Chapter Text
“For the last kriffing time! I. Don’t. Need. Medical. Assistance!”
Obi-Wan steps into the medical tent with armfuls of supplies and hears Jango’s dulcet tone of annoyance all the way from the back of the temporary triage center. Two young medics, a few years younger than Obi-Wan, rush over and gratefully accept the package, leaving him free to investigate the source of Jango’s irritation before someone or something gets thrown across the room.
Jango has a temper on the best of days, but his stubbornness has been known to triplicate when he’s injured.
He hadn’t looked injured when they made it back to base and Obi-Wan’s gut twists uncomfortably at the idea that he has missed something. That Jango has been hurt and he’s not done anything to stop it.
“You’re bleeding!”
“It’s a scratch!”
“You need stitches!”
He steps into the triage bay and slips past the curtain that’s been hung to give some semblance of privacy. Bowing his head to the medic who turns abruptly to scowl at him, Obi-Wan then raises his jaw and ignores Jango’s furious splutter of anger. “Can I be of assistance?” he asks, doubling down on the politeness both to appease the medic’s red-faced anger and to annoy Jango.
The medic eyes him carefully. “You two arrived together,” he says, frowning.
“Yes, we did.”
“You have any medical training?”
“I’m qualified to treat minor wounds.” It’s a bit of a stretch; he doesn’t have any official qualifications, but experience counts, right?
Jango crosses his arms over his bare chest, the wound in question visible around the curve of his elbow. Shrapnel must’ve caught him right in that vulnerable spot between plates of beskar. “I’ll say it again: I don’t need any treatment! Just let me wrap a bandage around it and I’m good to go.”
Obi-Wan ignores him. Jango is absolutely infuriating when it comes to overlooking his own needs. Given half a chance he’ll walk around with a dirty rag around his arm and keel over in a few days once infection sets in. He’s strong and healthy and with a solid constitution, so he believes it unnecessary to waste precious supplies on a mere cut when there are so many more pressing cases. Obi-Wan might love him for it if it doesn’t drive him so crazy.
“He’s all yours then, Jedi,” the medic says, shooting Jango one last dirty look before stalking over to the next bay and what Obi-Wan hopes for his sake is a less surly patient.
“Not a word,” Obi-Wan says sternly, knowing exactly what Jango is about to say. “Sit down, please.”
“It’s just a scratch!” Jango points furiously at the wound, which by now has left a trail of blood dripping from his fingers. “Don’t fuss.”
“I’m not fussing,” Obi-Wan starts to gather the necessary supplies from around the small bay. They really are woefully understocked, both in terms of necessities and personnel. Tomorrow he and Fon’di will begin planning the next supply run. For now, he’ll have to make do. “I just don’t want to have to carry you all the way to Station 12 when you get sepsis.”
“I’m not going to get sepsis,” Jango says, disgusted by the mere idea. “I didn’t get sepsis on Concordia!”
Obi-Wan can’t help wrinkling his nose, a small shudder running through him at the memory of that awful place and the inhumane way Jango had been treated. “Then all the more reason to not let a little thing like this be the death of you,” he says, keeping his voice mild. “Imagine the embarrassment: Jango Fett, dead from a splinter.”
His teasing has the desired effect. Jango stops scowling and actually pouts. “It was a bit more than a kriffing splinter!”
Obi-Wan smiles at him. “Agreed. So. Stitches?”
He lets the muttered string of insults Jango follows with wash over him unanswered. Obi-Wan wants to treat him, wants to take care of him, but not at the expense of Jango’s pride.
“No drugs,” Jango finally agrees, dropping down onto the closest bunk with a melodramatic sigh. “And don’t think I didn’t see that crate of pediatric shit you came back with. You come near me with bandages that sparkle and I’ll kick your skinny ass.”
“I would never,” Obi-Wan says, desperately trying not to laugh. He pushes a small stool over to the side of the bunk and sets his supplies down next to Jango before taking a seat. “Give me your arm,” he orders, “and don’t sulk.”
“I’m not sulking,” Jango says, sulking. Obi-Wan makes quick work of cleaning up the blood around the wound before applying a thin layer of antibacterial wash. Jango doesn’t want a painkiller and that’s fine, they’re in desperately short supply and they really are needed elsewhere, but that doesn’t mean he’s skipping the antiseptic sterilization of both the injury and the surrounding area. “I don’t sulk.”
“No,” Obi-Wan chuckles, “of course not.”
“Are all Jedi sarcastic little shlebs?” Jango demands, not flinching when Obi-Wan gently cleans the edges of the wound. It’s deeper than he thought it was and will definitely require stitches. In an ideal world they’d be in a properly equipped medical suite and the wound would be closed with a laser - minimal scarring and fast recovery. In this world, they’re in the middle of a war on a planet that hasn't seen aid relief in decades. Fortunately for Jango, Obi-Wan has had plenty of practice at this; his hands no longer tremble the way they once did on Melida/Daan.
It’s always hard not to think back to his first war and his old friends, harder still when current events force him down uncomfortably familiar paths, and he wonders what Cerasi would make of Jango. He’s far more violent than she’d ever condone, but despite that, Obi-Wan thinks she’d like him. She’d see the gentleness beneath his gruff exterior.
“I’m not a very good Jedi, remember?” Obi-Wan says lightly. The skin around the wound is inflamed and hot to the touch. He lays his own hand gently over it and tries to let the Force flow through him and into Jango. He’s not a healer and has no real ability, but if he can give Jango even a little bit of extra help...
He jolts when Jango’s other hand closes over his own. “I dunno about that,” he says, suddenly so close that Obi-Wan can count every spec of amber that shimmers in his dark eyes. This close and all Obi-Wan wants to do is see if his lips are really as soft as they look.
“I...” swallowing hurts. His throat is too tight, his heart too loud in his ears. He’s supposed to be helping. “Thanks. Does this hurt?”
Jango doesn’t break eye contact. Obi-Wan can’t, even if he wants to. Does he want to?
“No. You’re blushing.”
That’s probably a lie. It must hurt. But Jango doesn’t flinch.
“Master Qui-Gon will be back in a few days,” he says quietly, desperate for a topic of conversation that doesn’t center around how very much he enjoys looking at Jango’s beautiful face.
“Good for him. Don’t change the subject.”
Obi-Wan can feel the heat in his cheeks by now. “I’m not.” Reluctantly, he pulls away, breaking eye contact and carefully untangling his hand from Jango’s. “Now hold still, this will hurt.”
He picks up the bone needle and silk medical thread. His hands don’t shake.
The scowl has finally melted from Jango’s face. He’s not smiling, not quite, and Obi-Wan can feel his eyes on him as he works.
He’s not a good Jedi, he knows he isn’t. But he wants to be.
That means no attachment. Not to Jango, not to anyone.
If he could just... just one kiss, just to see if he even likes it and...
No.
No attachment.
He’s not a good Jedi.
But he means to be better.