?”

The Manda was like a brand around his throat, choking him with memories. Bruce fought to keep his mind in the present, meeting his son’s accusation with tempered fury. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, softly, watching the fire leave Jason’s eyes, “Call me a hut'unn; (coward) it will not change my mind.”

They hadn’t been on Galidraan -- they didn’t know what it felt like to lose everything, to kneel in the snow and ache with every verd (soldier) marching away (Mandalorian saying for someone who's died; they're not gone, they're "marching away") next to him, to win even if it meant nothing--

Dick cleared his throat -- even tempered, cool-flowing Dick, forever Jason’s balance in the Manda, ever since they’d been young -- and lifted his helmet. 

“See you at firstmeal,” he said to Jason, then nodded at Bruce, "Alor."

Alfred stepped to the side, allowing him to pass. When Dick had left, he took off his own helmet, stepping into the room. 

Bruce looked at his remaining children, who took the cue and headed out after their brother. The Manda poked at him unhappily, and he put his head in his hands, wincing as his temples throbbed. 

“I’ll have a word with the bartender at that tavern,” Alfred said quietly, taking a seat in front of him. “Damian knows better than to spend time with the ori’ramikade there. He’s too young.”

“Galidraan isn’t a secret,” Bruce said, wishing it could be, “When he completes his verd'goten, (Mandalorian coming of age trial; usually completed at 13) he’ll be able to access any pads in the archives he wants on it.”

Alfred nodded, pausing. “And the Jetii?”

“Recuperating with Leslie,” Bruce said, looking up from his hands, “He saw more of it than I’d like.”

“What do they always say on Coruscant?” his lieutenant asked, thoughtful, “It’s ‘the will of the Force’?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Not helpful.”

“Will of the Force, will of the Manda -- same thing, essentially…”

“The Manda is telling me to take a nap,” Bruce lied, watching a smile crook across Alfred’s scarred face, “And for you to leave your poor Alor alone.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what it’s saying,” Alfred said, mock-serious, “Who am I to usurp the will of the Manda?” 

Who indeed, Bruce mused. He ran a hand through his hair, considering. “I’m guessing you didn’t just come by to say hello?”

Alfred’s face hardened. “No. We have some new intelligence on Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a Mandalorian terrorist faction) you’ll need eyes on. That splinter sub-faction near the border.”

Bruce accepted the datapad his lieutenant produced, sighing. 

Chapter Text

Clark left the medbay with a reminder from Leslie to “avoid that dikut (idiot) of a Mand'alor" (sole ruler of Mandalore) as much as possible, and a clean bill of health. 

Overall, it was still a better experience than his last time in the Halls of Healing. Even if the baar'ur (medic) had threatened him several times. 

He returned to his rooms, collapsing into the wide bed as soon as the door shut behind him. Stars, but he was tired. 

The meeting with the Mand’alor was in less than six hours. Clark didn’t have to convince himself how much was riding on it -- even the Force was swirling in anticipation, a shatterpoint forming at the heart of Keldabe before his very eyes. 

Wayne was important -- no, Wayne was crucial. And something tomorrow would set them on a course that could change everything. 

Clark groaned as the Force pulsed, abandoning that train of thought before he sent himself into another vision. It was just his luck that the Council had sent him to one of the most important nexuses in the galaxy.

He woke with his face pressed deep into one of the pillows, drooling slightly. Sun was shining through the windows, brightening the room. 

With a start, he sat up and checked his chrono, sighing with relief when he saw the time. 

Twenty minutes until the meeting. He had time. 

Fifteen minutes later, he opened his door with wet hair and clean robes, nodding at the guard members on either side. 

“I’m ready.”

The two Mando'ade (Mandalorians) exchanged a look.  

“Come with us.”

He was shown into an office, not the throne room from before, and faltered briefly at the threshold. 

“Come in,” Mand’alor Wayne said, not looking up from a datapad. He was seated at the desk, helmet on the floor next to him. “Have a seat.”

Clark nodded at the guards as they closed the door, taking up posts outside. He sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes. 

Wayne was wearing reading glasses, adjusting them as he peered at something on one of the pads. The overall effect was actually kind of charming -- for a moment, he could have been any researcher in the archives, exhausted and in dire need of a good meal and a nap. 

But he was undeniably Mandalorian, still. The beskar'gam (armor made of beskar) he wore, and the weapons littering it, proved a strange juxtaposition to the delicate pair of glasses perched on his nose. It softened the Mand’alor, like the visit in the medbay had. 

Clark kept those thoughts to himself, feeling the tips of his ears begin to burn. 

The Mand’alor finished with the pad, setting it aside and removing the glasses. Those piercing blue eyes settled on Clark, looking him up and down. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, an olive branch hiding somewhere in that gruff tone. Clark nodded. 

"Elek, Alor." (Yes, sir)

"Jate," (good) Wayne said, leaning back in his chair. There were dark circles under his eyes, and, if Clark could see his Force signature, he’d guess the man hadn’t slept. “Let’s hear it.”

The Jetii flushed, clearly unused to the blunt negotiating style of Mandalore. Bruce had to give him credit, though -- Kent sat up, took a breath, and managed to launch right into it. 

“The Republic sent me as an…ambassador of sorts,” he said, hesitating as Bruce frowned at that. “If you accept the position, of course.”

“The Republic is not at war with Manda'yaim," (Mandalore) he noted, interrupting the Jetii. (Jedi) “And you acknowledged yourself that you are not the Council’s most… seasoned …negotiator.”

Kent’s eyes narrowed, and Bruce knew he’d landed a hit. “You think my being sent here is a ruse.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bruce parried, tilting his head. The Manda (spirit of Mandalore; the Force) swirled around the room in anticipation, “Why? Having doubts already?”

“I think the Republic and Mandalore have a lot to learn from each other,” Kent said sagely, face impassive, "Alor." (boss/leader)

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You mean the Republic has a lot to learn about my troop movements.”

“I am not a spy,” Kent said, a hint of beskar edging into his tone, “I won’t report back anything you haven’t approved. They know that.”

“So why come at all?” Bruce asked, crossing his arms. “If your Council thinks I’ll stop taking planets because I have a Jetii chiding me, they’re mistaken.”

“I know that,” Kent said, and for a moment, he could see the snow of Galidraan again, and knew the Jetii was thinking about it too. “The Republic is… unsettled by your recent acquisitions. I won’t lie.”

“That much was clear,” Bruce said, lips twisting into a bitter smile, “They don’t approve of the freeing of slaves, do they?”

“The Jedi order does,” Kent bit back, crossing his arms to match. “But even we can recognize forward motion.”

Bruce snorted. “I have no interest in Coruscanta," (Coruscant) he said, amused. The Darksaber burned briefly at his hip, belying that thought. “And if I did, as I said, one Jetii would hardly change my mind.”

“Can I speak plainly, Mand’alor?" Kent asked, switching tactics. Bruce waved a hand, allowing it. “Mandalore is a wild card. I suspect the Republic doesn’t know how to quantify you, or your people.”

Openly smiling now, Bruce uncrossed his arms, leaning forward. “So this is a cultural exchange, then?” he asked, voice evening out into a purr. “You want to understand me?”

Kent, taking the innuendo at face value, blushed bright red. In the Manda, he radiated the same confusion-attraction-denial he had the other day in the throne room. 

“I--I do.”

The Manda laughed at him, delighted they’d come so close again. The sourness of anticipation -- present since Kent had arrived -- was pushed aside, and he could only feel truth in the Jetii’s words. 

Mind made up, he stood. Kent scrambled to his feet, joining him. 

“This will be an even exchange,” he said, grabbing his buy'ce (helmet) off the table. Something in his gut was telling him he’d need it, soon. “You’ll swear the Resol'nare (Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life: wearing armor, speaking the language, defending oneself and family, raising your children as Mandalorians, contributing to the clan's welfare, and when called upon by the Mand'alor, rallying to their cause) and live by it, as long as you’re here.”

Kent hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

“Your communications will be monitored. You will not have access to any sensitive military information.”

“Agreed.”

“You will not use the Force near my children. You will not spend time with my children unless necessary, or with my permission.”

Kent nodded again, sobering. "Ori'haat," (I swear/it's the truth) he said, with a seriousness that surprised Bruce. “I swear, Mand’alor.”

“Jate." He glanced at the door, feeling his stomach twist. “Get back to your rooms.”

“What? Why?” Kent followed his gaze, frowning, “Is something wrong?”

“We’re about to be attacked,” Bruce said, putting his helmet on. He activated his comms. “Dick, dinkar'tay." (sitrep/status)

“Nothing on the scanners, Alor. Should we lockdown?”

Military intelligence was used to his feelings on Kyr'tsad, (a terrorist faction of Mandalorians) and gladly used any headstart he could give them. "Elek. (Yes) Send out a few squads, I want eyes in the air.”

Kent was still standing at his elbow when he turned around, looking for spare blaster charges. 

“Can I help?”

“You can get out of the way,” Bruce said, grabbing the charges and staring pointedly at the way he was blocking the doorway. Kent flushed again, stepping aside. 

“I won’t stand by when innocents are attacked,” he vowed, a hand on his lightsaber. Bruce ignored him, heading down the hallway for the war room. 

“So we’re innocents, now?” he asked mildly, pressing a silent question into the Manda. The answer had him gritting his teeth. Soon. 

“You know what I mean,” Kent said, sounding annoyed as he hurried alongside him. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Join the club,” Bruce said, ducking into the war room, not bothering to hold the door for the Jetii. “Dick?”

“Squads are downtown and at the edge of Keldabe,” his oldest said, standing in front of a holoscreen of the city. “Nothing yet.”

“You’re not worried about the palace?” Kent asked, moving to view the screen. 

“We’re locked down tight here,” Dick replied, looking briefly confused by the Jetii’s presence. With a tilt of Bruce’s helmet, he let it go. "Kyr’tsad would have to be some gett’se shabuire (crazy bastards) to attack us.”

"Death Watch,” Kent breathed, turning to Bruce in shock. “I thought they were extinct?”

“Outdated intelligence is yet another reason you shouldn’t be in here,” he said, shrugging off the concern he could feel from Kent in the Manda. “Go meditate, or whatever you Jetii do when you’re being unhelpful.”

Kent didn’t take his cue, hackles rising. He squared his shoulders. “I’m not leaving.”

Bruce turned to him, his patience gone. He moved to press a hand to Kent’s chest, snarling.

"Nayc, (no) you--”

The second his hand made contact, the air around them exploded.

Debris rained down on his helmet, and it took a moment for him to focus beyond the pain in his side.  

Dick. Kent…

“Get up,” the Jetii was above him suddenly, reaching a hand down, “We need to--”

Bruce didn’t hear the end of that sentence as another explosion rocked the complex, ears ringing. He put a hand underneath himself, pressing into the earth until the Manda loaned him a bit of strength. 

He stood shakily, watching Kent do the same to his left. 

Dick was lying on the floor in front of the holoscreen, bleeding sluggishly from a wound to his temple. Bruce was at his side in an instant, running a hand over the injury in distant concern. 

Alive. It would have to be enough. 

“Stay with them,” he said to Kent, pulling the hilt of the Darksaber from his belt. “I’ll be back.”

"Kyr’tsad is drawing you out,” the Jetii warned, checking on a few unconscious verde (soldiers) with an outstretched hand. He shook his head, expression grim. “I’m going with you.”

Bruce ignited the Darksaber, watching the black plasma extend toward the ceiling. Kent’s awe was palpable, eyes locking on the blade in wonder. 

He gave the blade an experimental twirl, shrugging. 

“Then keep up.”

Chapter Text

The Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) shook off the blast with seasoned grace, heading toward the source of the explosion almost faster than Clark could keep up. 

The Darksaber purred in the Force as they headed north, pleased to be used and begging for a taste of blood. 

Surprisingly, the overall impression wasn’t as Dark as he would’ve thought; the blade simply thought in terms of righteous vengeance, and the bloodshed it was owed in return for the harm of its people.

In contrast, the kyber crystal in his own lightsaber pulsed worriedly, sensing danger ahead. He kept a hand on the hilt as he hurried after Wayne, the guards posted at the door following behind them with blasters drawn. 

The Mand’alor murmured something in Mando'a (language of Mandalore) to the guards, directing them with a wave down two of the flanking hallways. He turned to Clark, gesturing for him to come close. 

“Look,” Wayne said, leaning in and holding up his vambrace. A mini holo map appeared in blue light, rotating slowly. It was an aerial image of the royal compound, “Sensors put the blasts near the northeastern walls. Three charges.”

Clark examined the map, frowning. “That's your intelligence wing.”

"Elek." (Yes) Wayne said, inscrutable behind his visor. In the Force, however, the steady pounding of war drums increased, determined and haunting. “My office, the servers, and the war room are all on that wing.”

“That’s not public knowledge?” he asked, getting a blank stare in return. “Right, it wouldn’t be.”

The comm flashed red, briefly overlaying the blue lines of the map. Wayne cursed, a long string of vicious words in Mando’a and Huttese pouring from his vocoder. 

"Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a Mandalorian terrorist splinter faction) just attacked a hospital,” he said when he was done, his outrage and fury bleeding into the Force. Clark shivered. “Another bomb. Half the facility is buried.”

“They’re drawing you out,” he repeated, getting a short nod from the Mand’alor. “It’s their backup plan, in case the first round of explosions didn’t kill you.”

Wayne turned on him, helmet tilting. Surprise filtered into the Force. "Serim," (Correct/You're right) he said, looking back at the holomap. “That doesn’t change the fact that I have a traitor in this keldab." (citadel/stronghold; in this case, the royal palace/compound)  

The Mand’alor’s anger and the fury of the Darksaber were indistinguishable in the Force, rising in tandem. Clark took a step back from the man, trying to clear his mind. 

Somewhere nearby, another explosion rocked through the stronghold, sending dust scattering through their hallway. Wayne deflected debris with his saber, ducking his head as chunks of concrete and rebar flew past them. 

Clark joined him a moment later, lighting his saber and deflecting as many pieces as he could from the Mand’alor . The man made a punched-out sound, and the Jedi turned to him, concerned. 

“Not hit,” Wayne gasped as the dust began to settle, shoulders twitching. He was holding onto the Darksaber with both hands, gripped tight. “The guards I sent ahead. They just…”

“I’m sorry,” Clark told him, feeling a pang of grief as he registered the deaths, “Where are the rest?”

“I’m sending them to the hospital,” Wayne said, pausing. Clark assumed he was on internal comms, giving out orders through his helmet. “Can you fight?”

"Elek, Alor." (Yes, boss/sir) He said, nodding. “Do you sense something?”

“The traitor,” the Mand’alor said, trailing off. His helmet tilted, listening to something Clark couldn’t hear. “They’re still Mando'ade. (Mandalorian) I can sense them in the building. And Kyr’tsad…”

“You think they’ll try to escape,” Clark surmised. Wayne let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. 

"Nayc, (No) I think he’ll come to finish the job. Aruetyc (traitorous) bastard.” The Mand’alor said, voice rising, “When you stab someone in the back, don’t miss.”

“Is that a Mandalorian saying?” 

“No, just good etiquette,” Wayne huffed, clearly offended that the attempt to kill him had been so poorly thought out. “Can you sense them? They should be closer, now.”

Clark extended his senses, scanning the nearby hallways. Sure enough, there was a group of sentients heading toward them from the southern end of the first floor, armed and settled into the near-trance of battle. 

Beneath that artificial calm was an anger so intense, Clark pulled himself back before it could seep into his shields. Next to him, the familiar heat and drums of the Mand’alor’s presence was a relief, curling against his shields reassuringly. 

“Why do they hate you so much?” he asked, out of the blue. “Their anger is so strong. It’s consumed them.”

Wayne’s Force presence swelled briefly with grief. He shook his head, adjusting his grip on the Darksaber. 

"Mando’ade are not the crusaders and conquerors of old, as they wish us to be,” he said, “I told you earlier, no planet joins the Empire by force. We might install a coalition force temporarily, but the new government has no obligations to us, once it’s formed.”

The fact that none of the recently-formed planetary governments spurred the offer of participation in the Empire didn’t escape Clark. 

“And yet, they always choose to join you.”

Wayne tilted his helmet, conceding. "Mando’ade fight for what is theirs like no one else. As you’re about to see.”

The Jedi took the cue, readying his lightsaber as the Mand’alor took a step forward. Down the hall, soft bootsteps echoed off the walls, growing closer. 

"K'oyacyi," (Come back alive / a command; stay alive) Wayne murmured, a hint of amusement in his Force presence. Clark took a deep breath, bending his knees. 

Almost seems like he cares, he thought fondly.

The Jetii (Jedi) cut an imposing figure with his lightsaber, washed out in the blue light of his kyber crystal. Effortless grace flowed through his limbs as he shifted into a ready stance, nodding at Bruce. 

The Manda (the spirit of Mandalore; the Force) whispered its approval in his ear, distracting him briefly. Whatever would happen here, the Jetti was meant to be at his side. It was simply right.  

The Darksaber pulsed in his hands, reminding him to focus. He shut down the internal comms on his HUD, focusing on the feeling of anticipation building in his bones. 

The group of Kyr’tsad entered the ruined hallway with barely a sound, straightening as they saw him and the Jetii with their kad'e (lightsabers) lifted and ready. 

At the front of the group, Tommy grinned, holding his buy'ce (helmet) at his side. 

"Su cuy'gar," (Hello / Literally, "you're alive") he said, mocking, “I guess a few explosions aren’t enough to take down the mighty Mand’alor.” 

But they kill innocent children, you darmanda demagolka, (No-longer-Mandalorian monster) Bruce thought, refusing to give the other man the satisfaction of seeing his anger. The fact that they’d grown up together, however briefly, meant he could probably see it, anyway. 

Oh, Tommy… he thought privately, mourning his friend. They hadn’t been close -- not since before Galidraan -- but the betrayal still hurt. He wondered, briefly, what Kyr’tsad had offered that the Haat Mando'ade (the True Mandalorians; the faction to which Bruce belongs) couldn’t. 

The answer, as always, came to him as a whisper through the Manda:

Power.

“Get on with it,” he said out loud, with a tilt of his own buy’ce, “You’re wasting the poor Jetti’s time, vod." (brother)

Tommy’s expression tightened. “Too much of a hut'unn (coward) to fight me yourself, Bruce?”

Underneath his helmet, Bruce raised his eyebrows. In the Manda, he could feel Clark’s shock at the brazen use of his name. 

“I don’t waste time on aruetyc shabuire,” (traitorous bastards) Bruce replied, keeping his tone light. He could feel the way Tommy’s anger grew in the Manda, acidic and all-consuming, “Especially not ones leading brainwashed ad'ike (children) into battle.”

Behind the Mando’ad, the gathered Kyr’tsad shifted uncomfortably. He could sense them through the Manda, like all Mando’ade, though they were farther from him than most. Not one of them was older than sixteen, which meant the older members were elsewhere -- probably the hospital. 

It was beyond cowardly. Next to him, the Jetii’s careful serenity slipped briefly as he too scanned the assembled members, noting their ages with a quick intake of breath. 

“Put down your weapons and the Mand’alor will not harm you,” Kent said, voice ringing out across the hallway. His blue eyes were pained, but the hint of beskar from earlier remained, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Ky’tsad is the future,” Tommy vowed, lifting his buy’ce and sliding it on. He reached for his blasters, charging them with a flick of his thumb. “If you can’t see that, you’re just as blind as they say you are.”

Blind? That was a new one. 

“I see everything,” Bruce whispered, his lips moving out of his control. It was the Manda reaching through him, overlaying his words. “I see your death, if you continue down this path.”

And he did. There was nothing but fire ahead. Fire and death, burning and terrible. 

Tommy glanced back at the ad’ike, then settled into a firing stance. 

“So be it.” 

Bruce deflected the Mando’ad’s first shot into the floor, bringing up the Darksaber before he could think about the motion. Tommy dove forward, blasters up and firing wildly as the Kyr’tsad behind him scattered. 

Next to him, the Jetii slid into a graceful block, deflecting the next dozen shots before Bruce could. He stepped in front of him without looking back, bringing his kad’au into an overhead salute, two fingers pointed forward. 

“Don’t touch him,” he said, voice even. “Call off the children. Please.”

Tommy dodged his blade, reaching around the Jetii to shoot at Bruce. Kent made a frustrated noise, blocking several shots from the ad’ike who’d fanned out across the hallway in a loose formation, firing intermittently at the Jetii.

Bruce could handle Tommy, even if it irked the Jetii. In the Manda, he poked at Kent, nudging him toward the ad’ike. 

Help them. 

He feinted, spinning past Tommy’s shots as the Mando’ad drew close enough for hand to hand combat. The other man produced a vibroblade, sheathing his blasters with a soft click. 

“If you were Mandokarla, (the quality of being Mandalorian; the "right stuff". In this case, bravery, being honorable) you’d fight me without that fancy kad,” Tommy growled, gesturing with his knife, “Just like when we were kids, huh?” 

As reluctant as the Darksaber was to part with him, the man had a point. Bruce depowered the blade, rolling his shoulders back.

“Fine.”

Tommy lunged forward, swiping across his ribs with the vibroblade. Bruce pushed the Mando’ad past him, reaching back and twisting an elbow around the man’s neck before he could fall, slinging him into a headlock. 

Kicking the verd's (soldier's) feet out from under him, he dropped Tommy to the floor and snapped his neck in one motion. He released the body with a pained exhale, letting his friend fall to the floor.   

There was a moment of silence as the remaining Kyr’tsad looked to their leader’s corpse, reconsidering. 

Kent stood resolute in his previous guard stance, not even winded. He glanced back at Bruce, concern across his face. 

Fine, he pushed at the Jetii in the Manda. There was an answering nudge of relief, mixed with a sense of caution. Something was coming. They could both feel it. 

Acrid hopelessness and rage spiked in the Manda, making him wince. One of the ad’ike stepped forward, hand clasped across his chest in a mockery of deferral. 

“Death to the Mand’alor," he vowed. Behind him, the remaining Kyr’tsad stood from their positions, echoing him. “Death to Manda'yaim." (Mandalore)

They reached for their grenades as one, pulling the pins and leaving the explosives on their belts. Bruce lurched forward, filled with dawning horror. 

“No! Nayc--”

Kent’s arm caught his waist, pulling him back with impressive strength. There was a brief flash as the Jetii depowered his kad, holding up the empty hand with eyes glowing a bright, burning red. 

The hallway exploded.

Holding back the blast of nearly two dozen grenades in the small space sent Clark skittering backwards, arm still firmly around the Mand’alor’s chest. 

Every cell in his body was telling him to hold on, to protect the other man. He let the Force flow through him, strengthening the shields he had around the blast. If he dropped his hand, they were dead. 

The Mand’alor couldn’t die. Not here. Not now. 

After an endless moment, he felt the fires lessen, slowly letting the shield drop. The hallway faded into focus around him, blackened and devoid of anything more than scattered debris. 

Next to him, the grief of the Mand’alor was a tangible ache. Clark let his grip on Wayne fall, taking a step backwards. 

The Mand’alor fell to his knees, removing his helmet with shaking hands. There were tears in his eyes, and Clark felt his own begin to water. 

So many dead. And for what?

“Thank you,” Wayne said, after a moment of silent grieving. He pressed a palm to the burned floor, pressing down. “Thank you for trying to help them.”

Clark bowed his head, his throat aching. 

“I failed,” he said, unable to push his disappointment into the Force, "Ni ceta, Alor." (I'm sorry, sir/boss)

Wayne bowed his head, eyes fluttering closed. “You tried. It mattered.” 

The Mand’alor stood, pushing his helmet back onto his head. He turned to Clark, assessing. 

“When will it fade?” he asked softly. Clark looked at him quizzically. “Your eyes.”

“Oh,” Clark put a hand to his face, considering. “I don’t know. This doesn't usually…happen.” 

“In the old legends, Kryptonians under a yellow sun always had them,” Wayne said, distantly, “My buir (parent) was a scholar. He was devastated at the loss of Krypton. Made sure to preserve every scroll and datapad we had from the planet, when he heard.”

Clark didn’t know what to say to that, throat tightening even further. He nodded, forcing himself to speak. 

"Vor'e," (Thanks) he said, “Maybe one day, I can read them.”

“If we survive,” the Mand’alor replied, helmet tilting like he was listening to internal comms again. “Dick’s back online. Says there’s some skirmishes near the hospital, still. Jason and the others are headed that way.”

Clark glanced at the remains of the Kyr’tsad in the blackened hallway, shaking his head slowly. 

“More indoctrinated children?” he asked, dismayed. Surely the entire terrorist group couldn’t be kids. He knew Death Watch took children -- the whole galaxy knew. But the reality was damning.  

“They were all children once,” Wayne said, grave, “We lose everything, when we fight our own ad’ike, no matter how old.”

Suddenly, the purported inaction of the Mand’alor against the Kyr’tsad attacks, as widely reported in Core media, made much more sense. Putting down a terrorist group -- firmly, and permanently -- was near-impossible, when the faces under the helmets were that of your own children. 

Before he could stop himself, he reached out to Wayne, placing a hand on his armored shoulder. The Mand’alor turned to him, the Force shifting in surprise.  

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, “I truly am. I’m learning that my previous assumptions were…misguided.”

Wayne nodded after a moment, and Clark removed his hand, feeling the phantom heat of the Mand’alor’s armor tingling across his fingertips. 

“We should join your children,” he said, “I have a bad feeling about the hospital.”

Wayne groaned, already moving down the hallway toward the courtyard. 

“You had to say it, didn’t you.”

Chapter Text

They met up with a few scattered squads on the way to the hospital, helping pull people from the rubble and evacuate the remaining civilians. 

Clark kept his hand on his lightsaber hilt the entire time, a sense of foreboding still permeating the Force. Though much of his dread had dissipated with the Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a rival faction and terrorist organization) explosion at the compound, what remained was still urging him to stay alert. 

The Mand'alor, (sole ruler of Mandalore) for his part, remained vigilant as they walked through the streets of Keldabe, keeping the Darksaber close as he greeted his scattered verde. (soldiers) A sense of grief still hung around him in the Force, present ever since the suicide blast they’d nearly been caught in. 

Clark assumed he was coordinating with Dick over comms, directing them toward the worst of the hospital’s damage. He really needed to get a comm on their network -- there was so much he was missing, simply trying to skim their intent in the Force. 

The west wing of the hospital was completely flattened when they arrived, small fires burning haphazardly in the rubble. Two verde lifting concrete blocks saluted the Mand’alor when they passed, pressing fists to their chests briefly. 

"Olarom," (welcome) one said through his vocoder, nodding, “The Ven'alor (next ruler; next boss; boss to be) is a few rooms in, scouting for more explosives.”

That wasn’t a title he’d heard before, but he could take a guess. Trailing after the Mand’alor, his suspicions were confirmed when they came across Jason in the interior hallway, a scanner in hand. 

"Alor," (boss/leader) he said, clasping the hand with the scanner to his chest. He was in full armor, his red helmet shining through the dust floating around them, "Jetii." (Jedi)

Clark nodded, remaining a half step behind the Mand’alor and to his left. It just seemed like the right place to be, and Wayne wasn’t protesting. 

"Dinkartay," (sitrep/update) Wayne said, scanning his son up and down. Clark felt a ripple of concern in the Force and hid a smile. 

“I took a squad as soon as the first bomb went off,” Jason said, holstering the scanner on his belt and standing at attention. “We were doing search and rescue when delta squad nearly tripped some additional ordinance. The search was suspended in this quadrant until we could clear it of explosives.”

The Mand’alor nodded. “And Kyr’tsad?”

“Only sightings other than here were at the keldab. (compound) I’m guessing you dealt with them?”

Clark bit his lip, an echo of the Mand’alor’s grief rippling out into the Force. When Wayne didn’t speak, he stepped forward. 

“They sent child soldiers with Tommy,” Jason’s head tilted in recognition at the name, but he didn’t interrupt Clark, “The children blew themselves up before we could reach them.”

There was a moment of silence, and Jason inclined his head. 

“Tommy?” he asked his buir, (parent) an edge of bitter humor in the way his helmet tilted. 

"Demagolka shabuir," (monstrous bastard) Wayne swore viciously.

The Mand’alor’s anger was a suffocating presence in the Force, fiery and all-consuming war drums. And, just as quickly as it’d emerged, the anger disappeared into the void wrapped around Wayne, the Force cooling. 

Jason, for all he couldn’t feel the Force -- or the Manda -- was nodding along, a hint of drum beats in his signature. 

"Darmanda hut'uun (not-mandalorian/no longer mandalorian coward) deserved a longer death,” he said, then shrugged, “But we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Dick said there were skirmishes nearby,” Wayne said, turning toward the hole they’d entered through, “Why are you the one scanning?”

“I didn’t want my men getting blown up,” Jason retorted, standing slightly taller. "I like them better alive."

Wayne stared his son down through his visor, silently radiating so why did it have to be you into the Force in a way that was so buir-like, he couldn’t help but smile. He could almost picture the raised, unimpressed eyebrow. 

“I’m not letting another verd sacrifice himself for me because you’re worried,” Jason said, crossing his arms, “It’s my squad. My choice.”

Jason’s overprotectiveness of his squad was a distant echo of Wayne’s fight on Galidraan, the young verd leaking stubbornness and pain into the Force. He was Mando'ade (Mandalorian) to his core, ready to fight for his people against any odds. 

Clark had seen what that kind of willpower had done on Galidraan. There would be no reasoning with Jason -- or, frankly, any other of Wayne’s children, as far as he suspected. 

The Mand’alor was clearly thinking along similar lines, because he relented, stepping back with a sigh. 

“Dick’s squads are fighting over on the east and north wings. Sounded like they got a handle on things, and there’s ade (children) trapped here.”

Clark closed his eyes, searching around them in the Force. 

“I can’t sense any bombs,” he said to Jason, “Your men can come back in. There are people trapped two rooms over, I think.”

Jason nodded, reaching for his comm. He waved at them. 

“Get out of here, go back up Dick and Duke. We’ll keep digging.”

“Be careful,” the Mand’alor stepped forward, bringing his son into a brief kov'nyn. (a headbutt, or a softer meaningful tap between helmets) Clark watched intently through the Force as both of their signatures relaxed minutely, realigning with a simple touch, "K'oyacyi." (Stay alive)

Jason nodded. “You too.” 

With a brief goodbye, Clark followed the Mand’alor out of the ruined room, turning over the word Ven’alor in his mind. The Force prodded at him, a sharp pain in his temple that threatened to spread. 

Not now, he told it, willing the vision to quiet, This is literally the least convenient time. 

The Force seemed to expect this answer, and relented. The need to follow the Mand’alor remained, an almost physical twitch that urged him even closer. 

Fine, he thought, pushing forward so they were almost in step, Happy now?

There was no answer. Clark rolled his eyes, which, unfortunately, was caught by the ever-vigilant Mand’alor.

"Jate?" (Good?) he asked, in that low voice of his that had sudden heat flaring to Clark’s cheeks. Still walking, he looked at Clark, waiting for an answer. 

“Jate.” Clark nodded, ducking his head. “Let’s go.”

Having the Jetii -- Clark -- at his side was more reassuring than he’d realized. 

Years ago, he would have been hard-pressed to put his back to a Jetii, much less one as powerful as the Kryptonian seemed to be. 

The Manda had helped with that, smoothing away his anxiety at seeing plasma blades when his memories from Galidraan grew too powerful. And when he hadn’t listened, in those early days when he was still trying to learn how to deal with the Manda in his head…

Well, the visions only put him in the medbay once, and he maintained that Leslie’s intubation was a bit of an overreaction. The Manda could be cruel, just as any of them could, but not without reason. 

Thankfully, the red had faded from Clark’s eyes before they reached the hospital, eliminating another thing for Bruce to explain in the midst of all of this. The Kryptonian didn’t seem to notice, expression leveling out into a strained serenity as he saw the damage. 

After their conversation with Jason, they headed toward the northeast of the hospital, following the sounds of fighting. Bruce felt his blood pressure rise as he saw Dick and Duke in the midst of a mini-battle, surrounded by Kyr’tsad on all sides. 

It was nothing they couldn’t handle -- he knew this -- but the anxiety remained, all the same. Those were his ade, and if Kyr’tsad dared to lay a hand on them--

“Mand’alor,” Clark interrupted, drawing his attention away from the battle. His eyes were a muted blue in the dusty sun, far from serene, “There is still uneasiness in the Force. Can you sense it?”

Bruce nodded, the Manda curling around him protectively as the dread flickered at the edges of his senses. “You think something is going to happen.”

It wasn’t a question. Clark nodded, frowning. 

“K’oyacyi,” Bruce murmured, then pulled the hilt of the Darksaber from his belt and powered it on. "Ret'uryce mhi, (Goodbye; Maybe we'll see each other again) Kent. I don’t know where I’m going to pick up another half-decent Jetii."

“Half decent?” Clark said, grinning, as his lightsaber’s blade joined his, "Vor'e, (Thanks) Alor. That was almost a compliment.”

Despite the sadness and dread surrounding them, the Manda pulsed in satisfaction. Bruce steadfastly ignored the feeling of approval it sent him, knowing he’d pay for that oversight later. 

With a nod at each other, blades at the ready, they leapt into the battle.

Clark easily fell into the rhythm of the fight, ducking in and out of soresu (a Jedi lightsaber form) poses as he dispatched Death Watch as quickly as possible. With a lightsaber, their deaths were as humane as he could make them; still, the sense of lives winking out in the Force turned his stomach. 

He’d grown up dreaming of being a Jedi Knight, and everyone in the creche knew what that entailed. Taking lives, when necessary -- when it protected innocents, or helped the mission parameters. 

Now that he knew who Death Watch -- Kyr’tsad, he needed to stop saying that -- used to fight their battles, he was even more driven to make their deaths swift, pushing a quick apology into the Force when they fell. 

The Mand’alor fought alongside him, weaving through blocks and parries like he’d been born with the blade in his hands. Clark had assumed he’d be somewhat competent in Mandalore’s most famous weapon, as Mand’alor, but the man had exceeded his expectations. 

In the Force, Wayne felt like another Jedi, sinking into battle meditation that pulled Clark in with its familiarity. His form wasn’t one Clark recognized, full of blunt slashes and bone-shaking hits, but it was no less effective. 

He covered the Mand’alor’s back as the remainder of the Kyr’tsad attackers were picked off by Dick and another red figure he could only assume was Duke. They each had two blasters, firing in unison as they wove between the combatants. 

Clark winced as the Force poked at him, shrugging off the phantom touch before it could worsen. That was a vision that would have to wait in line; and what was it with everyone on this planet and visions?

The battle -- if it could be called that -- thinned with the arrival of additional reinforcements, the Kyr’tsad members falling to blaster fire and electrostaffs from the city guard. Those who surrendered were knelt at the center of the rubble, cuffed unceremoniously. 

Wayne pulled his helmet off as soon as the last combatant was down, revealing sweat-mussed hair and flushed cheeks. His eyes were narrowed, lips pursed in such fierce determination, Clark took an instinctive step back. 

The Mand’alor approached the prisoners with little warning, cape flaring behind him in the wind. He stopped in front of one of the helmeted Kyr’tsad, fists clenching at his sides. 

“Talia,” he said, his voice far more composed than his presence in the Force. Oh, he was angry -- righteous anger radiated outwards, overlaid in the distinctive heat of the Manda Clark had come to recognize. “Get up.”

The guard kicked the verd, and she stood. At a nod from Wayne, the guard removed her helmet, revealing a tanned face and bright green eyes. 

"Cyare," (beloved; a term of endearment between couples) she purred, looking up at Wayne, “You don’t look happy to see me.”

No, he really didn’t. He looked like a war lord, with his cape over his shoulder and the distinctive hilt on his belt. He looked like a Mand’alor. 

“Hiding among your verde?" Wayne said, disgust evident, "Hut'uunla, (cowardly) for you."

Dick approached Clark, patting him briefly on the shoulder in greeting, Duke doing the same a moment later. They were both watching the exchange intently, a hand on their now-holstered blasters. 

“Who’s she?” Clark whispered to Dick. 

“Talia, Clan Al Ghul. Pretty high-ranking lieutenant in Kyr’tsad,” Dick replied, looking pained, “And Bruce’s ex.”

“Ex?” he blurted out, unable to stop himself. Dick glanced at him, amused. 

“It was a long time ago. Before he became Mand’alor, I think.” He shook his head. “Talia never really got over it.” 

Clark frowned. “She called him cyare.” 

“Oh, well she seems to think they’re in this weird love-hate relationship,” Dick explained hurriedly, glancing at Duke, who’d removed his helmet with a smirk, “She had a child and renounced him when he spoke out against Kyr’tsad. Beat him, left him for dead, Bruce adopted him. Talia took that as a sign they still had something.”

Was his mouth open? It must have been. Clark shook his head, trying to process all of that information. 

“Was the child Jason?” he guessed, daring to ask questions he was worried would snap back at him in a vision. 

“Uh no,” a voice said from behind them, amused. Jason’s distinctive armor came into view, helmet tucked under his arm. “That would be so weird. Nah, Damian’s the demon spawn.”

Duke sighed, while Dick looked disappointed. “Jason.”

“What? It’s true, the way Bruce talks about her…” he trailed off, glancing at the Mand’alor. “He do anything yet?”

“Just chewed her out for being a darmanda hut’uun,” Duke said, looking like he approved, “She was trying to hide in the prisoners. Took their beskar'gam, (armor) was probably going to try and escape during transport.”

“She challenge Buir yet?” Jason asked, looking mildly excited by the prospect. Dick shook his head. “Kark. I had money on when her head would roll.”

“With who?” Dick asked, looking mildly horrified, “Wait, don’t tell me, I’d have to report them.”

Seeing Clark’s confused expression, Duke took pity on him and explained. 

“Kyr’tsad believes whoever holds the Darksaber is the true Mand’alor,” he started, “Rumor has it Kyr’tsad will start sending verde to challenge him soon, but we haven’t seen any.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clark said, before he could stop himself, “The Manda chose him. Any Force-sensitive could tell you that.”

“Oh, we know,” Jason interrupted from his left, leaning over Duke, “I’m as Force-sensitive as a rock, and even I can feel it. Any true Mando’ade could.”

Dick and Duke nodded along. The former put a hand over his heart, the way he’d seen several Haat Mando'ade (True Mandalorians; Bruce's faction) greet their Mand’alor. 

“It’s like a tug, here,” he explained, “Connecting us to him. Really karking weird, but that’s the Manda for you.”

Clark nodded, remembering his vision of Galidraan. “I see.”

Across from them, Talia growled something up at the Mand’alor, back on her knees again. Wayne looked mightily unimpressed, ignoring her and scanning up and down the line of other prisoners. 

The Force whipped at him in warning. Clark felt a spike of adrenaline surge through his heart, narrowing his focus. The feeling of impending danger he'd felt all afternoon peaked, directing his attention to Talia's distant figure.

Now. 

With an outstretched hand, he pushed the knife from Talia’s grasp with the Force, forcing her face down onto the ground, limbs pulled outwards. Wayne had already stepped to the side, but there was no way of knowing for sure he'd have been quick enough, without his intervention.

Had the shatterpoint really been so minimal? A simple vibroblade, inches from plunging into the Mand'alor's neck?  

Their eyes met over the small clearing. Clark let his hold on Talia drop, releasing her to slump into the dirt. Wayne raised a single eyebrow, something impressed whispering from him in the Force. 

Clark felt himself blush, taking a step back. 

“Really, Talia?” the Mand’alor asked, turning back to the Kyr’tsad verd. He'd picked up the knife Clark had thrown, examining its edge. “You surrendered.”

Talia growled something back in rapid-fire Mando'a, (Mandalorian language) too fast for Clark to translate. Whatever it was had Wayne shaking his head, walking back toward their group with his helmet under his arm. He'd tucked the blade into his belt, the blade hidden from Clark's view. 

Everyone saluted him when he approached, and Clark copied them, thinking back to their earlier conversation. If he swore the Resol'nare, (an honor code used by the True Mandalorians) there’d be even more changes in his future. 

“Post your best verde on her,” the Mand’alor ordered Dick, “It’s only a matter of time before she escapes. Make sure they know the risks.”

Dick nodded, already typing into a datapad he’d produced from some unknown location.

"I'll have her strip-searched," he said, as if in apology for the near-death experience. "Ni ceta. (I'm sorry; literally, I kneel) My boys know better."

"Luckily, I have my own aran." (guard)  Wayne said, lips twitching in amusement as he glanced at Clark. He turned back to Dick. "Which reminds me. Move him to some permanent quarters. He'll be staying."

Clark tried his damnedest not to blush as the group turned to look at him, considering. He let his shoulders lift up in a shrug, unsure of what to add. 

"Your funeral," Jason muttered, clapping him on the arm. He looked at his buir, "He need armor?"

"'Lek." (Yes)

Wayne's gaze flitted briefly over Clark’s body, as if checking for injuries. Heat washed over him in the Force, a brush of the Mand'alor's Force presence against his own. It was far more intimate than their initial meeting in the throne room. 

Their eyes met again. Clark didn't dare breathe. Wayne stared at him hungrily, as if daring him to name what he'd done. 

When he didn't, the moment slipped back into motion, and the Mand'alor looked away with a small grin. 

“I think we owe the baar'ur (medic) a visit,” he said, sounding like a buir again. He gestured at his assembled children. “All of us.”

Clark took a step back, planning to slip back into the crowd and let them have their moment. A gauntleted hand caught his shoulder. 

“Including you, Jetii,” Wayne said, amused, "K'atini." (Suck it up; take it)

He felt a blush spread across his cheeks at the man’s tone, ducking his head. Maybe a trip to the medbay would help with his sudden inability to function around Wayne. 

Hopefully. 

Chapter Text

"K'atini." (Suck it up; take it)

Clark gasped as the hand in his hair tightened, drawing his head up and back. The angle of the cock driving into him shifted, and he moaned as the fire racing up and down his spine grew. 

"Elek," (Yes) he said, leaning back against the Mand'alor's (sole ruler of Mandalore) chest, moving his hips in time with the other man’s strokes. “Elek. Fuck--”

"K'uur," (Shh; Quiet) the Mand’alor said, releasing the hold on his hair and moving his hand to Clark’s cock, stroking him slowly, “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, sounding amused. 

Clark moaned again, pressing forward into the hand as the Mand’alor continued thrusting inside him. Little Gods, but he’d never felt this good in his life, and probably wouldn’t ever again--

It was too much. With a cut-off moan, he spilled over the Mand’alor’s fingers, clenching down as stars burst behind his eyelids. Pleasure coursed through him, swiftly turning into overstimulation as the thrusts continued. 

Clark fell forward, praying his arms would support him. On his knees, he gasped as the Mand’alor snapped his hips upward, finishing off the thrust with a kind of animosity he’d restrained from earlier. 

At Clark’s punched-out noise, he did it again, getting another needy noise from him. 

“K’atini,” he growled into Clark’s ear, low and taunting. He shuddered around the man’s cock, impossibly hot as the word echoed in his mind. “And maybe I’ll let you come again.”

A hand fisted in his hair again, forcing his face down into the mattress. He felt his cock begin to harden again as the Mand’alor continued to fuck into him, brutal snaps of his hips that had Clark’s pelvis lifting off the bed. 

He was close. He was so close, and so was the Mand’alor -- there was a sweet desperation coloring the Force behind him, fueling his own pleasure in a feedback loop he wasn’t sure was intentional. 

"Gedet'ye," (Please) Clark gasped, “Gedet’ye, alor--" (boss)

The hand in his hair dropped, grabbing him around the throat and pulling him back up. Clark saw stars, groaning at the new angle. He felt a twin moan from the Mand’alor’s throat, vibrating into his back, and oh, he was about to--

Clark’s eyes flew open. With a gasp, he pushed back against the headboard, heart thundering in his chest. 

Around the bedroom, his things hung in various states of disarray. His boot was in the curtain, wound up like it’d been hit by a windstorm. In the bathroom, all of his toiletries were on the floor, scattered and some still rolling. 

And Clark was hard. Achingly, mind-numbingly hard in his pajama pants. 

He stood on autopilot, heading to the refresher and turning on the shower. A water shower, thank the Gods. Casting off his damp sleepclothes, he stepped into the frigid water, biting his lip. 

Jedi didn’t want. And Jedi definitely didn’t have ridiculously inappropriate wet dreams about their hosts -- especially when said hosts were Force sensitive, or something close to it. 

He waited for the shower to soften his erection, shivering slightly in the cold spray. Absent-mindedly, a hand drifted up to his hair, tugging where he’d felt the Mand’alor’s grip earlier in the dream. 

With a moan, he felt his erection leap back to full hardness. Dismay flowed through him, tinged with the fiery want still leftover from the dream. 

There was nothing shameful in self-maintenance. But he was a master. Cold showers had solved this problem for him since his early padawan days, and that was the way it should be. 

But he wasn’t in the Temple. And if he shielded enough…

He grasped his cock before he could stop himself, moaning at the sensitivity. He stroked himself once, putting a hand against the shower wall to hold his shaking legs steady. 

He was already so close, still riding the edge from the dream. He could almost feel the Mand’alor’s lips at his ear, a phantom pressure between his legs that he welcomed with the near-insanity of someone about to orgasm. 

Jate, (good) the not-Mand’alor said, panting alongside him as kisses trailed up and down his neck, K'olar, (Come; command) Clark. Come for me.  

With a shout, Clark spilled over his own fist, pumping his hips wildly. His knees gave out, turning to jelly as the orgasm left him wrecked, pleasure coursing through every cell in his body. 

He hit the shower floor with a distant pain in his knees, breathing heavily. 

Oh.

Bruce was, as usual, not asleep. 

He rarely slept the night after battles, kept busy with the litany of after-action reports and orders that flowed across his desk. Talia and her band of fellow Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a terrorist faction of Mandalorians) had created a veritable mountain of datawork, and the foregone conclusion that she was likely to escape only doubled his workload. 

The missing windows and debris scattered across his office floor weren't enough to dissuade him from working. The cool breeze was almost pleasant, even if it represented an obvious security risk. 

With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, glancing at the chrono. It was the early hours of morning, and the only person likely to be awake was Alfred, fussing in the kitchen or walking another round of his wing to coax him into bed. 

He could sleep when Kyr’tsad wasn’t blowing up innocent people. And even if they weren’t, the Manda (the spirit of Mandalore; the Force) was always restless after a battle, and the last place he wanted to be was unconscious and at its mercy for a night of visions. 

Bruce winced as the Manda jabbed at him for that train of thought, amused. Clearly, the visions weren’t a problem for the Manda, as much as they threatened to pull Bruce into painful dreams and (occasional) organ failure when he conceded to sleep. 

He, however, liked his organs fully functioning and his mind relatively sane. The night of visions -- and they were undoubtedly coming, considering the eventful day they’d had -- would have to wait a few more rotations. 

A few levels below him, he felt Alfred fall asleep in his rooms, his mind darkening into the even grey of slumber. Bruce scanned the rest of the keldab, (stronghold/compound) making sure his children were still in bed. 

Everyone was asleep except Duke. The aran (guard) was a steady presence near the north entrance, calm and settled in his beskar'gam. (armor made of beskar) 

Bruce felt a small amount of pride at his son, drifting away before he lingered for too long. The other arane (guards) were joking with him, exchanging caf and credits as the patrols changed. 

A burst of intense emotion had his attention swerving toward the guest wing. Kent-- Clark --wasn’t awake, but he was fighting something in his dreams, skirting the edge of consciousness. 

Bruce closed his eyes, focusing on Clark’s presence in the Manda. If the Jetii (Jedi) was having another vision, he might need to wake him again; the fool didn’t know when to let them go, it seemed. 

He jerked his head in surprise as the Jetii’s dream coalesced around him, welcoming him in without a hint of Clark’s shielding. Not a vision, then…

His office shifted to the vague, undetailed walls of the Jetii’s guest rooms. The desk in front of him became a bed, and Clark…

Oh, but this was a surprise. 

The Jetii was at the center of the bed, fully naked and writhing on a similarly-naked Bruce’s cock, held up solely by a familiar hand twisted in his hair, tugging him backwards into an even more-familiar chest. 

Bruce made eye contact with his double over the Jetii’s shoulder, amused. His double winked at him, thrusting up particularly hard into Clark with a groaned K’atini, exactly the way Bruce would’ve said it. 

The Manda really was too much. At least Clark was having fun. 

He watched as his double worked the Jetii through a beautiful orgasm, admiring them as he stepped around the bed to change the angle. Clark fell forward, landing face-down on the mattress and keening as the double continued fucking him.

The Jetii really did beg so prettily in Mando'a. (Language of Mandalore) From such a prim and proper master, it was doubly entertaining. And the stroke to his ego, however secondary it was, didn’t hurt. 

His double made eye contact with him as Clark neared a second orgasm, winking again over Clark’s back. Bruce raised an eyebrow at the Manda, daring it to try harder. 

The Not-Bruce yanked Clark up by the neck, Bruce’s hand wrapped around the smooth column of the Jetii’s throat. In his arms, Clark clenched his eyes shut, pushing back into the hold with a kind of desperation Bruce wished he could taste. 

Before he could interrogate that thought, the dream slid out of focus. He shared a disappointed look with the Manda as Clark ended the dream, guilt and arousal surging through the Jetti’s mind, pushing him back. 

With a sigh, he opened his eyes in his office. The codpiece of his armor was tight around his groin, digging painfully into his hip. 

Across the keldab, Clark was awash in shame and lust, eyeing the shower desperately. 

The Manda nudged him pointedly. Bruce closed his eyes with another sigh, drifting into the Jetii’s mind with a soft brush against his shields. They were still weakened from the dream, letting him in without conscious effort. 

The sight of Clark bent over and fisting himself furiously was almost as pretty as the scene the Manda had concocted for him in the dream. He was beautiful in the low light, water reflecting off his skin as he bit his lip, eyes clenched shut against the spray of the shower. 

Unable to help himself, Bruce undid his codpiece and took off his glove, gripping himself with a soft moan of relief. Maybe he could pretend he was there, instead of the double, between the Jetii’s legs and behind him, fucking him slowly against the shower wall, trailing kisses down his neck and--

He came at the same time as Clark, moaning into his hand. Across the keldab, the Jetii collapsed to the shower floor as Bruce stared up at his office ceiling, breathing heavily. 

That had been…more than a little inappropriate. 

Wiping his hand off with a sani-wipe he kept in his desk drawer, he noted the way the Manda curled around him in amusement and satisfaction, nearly purring.

Happy? he asked it. 

In reply, it sent an image of his own face pressed into the Jetii’s neck, screwed up in pleasure and teeth glinting.  

More, it said earnestly. Bruce shook his head with some effort. 

“This was a mistake,” he said out loud, more for his own benefit than the Manda’s. “It was inappropriate for me to enter his mind without permission.”

The Manda replied with another image: Bruce on his back, looking up at Clark as the Jetii sunk down on his cock, hips bracketed by his hands. 

“Very pretty, yes,” he said, ignoring the want suddenly curling in his gut, “I have datawork, if you don’t mind.”

Reluctantly, the Manda backed off, withdrawing with a playful warning nudge. Bruce put his head in his hands, groaning softly. 

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

Clark woke with shame already burning across his face. He clamped down on the way his mind seemed to instantly lurch back into the night before, stalling that train of thought before it could become any more vivid than it already was. 

He rose and dressed despite the blush on his cheeks, tying off his robes and tucking his hands into the sleeves. The Force -- or the Manda, (the Force; Mandalorian spirit/connection) it was growing so much harder to tell, these days -- danced around him in amusement, teasing him with glimpses of his dream.

Clark bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, opening the door to find Jason and an unknown guard standing on either side. 

“Morning,” he said, glancing at the unknown guard -- full of dutywatchprotect in the Force, like so many of the arane, (guards) but clearly older. And more heavily armed. “What happened?”

Jason exhaled, the sound conveying exhaustion even through his vocoder. "Buir (parent) found something. Wanted your Jetii (Jedi) insight once you were awake.”

That didn’t explain the seasoned guard, but Clark shrugged that away. Internally mortified at the thought of seeing the Mand'alor (Sole ruler of Mandalore) after last night, he nodded at the Ven'alor. (Next ruler; Next Mand'alor)

“However I can serve,” he said, bowing slightly. Jason scoffed. 

“Don’t do that,” he said, turning and gesturing for Clark to follow him. Behind Clark’s back, he flashed a handsign at the guard, having them pull up the rear, “Shows off too much of your neck.”

"Jate," (Good) the not-Mand’alor said, panting alongside him as kisses trailed up and down his neck, "K'olar, (Come) Clark. Come for me.”

Clark blinked furiously, desperately pushing back the memory before it could overtake him. Somewhere above his ear, the Manda was laughing, a phantom touch skittering down his neck. 

“I--I wasn’t aware Mandalorians had rules on modesty,” he said, because he genuinely hadn’t. Jason nearly tripped on his boots, turning to stare at him with a lowered handsign at the other guard -- this one Clark recognized: pause. 

“We don’t,” he said to Clark, like he was stupid. Maybe he was, after that…vision. “You’re not wearing armor. Ducking your head and showing off the back of your bare neck is a huge vulnerability. That’s why no Mando'ad (Mandalorian) worth their beskar'gam (armor made of beskar, a Mandalorian metal) will ever bow, dikut." (idiot)

Past the sudden embarrassment that revelation brought, Clark felt something in his chest curl fondly around the insult. It was almost like Jason…well. It didn’t matter. 

“I understand,” Clark said, nodding. Jason sighed, waving on the guard and starting up their march again. 

“Start using more Mando'a, (Mandalorian language) too,” the Ven’alor instructed, tapping at his vambrace as they walked, "Buir doesn’t like the aruetii (foreign/outsider) terms.”     

Far be it from him to upset the Mand’alor. Clark tightened his grip around his elbows under his sleeves, trying to radiate calm and serenity as they approached Wayne’s presence in the Manda. 

They found the Mand’alor in the war room, bent over a holomap and leaking exhaustion into the Force as techs worked around him. He looked up as Jason and Clark approached, their tailing guard taking up a defensive position at the door. 

"Alor," (Boss/Leader) Jason said, tapping his chest. Clark copied him, feeling a brief thrill as his hand connected with his heart. 

“Come in,” he said, waving them closer to the holomap table. His helmet was clipped to his belt, dark circles ringing his eyes. Clark felt his heart swell in sympathy. “Did you sleep well?”

The question was innocent enough. Clark felt a furious blush overtake his face, ducking his head before anyone else could see. Of course Wayne had asked that immediately -- in a voice wrecked by lack of sleep, scratching against something deep in his brain that turned his knees to jelly. 

“Fine,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound strained. He cleared his throat, refolding his arms under his robes. “What have you found, Alor?”

Wayne’s blue eyes caught on his neck, following the flush up to his face with a raised eyebrow. “Are you well, Jetii?”

Calm. Serenity. Detachment. 

Clark cleared his throat a second time, feeling amusement in the Manda around them, and knowing Wayne could, too. "'Lek, Alor." (Yes, sir)

“Jate.” 

Clark nearly lost it again, coughing into his hand as he felt the flush extend to the rest of his body, suffusing him in warmth. 

When he dared to look up, Jason was staring at him, helmet tilted to the side in contemplation. 

Wayne reached across the holotable, switching off the map. He pulled something from his belt, holding it out for Clark to inspect. 

“Don’t touch,” he warned, “I have a bad feeling about it.”

Clark leaned in, examining the object. He frowned, looking up at Wayne. 

“This is the knife you took from Talia,” he said, “But it’s…”

He trailed off, taking a step back. This close, he could feel the darkness rolling off the blade, tempered into the very metal of it. 

“Dark.” he finished, catching himself before he stared into the Mand’alor’s eyes for too long. “I’m not even sure you should be touching it.”

Wayne nodded, making no move to put down the vibroblade. “Can you tell who forged it?”

“A Sith,” Clark said immediately, then backtracked, “A-- darjetii. (not-Jedi/darksider) Someone who fell from the Light.”

“Any idea what it was meant to do?”

The Force whipped at him in warning. Clark felt a spike of adrenaline surge through his heart, narrowing his focus. The feeling of impending danger he'd felt all afternoon peaked, directing his attention to Talia's distant figure.

Now. 

With an outstretched hand, he pushed the knife from Talia’s grasp with the Force, forcing her face down onto the ground, limbs pulled outwards. Wayne had already stepped to the side, but there was no way of knowing for sure he'd have been quick enough, without his intervention.

Had the shatterpoint really been so minimal? A simple vibroblade, inches from plunging into the Mand'alor's neck?  

Clark shook his head. “Not without it being used.”

Face tightening, the Mand’alor whisked the blade out of his sight, tucking it back into his belt. Clark felt a surge of alarm at the thought of the dark item so close to Wayne, but--

As if reading his mind, the Mand’alor’s lips twitched. “I won’t touch it, Jetii.”

"Alor.” Clark said instead of whatever nonsense his worry was about to conjure. Wayne’s eyes met his briefly, full of understanding, and then turned to Jason. 

“If Kyr'tsad (splinter terrorist group of Mandalorians; Death Watch) is dealing with a dar’jetii…” Jason said, taking his helmet off with a hiss of the seals. He ran a hand through his hair, looking worried. “Maybe we were wrong to anticipate duels.”

“Maybe,” Wayne said, noncommittal. “We need to interrogate Talia.”

“If she’s still here,” Jason said, darkly amused. One of the techs along the wall snorted. At his Buir’s look, he shrugged. “What? I bet she’d stay until you talked to her. You’re helping me win.”

“They’re betting on how long we have until she breaks out?” Clark asked, surprised. Jason nodded. “That’s a little…discouraging.”

“She’s hard to hold. They all are.” Jason said, a hint of bitterness sneaking into his tone. "Shabuire (bastards) like blowing themselves up. And as many arane as possible, even if they don’t make it out.” 

A wave of sadness slipped past the Mand’alor’s shields, twisting Clark’s lips into a grimace. Without thinking, he reached out through the Force, sending a bolstering tendril toward the gap in the other man’s shields. 

Wayne flinched, like he’d been burned. Clark’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back. 

In the Manda -- or the Force, or whatever seemed to be the common ground between them -- the Mand’alor was staring at him, hesitant, like a startled animal. 

You need rest, Clark thought to himself, feeling Wayne’s exhaustion like it was his own, even through his shields. Please. 

Instead of calling him out, the Mand’alor shook his head, turning to Jason. 

“We’ll go now,” he said, gesturing at Clark to join him. With a hint of effort, he smiled at his son. “Don’t spend it all in one place, ad'ika." (child/diminutive)

“‘Lek, Buir.”

Wayne caught his gaze, unclipping his helmet from his belt. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Clark agreed, a wave of concern slipping past his shields. Wayne blinked at him, surprise skittering across his expression, then put his helmet on. 

"Oya." (Let's hunt/let's go)

Still reeling from the Jetii’s -- Clark’s -- touch in the Manda, Bruce was grateful for the relative safety of his buy'ce. (helmet) With a flick of his HUD, he switched Jason’s schedule around, praying his ad (child) would get the message and hit his rack for more than a few minutes.

Knowing Jason, he’d ignore the change and steal Dick’s credentials to keep working. That was fine -- as long as his ade (children) were far away from Kyr’tsad…

He knew Dick and Duke assigned volunteers to this kind of posting. The dubious honor of being killed in a Kyr’tsad escape attempt was one he hoped to keep from his ade. Even if it meant condemning other Mando’ade to guard duty.

And there were always volunteers. He knew the Mando’ade cherished their Aliit be'Mand'alor (family of the Mand'alor) viciously, but the hypocrisy of it stung. If he ever took a riduur, (spouse) that kind of protectiveness would only double -- and likely include his own children.

Next to him, Clark was walking a half-step behind, arms folded in his Jetii robes. His earlier embarrassment -- and it had been delicious, blushing and eager -- had long faded, leaving behind steely determination and an echo of grief. 

It mirrored Bruce’s own emotions. That moment of playfulness when he’d seen the Jetii again after their…dream…had been a brief respite from the darkness of Kyr’tsad. 

He found himself longing, suddenly, for that kind of intimacy -- wishing Clark was in step next to him, shoulders brushing in familiarity. Wishing they could steal a moment before they descended to the cells, a brush of lips until Clark’s opened under his own--

The Manda sighed as he pushed that line of thought aside, chiding him soundlessly. He ignored it, stopping in front of the elevators and keying in his code. 

The guards on either side saluted him. He nodded, feeling their determination in the Manda. They were proud of their assignments. They wanted to serve their Mand’alor, and the thought made his soul ache. 

He gestured for Clark to enter the elevator first, stepping in after him and waiting for the doors to shut. 

“I didn’t realize it was underground,” Clark said, after the silence stretched between them for a few seconds. “The cells, I mean.”

“Blocks detonation signals,” Bruce grunted. Clark looked briefly horrified, glancing at the doors of the elevator like he could see the mile and a half of durasteel behind it. Maybe he could. 

"Alor…” Clark began, tone shifting. Bruce stood up straighter, turning his full attention on the Jetii. 

"Elek?" (Yes?)

“I apologize -- for earlier,” Clark turned deep blue eyes on him, filled with genuine regret, “I reached out to you on instinct, but I should have asked first. I…”

He trailed off as Bruce reached out to him in the Manda, finally brushing back against him like he’d been dying to do since they’d touched directly in the war room. 

Clark’s shields parted just as easily as they had the previous night, allowing him to touch his mind. This time, the decision had been fully conscious. 

I am the one who should apologize, he said through the Manda, watching Clark’s eyes go slightly glassy as he listened, I am not…used to others. Your support was welcomed. 

The Jetii nodded slowly, gaze still distant. Had Bruce broken him? 

Ner Jetii... (My Jedi...)

He pulled back from Clark’s mind before he could do further damage, pulling his shields back around his mind and taking a physical step back. 

Reacting to the sudden exit, Clark swayed on his feet, leaning toward him. His expression -- a distant curve of his lips -- sharpened into a frown. 

“Bruce,” he said, far-off and accusatory. His eyes were still glassy -- but clearing slowly, now that their minds were no longer connected.

That brief connection -- and the one the night before -- soothed the ache in his chest. Clark’s mind was calm and steady, much like the man himself. Under the blushing exterior, he was still a Jetii Master -- wise and powerful, even if he was young. 

“Clark,” he said teasingly, with an amusement he didn’t quite feel. At the sound of his voice, the Jetii started, realizing what he’d said with a wave of anxiety Bruce could feel from behind his shields. 

"Alor, I ap--”

Bruce waved him off, feeling the elevator begin to slow. “You’re fine.”

The Jetii frowned, turning aside. "You’re not,” he muttered under his breath. 

And he was right -- Bruce needed sleep. He was pushing 72 hours without rest, and -- visions from the Manda or not -- eventually, his body would simply give out. 

But Kyr’tsad never slept -- not really. And Talia’s time with them was limited. They needed to interrogate her before they lost her for several months again -- especially now with the cursed blade in play. 

"K'atini," (it's only pain) he said, watching Clark’s expression twist at the word. Ah, so he remembered. “I’ll sleep when this is done. Ori'haat." (it's the truth/I swear)

The Jetii coughed into his elbow, looking away as the elevator doors opened. "‘Lek, Alor.”

Smiling into his buy'ce, Bruce stepped out from the elevator, Clark a half step behind him.

Clark was fighting the last of his blush as they entered the cell level. Around them, dozens of guards saluted their Mand’alor, nodding at him a moment later. He returned the nods, sweeping his gaze over the rows of cells. 

There were several Kyr’tsad members divided amongst the cells -- likely those who had been captured the previous day. 

Wayne seemed to know exactly where they were going, making a beeline for a set of durasteel doors on the far right of the complex. On either side of the doors, two heavily armored arane -- likely ori'ramikade, (supercommandos) if Clark was guessing correctly -- stood at attention, heavy blasters in their hands. 

“We’re here to see the prisoner,” Wayne said, producing a datapad from somewhere in his cloak, "Aran'alor (head of guard) approval is here.”

That must have been Dick’s signature. The two ori’ramikade examined the datapad, then nodded at the Mand’alor. 

"Jate'kara," (good luck; literally "good stars") the one on the left said, nodding at his partner. They pressed a button on their vambraces simultaneously, and the doors opened. 

"Vor entye," (Thank you) Wayne said, stepping forward. Clark followed, hurrying to keep up with the Mand’alor’s strides. 

They entered a dark durasteel tunnel, following it several meters until the walls suddenly curved. At the end of the plating, a small cell was tucked into the wall, lit by a sole light in the ceiling. 

Talia grinned at them as they approached, standing from her cot. Leaning against the bars -- likely durasteel, too, but Clark wouldn’t put it past Bruce to have Beskar down here -- she opened her mouth to speak. 

“Don’t,” the Mand’alor interrupted, flat and emotionless, “You’ll answer only when spoken to.”

Talia -- predictably, as Clark was learning -- wasn’t cowed. If anything, her smile grew wider, gaze locked firmly on Wayne. 

“Going to hurt me, cyare?" (beloved/dear) she asked, “Or is that what the Jet'ika (little Jeti; diminutive) is for?”

Clark felt the blush threaten again, and willed it away. Next to him, Wayne didn’t rise to the bait, simply looking at Talia. 

“Damian’s injuries have healed,” he said, deliberately slow. In the cell, Talia tried to hide a flinch, “He misses you.”

“Don’t,” Talia whispered, eyes widening in -- what? Fear? Panic? “Don’t speak his name to me, you hut'uun." (coward)

“He might limp for the rest of his life,” Wayne continued, ignoring Talia’s bared teeth, “The Baar'ur (medic/doctor) says the nerve damage in his feet was too severe to heal completely. The bones went unset for so long, you see.”

“You shabuir,” Talia yelled, slamming against the bars, “Ne'johaa! Ne'johaa!” (Shut up! Shut up!)

“Why is Kyr’tsad working with dar’jetii?” Wayne asked, stepping back out of Talia’s reach, calm as ever. “What do you stand to gain?”

Clark took a step back as well. Talia looked moments away from spitting, furious in a way he could tell was personal. 

“Ne shab'rud'ni,” (Don't try me/I'm warning you) Talia growled, clinging to the bars with white knuckles. 

Wayne was unfazed. “Why is Kyr’tsad working with dar’jetii?” he repeated, tilting his helmet. 

“Kote be’Haat Mand’alor,” (glory of the true Mand'alor) Talia said, a fanatical gleam overpowering the anger in her eyes, “Something you wouldn’t know about, cyare.”

Glory of the true Mand’alor. Clark translated, shaking his head. If only they could feel --

“Ra’s is still around, then,” Wayne said, like he was remarking upon the weather, “How is the true Mand’alor?"

"Jahaala," (healthy) Talia growled, “Strong and devoted, like a Mand’alor should be.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Wayne said, reaching into his belt, “Give him a gift for me, won’t you?”

Clark watched as the Mand’alor threw the blade from earlier through the bars, faster than he could see. Talia caught the vibroblade in one hand, twisting it into a loose hold at her side. 

“Surely such powerful magic is meant only for the true Mand’alor,” Wayne said, a hint of steel under the humor. He was watching Talia’s expression carefully. “I suppose I’ll never know what it does.”

Talia bared her teeth again, “If only I hadn’t missed.”

“You have the Jetii to thank for that, cyare.” Wayne said, teasing the last word with a pull of his tongue. Talia flushed lightly. "Kyr’tsad recruits a dar’jetii, and I find my own Jetii. It’s the will of the Manda, isn’t it?”

“Curse your Manda," Talia spit, glancing at Clark, “and your pet Jetii.”

“He’s not my pet, Talia,” Wayne said, voice darkening, "You are.”

Clark felt a polite tap on the side of his shields. Surprised, he opened them to Wayne’s presence, keeping his eyes on Talia. 

Retrieve the knife, please? the Mand’alor asked. I think I’ve gathered enough information. 

You didn’t think that through, did you? Clark asked back, amusement curling through his mind. 

I wanted to see if she’d avoid it, Wayne replied, And she didn’t. Not really.

Clark blinked back to the present, lifting a hand. The vibroblade hovered out of Talia’s grip, floating toward him. 

With a vindictive kind of protectiveness, Clark pocketed the blade, refusing to hand it back over to Wayne. If it was a threat to the Mand’alor -- well, then all the better it was with him for now. 

“I’ll be back,” Talia warned, watching Wayne obsessively through the bars, “You know I will, cyare.”

“I hope so. Damian would like to see you,” Wayne said, “Despite your best efforts, he still hasn’t renounced you.” 

With that, he turned to Clark, ignoring the way Talia’s face whitened with anger. “Let’s go.”

Clark followed entirely behind Wayne as they exited the tunnel, keeping an eye on Talia in the Force as their backs were bared. Jason’s warning from earlier rang through his mind. 

Once in the elevator -- and past the arane and other prisoners -- he slumped against the wall, the momentary rush of adrenaline leaving his body weakened. 

Next to him, Wayne removed his helmet, dark hair mussed. He sighed, nearly in tandem with Clark. 

“Did you learn what you wanted to?” Clark asked, knowing it was a lame question. Wayne tilted his head, the effect weakened without his helmet. 

“Mostly,” he said, glancing at Clark’s pocket. “Will I get that back?”

Clark instantly tugged the knife even closer to his body with the Force, narrowing his eyes at the Mand’alor. 

“After you sleep, maybe.”

Exhaustion pulsed through Wayne’s shields. The other man ran a hand across his face, leaning against the wall like Clark had. 

“I can’t sleep,” he said. Clark opened his mouth, pausing when Wayne raised a hand, quelling his protest, “I can’t. The Manda will send me into a vision if I do -- or several -- and I can’t know how long I’ll be under.”

“The Manda is kind of a dick,” Clark said. Across from him, Wayne snorted, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, it kind of is.”

Clark considered his previous words, frowning. “You can tell when the visions are approaching.”

“Most of the time,” Wayne said, shrugging. “The Manda usually warns me. Unless it’s being particularly cruel.”

“Is it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why now, though?” Clark asked, “Can’t it tell how much we -- your people -- need you?”

“You know as well as I do -- visions are intel, even when jumbled.” The Mand’alor sighed again, and Clark’s heart ached in sympathy. He did know.

“I can send you to sleep,” Clark offered, before he could stop himself, "Jetii have a -- well, we can make it dreamless, at least.”

Wayne shook his head, hooking a hand through his belt. “It’s still pushing off the inevitable.”

“You’re exhausted. I’m not sure how much longer you can stay awake,” Clark said, worried. He sounded like a mother tooka, but didn’t care. 

“That’s what stims are for,” Wayne said, “Speaking of…”

Clark narrowed his eyes as the Mand’alor removed a hypo from his belt. Before he could stop the other man, he’d uncapped it, plunged it into his neck, and pressed the button. 

With a sigh, Wayne stood up a little straighter, re-capping the hypo and sticking it back into his belt. He glanced at Clark, lips curving into a weak smile. 

“See?”

“That can’t be healthy,” Clark said, disapproval dripping from his words. Wayne laughed, the first genuine sound he’d heard all day from the Mand’alor. 

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Clark was escorted back to his rooms by the older guard from earlier. Despite his protests, the Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) waved him off, exhaustion clearly warring with the sudden adrenaline of the stim shot. 

He had work to do. And that work didn’t involve Clark, it seemed. 

Walking alongside the guard, he tried not to let his discontent show on his face. The guard -- still nameless, but radiating focus in the Force -- remained a half-step behind him, a hand on his blaster. 

“I can see myself back,” Clark said, after they’d crossed several sets of doors in total silence, “If you want me to swear I’ll go straight there, I will.”

There was a soft buzz of static from the aran's (guard) vocoder. A pleasant voice followed. 

“I’ve heard that far too many times,” the man said, tilting his buy'ce (helmet) at Clark, the same way Wayne had, earlier. His accent was Concordian, which surprised Clark. “Forgive me if I verify with my own eyes.”

“Of course,” Clark said, catching a trail of amusement behind the aran’s shields, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Clark.”

“Alfred,” the guard said, “Clan Pennyworth. House Wayne.”

“You’re the--” Clark cut himself off, surprised. He hadn’t recognized the man’s armor. “I--I saw you. In my vision.”

A sole Mandalorian circled back on a jetpack to join Wayne, the Darksaber hilt in his hand, soaked in blood. 

He landed with the other fist against his chest, bowing his head. 

“Alor.”

Wayne flinched at that title, closing his eyes. When the Mando’ad held up the hilt, his entire body shuddered, grief leaking from his Force presence. 

“Alfred--”

The Mando’ad shook his head, answering whatever unspoken protestation Wayne had been about to voice. “It’s yours, Bruce.”

“It doesn’t belong to me,” Wayne said in clipped Mando’a, gritting his teeth. Anger poured into the Force -- anger, and the distinct undercurrent of shame. “Take it, and fight for our people, Alfred.”

Even Clark could feel the way the Darksaber pulled to him, aching for a worthy wielder. He bit his lip, watching with renewed sympathy for the Mand’alor. He’d lost so much, only for the Darksaber to be thrust upon him. 

And he was so young--

“It calls for you,” the Mando’ad -- Alfred -- said, his words ringing with rightness in the Force. “It calls for the rightful Mand’alor.” 

He held out the hilt again. Wayne took a deep breath, tears shining in his eyes. 

"Vor'e," he said, reaching for the Darksaber. “I--”

“So I heard,” Alfred said, gesturing him through another set of doors. Clark realized he’d stopped entirely, caught up in the past vision, “Bruce is very particular about who he shares that memory with.”

It was almost a threat -- and the politest one he’d gotten from a Mandalorian since he’d landed. Clark nodded, understanding what wasn’t being said. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for the well of pain near his heart and letting it show on his face, “For what happened. What you lost, I mean.”

Galidraan had shaken something in him, ever since he’d relived Wayne’s agony, and he hadn’t had a chance to interrogate it in meditation yet. 

The aran ducked his head, avoiding his gaze. Now, looking closer, Clark noticed how his armor wasn’t painted like the other arane -- it was weathered and modified more than anyone else’s, save the Mand’alor’s. 

A verd (soldier) then -- not a guard. Not really. 

Dark green stripes wound around Alfred’s arms, tapering off at the top of his breastplate. The rest of the armor was the battered grey of bare beskar, highlighted intermittently with swipes of silver and teal. 

Guarding, healing, redemption, Clark recalled, trying not to stare for too long. For such a closed off and untrusting people, Mandalorians often seemed to wear their hearts on their sleeves -- quite literally. 

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,” (Not gone, merely marching far away/a tribute to a dead Mandalorian) Alfred said gruffly, sending a pang through Clark’s chest, "Vor'e." (Thank you)

They came upon his rooms a few moments later, sharing a somewhat easy silence. Clark thanked the man for the escort, hesitating at the doorway. 

“You also made the tiingilar (a traditional spicy Mandalorian meat dish) the other night,” he said, smiling softly, “It was delicious. Thank you again.”

The verd removed his helmet, revealing a scarred, weathered face to match his armor. Kind eyes caught his own, crinkled slightly at the corners. 

“No debt,” he said, like Clark had said it in Mando'a. (Mandalorian language) Maybe it was another nudge to start using the language more frequently. He held his helmet under his arm, raising one eyebrow. “K'oyacyi, Jetii.” (Stay alive/hang in there, Jedi)

Clark was still smiling as he shut the door.

There was an impenetrable stack of datapads on his desk when he returned to his office. 

The damage from the Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a terrorist Mandalorian faction) explosion had been cleaned up, at least, new transparisteel windows fitted into the frames like they hadn’t been violently shattered hours prior. 

Bruce brushed aside as many as he could without threatening the entire structure, sitting down in his chair with a muffled hiss. Ka'ra, (stars) but he was tired. 

The last time he’d been awake for this many consecutive rotations had to have been his Verd'goten. (Mandalorian coming of age ritual at 13; a hunt or trial) And even then, he’d had a clear goal in front of him, urging him forward. 

Now, he had two and a half squadrons of Kyr’tsad in his custody, a dar'ven'riduur (Ex fiancée/literally "no longer a future spouse") likely to break out at any moment, a knife imbued with darkness meant only for him, somehow, and a Jetii who…

A Jetii who was slowly driving him crazy with his gentle affection and care. Who looked at him in concern when he detailed the inevitable crush of visions he was likely to suffer, and accepted his response with a knowing frown. 

Bruce pressed a hand to his face, sighing softly. 

Clark hadn’t sworn the Resol'nare (Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life) yet, something which seemed to greatly displease the Manda. (like the Force; the connection between all Mandalorians and their Mand'alor) In the whirlwind of the Kyr’tsad attack, and Talia’s interrogation, there hadn’t been time to revisit their earlier negotiations.  

Hours before, Bruce had forced him into a diplomat’s role, defining boundaries between them he no longer truly wanted. And for what? To have the Jetii languish in his rooms until he was called down in service? 

No. Kent -- Clark -- had been an ally, and a valuable resource. And if Kyr’tsad was working with a dar'jetii... (not-Jedi; a sith; a darksider)

He’d need the Jetii as close as possible. 

With a tap on his vambrace, he pulled up a comm chat with Dick.  

09:24:00

Did you reassign the Jetii yet?

09:24:16

Nayc. (No) Have something in mind?

09:25:39

Aliit (family) wing. 

There was a long pause. Bruce lowered his vambrace, smirking. Dick was probably staring at the message in shock, trying to formulate an answer. 

09:27:05

Jason owes me ten credits. I bet you wouldn’t move in together until you said the riduurok. (Mandalorian vows of marriage) 

09:27:39

We’re not moving in together. It’s strategic. 

09:28:05

Whatever you want to call it, Buir... (parent)

Bruce’s comm chirped, revealing the new room assignment. A pleased hum came from the Manda, echoing through his bones. 

A moment later, his comm lit up with a new message. 

09:30:01

Jason is looking for you, in case you wanted a chance to share the happy news. 

Bruce scoffed to himself. Did the kid ever sleep?

09:30:29

Tell him I’ll find him at latemeal. I want everyone there. 

09:31:15

Lek, (yes) Buir. 

A calendar invite chimed on his comm, indicating the latemeal had been scheduled. Bruce rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Dick was so sassy ever since he’d been made aran'alor. (head of the guard)

“Which one was it this time?”

Bruce looked up to find Alfred standing in the doorway, buy'ce under his arm. He stood, beckoning his second in command into the office. 

“Dick,” he said, by way of explanation. “He and Jason are taking bets on the Jetii."

“On when you’ll take a riduur, (spouse) you mean,” Alfred said, setting his buy'ce on the floor and sitting across from him, “And finally make me a happy buir."

Bruce felt the heat rise to his cheeks and glared at his second in command. “You’re a ba'buir (grandparent) several times over now. Take what you can get, old man.”

“I can always hope,” the verd replied, “But a Jetii, Bruce?”

The good humor in the room slipped slightly, like it always did when they danced around Galidraan. Nothing in Alfred’s bearing spoke of disapproval, yet…

“I know,” Bruce said, “I don’t like it either. Which is why nothing will come of it.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. 

“Seems a bit…unrealistic.”

The Manda seemed to agree, poking at Bruce in displeasure. Closer, it urged, like it had since Clark’s dream the previous night. Closer. 

Bruce felt his cheeks pink even further as the Manda bombarded him with a series of images -- all heat-laced not-memories of them intertwined: his teeth in the Jetii’s neck; Bruce on his back, looking up at Clark as the Jetii sunk down on his cock, hips bracketed by his hands --

“He’ll swear the Resol’nare,” Bruce said, shifting slightly in his seat, “I’d like to propose keeping him on as an ambassador to the Council.”

“The Evaar'ade (New Mandalorian; a pacifist faction) will love that,” Alfred accepted the subject change with grace, tilting his head, “They’ve been dying for Republic recognition for years, and the first representative they send swears to you.”

“I’m aware of how it looks,” Bruce said, heat curling in his gut at the thought of Clark being his. “And I’m not entirely displeased.”

“Of course not,” Alfred said, lips twitching wryly, “You want his help hunting Kyr’tsad, don’t you?”

The Darksaber seemed to pulse briefly in his belt, as if in recognition of the name. Bruce frowned, ignoring it. 

“If he doesn’t report it back to his Jetii Council,” he replied, “Then yes.”

“He’ll listen to you,” Alfred said, the Manda curling around his words, imbuing them with power. “When the time comes.”

He’ll have to, the Manda whispered into his ear, He’ll want to. 

“We’ll see,” Bruce said, sighing softly. He reached for one of the datapads on the desk. “I assume these are about Tatooine?”

“Cass’ reports are on that one,” Alfred said, nodding toward a datapad on the far right. “Jason’s recommendations are on the one beneath it.”

“Will they be any different than normal?” Bruce asked with another sigh, wishing distantly for another stim. How the first one had worn off already was beyond him. 

Alfred was hiding a smile behind his hand when he looked up. 

“He wants to take it,” Bruce surmised, running a hand through his hair, "Manda, another one?”

The Manda nudged at him, pleased to have been invoked. It sent him a blurry half-glimpse of Tatooine slavers running into the desert, gun ships full of ori'ramikade (commandos) descending from the heated sky onto the burning sand, their turrets casting wide shadows across--

“Bruce.” 

He blinked away the vision with some difficulty, digging his hands into the tops of his thighs. The pain of his gauntlets sharpened the room around him, keeping him present. 

Alfred was leaning over the desk, hand still outstretched. He’d been seconds away from slapping him, something Bruce had vociferously encouraged in cases like these.

“You were gone,” Alfred said, sitting back and dropping his hand, “Anything important?” he asked, looking mildly unsettled. 

Bruce shrugged. “Not yet.”

He knew his visions -- fits, really -- concerned Alfred. He’d been one of the only to know him before he’d become Mand’alor, and everything that entailed. When he’d simply been Bruce, or alor’ika when he was being teased -- a happy, devoted child, full of endless questions and jokes. 

Galidraan had changed that. It had changed everything, really, though Bruce couldn’t say conclusively if it was for the better. Most days, he would say yes. 

Yes, the Manda whispered, like it always had, Better. Far better. 

Bruce gripped his thigh again, staving off that vision with a press of his gloved fingers in between the muscles of his leg. He groaned as the muscles cramped under his palm, the pain pushing back the grey fog at the edge of his vision. 

Across the desk, Alfred watched him breathe through it, dismayed. 

“I haven’t slept,” Bruce explained, “It’s getting… insistent. But there’s too much to do…”

“You meet with the Council in two days,” Alfred warned, “They’ll want to see you healthy, after the attack. Healthy means not running yourself ragged over every rumor and sighting.”

There were several clan heads who would be more than pleased to see him un healthy, but that was beside the point. It wasn’t a time to show weakness -- not when Kyr’tsad was clearly recruiting. 

He’d have to rest before then. There was no way around it -- no continuing through everyday conversations, only to be sidelined by a sudden vision that incapacitated him for an unknown amount of time. 

Clark was right. And oh, that burned a little, even thinking about it. 

A part of him -- encouraged none too subtly by the Manda -- wanted to find Clark, kneel before him, and press his forehead into the man’s chest. Wanted to feel that soothing Force presence against him as he slid into the hot fever of visions. Wanted to know -- as he let go -- that he would be safe. 

A soft groan slipped past his teeth. Alfred’s frown deepened, but he let him think through it, like he always had. 

“I’ll sleep tonight,” he said, watching relief bloom across his second in command’s face, “After latemeal. I want to see the ade (children) first.”

“Leslie will want you in the medbay,” Alfred parried. Bruce scoffed. 

“Leslie is prone to overreacting,” he said, knowing in his heart it wasn’t true, but desperately, desperately needing to pretend for a moment, “I’ll be fine in my rooms.”

Alfred leaned back, crossing his arms. His expression twisted briefly, like he was mulling something over. 

“We’ll see.”

Clark spent the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon in meditation, mulling over what he’d learned in the last cycle. 

Closely attuned to the Force for the first time in ages, he released his anxiety and confusion into it, reaching out for the small threads of the Living Force he could feel in Keldabe. 

The Mando'ade (Mandalorians) had made great strides in restoring the planet’s greenery and life, but he could still feel the scars the Excision -- the Dral'Han, (the old Republic's orbital bombing of Mandalore) as he remembered the Mando’ade calling it -- had left on its surface. 

He was glad not to be in Sundari, at least -- trapped in a domed city with artificial light and nature. This far away from the deserts, Keldabe boasted near-Mountain climate and fresh air, plants and animals clinging to the hillside with a kind of tenacity that could only be Mandalorian. 

His grasp on the Living Force hardly rivaled his of the Unifying Force. He was prone to visions over anything else, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t draw comfort from the Force signatures around him. 

Even several levels across the compound, the Mand’alor’s signature was the brightest, drawing his attention. The heat of the Manda shimmered around the man’s mind, far more visible than usual. 

Poor Bruce, Clark thought, releasing his concern into the Force before it could overtake him. The Mand’alor deserved rest, above all else -- dreamless, vision-less sleep. A chance to recover from everything that had happened. 

It didn’t seem like he’d be getting that any time soon. Clark mourned for him on his behalf, releasing it into the Force as he continued his meditation. 

The keldab (compound) was full of life -- soldiers, guards and staff constantly circled the compound, chatting with each other as shifts ended and began. Clark picked out the Mand’alor’s children one by one, and then Alfred -- near Bruce -- before returning to his own awareness. 

In his room, the half-drawn curtains let in the beginning rays of sunset, bathing him in orange light. He sighed, relaxing into the soft heat. 

Across the room on the nightstand, as if on cue, his comm beeped with an incoming notification. 

17:38:01

Family latemeal at 18:00. You coming?

Clark frowned, typing out a response. 

17:38:22

Who is this?

The comm buzzed almost as soon as he’d sent the reply. 

17:38:30

Jason. Red armor. Can’t miss it. 

His stomach growled at the thought of more of Alfred’s tiingilar. It was certainly appealing. But considering what had happened at the last “family” latemeal…

Clark sighed, setting the comm down. Even with their recent closeness, he’d agreed to the Mand’alor’s rules. No going near his children without his permission -- and if the message wasn’t directly from Bruce, Clark wasn’t budging. 

17:40:07

Thank you for the invitation. I’ll regretfully have to decline.

Clark shut off the comm as it began to buzz angrily, several messages flooding in at once. He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes for a few minutes. 

A knock on the door startled him to his feet. He opened it on instinct, biting his lip when he spotted familiar red armor. 

“Did you get my messages?” Jason asked, “Tim says they went through, but you weren’t responding.”

“I-uhh,” Clark rubbed a hand across his face, “Yes?”

“You didn’t read them, did you.”

“Uh…no.” Clark shrugged in apology, “The Mand’alor doesn’t really want--”

"Kark (fuck) what the Mand’alor wants,” Jason said, pointing at him, “I’ve got thirty credits riding on this. I need you at latemeal.”

And, well, what was Clark supposed to say to that? 

“Let me change shirts before we go,” he said, accepting his defeat. Jason’s helmet tilted, clearly pleased by his easy acquiescence. “One moment.”

He closed the door, then locked it, crawling back into bed with only a small twinge of regret. 

Jason seemed to catch on quickly, which indicated good things about his overall status as Ven'alor. (next-Mand'alor)

“Hey Jetii!” he yelled, pounding on the door, “I know you’re still in there, di'kut." (idiot)

“I can’t come!” Clark yelled back, holding onto one of the pillows for moral support, “I’m sorry! I really wish I could!”

“You lied to me!” Jason called back, the pounding ceasing. “You probably don’t even have any extra shirts!”

Clark did have three shirts, but they were all in the same taupe fabric, so he could see why Jason had assumed that. 

“Sorry!”

The Ven’alor didn’t respond. 

That definitely didn’t bode well for Clark.

“Why is there a manual override request in the diplomat quarters?”

Bruce looked up from his datapads to see a horrified expression flit across Dick’s face. He turned to Duke, who’d just walked in and was, coincidentally, also looking at his commlink. 

“Anyone have eyes on the Jetii?” Duke said into his wrist mic, signing something at Dick. “Alright. Stand down. I’ll send Dick to talk to him.”

Dick let out a string of unsavory words, rushing out of the room with his hand on his blaster. Duke sighed, looking over at Bruce. 

“Jason wanted the Jetii at latemeal,” he summarized, “Guess he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

Bruce was mildly, briefly horrified on the Jetii’s behalf. “What?”

“Your Jetii locked himself in his rooms,” Duke said, lips twitching, “Jason tried to key in the manual override, but it needs two auths for it to go through.”

“He’s not my Jetii," Bruce said automatically, “Is this about the bet?”

“What do you think?”

"Kriff." (fuck)

Chapter Text

Clark trailed after an unrepentant Jason, the Ven'alor's (next-Mandalor's) wrist trapped firmly in Dick’s grasp. 

The arane (guards) and servants they passed in the hallway paid them no mind, despite Clark’s obvious blush. It was obvious their Aran'alor (head of the guard) was on the warpath, and not even belated sympathy for their Ven’alor stood in the way of a furious Dick. 

Going along with Jason’s ill-advised fit had been the best way to defuse the situation. At least, that was what Clark was telling himself as he was led down into the lower levels of the keldab. (compound)

Dick pushed Jason through the doorway of the dining room -- one Clark had only seen in passing -- and followed him in with a sigh, clenching his gloved hand. 

“Pay up, shabuire!" (bastards) Jason shouted, “He’s here!”

Inside, someone swore loudly in Mando'a. (Mandalorian language) A moment later, there was the sound of credit chips being exchanged -- more likely thrown -- tailed by a victorious laugh and even more swearing. 

Clark hesitated at the threshold, unsure of his welcome. The Mand'alor (sole ruler) could still object -- and likely would -- even with his children’s disapproval. 

Before he could make a move one way or the other, a familiar presence brushed against his mind, soft and inviting. In the Force, he opened to it, reassured. 

Come in, the Manda (like the Force) whispered, layered in Bruce’s voice, the voices of hundreds of other Mand'alor'e (plural of Mand'alor) and something ethereal Clark couldn’t begin to describe. You’re needed. 

He flinched at the heat brushing against his shields. He’d expected Bruce’s voice in his head, but not the Manda’s.  

Was this always how it felt when it spoke to Bruce? 

"Jetii." (Jedi)

Clark stepped into the dining room, meeting Bruce’s eyes briefly at the head of the latemeal table. The Mand’alor looked exhausted -- even more so than he had hours earlier -- his shields leaking fatigue into the Force around them. 

He inclined his head, tapping a hand to his chest. It felt right -- felt important, somehow. 

“Mand’alor," he said, accepting the open chair at the end of the table. He smiled at his seatmate -- a woman he didn’t recognize in all black armor -- and sat down, his ears buzzing. 

“Jason convinced you,” Bruce surmised dryly. He didn’t sound angry. Far from it. 

Clark nodded. “He was very persuasive.” 

Across the table, Jason was wedged between Duke, Dick, and what looked like a datapad full of regulations Dick had shoved in front of his face. 

“Clearly,” Bruce shook his head. A wry sort of amusement slipped between his shields, dissipating into the web of exhaustion hanging around him in the Force. “I don’t think you’ve met Cass or Steph.”

Clark followed the Mand’alor’s hand toward his seatmate and the woman across from her. He waved, feeling very far from the serene and wise Jedi master he was supposed to be. 

"Su'cuy," (Hello) he said, “It’s very nice to meet you.”

The woman across from him -- Steph, the Force whispered -- smiled, warm and genuine. 

“So you’re the Jetii everyone’s been talking about,” she said, with the level of teasing he’d come to expect from Mandalorians at this point. 

Her armor was a deep purple with yellow accents -- the purple for luck, and the yellow for remembrance. Her Force signature was bright in curiosity, underlaid in genuine welcome. 

Clark winced, wondering what exactly she’d heard. “That’s me.”

Next to him, Cass shook her head, grinning. In the Force, she was full of quiet, mischievous energy; Clark got the impression she was just biding her time at the latemeal table, though what she was waiting for was beyond him. 

“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” Steph continued, flicking a glance at Bruce down the table, “Rumor has it Buir (parent) knocked you into a coma. Surprised you’re still tolerating his shebs." (ass)

“It was an accident,” Clark immediately defended, “and it wasn’t a coma. Force. More like a nap.”

“With a bloody nose,” Bruce added from the head of the table, droll as ever. “And mild Force exhaustion.”

“You’re not helping,” Clark said, turning to him with a fond, if exasperated look, "Alor." (Boss/Leader)

That shut Bruce up quickly. The expression on his face was -- well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Not at the latemeal table. 

Around them, the Mand’alor’s children paused, watching the exchange like a tooka stalking its prey. 

“What’s for latemeal?” Clark asked, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. “If I might, um, inquire.”

“You may,” Bruce said, sounding slightly strained. “Alfred is making Clan Pennyworth’s tiingilar." (spicy Mandalorian meat dish)

“Spicier than Clan Wayne’s recipe,” Jason interjected, looking at him over the datapad that was now being held directly in front of him. He wiggled his eyebrows. “We’ll see if you can handle it.”

“He did fine last time,” Tim said, on Bruce’s right side at the head of the table. “Not bad for an aruetii (outsider) at all.”

"Vor'e." (Thanks) Clark said, with exaggerated flair. Tim’s lips twitched in amusement. 

"Buir cried when he tried it,” Damian bragged, clearly thrilled by that fact. His shoulders puffed up under the blastweave he wore. “Alfred says he was red for days."

"Jehaat," (that's a lie) Bruce said, crossing his arms, “I was four. You were barely eating uj'alayi (spiced sweet Mandalorian cake) when I said the gai bal Manda." (adoption vows)

"Lies," Damian said, facing off with his Buir across the table, “You take that back.”

Dick, momentarily distracted from Jason’s punishment, raised an eyebrow. “No, Bruce is right, you couldn’t handle it. Remember how Duke and I found you in the kitchen cry--”

The table swiftly descended into shouting. Several weapons were produced and brandished. Clark locked eyes with Bruce across the table, baffled by the sudden change in atmosphere. 

Ade, (children) right? Bruce’s expression said. Clark shook his head, bemused. 

Ade, indeed.

Bruce made it through latemeal. He made it through latemeal, and that was what he’d promised Alfred. 

The tiingilar burned, but so did the looks of concern Clark layered upon him throughout the meal. He could still feel the Jetii’s concern, even through the growing heat-haze around his mind. 

The Manda drew closer as the night continued, burning glancing touches along his jaw and temples, like hands were grasping his face and begging him to look. 

He sat through the end of latemeal with clenched hands hidden under the table, a bland smile plastered on his face. If his ade noticed, they said nothing, unwilling to admit to any weakness in front of an aruetii. 

Alfred left him with a gentle clasp on the shoulder, disappearing into the kitchen to finish up the dishes. Bruce opened eyes he hadn’t realized had drifted half-closed, forcing his head up. 

Clark hovered a few feet from his chair, radiating concern into the Manda with impressive dedication. 

“Alor,” he said, “Are you alright?”

The room was empty save for the Jetii. He hadn’t even noticed his ade leave -- or maybe he had? 

He realized, drifting slightly even under Clark’s gaze, that he’d kept his focus on all seven ade as they’d retired to their respective posts for the night. He was hovering on the edge of where consciousness ended and the Manda began, seeing both. 

Bruce knew their presences blind and deaf; he could trace their lights across the galaxy, he realized, and maybe even beyond it. Had he always been able to do that? 

He shook off the heat of the Manda, bolstering himself with its power as he pushed to his feet. 

"An'jate," (I'm okay) he said, dismissing Clark with a lowered hand. The Jetii made to follow him. “Tion'vaii gar slana?” (Where are you going?)

Clark stared at him strangely. 

"...Ti gar?" (With you?)

"Me'ven?" (What?) Bruce asked, blinking. “Ni slana par haav. Ni ne suvari gar…” (I'm going to bed. I don't understand you)

“Gev.” (Stop) Clark said awkwardly, putting up a hand and holding him in place with a look, "Ke'jorhaa'i niviinyc'shya, gedet'ye." (Talk slower, please)

Bruce obliged, halting his escape attempt. He steadied himself with another tendril of the Manda, watching the heat shimmer at the edges of his vision. 

"Me'copaani?" (What do you want?) Bruce asked slowly.

Clark let out a relieved breath. He said something unintelligible, staring at Bruce as if waiting for a response. 

“Tion'sirbu gar?” (What did you say?) Bruce said, shaking his head. “Ke'tatugi ibac.” (Repeat that)

Clark said the words again, lips shaping them carefully. His eyes never left Bruce’s, slowly widening in panic. 

“Tion'suvari?” (Do you understand me?)

“Serim." (Correct) Bruce said, confused. “Clark?”

Distantly, he heard Clark’s voice parsing through those same strange syllables again. 

Ca’nara, (it's time) the Manda whispered over the sudden roaring in his ears, ni ceta. (I'm sorry) 

Consciousness was ripped away from him like a ripcord. He felt his knees buckle from the sudden pain and heat tearing through his head. 

Strong arms caught him just as his vision split, keeping him from hitting the floor. Someone was shouting his name. The Jetii?

He spared a thought for Clark -- dear, concerned Clark -- and let the darkness overtake him.

Clark didn’t need the Force to know Bruce was flagging throughout latemeal. 

He’d waited until the ade were gone to pounce on the Mand’alor, encouraged by Alfred’s pointed look as he left them in the dining room. Bruce’s eyes were barely open, fluttering under the pressure of something unseen.

“Alor,” he said, when it was just the two of them, “Are you alright?”

“An'jate,” Bruce dismissed his concern in Mando’a as he stood, his accent curling strangely around the vowels, “Tion'vaii gar slana?”

Clark paused, thrown off by the sudden change in language. Maybe it was another test? Jason had mentioned using more Mando’a, earlier. 

“...Ti gar?” he answered in Mando’a, because there was no way in Sith’s hells he was letting the man walk out of the room unassisted. 

“Me’ven?” Bruce asked, blinking at him. He continued in rapid-fire Mando’a. “Ni slana par haav. Ni ne suvari gar…”

“Gev,” Clark said, holding up his hand and praying Bruce would just stop and listen. “Ke'jorhaa'i niviinyc'shya, gedet'ye.” 

Bruce went still, looking up at him with a half-vacant expression. He was pale from the exhaustion, but a low flush had begun across his cheeks, lending him a feverish appearance. 

"Me'copaani?" Bruce asked, slowly like he'd asked.

Clark let out a breath. Okay, maybe it was time for the medbay. Baar’ur Thompkins would know what to do. 

“I think we should go to the medbay,” he said in Basic, “You’re unwell.”

“Tion'sirbu gar?” Bruce frowned, shaking his head, “Ke'tatugi ibac.”

What? 

“I said, we should go to the medbay,” Clark enunciated, voice rising slightly, “You’re sick. Something’s wrong.”

Bright blue eyes stared at him, devoid of any comprehension. 

“Tion'suvari?” he asked, switching back to Mando’a. 

“Serim.” Bruce said instantly, looking confused. “Clark?”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Clark replied in Basic, glancing around the dining room. Maybe Alfred would know what to do. “You don’t--”

The Force called out a warning just as Bruce’s eyes rolled back into his head.

Help him!

Lurching forward, Clark caught the Mand’alor before his knees hit the floor, using the Force to help guide him onto his back. 

“Bruce?” he asked, his voice cracking. "Bruce!”

Alfred burst into the room, summoned by his shout. He was at Clark’s side in a heartbeat, hand dropping from his blaster holster. 

“He just collapsed,” Clark explained, pulling Bruce’s head into his lap. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I’ll comm Leslie,” the verd (soldier) said, shaking his head as he typed into the comm on his vambrace, “I told him this would happen. I told him.”

In the Force, Bruce’s signature had been consumed entirely by the Manda. Clark brushed a hand across the Mand’alor’s forehead, hissing at the heat he felt there. 

“What’s happening?” he asked Alfred, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, “He was talking strangely and then he just -- fell."

“He told you about the visions?” Alfred asked, not looking up, “From the Manda?”

“'Lek. (Yes) He said he was pushing them off.”

“And this is the result,” the verd sighed, finishing whatever message he’d typed into his vambrace. "Baar’ur Thompkins had to intubate him once, it was so intense. He’ll likely need to spend some time in the medbay, regardless.”

Clark had a momentary flashback to his own time in the keldab’s medbay, courtesy of a vision. Bruce’s sudden, reluctant softness when he’d woken had shocked him then. Clearly, it came from a place of empathy. 

“I can carry him,” he said, when Alfred moved to lift Bruce’s shoulders, "Gedet’ye. I have the Force to help.”

With a nod from the verd, he lifted Bruce’s prone body into the air, leaving the Mand’alor hovering between them. 

“Lead the way,” Clark said, nodding at Alfred. 

The verd nodded, grabbing Bruce’s helmet from the table. 

"Oya." (a rallying cry; let's hunt; onwards)

Bruce opened his eyes to the familiar snow of Galidraan. 

It was some strange irony of the Manda, undoubtedly, to send him back here. The ground around him was soaked in blood, but devoid of the bodies of his fallen verde. 

There were no Jetiise, (Jedi) no verde, not even Alfred or the handful of survivors they’d rallied into a victory that day. There was nothing but blood, cooling and rapidly coagulating in the ice. 

It was a reminder of how much he’d lost, that day. How much Manda'yaim (Mandalore) had lost. 

Bruce breathed in the icy air, feeling the reassuring heat of the Manda swell in his chest. Despite the monumental loss, Manda’yaim had still gained something that day. 

A Mand’alor, the Manda whispered in his ear, in the deadened silence only snow could create, A true leader. 

Ritually, he felt his lips twist in Old Mando’a. 

“This is the Way,” he said to the bloodied snow. The Manda shivered in pleasure at the words, flames fanning in his chest. 

This is the Way. 

Galidraan disappeared into the dark lines of the formal throne room in Keldabe. 

Bruce found himself on the dais, knees spread and hands buried in black curls. 

His head hit the back of his throne, pleasure coursing through him as Clark’s mouth worked eagerly between his legs.

Ka'ra, (stars) he was so hot, and the wetness around his cock was perfect. Who taught the Jetii how to do this? 

He let out a hitched noise as Clark’s tongue dragged under the head of his cock, deliberate and slow. The Jetii pulled off him with swollen lips, looking up at him under heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Make noise, cyare," (beloved) Clark said, with the dream-like quality of the Manda threading through his voice, “Let all of Manda’yaim hear their Mand’alor.”

That mouth was on him again before he could respond, swallowing him to the root. Bruce cried out, hand tightening in Clark’s curls as heat shot up his spine, his hips bucking involuntarily. 

His orgasm came across him suddenly, white-hot and intense. He thrust his hips forward into Clark’s eager mouth, moaning around half-syllables of Mando’a. 

His hands slipped from the Jetii’s hair, cradling his face instead. It was painfully intimate. 

Clark swallowed obligingly around him, throat working gracefully. When Bruce collapsed backwards, he licked Bruce’s softening cock clean, radiating devotion into the Manda. 

“Ka’ra," Bruce said, when he could breathe again, the words torn from his lips, "Gar meshla." (you're beautiful)

In between his knees, Clark reared back to look up at him, smiling. He was wearing armor, Bruce realized -- a deep blue with yellow and red accents at the kar'ta. (heart)

One of his vambraces was black -- a perfect match to his own. Bruce took a stunned breath, looking down at his left arm. 

His vambrace was the same, deep blue. 

"What’s wrong, cyare?” Clark asked, concern cracking his expression, "Me'bana?" (What happened?)

The Manda was pulling him away again, heat shimmering at the edges of his vision. Bruce felt a pang at the intrusion, wishing suddenly that he could stay here, with this version of Clark. 

"Naas," (Nothing) he said, lips moving around words his mind hadn’t yet shaped. Were they even his own? “Ni ceta.”

Clark frowned. "Tion par?" (For what?)

The throne room dissolved before Bruce could reply. A part of him ached to leave that expression on the Jetii’s face, vision or not, but…

The rest of him knew what lay ahead in the Manda. And it was rarely as sweet as that glimpse had been. 

Bruce blinked as a cavern materialized before him, his knees hitting cold concrete as metal cuffs solidified around his wrists. His arms were pulled behind him, drawing his chest high and spine straight. 

He missed Clark’s vambrace like a physical limb, its loss immeasurable. Had the Manda just been teasing him? Was it really just a dream?

The beat of war drums vibrated through the floor, in time with the pulsing of his heart. The sound was all encompassing, every cell in his body standing to attention as heat built in the cavern. 

He bowed his head, feeling the Manda crest around him, restless and unimpressed with his delay. It scattered burning touches across his arms and face, sharp and unrelenting. 

Arms cuffed behind him, he gave into the silent demand, tilting his face up and opening his eyes. 

Images flashed across his vision, hurried and fragmented -- war, pain, victory, loneliness and every emotion in between. He saw Dick and Jason fighting back to back, saw glimpses of Cass’ distinctive armor, saw Duke and Tim bent over something and Steph behind them. 

The drums continued to beat in his ears, in his blood, as he watched Talia’s escape -- watched explosions and what looked like a wedding, somehow, all intermixed with fractured memories of twisted metal and snow and things long past. 

It was overwhelming. It was nearly beyond mortal comprehension entirely. 

Listen, the Manda implored, with blood-soaked memories and futures blackened with ash. Listen. 

Bruce listened.

Clark’s heart was in his throat as he brought Bruce into the medbay, looking wordlessly to Baar’ur Thompkins for direction. The Baar’ur quickly directed him to an open cot, a scanner already hovering over Bruce’s slack face. 

“Fever too,” she muttered to herself as Clark laid the Mand’alor on the cot. “We need to get that armor off.”

“Let me,” Clark offered, holding up a hand to stall Alfred. The Baar’ur traded a look with the verd, who nodded, standing back. 

Clark focused in the Force, feeling along every individual piece of beskar. When he found the hidden latches, he waved his hand, floating each piece off of the kute, (undersuit) and onto the nearby rack. 

“Handy,” Baar’ur Thompkins said, looking mildly impressed. She rescanned Bruce, glancing up briefly at Clark after the scanner beeped. “Anything else I should know?”

Clark turned to Alfred, who grimaced.

“Another set of visions occurred earlier,” the verd reported, grim, “They were weak enough for him to push through. With…some difficulty.” 

That was news to Clark. He sighed internally, aching for the Mand’alor’s sake. Against the stark white pillows, he looked so… human. 

It would be so simple to just reach out, and smooth his hand across his brow…

“Mhm,” Thompkins said, typing into a nearby datapad and setting it aside. She picked up an IV set, slitting open the package and pulling out tubing, “And you, Jetii?”

Clark startled, looking up from Bruce to find them both staring at him. 

“I, uh…” he trailed off, struggling to focus, “He was speaking in, uh, Mando’a before he collapsed. He didn’t seem to understand Basic. I don’t know why.”

Thompkins tched, sliding the IV into Bruce’s arm. Dark red blood flooded the tubing. 

“How did he feel?” she asked, hooking the tube into a series of bags hanging above the cot. “In the Manda?”

Clark frowned. It was an odd question for a Baar’ur outside of the temple. 

“Hot,” he said, flushing as they both turned to him. “The Manda, it -- it’s always hot, but this time it was…”

He trailed off, unable to convey what he’d felt. It was impossible. 

“How does he feel now?” Thompkins asked, grabbing the datapad and turning her full attention on him, stylus poised. “In the Manda?”

“Hot.” Clark answered honestly. The Baar’ur snorted, marking something on the pad. 

“Helpful,” she gestured at a nearby chair, “Sit down, Jet'ika. (Little Jedi) You just got promoted.”

Clark sat, sliding the chair closer to Bruce’s cot so he could see his face. 

“Promoted to what?” he asked. 

"Mand’alor babysitter,” she said, nodding at Bruce. “You feel anything weird -- anything different, you call for me. Tayli'bac?" (Got it? Understand?)

“I understand,” Clark said, swallowing his confusion. He was a Jedi Master -- he could monitor a patient in the Force easily. “Um. Ni suvari." (I understand)

"Jate." (Good)  

The Baar’ur left, still tapping on the datapad. Clark sent a desperate look to Alfred, still hovering on the other side of the cot. 

“Vor’e,” the verd said, inclining his head. “I’ll contact the Ven’alor while he’s out. Hopefully it isn’t for too long.” 

Ven’alor. That was Jason. Clark nodded, folding his hands in his lap. 

"Jate'kara," (Good luck) Alfred said, setting Bruce’s helmet down on the rack with the rest of his armor. “Comm me if anything changes.”

With that, Clark was left alone in the medbay, the Mand’alor unconscious before him. 

Sending a prayer into the Force -- or maybe it was the Manda, this close to Bruce -- he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, falling into meditation. 

Chapter Text

Clark hesitated inside of his meditation, feeling something clumsy tap against his shields.

In his mind, Bruce’s Force presence was like an inferno, the heat coming off of the Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) enough to have him gritting his teeth. He’d been avoiding direct contact for fear of being consumed by it. 

Whatever the Manda (like the Force) was doing -- it was beyond him entirely. Clark could only monitor from a relative distance, and try to pull Bruce back if he went too far into the visions. 

Not that he was confident he could actually breach the Mand’alor’s shields without his consent. The Manda seemed contrary and inviting in equal turns, ready to cast him into a Force headache as easily as it was to let him inside Bruce’s formidable defenses. 

There was another blunt tap on the outer edges of his shield, drawing his attention away from his vigil over the Mand’alor. Clark got the impression of red-painted beskar and blasterfire. 

Jason. 

He opened his eyes to find the Ven'alor (Next-Mand'alor; future Mand'alor) kneeling before him, eyes closed. His buy'ce (helmet) was held across his lap, gauntleted hands folded over the top. 

There was blood splattered across his cheek, a faint spiderweb of red disappearing into his hairline. 

"Alor," (leader) Clark said, startled. Across from him, Jason opened his eyes, grimacing at the title. 

“Just Ven’alor for now,” he said, straightening, "Ka'ra (stars) willing. Kark." (Fuck)

Looking down, Clark found Bruce still unconscious on the cot, several additional wires and tubes now hooked up to his arms. The Mand’alor’s brow was furrowed, eyes clenched shut against the light of the medbay. 

Bruce’s hand was in his, he realized belatedly, clasped loosely against the cot sheets. He made no move to remove it in front of Jason, too worried to be embarrassed. 

“I was hoping that would work,” Jason said, glancing briefly at his buir, (parent) “You were pretty out of it. Figured it was worth a shot.”

“You touched my shields,” Clark said, momentarily dumbfounded, “You’re…not Force sensitive.”

The Ven’alor crossed his arms, drawing attention to the blood splattered across his vambraces. “Well, he isn’t either, technically.”

Clark looked down at Bruce, and accepted the point with some grace. “Fair point.”

“Besides, Bruce always says we don’t need to be ka'ra- blessed to be loud,” Jason said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And we can be loud."

Clark grinned, imagining just how much trouble ade (children) could get up to when purposefully trying to annoy a Force sensitive. 

"Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a terrorist organization) just launched their escape attempt at the edge of the city,” Jason continued, standing up fully, “The verde (soldiers) haven’t breached the keldab (compound) yet, but Talia and her shabuire (bastards) are slippery. They’ll get out.”

Clark shook his head, dazed by the sudden influx of knowledge. “How long have I been meditating?”

“A little over a day,” Baar'ur (medic/doctor) Thompkins said, striding into the medbay, scanner in hand. Without ceremony, she leveled it on the Mand’alor, waiting until it beeped before reading the output. “Hm.”

Strange. It hadn’t felt that long. Clark shook his head, finally pulling his hand away from Bruce’s grasp. Long meditation wasn’t usually his favorite. He stood, trying to stretch out some of the lingering aches meditation left in his body. 

The Baar’ur made another considering noise, then pointed the scanner at him. Clark held himself still as she scanned him, baffled. 

"Hm,” she said, then dropped the scanner. She turned to Jason, hands on her hips, “You have a reason you’re messing with my new favorite Manda diagnostic tool?”

Jason winced, holding his helmet in between him and the Baar’ur. “We need the alor," he said, glancing at Bruce’s cot. “I wish we didn’t, but…”

As one, the two Mando'ade (Mandalorians) turned to him. Clark paused, waiting. 

“Can you wake him up?” Baar’ur Thompkins demanded, “Like he did?”

“Like he did?” Clark clarified. 

“The Mand’alor woke you from your vision,” the Baar’ur said, raising an eyebrow, “Using the Manda. You don’t remember?” 

Clark felt the vision begin to slip from his grasp. For a moment, he fought it, refusing to let himself be pulled back toward the future. He wanted to stay in the vision, to see what Wayne did next -- 

"Jetii." (Jedi)

Wayne -- his Mand’alor, years older, in his jet-black armor -- appeared in front of him, buy’ce tilted. The Manda was curled around his mind, fond and softer, somehow, than in this vision. 

“Time to come back, Jetii,” he said, inscrutable in the Force, “Wake up.”

With a snap, Clark fell towards awareness.

“That was real,” he breathed, ignoring the strange look Jason was sending him, “He was furious with me…why would he have helped?”

The Baar’ur sent him a dubious look over her scanner. “We clearly haven’t met the same alor.” 

Jason shrugged. “Look, I know he’s a dikut (idiot) sometimes, but you were in pain. He would be dar'manda (not-Mandalorian; no longer Mandalorian) to just sit around and watch that happen.” 

“I’ve never heard of waking someone from a vision before,” Clark said, swallowing around the guilt clawing its way up his throat. “If you think we have to…I can try.”

"Oya," (Let's go; a hunting call) Jason said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I need to talk to Dick and Tim. Comm me if you wake him up.”

With that, the Ven’alor disappeared through the medbay doors, pulling his helmet on as he left. Clark turned back to the Baar’ur, who raised another singular, arched brow. 

“Well?"

Well? 

“I’ll try,” Clark said, sending a worried glance at the Mand’alor’s cot, “But I’m just as likely to get burned into a Force coma as I am to even make it inside his mind.”

"Gar shuk meh kyrayc," (You're no use (to me) dead) the Baar’ur said, clapping him on the back the same way Jason had, “If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

In the distance, an explosion rocked the sudden silence, sending a plume of smoke up into the horizon. Clark looked over to find the Baar’ur grimacing. 

“Wake me in an hour,” he instructed, returning to his chair and dragging it even closer to Bruce’s cot, "Gedet'ye." (Please)

"Elek," (Yes) the Baar’ur said, watching as he laid his hands across Bruce’s temples, "Jate'kara, Jetii." (Good luck (lit. good stars) Jedi)

"Vor'e," (Thanks) Clark responded, closing his eyes. 

Oya…

He’d watched through the Manda’s eyes until his own sense of self was entirely eclipsed. Until his eyes bled with the light of the ka'ra and his lips with the blood of a thousand Mando’ade marching on. 

He’d watched and listened, kneeling on cold ground, until the ka'ra had finally started to make sense, swirling around him and through him. Until the voices of Mand'alor'e (plural of Mand'alor; in this case, many past rulers) past passed through his own, blurring into the hum that was the Manda. 

The future was far from set. But the possibilities weren’t endless, slipping between his fingers with a thought. A million moments, fractured into glimpses and gasps, nearly indecipherable. 

Scenes of his ade -- so many futures for them. Scenes of Clark, rotating to prominence in so many of the visions, despite how recently he’d come into their lives.  

Selfishly, he followed the thread that connected him with the Jetii, watching as standoffish reluctance softened to admiration -- and then, even further, to fondness. To the fragments he could see of riduurok (marriage vows) and exchanged vambraces. To a rid'alor (spouse of the Mand'alor) at his side, kotyc, b'jate. (strong and good)

But the thread led elsewhere, too. A future where Clark left the keldab and them behind, returning to the Jetiise (plural of Jedi) in the name of duty. A future where he took the knife for Bruce instead of forcing Talia’s hand down--

The Manda sighed with him, loosening his hold on the not-memory when he refused to let it go. His selfishness, it seemed, was shared. 

Clark… 

With an exhale, he gave way to the next round of visions, wondering if, this time, the ka'ra would finally bless him with something that made sense.

Clark passed into the Mand’alor’s mind with a mere brush against his shields. Walls of beskar and gleaming bone parted at his touch, welcoming and eager. 

With dawning horror, he fell into the vision before he could pull back, swallowed up by the heat of the Manda. 

He woke on his knees, staring down at a familiar carpet. Raising his head slowly, he felt his stomach clench as the throne of the Mand’alor materialized in front of him, the dais slowly rising from the floor. 

On the throne was Bruce, but it didn’t feel like him. The familiar black armor sat back against the throne, posed languidly, like it had been on his first visit. The Darksaber was belted at his hip, humming softly in the Force. 

Clark opened his mouth and immediately shut it as the Mand’alor removed his buy'ce, revealing white-hot, glowing eyes set in Bruce’s face. 

This wasn’t Bruce. 

"Mand’alor,” Clark said, pressing a fist to his heart and inclining his head. On his knees, his forehead almost brushed the carpet. It seemed right, despite Jason’s earlier warning. 

“Jetii.”

Even overlaid in the voices of the Mand’alor’e, there was still Bruce’s distinctive disdain in the title. Clark felt his lips twitch, slowly raising his head from the floor. 

“Alor,” he said, meeting the Manda- bright eyes directly. The Mand’alor’e considered him, impassive. 

"Me'copaani?" (What do you want?)

“I wish to speak with the Mand’alor,” Clark said, praying to the Force they’d know which one he was talking about, “His people are under attack. We need his help.”

"Manda'yaim (Mandalore) is always under attack,” the Mand’alor’e said, shrugging. “Why is now any different?”

Clark swallowed, hesitating. “I don’t know.”

“A Jetii. Helping protect Manda’yaim,” the Mand’alor’e mused, sounding amused. “Do you know how rare you are, Jetii?”

After a pause, Clark nodded. “Yes, Alor.” 

“Elek, Jetii,” the Mand’alor’e chastened, drawing out the Mando'a, (Mandalorian language) “You speak our language, don’t you?”

Clark bowed his head. "Elek, Alor.”

"Jate." (good)

There was a long pause. Clark didn’t dare move from his position

A gauntlet tipped his chin up, startling him. 

Bruce’s face softened slightly, blurring at the edges. The blinding white eyes remained as ad (child) became buir, kneeling before him in beskar'gam (beskar armor) in the green of duty.  

"Su'cuy, (Hello; a greeting) Clark,” Mand’alor Wayne -- the former -- said to him, grinning around the brightness of the Manda. “I’m sorry I could never meet you in person.”

Clark felt his heart beating furiously in his chest, unwilling to even breathe. 

"A-alor,” he forced out, stuttering. "Su’cuy.”

“None of that,” Mand’alor Wayne said, waving a hand, “Call me buir, elek?”

Was this even real? Clark blinked, unable to even process the request. He fell back on the Mando’a he’d just repeated. “Um. Elek." 

It was startling how similar they looked, this close up. Mand’alor Wayne had been near the same age at his death -- time just beginning to soften bold features and plush lips. 

“Bruce is ahead,” he said, nodding at a door behind the throne that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “You’ll tell him something for me, elek, ad'ika?" (yes, (little) child?)

"Anything," Clark breathed, nodding. Mand’alor Wayne smiled, bittersweet emotion in the soft lines around his mouth. 

“Tell him to let go of what’s past," he said, “and embrace what’s right in front of him.” 

“Haat, ijaa, haa'it,” (Truth, honor, vision - words used to seal a pact) Clark said formally, remembering the vow through some miracle of the Force, “It will be done, Alor.” 

Mand’alor Wayne smiled at him, holding out a gauntleted hand. Clark grasped it, standing with a rush. 

"K'oyacyi,” (stay alive) Mand’alor Wayne said, nodding once more toward the door and stepping back toward the throne. “He’ll need you, Kal.” 

Clark felt the blood drain from his face, shock lancing through his body. 

Kal -- a name from his parents that no being alive could know. Everyone who’d ever uttered the syllable was dead, floating in the debris of Krypton he’d been damned to escape. 

He spun, seeking out the Mand’alor, but the throne room -- and the Mand’alor’e -- were gone. The door Mand’alor Wayne had pointed out floated in front of him, begging to be opened. 

Clark set his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he could materialize his lightsaber here. His heart was pounding in his chest, mind still caught on the way Mand’alor Wayne had said his name. 

He’ll need you, Kal…

He opened the door, pushing it forward into darkness. Around him, the dim lighting blurred into the walls of an old, stone cave. The cavern was lined with small lights, bare except for a figure chained at the center. 

Clark rushed forward, recognizing Bruce’s shoulders even without his armor. The Mand’alor was kneeling on the ground, head tipped forward in unconsciousness. 

Bruce --

He knelt in front of the Mand’alor, scanning his body for injury. Scarred, tanned skin gleamed in the low light, devoid of any obvious wounds. 

Clark let out a curse as he spotted metal, runed cuffs around Bruce’s wrists, pulling back. If the Manda had willed them into existence, there was little he could do to affect them. 

“Bruce?” he asked, reaching for the Mand’alor’s face. He ran the pads of his thumbs across Bruce’s cheekbones, keeping the contact light. “Can you hear me?”

Bright, Manda- lit eyes opened, just a shade dimmer from the Mand’alor’e’s. 

"Cyare,” (beloved) Bruce said, frowning up at him. His face was streaked with dried tears, lips raw and bitten bloody. Dark, sweat-matted hair nearly obscured his eyes entirely. “You can’t be here.”

Cyare? 

"Mand’alor," Clark said, fighting the blush Bruce’s tone had immediately caused. He’d sounded so tender -- familiar in a way they simply weren’t. Was he thinking of Talia? Or someone else? “It’s Clark.”

Bruce smiled, listing slightly on his knees. His gaze focused somewhere above Clark’s shoulder, fond. “Clark. Cyare, I know who you are. Of course I do.”

Clark knelt to his level, examining the cuffs around Bruce’s wrists again with a frown. He prodded at them with the Force, but nothing happened, the metal shimmering slightly under his efforts. 

To his surprise, the Mand’alor leaned in for a kov'nyn, (a headbutt; soft between lovers, like a kiss) seeking out Clark’s touch with familiarity that startled him. Their foreheads pressed together, nose to nose, sharing breath in the small space between their lips. 

Bruce closed his Manda- bright eyes, relaxing into the contact with a soft groan. In the Force, Clark found himself surrounded by heat, folded into Bruce’s presence and embraced on all sides. 

He bit back a hitched, surprised breath. The last time he’d intermingled in someone else’s Force presence this closely…well. He’d been in the creche, or just out of it. Padawans didn’t need such coddling, and new Knights and Masters abstained from such things entirely. 

Clark ached with the fondness threading the Force around him. Bruce shifted slightly on his knees, soothing him quietly in Mando’a. 

"Gar morut'yc,” (you're safe) he said, pressing their foreheads even closer together, "Ner Jetii.” (My Jedi)

Clark felt his face begin to heat again, closing his eyes against the sudden bittersweet wetness he could feel forming. 

Even if it wasn’t truly Bruce -- even if it was the Manda, or he was just exhausted and confused -- the touch of the Mand’alor’s skin against his, the softness of his breath, was everything. 

It was everything Clark had been missing for years -- decades -- in the Temple. Something he hadn’t even realized he’d been yearning for, until he’d felt Bruce’s mind against his, curling into the gaps and suffusing his shields in warmth. 

It wasn’t real. 

“I promised Jason I would get you out,” he said, feeling Bruce’s lips brush his as he spoke -- and it sent a thrill through him. “They need us.”

Bruce smiled, another soft touch of his lips across Clark’s. "Ade always do,” he said, radiating fond exasperation into the Force.

Clark watched, dazed, as memories of Jason as a child -- an ikaad (small child; a baby) as Bruce referred to him mentally, even though he was at least eleven in the memories -- flowed across the bond between them. 

Jason -- barely past his verd'goten (Mandalorian coming of age ritual at 13) -- banging on Bruce’s door, demanding attention after he’d been denied it for so long in his childhood. Jason, proud and gleaming in his first beskar’gam, painting the bold red across his armor in honor of his new buir, the brown of valor following after it eagerly -- 

Clark exhaled through his nose, pulling back from the kov’nyn with a pained noise. Bruce’s glowing eyes blinked open, full of dismay. 

“Cyare,” he said, like a plea. Clark shook his head, tears threatening again just at the thought of denying Bruce something they both craved. "Me'bana?” (what happened?)

“Kyr’tsad is attacking the keldab,” he said, willing this version of Bruce to understand. “You’ve been trapped in visions. We need to help the ade."

Bruce blinked, wavering on his knees again. He steadied himself, eyes growing distant briefly. Hard. 

“This is the Way,” he said, half to Clark, half not. His gaze focused on Clark, soft again. "...mhi ba'juri verde.” (We will raise warriors; part of the riduurok)

Clark didn’t recognize that saying. He stood, wondering if simply convincing Bruce to escape the Manda would be enough. 

With a roll of his shoulders, Bruce stood to join him, chains falling away. Black armor flowed across his body, forming his traditional beskar’gam in the blink of an eye. 

The Mand’alor hefted his buy'ce under one arm, the Darksaber proudly displayed on his opposite hip. Ethereal glowing eyes met his, steady and waiting. 

In the distance, the Mand’alor’s war drums were beginning, louder than he’d ever heard them. 

Clark was breathless. 

“Where is your vambrace, cyare?" Bruce asked, gesturing with his chin at Clark’s forearm. 

“My--what?” Clark asked, frowning. He looked down at his arm where Bruce gestured. “What are you talking about?”

Bruce stared for a moment longer, something like grief passing across his face before it was gone. He stood straighter, shaking his head. 

“It’s nothing. My mistake.” 

Clark nodded. “Alor.”

The Mand’alor’s smile was bittersweet, just like his father’s had been. “Jetii.”

Without prompting, the cave began to slowly fall away, dematerializing just like the throne room had. Clark looked around in alarm, quelled a moment later by a hand on his chest. 

"Gar morut'yc,” he repeated, “You’ll wake up soon.”

“What about you?” Clark asked, regretting the question immediately after asking it, “Jason said--”

"Cyare,” Bruce said, eyes flashing, “I’m already awake.”

With the afterimage of the Mand’alor’s smile burned into his mind, Clark fell towards awareness.

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up in the medbay with a fever burning under his skin and the familiar sense of loss permeating his shields. 

He sat up slowly, sensing Clark’s proximity behind him like a physical force. The Jetii (Jedi) was still under the Manda's (like the Force; the Mandalorian Force) spell, eyes shut, lips pursed as he twitched in the medbay chair. 

"Alor." (Boss/Leader)

Bruce turned around, only to be met with the business end of a scanner and a mightily unimpressed Leslie. He sighed and let the Baar'ur (Medic) scan him, wondering where his armor had wandered off to.

Leslie had apparently felt the need to put several IVs in him when he’d been under. Probably because he couldn’t fight her off while unconscious.  At least she hadn’t intubated him, this time. 

“Hmph,” Leslie said, reading the results. Judging by her expression, they weren’t great -- but not enough to hold him. “So, how’s that work?”

“How does what work?” Bruce asked, accepting the glass of water she poured a moment later. His throat was on fire. Had he been screaming? 

“One of you comes out, the other goes in?” Leslie asked, nodding at the Jetii. Bruce turned, following her gaze with a frown. 

Clark…

“He should’ve woken up by now,” he said, stretching his mind back to their last exchange in the Manda. He stood, already examining Clark’s shields. “I’ll--”

Leslie batted away his outstretched hand with the reflexes of an ori'ramikad. (supercommando) “Oh, no you don’t. We can’t lose both of you.”

“I can wake him up,” Bruce insisted, shifting his legs on the bed so he could stand. “Without going under. Ori'haat." (I swear; it's the truth)

Leslie eyed him skeptically. "Manda osik," (bullshit) she said after a pause, “Fine. But sit first.” 

Bruce acquiesced, sitting across from the Jetii on the medbay cot. He laid a hand across Clark’s brow, just like he had a few days ago, minds sliding together in the Manda. 

Clark, he thought, finding the cave they’d been in, where they’d shared the kov'nyn, (headbutt; softer between lovers, like a kiss) and slipped against his cyare's (beloved's) mind, opening the--

Not his cyare, he realized with an ache. At least, not yet. Maybe not even in this timeline. Everything was jumbled in his head, memories turning into visions and visions into memories. 

Clark startled at his appearance, eyes briefly flickering red. Bruce reached out a hand, unable to resist the contact as he quelled his--his Jetii with a touch.

Kotyc, (strong) the Manda purred. It liked those eyes -- they heralded things to come. 

"Gar morut'yc," (You're safe) Bruce said, because it was the truth, “You’ll wake up soon.”

Immediately, blue eyes turned on him in suspicion and…worry? 

“What about you?” Clark asked, leaning into his touch without realizing. It made something deep in Bruce’s gut heat up, satisfied. “Jason said--”

"Cyare," Bruce said, both in his mind, and in the real world, “I’m already awake.”

Across the medbay, he heard Leslie snort, clocking the endearment. He opened his eyes, hand still across Clark’s forehead. 

Wake up, he thought, willing the Manda to let the Jetii go. Come back to me. 

Clark’s eyes flew open, flickering that same, distinctive red Bruce had come to admire. Chest heaving, he turned his gaze upwards. 

“I’m awake,” the Jetii said, sounding shocked. "You’re awake.” 

“I am,” Bruce said, amused. He removed his hand, lingering warmth in his fingertips, "Vor'e. (Thanks) For finding me. I don’t remember it…clearly, enough, but I know you were there.”

Clark’s expression twisted, then evened out into Jetii serenity with some difficulty. “Of course, Alor."

“While this is charming,” Leslie interrupted, stepping up to tap at his monitors, “The Ven'alor (next-Mand'alor; future Mand'alor) did mention an attack.” 

Bruce went still on the cot, abandoning the IVs he’d been about to pull out. “What attack?”

"Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a Mandalorian terrorist faction) began an attack on the city a few minutes ago,” Clark said, grave, “Unless we were gone for longer…?” 

“You were under for about forty minutes,” Leslie reassured him, “I commed Jason when the Alor woke. He should be here soon.” 

Bruce stood, getting a dirty look from his Baar’ur as he tugged out the IVs in his arms. 

“My beskar'gam?" (armor) he asked. Leslie pointed toward the corner. His armor was stacked haphazardly behind on a rack, like it had been flung there. 

Clark, sitting up fully in the chair now, winced. In the Manda, his shields were covered in a sheen of embarrassment. 

“We’re having a conversation later about pushing off visions, dikut," (idiot) Leslie warned, “Next time I’ll crack the ‘gam open with your own damn 'kad (shortened from kad'au, or lightsaber) if it’s faster. You’re lucky the Jetii was here.” 

Bruce sighed, not mentioning the flicker of anxiety in the Manda around her. There was no pleasing a Baar’ur. "'Lek." (Yeah)

Jason skidded into the room as Bruce began the process of attaching the plates of his beskar’gam to his kute, (undersuit) nearly stumbling into the medbay wall as he fought to stay upright. 

“Alor,” Jason said, tapping his chest plate with noticeable relief. His ad (child) was splattered in blood, sans buy'ce, (helmet) but whole. “Thank the Ka'ra." (stars)

Behind him, Clark snorted. Bruce turned around, sharing a brief smile with his--his Jetii. 

Thank the Manda, more like.

"Dinkartay," (sitrep) Bruce said, sliding on his vambraces. His heart ached with the same feeling of loss he’d had upon waking up, fingers sliding across the two black pieces of beskar. 

They matched. 

"Kyr’tsad launched an attack on the city before midmeal,” Jason said, standing to attention, “No deaths, a few injuries. Civilians and one aran (guard) on a patrol were caught in the first explosion. Dick had a feeling they’d be a distraction and locked down the keldab. (stronghold/compound) We lost them somewhere near the west bloc a few minutes later.” 

Bruce tilted his head, following his sons’ logic. “The cells?” 

“Locked down, too. But Dick and Tim aren’t confident they’ll hold the shabuire." (bastards)

Even their best technology was vulnerable to verde (soldiers) willing to risk it all -- or their fellow Kyr’tsad -- if it meant getting out. 

“Any sign of the original attackers?” he asked, standing and grabbing his cuirass. With a muttered curse, he hooked it over his back, engaging the clasps with familiar motions. 

Jason shook his head. “We think they might be in the sewers. That, or their cloaking tech got better since last time.”

Probably the sewers, then. Bruce retrieved his buy'ce from the floor, glancing at Clark. 

“You--”

“I’m coming,” the Jetii interrupted, standing to join him. His hair was slightly disheveled from where Bruce had brushed it back earlier. “It’ll be dangerous.”

Bruce felt the heat from earlier -- possessiveness, or something close to it --  twist in his gut. "Ner Jetii--" (My Jedi)

Clark’s eyes flashed, a reminder of the power he wielded -- or an involuntary leftover from their shared vision. He stared down Bruce, arms twitching like they wanted to cross. Or go for his kad'au. (lightsaber)

“I’m coming. Alor.” 

Jason glanced between the two of them, eyes narrowing. It was unlikely he’d missed Bruce’s accidental endearment, just like Leslie hadn’t earlier. 

“You just had a vision,” Bruce insisted, tearing his gaze away from the Jetii and turning to Leslie, “He needs rest.”

The Baar’ur crossed her arms, unimpressed. “So do you.”

“I’m coming.” Clark repeated, radiating stubbornness into the Manda. ”Tayli'bac?" (Understand?)

Bruce raised an eyebrow, impressed by the Jetii’s boldness. He felt the urge to push back on the encroachment to his authority, a ripple of anger passing through his mind. It was gone as quickly as it came, mettled and sunken into his shields. 

"Ni suvari," (I understand) he said, voice neutral. He did. 

“Oh, say the riduurok (marriage vows) already, would you?” Jason muttered, back to tapping at his comm. “Dick wants us in the war room.” 

Clark shifted so he was closer to Bruce’s side, one deferential step behind him. "Alor.” 

"Ka'ra help me," Leslie shook her head, waving them off with a stern look, “Get out of my medbay. And don’t come back unless you’re bleeding somewhere important.” 

Bruce followed Jason out the door, Clark trailing right behind him. 

Oya. (Let's hunt/Onwards)

In the war room, Dick was bent over a holomap, speaking quickly into a wristcomm. He had blood splattered-armor just like Jason, buy'ce clipped to his waist. 

Clark followed after Bruce, missing the open connection they’d had just a few minutes before. Now, the Mand'alor's (Sole ruler of Mandalore) shields were high around his mind, thoughts razor sharp, focused on the invisible battle spawning around them. 

With good reason, of course. Clark’s own thoughts were a laughable mess, swirling around the way the Mand’alor had looked at him in the vision -- the way ner Jetii and cyare seemed to slip into his sentences, like they’d always been there. 

Jason abandoned them at the doorway, heading for a set of monitors. Probably to monitor his squad, if Clark had to guess. They’d likely been the first strike team on site during the attack. 

"Dinkartay?” Bruce asked, stopping in front of Dick with his buy'ce under his arm.

At their approach, Dick held up a hand, looking slightly frantic. In the Force, he was a beacon of focus, tinged at the edges with anxiety. 

That wasn’t good. 

“--know you have backup comms,” the Aran'alor (head of the guard) was saying, glancing between the holomap and a datapad wedged up against the table, “Can you raise him again?” 

Whatever the response was, it didn’t seem to thrill Dick. Clark watched as he moved something on the holomap, frowning at the datapad. 

"Kark (Fuck) that,” the Aran’alor said, shaking his head, “Try to find him if you can. Otherwise, fall back to the southern rally point. We’ll need you at the cells.”

Clark shifted on his heels, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. The Force was full of uncertainty, twisting around the keldab in unease. He glanced at Bruce, wondering how the Manda felt right now. 

Next to him, the Mand’alor winced, pressing a hand to his chest. Dick looked up, the blood draining from his face. 

“Two,” Bruce said, with some grief, “Just now.”

Dick blinked once, lips pressed together. With a sigh, he changed the position of two assignments on the holomap, leaking sorrow into the Force. 

Clark thought back to their first fight together -- what felt like ages before -- slowly putting the pieces together. 

The Mand’alor made a punched-out sound, and the Jedi turned to him, concerned. 

“Not hit,” Wayne gasped as the dust began to settle, shoulders twitching. He was holding onto the Darksaber with both hands, gripped tight. “The guards I sent ahead. They just…”

“Nu kyr'adyc,” (Not gone) Clark said softly, getting a surprised look from Bruce as he spoke, “Shi taab'echaaj'la.” (Just marching far away; a Mandalorian saying after death)

“Vor’e,” Dick said, hoarse. Blue eyes met Clark’s briefly, so unlike Bruce’s, and yet with the same perceptiveness. “They were good verde.” 

He heard what Dick didn’t say, what was underlying the thoughts of all the Mando’ade in the room: This can’t keep happening. 

Next to him, Bruce’s head titled, examining the map. In the Force, Clark could feel the war drums begin again, his heart beating along in his chest as he subconsciously followed the Mand’alor’s tempo. 

“Clark and I will defend the cells,” he announced, getting a wide-eyed look from Dick, “If Talia wants an escape so badly, it won’t be at further expense of our best ori’ramikade.” 

Jason joined them at the holotable, frowning. “Only at yours, Alor,” he said, Dick nodding along, mirroring his vod's (brother's) disapproval. 

“And the Jetii’s,” Bruce replied, crossing his arms. At his hip, the Dasksaber hilt glinted in the low light. Clark fought the urge to shiver.

Dick stood, a hand over his mouth as he examined the table. After a moment, he let out a sigh, adding two new markers to the map. 

“We’ll move the other aran’e to the perimeter,” he said, glancing at his father, "Jate'oya, Alor. Jetii." (Good hunting, sir. Jedi.)

Bruce inclined his head, snagging Clark’s arm. Before he could blink, they were in the hallway, heading for the cells at a near-run. 

They reached the elevator in less than a minute. Instead of descending, Clark imitated Bruce, taking up defensive positions on either side as they replaced the aran’e no longer at their posts. 

“Last chance,” the Mand’alor said, unclipping his buy'ce from his belt. He glanced at Clark, eyes flashing in the low light, “You don’t have to do this.” 

Their time was quickly running out in the Force. Clark turned to Bruce, grasping his forearm before his bravery could falter. The Mand’alor gripped him back, surprised. 

“Your Buir (Parent) spoke to me in the Manda," he said, watching Bruce’s expression flatten. “He gave me a message for you. If you want to hear it, Alor."

"Elek," (yes) Bruce breathed, eyes widening. Clark nodded, lips twitching. He didn’t remove his arm; the Mand’alor made no move to, either. 

“Let go of what’s past," he repeated, thinking of Mand’alor Wayne’s kind smile, “and embrace what’s right in front of you.” 

He watched as Bruce’s eyes filled with tears. The Mand’alor shook his head, wiping at his eyes with his gloved hand. 

"Vor'e," (Thanks) he said to Clark, “Thank you for passing that on.”

Clark felt his mind swell at the honest praise. He nodded, trying to exude the peaceful, serene Jedi Master exterior he usually maintained. 

Yet every cell in his body wanted to leap onto Bruce and hold him close, until the stunned look in his eyes was for entirely different reasons. 

"Ba'gedet'ye," (You're welcome) he said, "N'entye, (No debt; "You don't owe me anything") Alor. Never.” 

He watched as Bruce’s pupils dilated, something within his gut vicious pleased. The Force rang out with a soft warning before he could say anything further, directing his attention toward the hallway. 

They parted, hands dropping. Clark missed the physical contact instantly, forearm burning where the Mand’alor had gripped him back. 

Bruce put his buy'ce on, tilting his head like he was listening to his comm. 

“They entered the keldab,” he said, glancing at Clark. “Ready?”

Clark drew his lightsaber, watching as the Mand’alor mirrored him with the Darksaber a second later. They activated their blades together, twin lines of plasma extending into the narrow hallway. 

“Ready,” Clark said. In the Force, the war drums began their chant again, a comforting counter to the increasing tempo of his own heart. 

As the first verde rounded the corner, Bruce glanced at him through his buy'ce, eyes hidden behind the beskar but still burning into him. 

"Oya.”

“N’entye, Alor. Never.” 

Bruce couldn’t help the pleased heat in his gut at that phrase. He’d heard it a half-dozen times in countless futures. Clark’s loyalty was one of his best traits, and it persisted in every future -- at least, the ones where Bruce was deserving of it. 

(in one, Clark had sworn the Resol’nare in their bed, loose-limbed and covered in a sheen of sweat, kneeling at the edge as Bruce gasped through the--)

The Manda flicked him in warning, focusing him on the present. He put his buy'ce on, listening as Dick’s voice broke through the speakers. 

"--entered the keldab, near the northwest quadrant--”

“Acknowledged,” Bruce said, flipping the comm off. He turned to Clark, switching to his exterior mic. “They entered the keldab. Ready?”

The Jetii lit his kad’au in response, blue light shadowing his face. Bruce lit the Darksaber a moment later, feeling the Manda twist in pleasure as he handled the blade. 

“Ready,” Clark said, taking up a relaxed stance next to him. He turned determined eyes on the hallway, waiting. Bruce felt himself smile, thankfully hidden by the buy'ce. 

“Oya,” he said, more for the Manda’s benefit than theirs. It swirled around them both, whispering oyaoyaoyagoodhunt as the first verde appeared at the corner. 

Bruce raised his kad’au to deflect a blaster bolt, seeing Clark do the same in the corner of his eye. 

They fell into the fighting like familiar battle-partners, twisting through the crowd of verde in a dance of slashes, parries, and strikes. 

Bruce admired Clark’s fighting style with the remaining fraction of his concentration. It was smoother than his own, full of spinning blocks and lithe movements. He looked like a dancer, settling into every motion with the knowledge that he would come out on the other side. 

Bruce slashed through the cuirass of a Kyr’tsad member, the Darksaber burning through the cheap metal plate with ease. He raised his left vambrace behind his head and blocked a strike from a vibroblade, turning it around and burying the knife in the verd’s throat.

Despite their teamwork, Kyr’tsad continued to filter into the hallway, smelling faintly of sewers and old sweat. Bruce saw the elevator light up and turned to Clark, gazes connecting across the melee. 

Let them, he said, touching the Jetii’s mind as he spun into another block, and then a slash forward, taking an arm with ease. Keep them from the rest of the keldab. That’s all that matters.

Clark sent a thread of assent back, brushing up against his shields. Across the hallway, he pushed a verd back with the Force, deflecting a dizzying series of blaster bolts a moment later. 

Bruce lost track of the lives taken as he fought through the hallway, endless Kyr’tsad defending their escape attempt even if it meant falling to their blades.

Talia’s head ducked into the crowd, disappearing down the hallway with the rest of the prisoners. The sight of her struck anger into his heart, fueling his blocks and thrusts as he fought to push the Kyr’tsad verde back. 

How dare she, the Manda seethed, Bruce right along with it, Darmanda hut'uun-- (Not-Mandalorian coward)

A pair of concussive grenades were thrown into the crowd, without care for all the Kyr’tsad still in proximity. They bounced along the floor, skidding to a stop just in front of--

Bruce reared back as Clark leapt between them, blade at his side and hand raised up. His eyes flared red as he pushed the grenades back with the Force, the same way he’d done with Tommy. 

His heart ached as the grenades exploded, taking several dozen Kyr’tsad with them. Clark held his hand out the whole time, concentrating as he directed the blast away from them. 

Burning heat licked at the invisible edges of the Jetii’s shield, then faded into smoke. Clark dropped his hand with a gasp, eyes still burning red. 

“Vor’e,” Bruce muttered, slightly hoarse. He took a step forward, joining Clark at the edge of the blast marks. “There’s more.” 

Together, they watched as the remaining Kyr’tsad members -- clearly abandoned by Talia -- pulled themselves to their feet. At least four had been injured by the grenade, another three shoring them up as they faced the Mand’alor. 

There was no use in asking them to surrender. It was a mistake Bruce wouldn’t -- couldn’t -- make again. 

One of the verd stepped forward, pulling a plasma staff off his back. He cleared his throat, lighting the staff with fumbling hands. 

“I challenge the false Mand’alor for the Dha'kad'au," (the Darksaber) the verd growled, sounding so young, it nearly broke his heart. “You cannot refuse a duel.” 

Bruce looked him over in the Manda, despairing. The verd was at least thirteen, and by their laws…he couldn’t refuse. Not even when it clearly had Talia’s hut'uunla (cowardly) hands all over it. 

“I accept your duel,” he said, voice steady even though he wanted to cry out. To his left, Clark turned, looking horrified. “To first blood.” 

Relief tinged the Manda. Clark’s, most likely. 

"Nayc," (no) the verd said, spinning his plasma staff. He pointed at Bruce, an aching demand in the Manda. “To your death, darmanda shabuir.” 

He had the right to demand it. All the old clans still did. But the premise of putting the ad in the dirt over the ‘kad was impossible to accept. Even if Talia had demanded it, he would have hesitated, traditions be damned. 

The verd leapt forward before Bruce could respond, his staff descending toward his buy'ce at alarming speed. 

Stay out of this, he projected at Clark, dodging the strike and spinning into a parry that had his buy'ce ringing. Ka'ra, the kid had a pair of arms on him. 

He’s trying to kill you, Clark projected back, overlaid in horror, Bruce -- 

I know, Bruce replied, blocking another earth-shattering hit from the staff. He pulled back, looking for somewhere non-lethal to strike. I know, cyare.

With a grimace, he dragged the Darksaber across the verd’s right arm, digging into the plates between the forearm and elbow. The cheap durasteel warped under the plasma blade, leaving a glowing gash in the metal. 

The verd cried out, dropping his staff as he fell to his knees. He gripped his injured arm, staring up at Bruce. 

"Gev!" (Stop!) Bruce said, stepping back. He kept the Darksaber lit, steady at his side. “I drew first blood. There were witnesses. Enough."

He hadn’t taken the arm. With some time, the verd could heal -- could even fight with the plasma staff again, if he wanted. 

“I will never bow to you,” the verd growled, staring up at him, “Kote be’Haat Mand’alor.” 

Glory to the true Mand’alor. Bruce almost snorted. Of course Ra’s would endorse the death of children. 

The verd stood, charging at Bruce with the plasma staff now in his uninjured hand. He let out a battle cry, leaping forward as his fellow verde opened fire.

It was instinct to put himself in between the Mand’alor and the attacking verde, blocking a flurry of shots so quickly, his blade turned into a blur of blue and white light. 

Behind him, he heard Bruce swear in Mando'a. (Mandalorian language) Clark ignored him, shifting through the Soresu (a lightsaber form; defensive) forms as he switched between deflecting blaster bolts and the brutal hits from the verd who’d challenged the Mand’alor. 

Even in his non-dominant hand, the verd was still skilled with the plasma staff. Clark pushed him back with a hand, reaching out to the Force for assurance. 

He felt tears threaten as he found the answer he’d been dreading. There was no saving these children, even if taken prisoner again. All he could do was give them a quick death -- a merciful one, if possible. 

Knowing it would burden Bruce even further, he looked back, locking eyes with the furious Mand’alor through his helmet. 

I’m sorry, he said, meaning it. He got wordless rage in return, underpinned with the sharp tang of grief. Bruce wasn’t mad at Clark, not really; mad at the insanity of it all, at the precious life being wasted in his name. 

Clark took the verd’s head in a clean swipe, feeling him enter the Force with a flicker. He deflected the next series of bolts into the Kyr’tsad members, aiming for their heads and hearts.

They passed easily into the Force, one by one, following their fellow verd with a shudder. 

Clark slowly rounded his lightsaber into the final opening and closing pose of Soresu, holding his free hand horizontally out in front of him. 

He panted slightly as the battlefield cleared, blaster smoke drifting around his feet. Behind him, he could hear the Mand’alor shifting, undoubtedly gearing up to chew him out for jumping in and fighting his battles for him. 

Turning around, Clark lowered his gaze to the ground, deactivating his lightsaber at his side. Apprehension filled him, and he released his regret into the Force with a breath. 

Bruce’s buy'ce was ripped off his head with enough force to send it skittering across the floor. Clark looked up, startled, only for a hand to grasp his jaw and push him backwards. 

He let out a surprised gasp as his back collided with the nearby wall, rough and unlike any way Bruce had touched him. He held onto his lightsaber with his last bit of focus, wondering if he’d need it soon. 

A moment later, his fears were swept away as Bruce kissed him desperately, soft lips pressing against his with an intensity that burned.

Clark gasped into the kiss, dropping his lightsaber entirely as his shields reflexively opened to the dual touch of the Mand’alor’s mind. He kissed back, their lips slotting together like they’d done this a thousand times. 

In the Force, or the Manda, or whatever twisted between them, there was nothing but heat and desperation. Clark moaned as a hand found the back of his neck and gripped it tight, pressing him further into the wall.

Pressed against Bruce’s mind, he could feel nothing but deep satisfaction and the fading remains of grief and concern. The Manda seemed to dance around them, flicking touches against their shields in pleasure. 

Leklekleklekelekelekeleklekleklek, it was whispering, a soft counterbeat to their breaths, Lekelekyesmoremoremore--

Clark pulled back, overwhelmed. He started slightly as Bruce tipped their foreheads together, catching their breath together. 

"Ni ceta," (I'm sorry) the Mand’alor said after a moment, chest heaving. In the Force, his presence threaded with embarrassment. He shifted, pulling away from the kov’nyn, “I shouldn’t have--”

“Please--” Clark started, then cut himself off. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, eyes burning. His hand was wrapped in Bruce’s cape, gripping it tightly. 

please don’t leave me--

“Oh cyare,” Bruce said softly, pausing. Gloved hands cupped his face, wiping away the tears, "Gedet'ye. (Please) Don’t cry.”

Clark looked away, overwhelmed. He let out a soft moan as Bruce’s forehead touched his again, trembling slightly. 

“I won’t go. Ori’haat.” Bruce whispered, his breath ghosting across Clark’s lips. “I won’t leave you.” 

Clark pressed back into the kov’nyn, clenching his eyes shut. As the Mand’alor mirrored him, the heat of the Manda settled around his shields like a blanket, humming.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Against him, Bruce chuckled softly, his gloves sliding down into Clark’s tabards. 

"Nayc,” he said, gripping Clark’s hips, “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’ve been acting like a dikut."

Clark hmmed, enjoying the soft contact of Bruce’s gloves against his skin. 

"Jate?" (Good?) the Mand’alor asked, his voice a low purr. Clark shivered despite himself, something deep in his stomach flipping at the tone. 

“I’m fine,” he said, nudging back the tendril of concern Bruce had pushed toward his shields, "Ori’haat. Just scratches.” 

Their minds shifted simultaneously to the dead around them. Bruce’s shields darkened with grief, his thoughts returning to the battle they’d just fought. Clark’s heart ached in sympathy. 

The Mand’alor pulled away, undoubtedly about to comm Dick and check in on the rest of the city. Clark gripped at his armor, pulling him back. 

“Can we--” he cut off, uncertain. Unwilling to leave the moment and never return. “You…”

Bruce seemed to follow his thought, nodding. 

“Later. Orihaat," he said, brushing a gloved hand across Clark’s face, chasing away the remnants of his earlier tears. "Vor’e, cyare. I couldn’t have done what you did.” 

It was what made him a great Mand’alor. Clark shook his head. 

"N’entye, Alor," he repeated, “Never.” 

Chapter Text

Clark followed Bruce back to the war room on unsteady legs. He focused on the crimson of the Mand'alor's (Sole ruler of Mandalore) cape as a guide, stumbling forward with the last of his adrenaline. 

In the Force, his shields vibrated toward Bruce, seeking the same kind of steadying. Clark held them back with some effort, unwilling to burden the Mand’alor with his…weakness. 

He could still hear his old master’s voice in his ears, chiding him for needing support. Padawans could rebuild their own shields. Masters could even rebuild others' shields, shoring up the overlapping minds with a fraction of concentration. 

Yet he, a master in his own right, was struggling. 

Bruce seemed to sense his distraction anyway, head tilting, Manda- (the Spirit of Mandalore; like the Force)bright presence brushing against his.

Without prompting, the Mand’alor slowed, switching his buy'ce (helmet) to his hip and offering his arm to Clark. 

"Ni olar," (I'm here) he said, meeting Clark’s gaze with a tired smile, "K'uur. (Hush/Shh) I’m not going anywhere.” 

Clark immediately went bright red, recalling the last time he’d heard those words in the Mand’alor’s voice. 

"Elek," (yes) he moaned, leaning back against the Mand'alor's chest, moving his hips in time with the other man’s strokes. “Elek. Fuck--”

That dream had felt so real, but he’d shoved those thoughts aside, too caught up in the events of the last few days. 

Even as they leaned against the other’s shields in the Force and in the Manda, they’d been politely indifferent out loud, dreams and wants concealed behind formal utterances of Alor (Boss/Sir/Leader) and Jetii. (Jedi)

Unspoken, until Bruce had gazed up at him with Manda-bright eyes and called Clark cyare, (beloved) relief bleeding from his mind like sweet, flowing water. 

Now the Mand’alor offered his touch to Clark like he was the most precious thing in the galaxy. His conviction rang through the Force with the intensity of a burning star, undeniable. 

It made Clark’s knees shake, something in his chest aching to reach out. 

I’ve been acting like a dikut, (idiot) Bruce had said. And he’d kissed him, with no prompting from Clark, wiping away his tears and the lingering anxiety of being left behind, of being left alone -- absent entirely of judgment. 

"Vor'e," (Thanks) Clark said, blinking back to the present and taking the offered arm. The Mand’alor nudged his shields as well, a small offering of support, “I--”

“There’s no shame in needing help,” Bruce murmured, cutting off whatever excuse he’d been about to stutter through. He guided them down the hallway, his vambrace warm under Clark’s grasp, "Ni suvari." (I understand) 

Bruce was alone too, in the Manda. He felt death and life just as acutely as Clark did, lacking the support of other Force sensitives like he had for so many years. 

Clark’s throat was still burning with emotion when they entered the war room. He dropped his hand from Bruce’s vambrace, not missing the way every eye in the room tracked the motion. 

“Talia escaped,” Bruce reported to Dick, still standing over the holotable, “We fought Kyr'tsad (Death Watch; a Mandalorian terrorist faction) from the cells, and the others. Clark -- the Jetii -- and I killed about two dozen, maybe more.” 

Next to Dick, Jason crossed his arms, looking mildly impressed. His dissatisfaction over Kyr’tsad and Talia escaping leaked into the Force, a sentiment clearly shared by his vod. (brother) 

"Haar'chak," (Damn it) Dick said, jaw tightening. He looked up at Bruce, “We knew it was going to happen, but… kark, (fuck) those demagolka shabuire--" (monstrous bastards)

Clark watched as Bruce crossed the holotable, pulling his eldest into a kov'nyn. (a headbutt; also a press of foreheads together) Dick instantly calmed, sagging slightly against his buir. (parent)

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc,” (You're no use dead) the Mand’alor said, voice soothing, “We’ll find them. Maybe not today, but soon.”

“Talia might find you first,” Jason added with a hint of dark humor, raising an eyebrow at Bruce, "Kyr’tsad is getting desperate about something. What was it she said down in the cells again?” 

“Kote be’Haat Mand’alor,” Clark repeated distantly, remembering the verd (soldier) he’d beheaded minutes before. He’d had the same fanatical gleam in his eyes as Talia. “Glory to the true Mand’alor." 

The Force quieted. Jason turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. 

“We speak Mando'a, (Mandalorian language) thank you,” the Ven'alor (next-alor; the next Mand'alor) said, lips twisting in wry humor. He glanced at Dick. “So, Ra’s is finally making a move?”

Clark ducked his head, cheeks burning.

“Attacks aren’t up, though,” Dick grimaced, pulling away from Bruce. He looked back down at his holotable, frowning, “They’re a little above average, maybe, but overall casualties are actually down.” 

“One of the verde challenged me for the Dha'kad'au." (the Darksaber)

At Bruce’s admission, Jason went still, growing quietly furious in the Force. Dick turned to his buir, eyes wide. 

"Me'bana?" (What happened?) he asked, reaching out to adjust something on the holotable without looking, “You could have karking mentioned that--”

Bruce let out a soft, sad breath. Dick and Jason shifted slightly, attuned to their Mand’alor as his presence solidified in the Force. 

“I asked for first blood. The verd refused.” Bruce said, leaking sorrow from the cracks in his shields. Clark ached to shore him up, wondering if his support would be welcome. “We fought and I won. He still--”

Clark looked away as the Mand’alor’s voice caught. 

You’re a karking Jedi Master, a voice in the back of his head growled. It sounded a lot like his old master. Act like it. 

'Lek, (yes; in this case, fine) Clark thought viciously, clearing his throat. 

“I killed the verd after he refused to accept the Mand’alor’s victory,” he cut in, voice even, “He dishonored the duel.” 

Bruce brushed against his shields, conveying his gratitude. Clark resisted the urge to brush back, focusing on the conversation. 

The Ven’alor was frowning. 

“What do you know about duels, Jetii?”

There was little heat behind the question. Just curiosity, and the beginning hints of respect. 

“I visited Kalevala as a padawan,” Clark said. In the corner of his eye, Dick nodded, likely remembering their initial conversation in the throne room. “We didn’t spend much time with Haat Mando'ade (True Mandalorians) but I witnessed a few honor duels.” 

“I assume you weren’t shacking up with Kyr’tsad," Jason said, watching him closely. Clark shook his head.

“Our mission was with the New Mandalorians.” 

Jason and Dick’s expressions soured instantly. Even Bruce looked mildly disapproving, lips twitching as if he wanted to bare his teeth. 

"Evaar'ade shabuire," (New Mandalorian bastards) Jason said, with such intense vitriol Clark nearly took a step back. “They’re just as bad as Kyr’tsad.” 

Clark doubted that, but he held his Jedi composure, nodding.

They certainly never mentioned there was still a Mand’alor, he thought, distantly amused. They’d hate every inch of this keldab. (compound/stronghold)

Dick’s comm chirped, distracting the Aran'alor (head of the guard) and thankfully bringing an end to the fraught conversation. 

“Jason, get over to interrogation. They found a couple stragglers,” he said, glancing at his vod. Jason nodded, turning to his buir. 

"K'oyacyi," (Stay alive; Hang in there) the Ven’alor said, pressing a fist to his heart, “We’ll continue this discussion later.” 

Clark couldn’t help but feel that the last point had been directed at him. He watched Jason leave the war room, listing slightly in bloodstained boots. 

Fighting through attack after attack from Kyr’tsad was wearing on all of them. 

“Do you need us for anything else?” Bruce asked Dick, shifting his buy'ce to his other hip. 

The Aran’alor shook his head.

“Go rest,” he said, clearly too tired to include the obvious innuendo Jason would have added, “We’ll debrief before your meeting with the clans.”

"Vor’e,” Bruce said, bumping his pauldron against Dick’s. "Ret." (short for Ret'urcye mhi, or goodbye)

“Alor.” 

Clark startled slightly as the Mand’alor grabbed his elbow, pulling him gently from the room. He gave Dick a small wave in the doorway, but the Aran’alor was already back to work, bent over the holotable with a frown.

Exhaustion was a tangible weight on his back as Bruce made his way toward the Aliit (family) wing of the keldab, Clark’s arm interlocked with his. 

The Jetii was just as tired as him, it seemed, each step more clumsy than the previous. His head bowed downwards in exhaustion, lending him a smaller appearance than normal. 

In different circumstances, it would’ve been amusing to see such a graceful and well-composed Jetii Master so uncoordinated, but Bruce couldn’t find it within himself to smile. 

The last two cycles had been a non-stop nightmare. Between the strength-sapping visions and the fights -- and the duel -- they were both running on fumes. 

Bruce keyed in the door code as they reached the Aliit wing, holding the old-fashioned door open for the Jetii. Clark detached from his arm with a frown, hesitating at the entrance until Bruce waved him on. 

“My rooms--”

“Dick had your things moved over during latemeal,” Bruce said, “It was going to be a…surprise.” 

The rooms in his personal wing were far nicer than whatever diplomat’s rooms they’d thrown him in initially. There was even a tiny courtyard in the center, full of plants and a bubbling fountain to keep the air fresh. 

Clark’s rooms overlooked the courtyard, just to the left of Bruce’s own. How he’d been assigned so close when there were still several free rooms down the hallway was a mystery. 

A very Dick and Jason-shaped mystery. 

Bruce sighed as Clark’s expression flattened, cursing his ade. (soldier) Just because they -- and the Manda -- seemed to destine their riduurok (marriage/marriage vows) didn’t mean the Jetii would necessarily agree. 

They hardly knew each other. And yet, Bruce still felt like he’d known Clark for years. Maybe, through all the fragmented visions in the Manda, he really had. 

In this timeline, however, they hadn’t even begun courting. And propriety meant he halted at the doorway to Clark’s rooms, gesturing at the keypad. 

“You can set your own code. None of us will have access, not even Jason,” he said, mustering the shadow of a smile, “I’ll be right next to you. If you…need anything.” 

Clark looked at him with wide blue eyes, blinking slowly. 

“I…” the Jetii cleared his throat, “Of course. Vor entye, (Thank you; Lit., "I accept a debt") Alor.” 

"N'entye," (No debt; or, "I don't accept your debt") Bruce murmured, watching Clark’s lips twitch at the inside joke. "Ret.” 

“Ret,” Clark said, looking startled at the informality, "Alor.” 

Bruce watched as the Jetii disappeared into his rooms, regret burning in his chest. 

The Manda poked at him in irritation, sending him a flurry of images. Bruce sighed, entering his own door code with an exhaustion he felt in his bones. 

When he’s ready to talk, I’ll be here, he replied to the Manda. It continued to nudge at him as he entered his quarters, persistent against his flagging shields. 

It has to be his choice, he pushed back. We’re both half-dead on our feet anyway. 

Clark’s face from earlier, tear-streaked, overtook his vision. 

“Please--”

Bruce tightened his shields, pulling at the straps of his armor with more force than necessary.

Clark sank onto the new bed with his heart aching, a sense of wrongness pulsing through his mind. 

The adrenaline and strength he’d drawn from the Force for their battle disappeared as he sat on the bed, leaving him shivering. 

He made no move to get up and use the refresher. It seemed pointless, even though he was covered in soot and debris. 

Alone for the first time in what felt like days, Clark curled up even further into himself, hating the weakness that made him long for others in these moments. 

Krypton had been a communal planet according to his creche masters. Children were raised in large groups, sleeping and playing together in piles they often maintained even through adulthood. 

Kryptonians were genetically coded to need touch and others, they’d told him and his master. But as a Jedi—and a future master — he would be above such needs. Above potential attachment. 

The Force had never said such things, but he’d always deferred to his crèche masters. After the second formal reprimand in front of the Council as a padawan, he’d learned to keep his thoughts hidden, drawing comfort from the Force — and only when he thought he could get away with it. 

Krypton was gone, and he hadn’t been allowed to fill the gap it had left in his heart. Not even on his own as a Jedi Master, sent on countless missions, had he felt the freedom to fulfill those needs. 

Repudiation by the Council was unthinkable. They were the closest thing he had to family, even if he hadn’t been allowed to call it that. He still had creche mates he saw in the hallways of the Temple, casual friendships with other masters, and for so long, that had had to be enough. 

Now, freely-given touch and comfort were only a few feet away from him, separated by a wall and shields slowly loosening in exhaustion. 

He wanted, with unspeakable intensity, to curl into the heat of Bruce’s mind, safe and protected amid the distant beat of war drums. 

The Mand’alor would never berate him for his weakness. He’d hold him, in soul and body, if Clark asked. The Force insisted, and he believed it, despite everything. 

Half out of his mind, he stood suddenly, swaying on his feet as the bedroom spun around him. These were far nicer rooms than the ambassador’s suite. He’d have to thank Bruce. 

He stepped out into the hallway, turning toward the small keypad next to the Mand’alor’s door. Chest hammering, he hit the pad with clumsy fingers, waiting. 

A moment later, the door slid open, revealing Bruce halfway out of his armor. He had his flight suit down around his waist, chest and arms bare, armor still lining his legs and hips. 

“Clark?”

Clark looked away, feeling his cheeks heat up. Maybe this had been a--

A gentle hand tipped his chin back up. Blue eyes met his, red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

“Did you need something, cyare?” the Mand’alor asked, his full attention settling on Clark in the Force. It made him shiver slightly, a fine tremble under Bruce’s grasp. 

“I--” Clark felt his throat constrict, fighting the urge to relax entirely into the Mand’alor’s hand. It felt so good, warm and burning where he was cold and aching. “Why do you call me cyare?” 

There was a pause. 

“Would you prefer I didn’t?” Bruce asked calmly. His hand slipped from Clark’s chin, taking its warmth with it. 

“No. Yes. I just--” he shook his head, trying to center his thoughts, “I want to know what you want from me.” 

Bruce tilted his head, watching him carefully. Clark looked away reflexively, staring at the floor instead. 

“Is it so hard to believe you might be beloved?” the Mand’alor asked softly, “Clark, cyare. Please look at me.” 

Clark raised his eyes again, startled when the hand returned to cup his jaw. 

“I see futures in the Manda,” he said, explaining, “Fragments and threads. In almost all of them, kar'ta, ([my] heart) we grow closer. We live lifetimes together.” 

In the Force, the trueness of his words rang like a bell. Clark swallowed around the lump in his throat, waiting. 

“I get…confused, sometimes,” Bruce admitted, a grim smile twisting his lips, “There’s futures where we’re riduure, (spouses) and it’s so beautiful. I saw it in the Manda, and I don’t think I could ever unsee it.” 

Clark shook his head, dislodging Bruce’s hand. “That wasn’t me.” 

“It wasn’t,” the Mand’alor allowed, watching him with that look, “But it was. You’re honorable, strong and kind in every fragment I’ve seen. Even though you always need reminding of that, for some reason.” 

Gods, but those words nearly undid him. Clark blinked away tears, feeling his shields begin to disintegrate entirely. 

“I want to court you,” Bruce admitted, continuing before Clark could say anything, “But I won’t do something you don’t want. I won’t assume, even if I’ve seen it in the Manda.” 

That was kind. Unbearably kind, compared to what Clark was used to.

“The kiss?” Clark asked, voice raw. Bruce’s expression tightened briefly. 

“I…lost myself, a little,” the Mand’alor admitted, “You fought for me so beautifully. You defended the keldab and spared those ade any further suffering. That kind of honor…appeals to Mando’ade more than you’d realize.” 

Clark could see Bruce’s cheeks redden slightly, and knew the answer was the truth. Pride flowed through him, still undercut slightly by self-hatred. 

“I want you to,” he said, before he could regret it, “I want you to court me.” 

Bruce’s eyes lit up, bright despite how tired they both were. "Elek?” he asked excitedly. 

"Ori'haat," (it's the truth/I swear) Clark smiled around another shiver, "Alor.” 

The Mand’alor took his teasing with a shake of his head, but his eyes were still fixed on Clark. 

“What’s wrong, cyare?” 

Tell him, the Force urged in his ear, Ask him. 

“Could I…could I stay with you?” Clark asked, cringing at his own words, “I need to be near someone else right now. My shields…”

He trailed off, heartened when Bruce stepped back from the doorway, gesturing him inside,

“Come in,” he said, easily, like they’d done it a thousand times before. Maybe they had, “Anything you need, cyare, it’s yours.” 

Clark blushed, stepping past Bruce into the suite. Tomorrow, he’d hate himself for this weakness. But for now? 

"Vor’e,” he said, and meant every iota of it.

“Please don’t let me interrupt,” Clark mumbled as Bruce led him to the bed, seating the Jetii on it gently, “I can sit on the sofa--”

“You’ll sit here,” Bruce ordered softly, pressing his Jetii down onto the bedspread, “You’re not interrupting anything.” 

Clark sat on the bed, watching him with wide, tired eyes. The silver threading through the blue of his iris was more pronounced than usual, though Bruce didn’t dare ask why. 

"Meshla," (beautiful) he said in praise, watching as the Jetii’s cheeks pinked, “How can I help you, cyare?”

“Touch,” Clark said distantly, his eyes growing hazy as Bruce knelt in front of him, “Touch me, please.” 

Bruce put a hand on the back of the Jetii’s neck, resting it there gently. The effect was instantaneous as Clark relaxed into the touch, eyes sliding shut with a soft gasp. 

"Jate," (good) Bruce purred, pleased. The Manda poked at him, a pointed reminder. “Can you manage the sonic, cyare?” 

Clark’s head tipped forward, landing against his chest. Bruce bit back a gasp as his heart pounded, a ripple going through the Manda as their minds connected.

“With you,” he mumbled. Bruce laughed softly, trying hard not to jostle the Jetii. 

“Let me take off the rest of my armor, kar’ta,” he said, pulling back slightly. Clark whined, something Bruce knew he’d deny when fully conscious, but allowed him to stand, “It’ll be just a second."

Clark said something in a language Bruce didn’t recognize -- Kryptonian, possibly -- and blinked up at him as he began stripping the rest of his armor off. 

“See something you like?” Bruce teased, not missing the way the Jetii’s eyes roved across his chest and down his abs, lingering on the v of his hips. 

Clark hesitated, then nodded his head slowly. "Elek.” 

That sent a pulse of heat through his gut, exhaustion or not. Bruce breathed through his nose, ignoring how the Manda laughed in his ear, endlessly amused. 

“Do you want to take your tunics off before the sonic?” he asked, changing the subject before they could both get into any more trouble. “You -- oh, okay.”

Clark bolted upright, stripping off his outer tunics and leggings in one clumsy, adorable motion. He kicked his boots off one by one, then grasped onto Bruce’s elbow for balance, clad only in his underwear. 

He smiled over Clark’s shoulder as the Jetii burrowed into his chest, pushing him backward toward the sonic. Soot-covered curls brushed his nose, reminding him why they’d started this bizarre moment in the first place. 

Bruce walked them into the sonic as efficiently as he could with his arms full of crashing Jetii. He jabbed the controls with his elbow, closing the door behind them as the sonics whirred to life. 

A few seconds later, they were clean and dry. Clark was nearly asleep against his chest, eyes clenched shut. In the Manda, he was drifting peacefully inside Bruce’s shields, content and exhausted. 

So far from the prim and proper Jetii he’d met in the throne room. Bruce smiled to himself, hefting his sleeping cyare into his arms and carrying him out of the sonic. 

He placed Clark on the bed, pulling back briefly to adjust the covers and turn off the lights. They were separated for less than a few seconds before the Jetii’s face screwed up, hand reaching out and fumbling for him. 

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, joining Clark in the bed and tucking himself along the Jetii’s back. He pressed his forehead against the back of Clark’s neck, reveling in the connection between them, alight in the Manda even with one of them unconscious. 

Mar'e, (finally; a last) he thought, before joining his cyare in sleep. 

Chapter Text

Everything was warm. 

Clark pushed his face into the pillow underneath him, reveling in the softness. He scanned the Force instinctively for threats, something he’d been taught to do upon waking since becoming a padawan. 

He let out a sigh as his surface-level scan returned nothing but safety and the warm, rippling shields of -- 

The Mand'alor. (Sole ruler of Mandalore)

The Manda (Spirit of Mandalore; like the Force) was wrapped around Clark’s mind like a heated, living embrace. In the real world, he suddenly felt the hand slung around his waist, calluses pressed up against the smooth skin of his lower back. 

Oh Stars.

The previous night’s conversation flowed back to him in bits and pieces, far from exculpatory. Clark lifted his head from the pillow, bracing for the most awkward eye contact of his life. 

The Mand’alor -- Bruce -- was asleep in the bed next to him, relaxed and muted in the Force. He was shirtless, pressed up against Clark’s back as muscular, tanned arms caged him in. 

Clark twitched, feeling his cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment. The hand around his waist tightened, as if to pull him back down. 

Something hot flashed through his stomach, brief and disorienting, as the Mand’alor’s fingers dragged across his skin, grazing his stomach. 

"Alor," (Leader/Chief) he choked out, before his body could betray him even further, “Alor.”

He felt more than saw Bruce’s eyes open, a flash of awareness in the Force as the man’s shields rippled around them. The hand around his waist tightened, then slid away. 

"'Lek?" (Yeah?) the Mand’alor asked, pushing up from the pillow. His voice was rough from sleep, "Me'bana?" (What happened?)

“I,” Clark inhaled, sitting up entirely in the bed, "Alor, I apologize, my -- request -- last night was inappropriate and--”

His explanation -- and further rushed apology -- was cut off as the Mand’alor’s hand cupped his jaw, tilting his face down. 

"K'uur," (Shhh/Hush) Bruce said, calm and reassuring in the Force as he leaned back onto the pillows, “You have nothing to apologize for. We were both exhausted, nayc? (No?) Nothing happened.”

The Force echoed with the truth of his words. The Mand’alor’s eyes politely skirted past the bedsheets, staying on Clark’s face. 

Clark glanced down at his body, mortified to find he was only wearing underwear under the sheets. Oh, if the Council could see him now. 

“Clark?” Bruce asked, slightly softer, "Me'bana?" (What's wrong? What happened?)

Apparently, at the first hint of Force exhaustion, he’d immediately taken off all of his clothes and jumped into a planetary leader’s bed. A very kind, gracious planetary leader, who seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that he’d woken with a Jedi in his arms. 

“It was extremely inappropriate,” Clark repeated, thinking of what the Council would say. He straightened on the bed, hand twitching toward his chest absently. "Ni ceta, Alor." (I'm sorry, Alor [lit. "I kneel"])

Bruce’s expression tightened, the warmth of his shields cooling slightly around Clark’s mind. 

“I will apologize if I overstepped your boundaries,” the Mand’alor said, slowly sitting upright. The sheets pooled around his lap, highlighting the tight muscles around his abdomen, “But I will not let you apologize for asking for help.” 

His Basic was slightly accented upon waking, far from his usual, Core-perfect pronunciation. Clark felt that hot, swooping sensation in his stomach again, sudden and consuming. 

“I -- we -- are supposed to be above such things,” Clark said, dropping his gaze, “Needing touch.”

The Mand’alor muttered something in Mando'a (Language of Mandalore) under his breath that Clark couldn’t catch. When he looked back up, Bruce was watching him, disapproval rippling through the Force. 

“Every being needs touch,” the Mand’alor said viciously, “Children, adults. Everyone.” 

His anger -- brief and dizzying -- disappeared a moment later, replaced with something softer, brushing across Clark’s shields. Concern.

"Cyare," (Beloved/Love) Bruce said softly, sending a jolt through Clark as the endearment registered, “Please tell me you understand that.” 

The Mand’alor’s hand turned over on the bedspread, inches from Clark’s own. Offering. Waiting. 

Clark reached out without thinking, grasping Bruce’s hand. The warmth from earlier -- muted without physical touch -- returned to his mind, surrounding him on all sides. 

Oh, he could get used to living in the Mand’alor’s shields. He could curl up in the man’s bed and never leave the hearth of his mind, lulled to sleep by banked fire and muted drums. 

It was dangerous, how tempting it was. 

Clark pulled away after a moment, watching Bruce’s expression tighten again. He looked away, shifting the covers to free his legs. 

Sitting over the edge of the bed, Clark couldn’t find the motivation to leave. Not when Bruce was a burning presence at his back, reassuring in so many ways. 

“I used to have crèche-mates,” he admitted, feeling Bruce shift on the bed behind him, “I haven’t seen them in years. We would hug, sometimes. Or hold hands. But it was always discouraged.” 

“You were an ad," (child) Bruce said quietly, “It shouldn’t have been punished.” 

“It wasn’t punished," Clark protested, turning back to the Mand’alor, “Attachment was, however. And they believe touch leads to attachment.”

“Attachment,” Bruce said, eyes narrowing, “You mean connection.”

Clark shook his head, the age-old wistfulness filling his shields. “Our only connection should be with The Force,” he said, “Above anything else.” 

“You can’t believe that,” Bruce said, blunt in a way only Mandalorians were, “I saw you last night, kar'ta. (heart) You could barely think straight.” 

Clark winced at the reminder of his previous weakness. He’d asked -- begged -- the Mand’alor for touch last night, out of his mind like he’d rarely been since he’d attained Masterhood. 

“My -- my Kryptonian heritage,” Clark said, the words bitter in his mouth, “They said it would be even more to overcome, than the others. We need more touch, biologically, but all things are possible through the Force.”

Anger suffused the Mand’alor’s shields, accompanied by the thudding heartbeat of distant drums. Bruce’s gaze was furious, but his anger was directed outward, only warming Clark where it glanced against his shields. 

“But the Force isn’t pushing me away from you,” Clark continued, distant as he felt Bruce’s anger curl outwards, straining toward Coruscant, “I don’t understand. I think it wants us close.”

“Is that what you want?” the Mand’alor asked. Despite his momentous anger, his voice was even. Restrained. He was beautiful in the low light of the dawn poking through the windows, all scarred skin and regal features. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” Clark said, defeated, “Only the will of the Force does.” 

He looked up as Bruce slid off of the bed, walking around to Clark’s side. Shock held him still as the Mand’alor slid to his knees in front of him, bare except for a pair of dark boxers. 

“Consult your Force, then,” Bruce said, gripping Clark’s hands. His eyes were a bright, demanding blue, "Gedet'ye." (Please)

The burning heat in his cheeks returned. Clark stared at the Mand’alor for a long, baffled moment, thrown again by the man’s forwardness. 

With some concentration, he closed his eyes and reached out to the Force. It responded immediately, sliding past the Mand’alor’s shields and slipping into his own. 

It was so active here. Curious and demanding, swirling around him for every step he took on Mandalore. So different from the muted, blurry form it had on Coruscant. 

He concentrated on Bruce’s plea, thinking about the items they’d just discussed -- touch, attachment, belonging -- and fell into a shallow meditation, cradled distantly by the heat of the Manda. 

The Force filled his mind with resounding approval, overflowing past his shields. It moved at the same tempo as the Manda’s drums, a countermelody to the steady, powerful beat he always felt, pressed against Bruce’s shields. 

Relief poured through him. The hints and whispers the Force had dropped throughout his visit to Mandalore hadn’t been a fluke -- or worse, misinterpreted. 

It wanted him here -- in the Mand’alor’s bed, in his armor, in the Manda -- as much as Clark did. Images flashed across his mind, almost faster than he could process. 

Bruce, in his armor at the front of a line of ori'ramikade, (supercommandos) the Darksaber at his hip. Jason, at the center of a circle as Clark wove flowers with Tim and Steph, crowned in rough Mandalorian thistles. Bruce again, teeth bared, arms braced against the wall on either side of Clark as he -- 

His eyes flew open, finding Bruce’s immediately. The Mand’alor was watching him, pupils dilated as he knelt patiently between Clark’s legs. 

“It’s so much clearer here,” he said, slightly dazed, "Alor…”

Bruce’s gaze grew even more heated. He leaned back onto his heels, hands drifting down to Clark’s bare thighs. 

"Cyare?” he asked softly, his voice anchoring Clark to the present. 

Damn the Council. And the Masters who’d claimed to know the will of the Force, preaching down from their chairs. How could they have been so wrong, for so many years? 

“It approves,” Clark said, with some wonder. He smiled down at the Mand’alor, “I…I don’t know why I never asked, outright.”

Bruce’s hands tightened on his thighs, reassuring. “You were distracted.”

“Something like that,” Clark admitted, lips twitching, “There were so many hints…”

Bruce stood, sharing Clark’s good humor in the space between their shields. He sat next to Clark on the bed, legs just barely touching. 

“You’re not the first person to ignore what’s right in front of you,” Bruce said, with a knowing smile, “And I don’t believe you’ll be the last, either.”

Clark flushed as the Mand’alor’s hand grasped his jaw delicately, turning his head from side to side. 

“Say it, ner kar'ta." (my heart) he commanded. 

“Last night,” Clark said, wincing slightly in the man’s hold as the memories returned to him, “You said you wanted to court me.”

The Mand’alor didn’t respond. The and you agreed filtered across the Manda between them, unspoken. 

“I want you to,” Clark repeated, “But I need to know what it means. What we’ll be.” 

What you want from me. From the Jedi, and the Republic. 

“I plan on proposing a semi-permanent ambassador position to the Council of Clans today,” Bruce said, “If you accept the appointment, you’ll swear the Resol'nare (the Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life ) as we discussed, and advise us on Republic matters, among other duties.” 

Clark nodded. He’d anticipated something like that, since their rushed agreement before the first attack. It was, ultimately, what the Council had hoped for. 

“And us?” he asked, brushing against Bruce’s shields pointedly. 

The Mand’alor smiled, his hand moving to Clark’s shoulder. 

“We’ll court when we have the time,” he said, “Nothing will happen unless you want it to. Ori'haat." (I swear)

The suggestion of what could happen didn’t miss Clark. His mind leapt back to the dream he’d experienced, days prior. Of the sweet desperation they’d shared in it, unlike anything he’d ever known. 

He wanted to be closer. In the Force, or the Manda… everything seemed to be in harmony, when they touched. Everything felt right, for once. 

“And if I want it to?” Clark said, without thinking. He coughed, “I -- Alor." 

He knew how fast Mandalorian courting could be. He’d seen more than a few on Kalevala, as a padawan. There’d been vow exchanges within days, and more than a few casual couplings over ale and tihaar. (Mandalorian alcohol)

Mandalorians courted like they fought: brutally efficient, and with their entire spirit. 

“Cyare,” Bruce said, voice low. His eyes were dark and heated, “Ask me.” 

Clark shivered under the Mand’alor’s hand. He took a breath, mustering the courage to say what he wanted. 

“Take me to bed,” he said quietly, as Bruce’s shields rippled, pleased, "Gedet’ye?”

"Elek," (Yes) the Mand’alor said, "Mayen copaani, ner kar’ta.” (Whatever you want, my heart)

The sight of the Jetii (Jedi) -- Clark -- with silver-threaded eyes and parted lips in his bed was almost more than Bruce could behold, clearly. 

He’d asked in Mando’a, so prettily it ached. Full of innocent desire, uncertain where anything would lead, but trusting. Trusting that Bruce would not lead him astray. 

It was more than gratifying. It stoked the fire in his gut, present ever since the Jetii had looked up at him and called him alor in the throne room.

What a gift from the Manda. It couldn’t be anything else. 

“Elek," he said, smoothing his hand down Clark’s shoulder and landing on his hip, "Mayen copaani, ner kar’ta.”

The Jetii shivered again under his hand, pushing into the contact. Bruce could only theorize -- from Clark’s own admissions, and their encounter last night -- that he still craved touch. 

And from the silver in his eyes, still prominent despite their close contact. Something Kryptonian, undoubtedly, pushing the Jetii from human to near-human upon closer observation. 

“I haven’t--” Clark cut off, looking away, “I haven’t done this before.” 

Guilt filled the Manda between them. Bruce frowned, sliding a hand under Clark’s legs and lifting them onto the bed, forcing him to recline against the pillows. 

"Kih'parjai," (no problem/don't mention it [literally "small victory"]) he said, thinking of the dream, and the guilt -- and arousal -- the Jetii had felt, ending it early, “More attachment?”

Clark nodded against the pillows, looking at the ceiling. “Something like that.” 

Bruce kissed the inside of Clark’s knee, trailing his hands up and down the soft skin of the Jetii’s inner thighs. 

“I--oh,” Clark sighed, twitching in his grasp, “You’re not…disappointed?”

He parted the Jetii’s legs even further, pressing kisses across the fabric of his underwear. Above, Clark let out a gasp, going rigid under his mouth. 

"Jate?" (Good?) Bruce pulled back, looking up at the Jetii. 

“Jate,” Clark breathed. His pupils were dilated, almost entirely silver in the low light, “I --”

“You want me to stop, you say gev," (Stop/I give) Bruce ordered, tapping Clark’s leg to cement the point, "Tayli'bac?" (Understand?)

"Ni suvari," (I understand) Clark said, chest heaving, Mando’a streaming unbidden from his lips, "Alor.”

Bruce grinned, leaning down between the Jetii’s legs again. He pressed another pair of kisses across the edges of Clark’s hips, marveling at how hard the Jetii had gotten in such a short time. 

With gentle, telegraphed motions, he pulled Clark’s underwear down, sliding it off the Jetii’s legs. He tossed it off the side of the bed, returning to his task. 

The Jetii was hard and leaking against his stomach. Uncut, slightly larger than average, and as near-human as the rest of him. His skin was slowly flushing under Bruce’s hands, a tantalizing red where he’d gripped the other man. 

The Manda whispered in his ears, a combination of slow slow slow and more more more. He was the first one to touch the Jetii like this, and the honor he now held didn’t escape him. The duty.

He pressed a kiss to the base of the Jetii’s cock, feeling Clark’s shock in the Manda as he did so. Smiling, he slid up and took the other man in his mouth, as firmly as he dared. 

The moan Clark let out was obscene. Bruce swirled his tongue around the Jetii’s cock, slowly letting it descend down his throat. 

Pleasure flooded the Manda, sweet and dizzying. Clark moaned again, hips twitching under his hands like they wanted to buck up. Reluctant to take his own pleasure, even when it was offered. 

Let it go, cyare, Bruce projected, Gar ori’gebi… (You're so close...)

He began sliding up and down Clark’s cock, maintaining a steady, unrelenting pressure. The Jetii trembled under Bruce’s hands, eyes clenched shut. 

K'olar, (Come [command]) Clark.

With a shout, Clark’s hips lurched forward. Bruce swallowed around the sudden warmth in his mouth, pleased as the Manda flooded with light around them. 

He pulled off a moment later, wiping his mouth discreetly with his hand. He pressed a kiss against Clark’s hip, trailing upward until he could see his cyare face to face. 

The Jetii wore a stunned expression, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were fully silver, slowly regaining awareness as he came down. 

“I,” Clark said, chest heaving, "Stars. Oh Force." 

“Jate?” Bruce asked. It was a loaded question. 

Clark didn’t respond, grabbing him and hauling him up into a sudden kiss. Bruce groaned, feeling the Jetii’s lips give way under his, soft and slightly clumsy. 

He shifted up on the bed, putting his knee between Clark’s legs. Tilting Clark’s chin up, he deepened the kiss, grinding against the Jetii. 

Clark moaned at the contact, legs parting easily. He was already hardening again, something Bruce silently thanked the Manda for. 

So beautifully responsive. Such a gift. 

They kissed for another long, drawn out moment, until even Bruce was out of breath. He broke the kiss to press their foreheads together in a gentle kov'nyn, (Headbutt, but softer. A forehead tap.) pulling back. 

A confession burned in the back of his throat. 

“I saw the dream,” Bruce whispered, when his heart wasn’t racing faster than a speeder, “Of us.” 

Clark’s eyes flew open. The silver had retreated slightly, leaving his irises a shifting, grayish blue. He focused on Bruce with some difficulty. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Your dream,” Bruce clarified, “The Manda showed me. Of us, together."

Clark let out a stunned breath, not pulling away from the kov’nyn. “You saw it,” he said.

In the Manda, the Jetti didn’t feel angry, or even upset. Just surprised, though that was quickly turning to embarrassment. 

“I watched the dream,” Bruce said, taking a breath, “and then I entered your mind, afterward. In the shower. Ni ceta, cyare.” 

He pushed his guilt and apology into the Manda between them. It felt important to confess now, before anything else happened. If Clark repudiated him, then at least he had cleared his conscience. 

“You--” Clark cut off, blinking, “I felt you in the shower. That was you." 

“Elek,” Bruce said, finally pulling back from the kov’nyn, “I’m sorry, ner kar’ta. It was wrong.” 

Clark’s mind pressed clumsily against his shields, tinged with want and forgiveness. 

“I thought it was just me,” the Jetii said absently, eyes glazing over, “You were so…unaffected.” 

"Draar," (Never) Bruce murmured, moving to put space between them, “Not by you.” 

Clark’s legs tightened around his waist, holding them together. He looked up at Bruce, lips pressed together.

“I want you to,” the Jetii said, “To take me. Like you did in the dream.” 

Bruce let out a soft moan despite himself, hips jerking forward into the pressure. He wanted nothing more than to do that, too. Haar'chak. (Damn it.)

“That was the Manda," he clarified, “The first time, at least. I just watched.” 

Clark’s eyes narrowed. He ground up into Bruce, something daring brushing against his shields. Goading, even. 

Copik'la, (Cute/adorable) for someone so new to this. Bruce was impressed by the Jetii’s ability to learn so quickly. He leaned back in, hovering over Clark’s lips and waiting. 

“So,” his Jetii said, as the Manda laughed in his ears, “Do it properly, then.”

Clark watched in distant amazement as the Mand’alor’s pupils dilated even further at his jab, a deep black swallowing up the vivid, burning blue of his irises. 

He barely recognized the amused warning in the Force before he was flipped face-down on the bed, strong hands pulling his hips back and up with delicious, bruising pressure. 

There was a brief pause before fingers slid along his lower back, dipping down to his ass. Clark twitched as something wet and slick circled his hole, probing gently. 

The sensation was bizarre. He held still as Bruce pressed a kiss to his spine, finger slowly sliding in and out of his hole, circling and pressing against the muscle. 

He’d never done this before, even though he’d heard the other padawans discuss it. He’d always been too afraid to touch himself, beyond the rare, desperate grip on his cock he allowed himself. 

Bruce rumbled something in Mando’a behind him, a mixture of praise and something about his…willingness? Maybe that was a mistranslation. 

Openness. That was the word. Clark squirmed slightly as a second finger was added, slowly moving in alongside the first. 

Nothing hurt, but the pressure was strange and unfamiliar. A stretch he’d never felt before, even in the deepest katas. (Jedi fighting/lightsaber forms)

The Force was strangely active, curling around his shields and plying him with soft, whispered assurances. Without thinking, he gave into the shallow meditation it was encouraging, limbs loosening and mind drifting as Bruce’s fingers slowly worked him open. 

He was ripped from his meditation a moment later by a bolt of electricity racing up his spine. His hips jerked forward, his suddenly-hard cock sliding against the bedsheets. 

"Ogir," (There,) Bruce murmured behind him, free hand sliding down Clark’s back, chasing the remnants of whatever that had been, "Gar serim?" (Is that right?)

"Stars,” Clark said, curling his hand into the sheets underneath him, “What was that?” 

He felt Bruce chuckle behind him, the hand inside him moving ever so slightly with the motion. 

"Udesii," (Calm [yourself]/shhh) the Mand’alor said, “I’m going to do it again.” 

Clark opened his mouth just as Bruce’s fingers brushed what felt like a live wire deep inside of him, sending stars across his vision. 

He heard himself moan in the distance, eyes clenching shut as his cock twitched. He barely noticed the third finger sliding alongside the first two, canting his hips back. 

Now, he understood what those padawans had been talking about. All of a sudden, he wanted that pressure like nothing else -- wanted something hard and firm brushing against that spot, wider than Bruce’s fingers. 

"Shhh,” the Mand’alor said, free hand gripping Clark’s hip to hold him in place, “We’re almost done, I promise meshla." (beautiful)

The fingers spread evenly inside of him, avoiding the spot on purpose. Clark felt himself break into a sweat, chest flushing. 

"Bruce,” he pleaded, desperate. 

"K'atini," (Suck it up/it's only pain) the Mand’alor said, sounding amused, “You can handle it.” 

Clark moaned, growing even harder at the reminder of their shared dream. He wondered distantly if Bruce would be as rough as the Manda had been, or if the Mand’alor would continue taking his time, slow and gentle. 

Finally -- finally  -- he felt the head of the man's cock breach him, thrusting slowly into his hole. It slid back carefully, testing the stretch. 

Stars,  Bruce was big. But this shallow, the thrusts barely brushed that spot within him, teasing him with the promise of more. 

Clark twitched in Bruce’s grip, desperately trying to figure out how he could convince the Mand’alor to just move, damn it. 

His old Mando’a leapt to his lips, a phrase he’d only ever heard in the training salles the verde (soldiers) he’d traveled with used. 

"Nar dralshy'a," (Put your back into it/Try harder!) he growled, around the breathlessness in his chest, “Alor.” 

Behind him, he felt Bruce freeze. Inside him, the Mand’alor’s cock twitched, stretching him even further. 

“What did you say?” he asked Clark in rough, accented Basic. 

“I said,” Clark took a breath, craning his neck to look back at the Mand’alor, "Nar dralshy'a."

The second the last syllable left his mouth, he was shoved forward onto the bed, the Mand’alor’s hand fisting in his hair. 

Clark moaned into the bedsheets as the cock inside him slammed forward, then back, picking up a relentless pace that had him arching backward. 

The spot inside of him ached, stroked by every thrust forward. Clark closed his eyes again as the pressure in between his legs built again, biting back a scream. 

“Gedet’ye,” he babbled, frantic, “Gedet’ye, alor--”

Behind him, Bruce grunted, hand still fisted in Clark’s hair. Just like the dream, the Mand’alor snapped his hips upward, driving into him hard enough to lift his body off the bed. 

He sobbed as the spot inside of him was pounded relentlessly. Everything felt like it was building. He couldn’t tell if he was about to die or piss the bed. All he could do was -- 

With a sob, Clark came almost violently, harder than he’d ever managed on his own. Come spurted from his cock, dribbling across the bed. 

Bruce fucked him through it, slowing his pace slightly. The hand in his hair loosened, dropping to his hip. 

Without warning, the cock inside of him pulled out. Clark deflated without the added stretch, slumping forward onto the bed. 

Deftly, Bruce maneuvered him away from the wet spot he’d left, a possessive hand burning around his waist. 

“Jate?” the Mand’alor asked. He was smiling, teeth glinting in the near-darkness. 

"Stars,” Clark repeated, chest still heaving. “I--I didn’t know that--”

“K’uur,” Bruce said, “Take a breath, cyare.”

Clark rolled his eyes, but took his advice, leaning back into the pillows and staring at the ceiling. 

“You didn’t, um,” he realized, flushing as he couldn’t find the words, “You didn’t finish.” 

The hand around his waist tightened briefly. He was going to have bruises tomorrow. Somehow, that thought thrilled him. 

"Naas," (It's nothing/I'm fine) Bruce said, sounding unbothered, “This isn’t about me, cyare.” 

Clark sat up, the Force buzzing around him pointedly. 

“Did you?” he asked, voice hushed, “In the dream?”

The Mand’alor hesitated, then shook his head. 

“Not in the dream,” he said. In the Force, his shields rippled with sheepishness, “But later.” 

Curiosity built in Clark’s chest, fueled by the Force around him. He stared at the Mand’alor, enraptured by the heat he saw in the other man’s eyes. 

“Show me,” he said, fighting down a wave of embarrassment, “What you did, then.” 

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly. After a moment, his hand drifted back down between his legs, gripping his cock. 

It was the first time Clark had gotten a decent glimpse of it. It was large -- larger than his own, at least -- and wide at the base. Fully erect, and slick with whatever he’d used on Clark for lubrication. 

“Do it,” Clark whispered, when Bruce’s eyes shifted to him a final time, “I want to see.” 

With a moan, the Mand’alor gripped himself, stroking slowly. His cock jerked upward, mesmerizing in the low light. 

Clark leaned in slightly, feeling his own body respond to the sight. He could imagine his own hand around it, stroking it just like Bruce was. Causing him to moan like that, soft and under his breath. 

Impulsively, he closed the distance between them, grasping the Mand’alor’s face on either side. He slammed their lips together, feeling Bruce shudder against him as they kissed. 

A moment later, he spilled over his hand, a soft moan echoing in Clark’s mouth. Their foreheads met in a brief kov’nyn, each of them breathing heavily. 

Something hot and powerful twisted in Clark’s gut as Bruce wiped his hand across the sheets next to him. He’d done that -- he’d been the cause of that pleasure. 

The Force curled around his mind, quieted and pleased. In the distance, the Manda curled around both of their shields, warm and buzzing. 

"Osi'kyr," (Strong exclamation of surprise, like "holy shit") the Mand’alor said, lips brushing across Clark’s as the kov’nyn deepened, “Where the haran (hell/hells) did that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, flushing even further. Against him, the Mand’alor chuckled, “Was it -- was it okay?” 

“Okay?” Bruce asked, pulling back from the kov’nyn to stare at him in disbelief, “It was -- ori'jate, (very good [lit. "big good"]) more than okay.” 

Clark smiled, warmed by the praise. The hot, pleased sensation in his gut continued as the Mand’alor tugged him against his chest, urging them both to lie down. 

“It’s almost sunrise,” he protested weakly, shuddering as Bruce’s arms wrapped around his waist. 

“It is,” the Mand’alor agreed, tucking his face into Clark’s neck. The sensation felt heavenly, even after all that they’d done, “Go back to sleep, cyare.” 

It was exactly what Clark wanted to do. And with Bruce’s permission, he drifted off almost instantly, cradled in the heat of the Manda and the warmth of its Mand’alor’s arms. 

Chapter Text

"Cyare." (Beloved)

Clark sighed as kisses were pressed up his spine, warm against his bare skin. He pressed his head into the pillow underneath him, relaxing into the feelings of bliss and contentment floating in the Force. 

“M’wake,” he mumbled, when Bruce’s lips scraped the nape of his neck, "M'bana?" (shortened form of me'bana, what's happened/what's up?)

"Naas," (Nothing) Bruce murmured, “Go back to sleep. I have a meeting.”

A meeting. It was morning. It was morning, and that meant--”

Kark. (Fuck)

“I’m up,” Clark blurted out, pushing up from his pillow, “I’m up, pare." (wait)

Bruce knelt next to the bed in full armor, only his helmet missing. In the Force, his shields were open and relaxed, broadcasting clear amusement through the space between their minds. 

The Mand'alor (sole ruler of Mandalore) was laughing at him, Clark realized. Or, at least, trying very hard not to. 

"Cyare,” Bruce said, squinting slightly in the morning sun coming from the windows, “N'epar nu pirur.” (It can wait -- no rush) 

The Manda (the spirit of Mandalore; like the Force) nudged at Clark, warm and amused. 

“Just give me…five minutes,” Clark said, pulling on his underwear and standing up. Immediately, his knees wobbled under his weight, threatening to send him to the floor. “I--”

Bruce caught him around the waist before he could fall, his gloves a delicious, scraping sensation against his overheated skin. 

"Gev," (Stop) he said, pulling Clark back into his arms, “It’s just a meeting with Dick. You don’t need to be out of bed.”

Clark glanced at the windows, calculating the sun’s height in the sky. Even without the calculations, he could feel the sun’s warmth on his skin, and knew, somehow, that it was four standard hours past dawn. 

“It’s past firstmeal,” he said, scandalized. He turned around in Bruce’s arms, looking up slightly at the Mand’alor now that he was in boots again. “We slept through firstmeal.” 

“And?” Bruce smirked, lips pulling into a sly smile. His hair was damp, curling ever so slightly at his collar. And Clark was close enough to touch it. 

Stars, he’s beautiful. 

Clark stared for an embarrassingly long time at the way Bruce’s neck disappeared into the beskar gorget, strong, lean muscle that begged to be marked up --

Bruce made a surprised noise, shields rippling with amusement in the Force. He leaned forward, grabbing Clark by the chin and pulling him into a fierce kiss. 

Clark moaned as their lips met, body turning to jelly as the Mand’alor picked him off his feet, pressing biting kisses along his jaw and into his neck. He wound his hands in Bruce’s hair, tugging on the damp curls.

Without thinking, he ground down against the Mand’alor’s codpiece, groaning at the contact of beskar against his underwear. In his grasp, Bruce made a strangled noise, biting down on Clark’s lip. 

"Wayii," (good grief/general exclamation) Bruce breathed, pulling back from the kiss. He stared down at Clark, pupils dilated and gaze heavy, “You’re going to start something we don’t have time to finish, ner kar'ta." (my heart)

Clark felt himself go red, but his attempt to duck his head was thwarted by the Mand’alor’s hand still around his jaw, pulling his eyes up. 

“Later, cyare," Bruce said quietly, grinning. His hands dropped to Clark’s waist, spinning him around again so his back was to the Mand’alor’s cuirass, one leg on either side of his armored thigh, “You can sit here and try your best to get off on my 'gam, (short for beskar'gam, or armor made of beskar) elek?" (yes?)

Clark shuddered in his lap, twitching against the cool beskar, slowly warming under his bare skin. 

“Elek, alor." (Leader/sir/clan head) he said, and was rewarded with a kiss against his pulse point. 

Bruce released him a moment later, even though every cell in Clark’s body was begging him to cling to the other man, to press his face into his neck and never leave. He sat down on the bed, not trusting his legs to support his weight. 

“I have to go,” Bruce said, wincing at the comm message on his wrist, “Stay as long as you’d like. We won’t need you until after I speak with the clans.”

A thread of duty slipped into his voice, one Clark didn’t miss. He swallowed, thinking about what was to come. The Resol'nare, (the Six Actions, the tenets of Mandalorian life) the courting. Kyr'tsad... (Death Watch, a Mandalorian Terrorist Faction)

The Force nudged at him in warning as his mind wandered. That line of thought was too close to something that could spark a vision, it seemed. Despite the fact that Bruce -- even soft, in the morning sun like he was right now -- was a walking, talking vision-prompter. 

“Comm me,” Clark said. Bruce gave him a short, two fingered salute from the doorway, pulling his helmet on as he closed the door behind him. 

In the sudden quiet of the Mand’alor’s suite, Clark leaned back onto the pillows, eyes wide. 

Stars.

With Clark’s moans burned into his mind, Bruce headed off for the war room, the Manda flowing through his limbs, supplementing each step as he walked unerringly to the beat of its drums. 

He entered to a swell of applause, fists banging against armor, wolf-whistles, and what sounded like Jason yelling at the top of his lungs from the other end of Dick’s comm. 

With a look, his gathered children and verde (soldiers) fell silent. In the Manda, their amusement continued, tripping over itself in sheer delight. 

Yaim'la, (a sense of being at home/familiar) the Manda whispered to him, brushing up against his shields with a swell of delight. Under his buy'ce, (helmet) Bruce rolled his eyes. 

“We’re courting,” he announced to the room, if only to get ahead of the embarrassing questions Jason was bound to ask, “Anyone who wants more details can take their shebs (ass) to the sparring circle and ask me personally.” 

On Dick’s holo-comm, Jason seemed to be considering the offer. Everyone else in the room slowly retreated to their positions, helped along by Alfred’s sudden appearance at Bruce’s shoulder. 

"Jate'nara?" ([did you have a] good time?) Alfred asked casually. His buy'ce was at his side, which gave Bruce full view of the smug gleam in his eyes, “The Manda was very busy this morning.”

"Nu draar," (Come on/no way) Bruce spluttered, as the Manda chuckled alongside Alfred, “Not you too.” 

“What?” Alfred asked, “A buir (parent) can’t be happy for his adiik?" (child)

“You weren’t already?” Bruce asked, grateful his buy'ce was on. One look at his bare face, and Alfred would break him. Undoubtedly. 

“Elek,” Alfred said, grinning at him, “Of course, ad." (child)

Like it always did, the way he said ad struck something deep inside of him. Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat, nodding at his buir. 

Hearing the adoption vows had been one of the saddest -- and happiest -- days of his life. Even though he’d been long past his verd'goten, (Mandalorian coming of age ceremony at 13) a newly-crowned Mand’alor and Clan Head in his own right, he’d clung to his new buir, grateful for something familiar in the new, swirling world of the Manda. 

It didn’t hurt that the Manda loved Alfred. He was ever so slightly ka'ra (stars)-blessed. Enough to feel its shifts and moods, and by proxy, Bruce’s own. Mandokarla (having the right stuff, truly being Mandalorian) and star-touched, a holdover from Mand’alor Wayne the Reformer. 

Alfred wore his other buir’s green on his armor with great dignity and honor. A reminder, of both what had been lost, and what they’d gained in the years since. 

"Vor'e," (Thanks) Bruce murmured, “I’ll tell you more later.” 

Alfred’s shoulder twitched. “I’ll settle my bets, then.” 

“Funny.” 

At the holotable, Dick was bent over another endless stream of data. Perched on the edge was his comm, projecting Jason’s holo into the air. 

“--missing out if we move next week,” his ad was saying, gesturing at Dick, “I’m telling you, the intel we have won’t sit hot for very long.”

Dick made a note, tapping something on the holotable so it moved. Bruce glanced over, recognizing the schematics for Tatooine and barely holding back a groan. 

His ade were going to turn every planet into a Mando’ade tributary by year-end. Empire or not, there were only so many planets they could take before war broke out -- formal, outright war. 

As evidenced by the Republic Jetii (Jedi) currently sleeping in his bed, upstairs. 

"Dinkartay?" (Sitrep?) he asked his ad, “How is cleanup?” 

The Aran'alor (head of the guard) sighed, looking up from the map of Tatooine. 

“We found a couple injured and more than a few bodies,” Dick said, pulling up a list of casualties, “A couple blast sites are still being cleared. Looks like Kyr’tsad got out through the west perimeter, but there was no sign of Talia on the cams.” 

That boded well. Bruce frowned. If Talia was still in Keldabe somewhere, it wasn’t for good reasons. Usually, she retreated loudly and publicly to the Al Ghul stronghold, leveraging supporters for her buir along the way.

“Keep your squads looking,” Bruce said, frowning, “And put some aran'e (guards) on Damian, if you can.”

“Damian?” Dick asked, finally looking up from the map. It was Bruce’s turn to sigh. 

“I brought him up during her interrogation. She didn’t know he hadn’t renounced her, yet. She…didn’t take it well.” 

On the holotable, Jason crossed his arms. 

“What a jare'la dar'riduur, (crazy ex-spouse) Buir.” 

"Dar'ven'riduur," (Ex fiancee) Bruce corrected, frowning, “And I was 17. Ni dinu." (Take it or leave it; I give)

“Sure,” Jason said easily, "Su gar dar’ven’riduur.” (Still your ex-fiancee)

“Oh, ne'johaa," (shut up) Dick said, interjecting, “She’s a dar'buir (Not-parent/Former parent) even if Damian won’t renounce her.”

"Gar serim," (You're right) on the holotable, Jason nodded, agreeing, "Kaysh shu’shuk’yc dar--” (She's a useless disaster/fuck up former--)

"Luubid," (Enough) Bruce said wearily, interrupting, “We have more important things to focus on, verd'ika." (Little soldier)

Dick let out a sigh as Jason fell silent on the comm, moving something else on the table with deft fingers. 

“Jason, get me that report from interrogation before midmeal,” the Aran’alor said, “I need to debrief buir before he speaks with the clans.”

Jason nodded, glancing down briefly at the abandoned map of Tatooine. His early anger was carefully restrained, folded behind an expression befitting a Ven'alor. (Next-alor, next in line) “Elek, Aran’alor.” 

Dick cut off the comm transmission, turning to Bruce. 

“Your office?”

He noticed with grim amusement that the windows in his office had been reinforced a second time, layered in a second blend of transparisteel with a dark, opaque tint. 

“Know something I don’t?” he asked Dick, gesturing to one of his chairs. 

The Aran’alor sat, frowning. 

“Plenty,” he said, getting a snort from Bruce, “But no, the aran’e haven’t identified a specific threat.” 

“Just a vague one?” Bruce asked, sitting at his desk and removing his buy'ce. He gazed through the transparisteel, slowly picking out the edges of the keldab (stronghold/compound) through the tint. 

“Getting challenged for the Dha'kad'au (the Darksaber) means things are escalating,” Dick said, crossing his arms, “Especially if it’s not to first blood.” 

Bruce nodded, thinking about the Kyr’tsad verd’ika who’d challenged him the day before. Of Talia’s face, white with anger, and the specter of Ra’s looming over it all. 

The Manda poked at his mind, displeased by his moroseness. Bruce shook his head, focusing on his ad. 

“I meet with the clans in an hour and a half,” he said, “I’m planning on proposing the draft agenda I sent on my way over here.” 

Dick nodded, not going for his datapad. He’d already reviewed it, then. 

“Tatooine?” he asked, with some disapproval in his voice. But with the gleam of any good Mando'ad (Mandalorian) in his eyes, eager for the next hunt. Eager to put the next demagolka (Monster, atrocity-commiter) in the dirt, by any means necessary. 

“I thought you would’ve been more focused on the Jetii’s proposed role,” Bruce said, amused. 

“The Jetii doesn’t ask for planets,” Dick said, glaring at Bruce, “Yet.” 

“I think the clans will approve both,” Bruce said, ignoring his ad’s jab, “With some fighting, of course.” 

“They’ll push back on a full invasion,” Dick said, stepping around Clark’s agenda item entirely, “Have you asked Alfred about this yet?” 

That was a pointed hint: I don’t give you military advice. 

He had the briefest flash of a vision -- barely a blink -- of Dick at Jason’s side, a general’s markings across his beskar'gam, (armor made of beskar) directing forces alongside his Mand’alor. 

The Manda liked that future. It fluttered around Dick’s mind, trying to push the images at the Aran’alor despite his blindness to all things ka'ra-blessed. 

Bruce blinked away the half-vision, clearing his throat. “No, I was hoping to check in with him after I spoke with you.” 

Dick raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “I’ll send him in after this.”

"Vor entye," (Thank you) Bruce said. 

“I have some minor updates from yesterday,” Dick said, pulling a datapad from his belt and launching into his section of the agenda, “We have new casualty numbers and prisoner identifications. I’ve sent both to your ‘pad.” 

Bruce watched his datapad light up on his desk. 

“The prisoners we do have aren’t saying much,” Dick continued, “Other than the usual Kyr’tsad nonsense. We’re working on repairs along the western limits of the city, and should have those completed by the end of the week. Everything else is up and functional. Supply lines are still undisturbed, and we have offers from several tributaries for additional support, should we need it.”

Bruce exhaled, nodding slowly. After a moment of relief, he looked up at his ad. 

“Sure you don’t want that promotion to Verd'alor?" (War lord) he asked, grinning as Dick’s composed expression twisted. 

"Nayc," (No) the Aran’alor said, standing up and grabbing his datapad. He gestured with his full hand at his chest, inclining his head, “That’s all Jason. K'oyacyi, (Stay alive/See you later) Alor.” 

"Ratiin," (Always) Bruce replied, nodding, “I’ll see you later.” 

Dick disappeared into the hallway, muttering under his breath. A few moments later, Alfred appeared, helmet under his arm. 

“So the Jetii agreed to be your ambassador?” his lieutenant asked, sitting before Bruce could offer the chair Dick had just vacated. 

Bruce leaned back in his chair, nodding. "'Lek. (Yeah) Last night. Or, this morning, I think.” 

Alfred winked at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Hard to keep track, I’m sure.” 

“Elek,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes. “But I called you in here to talk about Tatooine, not my love life.” 

“Who said anything about your love life?” Alfred asked, crossing his legs. As he did so, something jingled on his belt. Something that sounded suspiciously like a bag of credits. 

“I’m invading a planet,” Bruce said, despairing slightly, "Another planet.” 

“You were always a soft touch with your ade,” Alfred said, unsympathetic, “Sometimes you need to tell them no.” 

“I said no to Ryloth,” Bruce protested, “And Chandrila.” 

Alfred gave him a look. He cleared his throat, glancing at Bruce’s datapad. 

“You’ll have pushback from several of the clans,” his lieutenant said, sidestepping the issue, “Even if he swears the Resol’nare in front of them, they’ll be suspicious.” 

“They’re always suspicious,” Bruce said, shrugging, “Mando'ade draar digu, elek?” (Mandalorians never forget, right?)

“You were suspicious of the Jetii once, too,” Alfred said, “I don’t need to remind you that those hurts run deep, in this keldab.” 

Bruce closed his eyes, nodding. He felt the bitter winds of Galidraan across his face, just as surely as he felt the icy snow under his hands, slowly curling into numb fists. 

“He’s different,” he told Alfred, opening his eyes after a long moment, “Not like any other Jetii we’ve seen. In the Manda… I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Explaining the visions he’d had -- what he’d seen, in the possible futures of the Manda -- was beyond him, suddenly. Even expressing it to Clark the previous night had been a trial -- sharing what he’d gained and lost, in fractions of a second. 

“I understand,” Alfred said, crossing his arms, “Anyone who can feel the faintest whisper of the Manda knows he should be protected.”

Protected. That was a word Bruce hadn’t heard, yet. But it resounded in his chest, warm and important. 

“He deserves that,” Bruce said quietly, “More than that, even.” 

Alfred’s smile was bolstering. His lieutenant grabbed the datapad on his desk, politely not pressing for any more details. 

“Tatooine,” he said, instead. 

Bruce groaned, putting his head in his hands.

Clark managed to pull himself together by midmeal. 

He was reluctant to leave Bruce’s bed, even though he was in dire need of the refresher. The Mand’alor’s suggestion for what they would do later captivated his mind entirely, turning his legs to jelly and his mind to mush. 

After several minutes of lying in bed, imagining exactly what that would entail, he retreated to Bruce’s refresher, not willing to brave the hallway between their rooms yet. 

He stood in the sonic, vaguely remembering their shared embrace in the stall the previous night. Bruce’s bare chest under his cheek, warm and solid. Arms wrapped around his waist -- not restrictive, but reassuring. 

With a burning face, he dressed hurriedly in his abandoned robes, wishing suddenly for the fresh ones in his closet. He glanced in the mirror, straightening his hair from the mess the sonic had made out of his curls. 

His eyes were the same silver-blue shade he’d seen every morning of his life, slowly deepening back to a true blue. 

There was no imagining how fully-silver they’d become last night. Considering how often Bruce had glanced at them during their…activities…it was safe to say he’d noticed. 

They always did, when he was craving touch. Closeness. Some strange holdover of his Kryptonian biology that listed him as near-human in his Temple medical records instead of just baseline human. 

He’d always restrained himself from touch, like his masters had asked. But there was little to be done about his eyes, something that had frustrated every healer in the Temple halls. 

At least Bruce hadn’t seemed to care. And the baar'ur (medic/doctor) in the keldab -- he couldn’t remember her name -- had been nice enough about it all, even if she’d pressed him about his biology. 

He was gathering the courage to make a daring trip across the hallway to his rooms when there was a sharp knock at the door. 

Clark stumbled forward, opening the door after an awkward moment of hesitation. The door slid open, revealing Jason. 

"Jate vaar'tuur!" (Good morning!) the Ven’alor exclaimed, “Or should I say good afternoon? How was your night?”

Face burning, Clark stepped back, allowing Jason into the suite. 

“My night was fine, thank you,” he said, falling back on old diplomatic habits with some difficulty, “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Oh, I think you helped me enough already,” Jason said, pulling a bag of credits from his belt and shaking them, “Thanks for coming through in the end. Knew you had it in you.” 

Clark felt his face go red for the second time in ten minutes. He stood his ground as Jason’s eyes scanned the room, relieved that he’d straightened the bed and drawers after his sonic. 

"Ba'gedet'ye," (You're welcome) he said, forcing a smile. 

Jason’s head whipped around. When he saw Clark’s expression, he grinned, clicking his tongue. 

“Armorer needs you in the forge,” he said, glancing at his comm, “Time for your fitting.”

“Fitting?” Clark asked. 

“Yep. The Alor wanted you in armor, so we had a set made,” Jason gestured toward the door, “Ready?”

Clark glanced down at his soot-streaked robes, hesitating. “I--”

“We’ll take the elevator,” Jason assured, “No one will see you.” 

Somehow, Clark doubted that. He was pretty sure every inch of the keldab was under surveillance. 

“Fine,” he said, nodding. He checked his lightsaber -- strapped to his belt -- and followed the Ven’alor through the door. 

The Force was open and amused as he and Jason descended to the forge. Clark meditated quietly as the elevator moved downward, ignoring the amusement wafting off of his companion as he did so. 

Steph joined them at the entrance to the forge. She gave Clark a wide, honest smile, ignoring Jason entirely. 

Her armor -- bright purple and yellow -- gleamed in the low light. 

"Su cuy'gar, Jetii,” (You're still alive/Hello) she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. Clark could tell she meant it both ways, and found himself reluctantly amused, “Ready?”

“I--I’ve never worn armor before,” he admitted, “At least. Not my own. I wore a few pieces while I was on Kalevala." 

“You’ll get used to it,” Jason said, clapping him on the back. "Oya." (Onward/Let's go)

Clark was marched into the forge between both Mandalorians, wondering vaguely where Bruce was, and if he knew what his ade were up to. 

His eyes widened as the room opened into a cavern, edged in raw beskar and built-in racks and shelves. At the center of the large room was a large, ember-spitting forge, its exhaust pipe nearly three stories tall. 

The Armorer -- a tall being in gleaming, golden armor with a solid helmet -- didn’t look up as they approached, bent over something in the flames of the forge. 

“Is this the Jetii?” a female voice asked, modulated slightly by the helmet. 

“Elek,” Jason said, shoving Clark forward, “This is him.” 

He swallowed as the Armorer lifted her helmet from the task, the visor meeting his eyes. She hammered at the piece in the flames without looking down, sending sparks scattering across the floor. 

“The ka'ra tell me you are the last of your people.” 

Clark swallowed. That couldn’t be true. 

“I…don’t know,” he said, shifting on his feet, “I’ve never met others.”

The Armorer grunted. “You will need accommodations. To the armor.” 

“I--what?” Clark asked. He turned around to look at Jason and Steph, but they’d both disappeared. “I’m near-human, I don’t think I’ll need anything else.” 

“For your 'kad," (short for kad'au, or sword. in this case a lightsaber) the Armorer corrected, her tone giving the impression she was rolling her eyes under the helmet, “And for your abilities, ‘lek?”

“I don’t need any accommodations to use the Force,” Clark clarified. 

The Armorer didn’t reply, returning to her task. She slammed her hammer down on the piece of metal in between her tongs, making a low noise that was distorted by the vocoder. 

“I’ve crafted an initial set from the measurements the Ven’alor sent over,” she said, after a long silence, “You will try it on, and I will mark any changes.”

The Manda felt different down here. So much clearer than the Force. Older, somehow, like the Armorer was hammering at the embers inside the planet itself. 

Clark nodded, swallowing. "Elek.” 

"Jate," (Good) the Armorer pulled the piece out of the forge, giving it one last blow with the hammer, “There are kute (jumpsuits) in the room behind you. Choose one, and I will come attach the plates.” 

Clark followed her directions, stepping into what looked like a small changing room as the Armorer slipped the piece of metal into a pail of water, sending steam hissing through the room. 

He found several folded jumpsuits on the shelves, of varying sizes and widths. They were all made of study, cortosis-woven material, designed to be attached to armor plates. 

After some awkward guessing at sizes, he pulled a deep blue kute on, returning to the main forge. 

The Armorer was waiting at the side of the forge next to a wide table. She gestured for him to come over, pulling a dust cloth off of the top of the table. 

His mouth fell open at the sight of dozens of gleaming, beskar plates, arranged in rows. One silent press with the Force told him everything he needed to know -- these were solid beskar, a purity that simply didn’t exist outside of Mandalore. 

“Arms out,” The Armorer murmured, ignoring Clark’s expression, “Feet at shoulder width, Jet'ika." (little Jedi)

He followed her instructions in a daze, feeling her reach out for the clasps and seams in the kute. Quicker than he would’ve been able to himself, she had attached all of the plates, and was gesturing him into a pair of boots. 

The Armorer stood back, handing him cortosis gloves and a belt that he put on quickly, feeling the armor ripple with every movement. 

It was heavy -- far heavier than any other beskar alloy would be -- but somehow far lighter than he would’ve expected. The plates shifted with his body, sliding over themselves like scales. 

“And the buy'ce,” the Armorer said, handing him a helmet. It was the same shade of bare, unpainted beskar as his armor plates, “Put it on, please.”

Clark settled the helmet on his head, pulling it down until the seals engaged. He gasped as the HUD flared to life, connecting to the keldab systems. 

The Armorer nodded, looking him over like she was making notes. “Turn, please.”

Clark turned, amazed as the HUD cataloged the temperature of the forge. He glanced down at his wrist plate, turning it over to see a gap in the plates for a comm. 

“Jate,” the Armorer said, holding out a hand for him to stop, “Buy'ce off, please.”

Clark parted with the helmet reluctantly, disengaging the seals clumsily and pulling it off his head. He held it at his side like he’d seen Bruce do, waiting. 

The Force curled around his mind, distant in the forge. The Manda was a roaring fire in its place, burning and growing more pleased with every piece he’d added. 

“I will need to adjust the leg armor,” the Armorer finally declared, gesturing at his right leg, “You can pick out paint until they are ready.”

Clark opened his mouth but shut it as the Armorer strode forward, hands out to undo the clasps holding the plates to his kute. 

“Wait,” he said, “I can help.”

The Armorer stood back, helmet tipping to the side. "Me'ven?" (Huh? What?)

“I--look,” Clark said, holding up his free hand and concentrating. “And…there.”

With a thought, he disengaged all of the clasps as one, lifting the plates with the Force and hovering them over the table. The Armorer moved quickly to catch them on the dust cloth, shifting them apart as Clark lowered them. 

“Very useful,” she said gruffly, flicking a hand at Clark, “Go pick out your paint, Jetii.” 

“Elek,” Clark repeated, following her gesture to another small room off the main forge. He opened the door -- an old, wooden thing on hinges -- and stared up in amazement at the shelves of tiny jars. 

“Crazy, huh?”

He spun to find Jason perched on a nearby shelf, datapad propped up against his boot. The Ven’alor saluted him, turning off the datapad. 

“Were you in here the whole time?” Clark asked. 

“The whole time?” Jason scoffed, “No. But I knew the Armorer would send you for paint eventually.”

Clark turned back to the shelves, staring up at the Mando'a (Mandalorian language)-labeled jars in wonder. 

“How do you even choose?” he asked, “I know the colors are personal…”

“They are,” Jason agreed. He leaned forward on the shelf, kicking his legs over the edge, “Everyone has a story they want to tell. Or a future they’re hoping for.” 

Clark glanced at the Ven’alor’s armor, racking his brain for the armor color meanings he’d picked up on Kalevela. 

“You have red for…honoring a parent?” he asked, “And brown for valor. Right?”

“Right,” Jason agreed. Something stiff had slipped into his posture as Clark had spoken, “Red for my birth buire and to honor Bruce. Brown for what I hope to always achieve, in the Manda and beyond.” 

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, “That was a very personal question.”

"Naas," (It's fine, It's nothing) Jason said, waving, “We wear it publicly for a reason, Jetii.” 

“Your Buir has black for justice, elek?” Clark asked, “His cape is lighter than your armor, though. The crimson is for relentlessness?”

“Close,” Jason said, shaking his head, “For defiance. Justice and defiance.” 

Defiance. That fit Bruce well, indeed. 

“The aran’e -- the guard -- wear maroon,” Jason said, guessing his next question, “Their armor is slightly darker. Almost brownish red, yeah?”

“Maroon is…”

“Power,” Jason said, grinning, “They defend the keldab and everyone inside of Keldabe. And the planet, sometimes."

Clark nodded. Dick and Duke both wore their armor well. His mind drifted to Alfred, whose armor he’d only seen briefly. 

Dark green stripes across the grey of bare beskar. Intermittent swipes of silver and teal. 

Guarding, healing, and redemption. A complicated message. 

Steph’s armor -- purple and yellow for luck and remembrance. Cass’ armor, a fully-black replica of Bruce’s own, but without the cape. Tim’s armor, which he hadn’t gotten a close look at, but seemed to be a mixture of brown and blue. 

And the Mand’alor’s youngest child -- Damian -- who didn’t seem to have armor at all. 

There were so many choices. Clark took a breath, trying to find a steadying center. 

The Manda nudged at his shields, offering an idea. He froze, feeling the warm tendrils begin to enter his mind, loosening the grip he had on reality. 

“I think I’m going to have a vision,” he told Jason shakily, putting a hand out to brace himself against the shelf. 

“Right now?” Jason asked. 

“Right now,” Clark said, feeling his knees begin to give out. His lips twisted into a smile, already going numb, “Can you catch me?”

“Catch you?” he felt Jason get up, sounding frantic, "Haar'chak, (Damn it) you ka'ra-blessed dikut'la-- (idiotic)

Clark didn’t hear the rest of that sentence, falling into the heated embrace of the Manda with a soft sigh. 

Chapter Text

Clark came back to himself on his knees, looking down at the same carpet he’d seen in the throne room, both in person, and in Bruce’s vision from the Manda. (The spirit of Mandalore) 

Oh no. 

He wondered, briefly, as the vision began to solidify, if it would be Bruce’s face looking down at him this time. 

"Alor," (Leader, or short for Mand'alor) he said, inclining his head, pressing a hand to his heart. The figure on the throne shifted, making an amused noise. 

“I thought I told you to call me buir," (parent) a familiar voice said, "Me'bana?" (What happened?)

Clark looked up, meeting Mand'alor (the sole/true leader of Mandalore) Wayne the former’s gaze through his buy'ce. (helmet)

"Ni ceta, (I'm sorry) Alor,” he said, relaxing fractionally as he saw Bruce’s black armor bleed into dark green, a quick shift of color, “It’s an honor to see you again.” 

“The honor is mine,” Wayne said, pulling off his helmet. His eyes were the familiar, blinding-white of the Manda, but his voice was his own, thank the Force. “You have visions quite frequently, don’t you, ad?" (child)

“More than I would like,” Clark agreed, looking up as the Mand’alor stepped off the dais, heading for him, “I--um, Alor--”

“Please don’t kneel on my account,” the Mand’alor said, flashing a Bruce-like smile down at him. He held out a gauntlet, gesturing for Clark to stand, "Ka'ra (Stars) know it’s wasted on me.” 

Clark gripped his hand, finding himself pulled to his feet with considerable strength. He glanced at Wayne’s profile, eyes widening when he realized how much the Mand’alor looked like his son, close up. 

In the grips of the Manda last time, he’d barely had time to recognize Thomas Wayne the Reformer, much less study his features. He was the spitting image of Bruce -- a handful of years older, with greying hair and regal lines at the corners of his eyes. 

"Jetii," (Jedi) Wayne said, smirking as he directed Clark toward the far left of the throne room, “Only my riduur (spouse) looks at me like that.”

Clark felt his face go red, averting his gaze and taking a horrified breath. 

"Ni ceta, Alor--”

“Just so we’re clear,” Wayne cut him off with a wink, holding a door open for him, “After you.” 

Mortified, Clark followed the Mand’alor’s instructions, entering what looked like a formal receiving room. The space was lined in old bookshelves and wooden tables, the latter of which were covered in flimsi. 

By the small, flickering fire, a second man stood from his chair, folding his arms behind his back. He wore simple robes, almost reminiscent of Jedi garb, if not for the intricate stitching at the collar and sleeves. 

“Took you long enough,” he chided Wayne, eyes flicking between the Mand’alor and Clark, unsure of where to settle, “You don’t have datapads in here.” 

“Would you like some?” Wayne asked, sounding pleasantly surprised, “I thought you would’ve wanted to start with the original manuscripts.” 

With a wave, a stack of datapads appeared on one of the tables, carefully set aside from the dozens of scrolls and documents already laid out. 

“Original?” the man asked, sounding faint, “I…hadn’t realized that’s what they were.” 

Both men paused, as if suddenly realizing Clark was in the room with them. 

"N'jii," (Not now) Wayne murmured, stepping off to sit at the formal desk in the corner, “We have a visitor.” 

The man by the fireplace smiled at Clark, refolding his arms. 

“Kal,” he said, eyes full of warmth and something Clark couldn’t quite pinpoint, “It’s good to see you.”