[ Rex had known that Jango had claimed a boy of his own as his son. To carry on his legacy, perhaps, to train in his own image in a way far more literal than any other father; god only knows that Rex has never, ever wanted to groom Martin in his image. There are plenty of reasons for Jango to have wanted to claim a son. For one of them to mean more than the rest, for one to be his very own. Rex had known this for years now. Every clone had known this. But he'd thought of legacy, of culture, of practicality, of someone to look over Jango when he was old, of every possible eventuality.
Somehow, he had never factored love into the equation. He stares at the holo, expression unreadable. It makes sense now, of course. Of course Jango had loved his son, as any father should. And of course Boba loved him back. That had likely hurt them both as much as it heartened them. That's what love does.
Had he loved any of them? Rex can't help but wonder. Had he looked at his own son's faces in the men that he had trained and felt nothing? Felt fine sending them in to be slaughtered? Or had he felt something more, and that's why he stuck around to train them as much as he had, had left those behind to give them a culture, to give them names, to give them some reason to keep marching on beyond the endless expanse of war ahead of them.
He can't say. He doesn't think Boba can either. But for all that Boba lacks, he had been loved. Not by the brothers that had been bred to love him. Not through proving himself. Not through scraping and clawing for it. Boba had been deemed worthy of love from the moment he'd been handed to his father. ]
I don't know how it got here, [ he says, voice a low rumble behind Boba. ] But it's good that you have it now. I never knew.
[ Stranger still is that through everything he thinks, through everything he feels, there's something that rises above it all: he should make something like this for Martin. This is what Martin deserves to hear, should he ever leave him. That's more important than any of the other rot.
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Somehow, he had never factored love into the equation. He stares at the holo, expression unreadable. It makes sense now, of course. Of course Jango had loved his son, as any father should. And of course Boba loved him back. That had likely hurt them both as much as it heartened them. That's what love does.
Had he loved any of them? Rex can't help but wonder. Had he looked at his own son's faces in the men that he had trained and felt nothing? Felt fine sending them in to be slaughtered? Or had he felt something more, and that's why he stuck around to train them as much as he had, had left those behind to give them a culture, to give them names, to give them some reason to keep marching on beyond the endless expanse of war ahead of them.
He can't say. He doesn't think Boba can either. But for all that Boba lacks, he had been loved. Not by the brothers that had been bred to love him. Not through proving himself. Not through scraping and clawing for it. Boba had been deemed worthy of love from the moment he'd been handed to his father. ]
I don't know how it got here, [ he says, voice a low rumble behind Boba. ] But it's good that you have it now. I never knew.
[ Stranger still is that through everything he thinks, through everything he feels, there's something that rises above it all: he should make something like this for Martin. This is what Martin deserves to hear, should he ever leave him. That's more important than any of the other rot.
He shakes his head, dispeling the thought. ]
How many messages are on it?