Chapter Text
The younger man looks like he’s about to faint with relief, and he hastily shoves the lid back on the crate, scrambles forward to pull himself up into the transport as the driver hurries to start it. They pull forward, and Granta chuckles, tugging the man in red back.
“Your insistence that we take separate speeders makes far more sense now,” he says, not pitched to carry, but a little lower, like it’s just meant for the two of them. The closest Journeyman Protector can undoubtedly hear them, but it doesn’t seem meant for his ears, and that’s what matters.
“I had hoped to avoid such things,” the Mandalorian agrees, and catches Granta's hand like it’s an absent gesture, dragging the thumb of his heavy gauntlet across Granta's knuckles. “If the scrutiny is going to be this heavy, though, perhaps we should simply travel together like you wished.”
“Admitting I'm right already?” Granta teases, entirely amused by the carefully absent touches. He appreciates a man who’s willing to commit to the act. “Maybe being married really is the great change we needed.”
“I promised to introduce you to my family,” the man protests, like it’s the continuation of an old argument. “They would have taken to you whether you're officially clan or not.”
Granta hums, skeptical. “Would they really? If the welcome here is anything to go by, I find myself a touch skeptical, my dear.”
“Eventually they would,” the man says, and drops his voice even more as the flatbed trundles through the checkpoint. “For my sake, if no other.”
“I don’t believe that’s the reassurance you think it is,” Granta says, droll, but he leans in with a sly smile, brushes a thumb over the cheek of the man’s helmet. “But your attempts at being charming are noted, darling.”
“Who’s the greater fool, the poor charmer or the beautiful man who was charmed by him regardless?” The Mandalorian raises Granta's hand like he’s going to kiss it, though he doesn’t make any move to reach for his helmet. Presses his forehead to Granta's curled fingers instead, leaning there for the space of three breathes, and then says softly, “Let me get my speeder, and we can finish the trip together.”
“Acceptable,” Granta says, and pretends that he can't feel a heady curl in the pit of his stomach, a twist of something like attraction despite the fact that this is all a play for an audience. He likes a man who knows how to be charming, and—that touch of humor is very charming, he’ll admit to that freely. “I still expect you to carry me into our new home, like they would on Telos. In fact, I demand it.”
The man chuckles, pulling back. “It would be the highest honor of my life after marrying you,” he says, and lets go, then turns to get his speeder, black cloak flaring around him as he moves with alacrity.
Trying to get them through the checkpoint before the bribe loses its shine, Granta thinks, rubbing absent fingers over the cool spot where metal was pressed to his hand. A clear sign he doesn’t want to be searched, which is interesting. But—not pressing, or at least not enough so to dig into right now.
Taking a breath, Granta pointedly lets his hand fall, heads for his own speeder and pulls himself onto it as the Mandalorian in red moves up to join them. The armored Cathar who was in line between them looks like she might protest for a moment, but when Hunti gives her a narrow look, she apparently thinks better of it, and the man in red doesn’t pause. He waves them forward, sweeping through the checkpoint without pause, then heading after the plume of dust raised by the flatbed, picking up speed as they fly.
The town they stop at isn't the one where Granta's intelligence said Jaster is supposed to be, neck-deep in secret negotiations with guerilla forces trying to free Concord Dawn from the Death Watch. It’s in the opposite direction, not across the plains to the north but nestled among the foothills of the mountains to the south, where a handful of lazy rivers meet and the hills roll high and green and lush, hiding dense orchards in their dips and rising into terraced paddies that march up the mountain slopes.
The tall, carved stones set with clan crests that mark the boundaries of family lands stop where neutral territory starts, and a short distance on, across an ornate curved bridge over a rushing river, the town sits at the foot of the mountain. It’s drowning in orchards all heavy with fruit, caught between grain fields and the arms of a small lake, redolent with heat and the hum of bees, and Granta isn't one to be charmed easily, but—
Easy to see why Concord Dawn is considered a paradise in Mandalorian space, from this.
Granta brings his speeder to a halt before a building off the main street, following the Mandalorian in red. It’s wreathed with vining plants, old stone worn but still sturdy, and the man leaning back against the wall is heavily armed, fully armored. He pushes up, but the man in red waves him back, sliding off his speeder and immediately crossing to offer Granta a hand.
“Forgive me for leading you all the way here without explaining,” he says. “I thought it was best to put some distance between us and the checkpoint before we stopped.” He tips his head, lifting Granta's hand like he’s going to kiss it again, and says more quietly, “Your timing is excellent and your help invaluable. Thank you.”
The charm wasn’t just for the guards, then. How interesting. Granta smiles lazily, curling his fingers around the Mandalorian's, and says lightly, “It was my pleasure, seeing as we likely would have been the next targeted as off-worlders. I must say, your ability to play along is exquisite.”
With a chuckle, the man straightens, sparing a half-second glance for Hunti as he dismounts before his attention goes right back to Granta. “Striking, given that Concord Dawn has gained a reputation for being hostile to foreigners these last few years. What brings you here?”
Granta doesn’t need spin a dramatic tale, technically. He could simply say he’s here on business and have it be close enough to the truth to convince just about anyone. But—
Well. Maybe a part of him wants to know if it’s really true that Jaster has never once looked into his own records over the last ten years, never applied for a marriage license, never even thought about such a thing. Maybe it’s just curiosity, some edge of a flight of fancy that he’d clung to as a stupid teenager, the idea of the dangerous, honorable, ferociously clever Mand'alor sweeping in to carry him away to a married life he couldn’t even fully picture.
“I'm looking for my husband,” Granta says, pitches it pained, regretful. “I'm afraid I haven't seen him in years, and I finally gathered enough of my courage to come looking. I've heard tell that he’s somewhere here, though I have no idea precisely where.”
The man pauses, startled, and his fingers curl just a little more tightly around Granta's. “Your husband abandoned you?” he asks, and Granta can hear the frown in his voice. “A Mandalorian.”
It itches, just slightly, the idea that anyone would assume the worst of Jaster, and instinct has Granta raising his free hand like he’s going to fend off those words. Stupid, entirely stupid, but—
“Not abandoned,” he says, flashing the man his most winsome smile. “He wouldn’t do such a thing, I'm sure. But we lost contact, and I thought I would come and try to reestablish it. Thankfully, it put me in the perfect position to offer a bit of cover.”
There's a pause, just a beat too long, and then the man snorts. “Extremely welcome cover,” he confirms. “Though we’re close enough to the local garrison that you may have to stay my husband in name for a while longer. At least until you leave.”
Patrols, that means, most likely, or at least ears in the local community. Granta cocks his head, intrigued, because he hadn’t heard that attention was so close even on an agriworld like Concord Dawn, but—that fits with the extra scrutiny at the checkpoint. “I was simply planning to find a place to rent a room while I started my search, so I have no objection to remaining in town a while longer.”
Hunti leans back against his speeder, expression entirely bland. “It might be helpful,” he says dryly, “to know what we’re getting into before we agree to something like that. It wasn’t just fertilizer in the transport, I'm assuming.”
Granta supposes that is the sort of thing normal people would usually care about, though if he’s going to have to pretend to be shocked by every little bit of criminal activity, this is going to be dull. “Of course,” he agrees. “Though if you’ll get in trouble for telling us, I entirely understand keeping secrets.” It’s always more fun to ferret those out personally, after all.
The Mandalorian glances towards the other armored man, then up the road towards the approaching heavy transport. “I suppose,” he says after a moment, “that if you’re putting your own body on the line, it’s understandable to want to know.” He turns back, looking Granta over, and then says, “A deal, perhaps. I have plenty of connections on Concord Dawn, and many of them are skilled at finding people. If you agree to play my partner and keep my cousin out of trouble for a few weeks, I’ll help you find your missing husband.”
“Agreed,” Granta says, and smiles charmingly. He doesn’t need outside help to find Jaster, technically, and he wouldn’t put Jaster in danger by asking anyone else to find him when this is Death Watch territory, but—this man doesn’t need to know that. “I appreciate the offer of help. I'm Granta Omega, if we’re doing business together.”
The man chuckles, but he clasps forearms with Granta, grip firm. “Call me Tarre,” he returns. “I have a room upstairs here that you’re welcome to share, and I'm sure we can find space for your friend.”
Hunti doesn’t even try to look overwhelmed by the graciousness of the offer, though he at least manages not to roll his eyes.
“Tarre,” Granta says, raising a brow. “Your parents must have had high hopes for you, with a name like that.”
Tarre hums. “I was a war orphan,” he says. “My foster mother was always interested in the history of the Mand'alore.” He slides his hand down Granta's arm, smoothly transferring the grip to his elbow and tugging Granta along as he approaches the transport. “I'm afraid it gave me a big head right from the start.”
Granta chuckles, though he can't help but look over the transport, taking in the way it doesn’t sag nearly as much as it should, given the model and the supposed weight of all that fertilizer. “It’s a lovely name, and only more so given its last well-known bearer.”
“A man to aspire to,” Tarre agrees, and eyes the brown-haired young man as he tumbles out of the cab. “Silas. I thought we discussed whether you could get through without breaking cover.”
The young man winces, slanting a glance at Granta, then at Tarre. When Tarre waves him on, he says quickly, “I'm sorry, I was told that they weren’t going to check any cargo.” He hurries around to the back, and the heavily-armed man pushes up from the doorway of the building and makes his way over, giving Hunti a wary berth.
“Tarre?” he asks as he approaches, and his face is hidden, but Granta can feel the weight of his eyes, assessing and cautious.
“They helped us get through the checkpoint without a fight breaking out,” Tarre says, mild. “It’s fine, Myles. Granta and his companion will be staying until we’re finished. We have an understanding.”
Myles doesn’t look overly convinced, but he tips his head. “Trouble?” he asks more quietly.
“Different guards than expected,” Tarre returns, equally soft. “Tighter security, as well. And it looked like they were preparing to set up a new checkpoint on the eastern road out towards the plains.”
Granta hadn’t noticed that, and he frowns, calculating. That’s in the direction of the governor’s mansion, if he hasn’t ended up too turned around. Maybe word of Jaster's presence has gotten out, though Granta would expect far more of a response if that were the case. Potentially up to and including Tor himself landing on Concord Dawn, given how desperate he is to end this fight and declare himself the winner.
“Bastards,” Myles mutters, and moves forward, helping Silas shift the crates. They carefully reorder the stack, opening up a hole in the tight press, and there's a groan, a shift. A man Silas's age pulls himself out of the gap, dropping from the back of the truck with a deep grimace.
“Sithspit,” he says, disgusted. “I think that damned fertilizer burned my nose. I can't smell a damn thing.”
Myles waves a hand in front of his helmet and takes three deliberate steps back. “Don’t worry,” he says, dry. “The rest of us definitely can.”
The man rolls his eyes at Myles, casts a glance over Granta that’s careful, assessing. “You're the one who stepped in at the checkpoint,” he says.
“I'm always happy to bribe a few guards,” Granta agrees peaceably. “Granta Omega. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands right now.”
“Cassus,” he returns, and grimaces. “Baths inside, buir?”
“You’d best hurry before your sister catches a whiff of you and decides to hose you down out back instead,” Tarre says, dry. “I think we have the second floor.”
“Third door on the right, at the top of the stairs” Myles confirms. “Hustle. Arla's behind the second.”
“You put her in the room next to me? Buir—”
“Count your blessings that Myles didn’t put you in the room with her,” Tarre tells him, and Cassus mutters a curse and heads for the building at a jog.
Tarre snorts, and as a man and a woman pull themselves out of the hole as well, he looks them over, then asks, “No problems getting here?”
The woman shakes her head, wrinkling her nose as she drops from the back of the transport, then offers the man with her a hand. He lands heavily, favoring one leg, but she holds him up as he steadies himself and tells Tarre, “There was a close call when we had to stop to refuel on Gargon II, but after that it went smoothly enough.” She slants a glance at Granta, then Hunti, and says, “You're with the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.”
Tarre turns, startled, and Granta raises his hands, palms out, keeps his expression unbothered. “Hunti certainly is, given that’s where I originally hired him from,” he says, and smiles. “I'm a businessman, and I was going into a dangerous situation. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“My membership isn't current anymore,” Hunti says, pushing up and approaching with light steps, almost soundless. His expression is a warning as he comes to a halt at Granta's shoulder, and he doesn’t put a hand to the blaster on his hip, doesn’t reach for one of the thermal detonators on his belt, but the way he looks the woman and then the injured man over is as clear a threat as either of those motions would be. “But yes, I'm Hunti Pereg.”
“Hired yourself out as a private bodyguard?” Myles asks, tipping his head faintly. “Better money in hunting bounties.”
Granta considers disputing that, because he pays very well in the name of keeping people loyal to him, but before he can, Hunti snorts. “I hired on when Granta was eighteen,” he says. “When my contract expired, I stayed because I wanted to.”
Not quite the truth, but close enough to it that it passes, and Granta hums lightly. “And I’m forever grateful, though I resent the implication that I need a minder—”
“You need ten minders, but there aren't ten people that stupid and that quick in the whole galaxy,” Hunti says, dust-dry, and flicks a glance at Tarre, ignoring Granta's halfhearted sound of protest. “This might be a conversation we should finish inside, if you're worried about guards.”
Tarre frowns, glancing at Myles. “Incoming?” he asks.
Myles checks something on his HUD and then huffs, disgusted. “Coming in to drink, I’m willing to bet,” he says. “They do every few days. Silas, get back on the road. Tori should be waiting at the farmstead.”
Silas nods and quickly clambers back into the transport’s cab, and as the engine rumbles to life, Tarre tips his head to the woman. “Third floor,” he says. “Whichever room you like. Montross, do you need help up the stairs?”
Montross shakes his head. “Don’t stink up your armor. Rook can give me a hand.”
“I'm going to sleep in the damn bath,” Rook says, deeply displeased, then nods to Tarre and hooks an arm around Montross’s ribs, supporting him as he hobbles towards the building.
Granta watches them go, then slants a look at Tarre. “You aren't worried about someone mentioning that the transport stopped here?” he asks.
With a snort, Tarre takes his arm again, lightly tugging him after the others. “Thankfully, I was telling the truth when I said that my family lives here. No one would give up any part of this to the Death Watch.” He pauses, and then says more softly, “I'm afraid House Vizsla is attempting to capture my children, and I thought we could be safe here, at least for a time. That’s the reason for all the secrecy. I'm sorry to put you in danger for the sake of protecting my family, but my children mean the world to me.”
Likely a lie, Granta assesses, but a calculated one, meant to inspire sympathy, assistance. A clever man, his fake husband. He doesn’t call Tarre on it, but smiles, brushing a thumb over the red-painted vambrace. “Entirely understandable, truly. After all, I'm here looking for family as well, and my husband is no friend of House Vizsla. It soothes my mind, if anything, that you aren't part of the Death Watch. If finding him would put him in danger, I would rather he stayed lost to me.”
“You're impressively loyal,” Tarre says, and gets the door for him. “Particularly when he’s been gone for so long.”
It curls in Granta's belly, a coal surfacing through the ashes. Loyal is an objective thing, but—
Ten years of marriage. As a stupid, drunk child, Granta made a choice, picked the one man who ever caught his eye for more than a few days, and—Granta now understands it, even if it was an inconvenient choice, even if there's no real reason for him to be here.
But they're married. And Granta wants to see Jaster Mereel. Wants to see him in the flesh, just once. To meet him and speak to him and touch him, however briefly, however innocently. His husband.
Maybe Jaster will never know, but Granta knows. And right now, in the galaxy’s eyes, they're bound together in a way that can't be broken. Granta wants, and his stupid, needy sixteen-year-old self gave him the opportunity to have, even if there's no real weight to it.
He could seduce his own husband, he thinks, and it feels like a jolt right through him, lightning from a peaceful sky. He could make Jaster want him. He’s done it to other men. There's no saying it will work, because Jaster is nothing like other men, but—trying could be fun. It could be a challenge.
Granta wants his husband like he’s never wanted any man before, and he’ll never want anyone else this way. He’s sure of it. He wouldn’t have arranged this whole marriage if there was any other possibility.
“He’s worth every ounce of my loyalty,” he says, light, smiling. “No man in the galaxy can match him, and I wouldn’t care even if they tried. All I want is to see him right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to find him.”
There's a pause, and then Tarre makes a soft sound of amusement. “Speaking so lovingly of another man to your husband?” he says, faux-aggrieved. “You're being quite cruel, Granta. We were only just reunited, and you’re already turning your eyes elsewhere.”
Granta laughs, startled into it, and leans into Tarre as they pass into a small pub, the menu posted on the far wall, a Devaronian woman behind the bar. It’s mostly empty at the moment, but Tarre heads straight for one of the larger tables like he’s been here a hundred times, dropping into an open chair. The Devaronian woman nods, and he waves a hand in return, then nudges a chair out for Granta.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect a Mandalorian to be such a gentleman,” Granta says, taking it without hesitation. Hunti doesn’t sit, but settles against the wall, watching the door, and Granta leaves him to it, leaning in towards Tarre with a smile. “Is this a new trend? A personal preference?”
“Your husband doesn’t hold to Crusader manners?” Tarre asks, mild. “A shame.”
“Tarre,” Myles says, almost reproving, but Granta chuckles, leaning back in his chair with a pass of his hand.
“I'm hardly offended,” he says. And—most of his youthful fantasies about Jaster had more to do with Jaster noticing his papers about rare minerals or hyperdrive modifications and seeking him out, but there were a fair few about Jaster truly taking after the Crusaders, conquering, picking Granta as some sort of concubine to decorate the arm of his throne. Being rough, warlike, commanding, possessive, and nothing Granta ever could have said no to.
Granta truly was a stupid child, so fond of daydreams he always tested his mother’s patience, prone to hiding in shadowed corners of the station or the academy with an overdramatic romance novel when he thought he could get away with it. And—clearly nothing much has changed since then.
Jaster in reality would be something different. A Crusader’s manners, honorable and elegant, he thinks, and can't help but smile a little to himself.
“I suppose,” he says, light, “that I was always distracted by other things. Or maybe I’ve simply misremembered. It’s been a very long time, after all.”
Tarre glances at Myles, who glance back, and Granta raises a brow, pulled out of his contemplation. They're potentially having a conversation over helmet comms, he thinks, and says mildly, “One might say that that’s rather rude, all your manners aside.”
There's a bare second’s pause before Tarre chuckles. “It is, forgive me. A habit, at this point—”
The door creaks open, and a Mandalorian with a Death Watch patch on the shoulder of their armor pushes into the pub, glancing around. There are at least two more figures behind them, and Tarre stiffens, one hand dropping towards his blaster—
Quick, before they can be spotted, Granta abandons his chair, slides right into Tarre's lap and hooks an arm around his neck. Smoothly, Hunti folds down into his seat, putting his back to the door, and Myles shifts too, pointedly looking across the table at Hunti instead of the newcomers.
Tarre hesitates for a bare second before he breathes out, and instead of reaching for his blaster he hooks his hand over Granta's hip, making the motion seem perfectly natural. “How lucky I am,” he says, droll, “that my husband doesn’t mind my armor, even after a long day on the road.”
Granta chuckles, leaning in, and—the second man in is definitely watching them, and he was one of the troopers at the checkpoint earlier. There’s a scratch down one greave that Granta remembers clearly. “I enjoy your armor,” he says, makes it teasing. “Especially when I have plans to take it off of you later, Tarre.”
Myles sighs, leaning around Tarre to signal to the barkeep. “I'm going to need a lot more to drink if you two are going to do this again,” he says. “Hunti?”
“Please,” Hunti agrees, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his legs like he hasn’t a care in the galaxy. “It’s been too long since I’ve had Mandalorian ale.”
“They make some of the best on Concord Dawn here,” Tarre says, stroking Granta's thigh absently, though Granta can feel the tension in him as the Death Watch troopers pass behind them, heading for a table closer to the bar. “I promised you ale and I’ll deliver the finest there is.”
“You're not delivering anything if you’ve already got Granta on your lap,” Myles says dryly, and rises to his feet. “I’ll get us some food. Have you acclimated your new husband to Mandalorian spice levels yet?”
“I enjoy quite a lot of spice,” Granta says, pitches it low and wicked. “If you can make me cry, all the better.”
“You do look so lovely when you cry,” Tarre agrees, and Myles groans and heads for the bar at a quick clip. It makes Tarre laugh, and he settles back in his chair with a breath, a conscious easing of tension.
Granta moves with him, resettling with Tarre's arm around his waist, and says innocently, “Did I say the wrong thing? Telos is known for its spice levels, too, and I was raised by an excellent Telosian cook.”
“Myles has a dirty mind,” Tarre says mildly. “Just leave him to his gutter and focus all of your attention on me.”
“Always,” Granta promises, settling against his chest, and—
It’s not where he expected to be, certainly. But he has an excellent view of the Death Watch troopers, and Hunti, with his sharper-than-Human senses, is clearly listening in, so it’s a decent outcome. There are far worse places to end up, and the stroke of Tarre's fingers up and down his thigh is a delightful thing.
He’s not Granta's husband officially, but he’s entertaining enough for the night, and Granta's waited over ten years to meet Jaster. He can wait a little longer.