#janir

What a moron, is Vinir's first thought, which is admittedly something he tends to think fairly often about the Fett clan. It's usually one of the kids. Racer in particular - the woman's insistence on blowing up random shit kind of scares him - or sometimes Fury or one of his kids.

It's not usually about Jango. The break from routine is not exactly what he would call 'appreciated'.

But there will be no forcing Jango to do something he doesn't want, not without causing a lot of troule for both of them. So he leans in the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and waits for Jango to fall into a heap on the floor.

That Jango actually makes it to the fresher, rather annoys Vinir. If he gets it into his head that he's healed enough to be walking around, there really won't be any stopping him. It's like he thinks that getting blown up is just some weekend activity and it's fine to be back to work in a few days. Incorrigible.

Vinir sits on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself when Beroy'ika hops up next to him and purrs as her head butts into his arm. She's been keeping Jango company. Hopefully without jumping off the windowsill to land directly on his spleen, but that does seem to be her primary hobby.

Jango comes out of the freshser and sighs deeply at the sight of him. Not the most unusual greeting.

"You," Vinir says, not even attempting to keep the displeasure out of his voice.

"You," Jango seethes back, glaring at him. But then he missteps and has to catch himself against the wall, and that seems to knock a little bit of the fight out of him.

"Sit down, idiot," Vinir insists, and reaches over to press the backs of his fingers against the mug on the nightstand, to see if it's still hot. Nope. Probably made it before he fell asleep and then forgot about it hours ago.

The fact that Jango listens, almost concerns him a little. There's nobody with a stronger will, not even among his clones, and the last thing Vinir wants is to figure out that there's a more serious problem than he thought.

He hands over the tea, because it has the astringent smell of those healing herbs that Boba gets from the Tuskens, and stares threateningly at Jango until he takes a sip. It's a small one, but it's better than nothing.

"Are you going to stay in bed, like you're supposed to?" Vinir asks.

Jango sighs and sets the mug down and leans back against the headboard.

"Maybe."

That's about as good an answer as Vinir has ever gotten from him.

Well, at least he has a secret weapon, and for once it's not something that comes from his ship armoury.

The polished buckles snap up under his fingers, a pair of equally shining hinges keeping the leather case from falling open on the bed. He's had this instrument since he was a much younger man. Jango is the only human being who's heard him play it.

And to no surprise of his own, the music works. Jango's never been able to resist it. It's one of the many traits he and Boba share. Put on something slow and soft, and they'll calm down more than they realise.