Chapter Text
Prompt: Dressing up
…I THINK WE USED UP ALL THE PERFECT… PLEASE DON'T ARGUE. JUST BE WAITING FOR ME…
Those were the last words Luthen spoke to her. Then, radio silence. She followed the commotion from outside the gallery: the ISB Tactical Agents, Stormtroopers, the HoloNet, all amidst curious passersby.
The follow-up was messy: infiltrating the Lina Soh Hospital, disguising as a nurse, shooting down whoever got in her way. And then, finally… Luthen.
She allowed herself a single tear as she disconnected his breathing apparatus.
It had to be done. He couldn’t spill a word of their operation.
The next few hours went by in a rush.
She’d to forward the message before they got to her. Because otherwise Luthen would’ve died for nothing—she couldn’t let his death go to waste.
Then Cassian arrived with Melshi and an Imperial droid she’d never seen before.
…Repeat what I've told you! Galen Erso… He…
Shooting. Explosions.
…Superweapon. Kyber crystals. Ghorman...
…This is direct from ISB as of yesterday morning…
Cassian needed to hear this. Cassian needed to understand every word and forward the message. Cassian needed to understand the severity of the situation.
…Luthen died for this…
Blood. Pain. And then everything went black.
When Kleya next woke up, she expected to feel her lungs burning with the first breath after lacerating pain.
But her breathing was calm.
She didn’t feel any pain.
Her eyes fluttered open to a ceiling she had never seen before—high, vaulted, paneled in a light wood that held the low morning light. Nothing like the opaque ceiling of her own small room in the back of the gallery or the peeling and moldy vision that first greeted her in the safe house.
The air smelled of fresh linens and something deeper, richer, that made her body relax before her mind could fully catch up. A low chuckle and rhythmic voice filled the room, almost soft in its chiding. A gurgle answered back—growing more enthusiastic by the second.
Kleya’s brows drew together. What the—
She pushed herself on her elbows, expecting to wince, but none of the expected pain hit her. Instead, there was a lingering discomfort between her thighs that reminded her of something she couldn’t quite name. Something recent. Something that left her utterly relaxed and sated and somewhat sore in equal measure.
Across the enormous bedroom, facing a floor to ceiling clari-crystal window, a man stood with his back to her. He wore only black slacks that hung low on his hips, the sharp cut of his waist and the breadth of his shoulders unmistakable even in silhouette. He held a wriggling baby up, making them squeal in delight.
“There, there, you little tyrant,” he chided in a soft voice she’d to strain her ears to hear. “Let your mommy sleep for at least five more minutes.”
The baby answered with a gurgling noise when they were brought down, hitting small fists against the man’s bare chest.
Kleya’s breath caught. Her head ached so sharply she’d to sit on the mattress and cover her face with her hands, as if the gesture alone could ease the pain. Using her middle and forefinger, she applied a little pressure to her temples, massaging the sore spot slowly.
The linens slid down her body, revealing a soft navy-blue nightgown—definitely not the kind of clothing she wore when going to bed.
The man turned to face her slowly, carefully, the way someone moves when holding something infinitely precious.
Orson Krennic.
Kleya forgot how to breath.
Director Orson Krennic. The architect of destruction. The man responsible for building the Death Star.
…he’s been building a secret weapon for over a decade…
The white uniform and extreme arrogance she’d seen at Davo Sculdun’s Investiture Party. The intense blue eyes she’d stared at up close and imagined herself putting a blaster bolt between them.
…We should have killed Krennic while we were up there…
She remembered Luthen’s joke. She remembered laughing at it. They couldn’t kill someone like him—not like that. They couldn’t draw that kind of attention to them.
Except that there was no uniform now. She was seeing the man beneath it—bare skin, disheveled hair, morning stubble and soft blue eyes that made her heart skip a beat.
Now she wished they had.
If they had… Luthen would still be alive. And that monstrosity he’d built would not be operational.
…Superweapon. Based in Scarif. Fuel from Ghorman…
He smiled—small, private, entirely hers.
Without a word, he crossed the room to the bed, leaned down and eased the fuzzing baby into her arms. The child—a boy, around one-year-old, chubby and strong—nuzzled against her throat, small fists curling around her nightgown.
“Mama.” The little voice echoed in the room that suddenly felt too small for the three of them. Especially when Krennic brushed a kiss to her forehead. His scent—a mix of safety and home—flooded her wary senses. Her body remembered it before her mind could protest.
The baby in her arms pulled her nightgown down with single-minded focus, rooting against her breast. Without thinking she offered her nipple to him, watching as he latched on contently.
Tiny fingers curled around the kyber crystal pendant that hung between her breasts—a necklace she didn’t remember ever owning.
…Kyber from Jedha. ISB Krennic. Galen Erso…
Her arms wrapped around the child on instinct. And a peace so complete stole her breath away. For a moment, she didn’t feel the need to hide. To pretend. To run. To lie. There were only her and the heavy, perfect weight of that small baby against her chest and the quiet, content sound of suckling. She felt… weirdly whole.
Then, a quiet, fond chuckle startled her. She looked up and watched as Krennic sat on the edge of the bed. His large hand rested on her thigh, thumb stroking the skin above her knee absentmindedly.
“I tried to tell the little tyrant that his mother deserved to get more rest after last night’s intense activities,” he whispered, voice still rough with sleep and deep satisfaction. “But he was having none of it. Kept demanding his mama at dawn like the Empire itself depended on it.” He ran a single finger over the baby cheek; the care imprinted in the gesture made her look up—their eyes met over the child’s head. The baby smiled at the loving gesture, the way his little mouth curved made a fine trail of milk drip down his small chin.
The father smiled as well—a slow, predatory tilt to thin lips. “Can’t say I blame him.” He lowered his voice to a murmur, “I’d do the same.”
He leaned in, cupped her jaw with a gentle grip and kissed her—slow, lingering, tasting of morning and arrogant certainty. When he pulled back, he whispered against her mouth, “Good morning.” He pulled her bottom lip with his teeth and when she gasped, he continued, voice smooth, “I take it that you slept well.”
Her mind reeled. The peace fractured completely. Questions screamed inside her head. The headache returned, leaving her incapacitated for a moment.
Her body tensed. And locked.
The baby unlatched, tiny brow furrowing and intense blue eyes—the same shade of the man staring at her—welling up with tears.
She froze. Unsure of what to do to calm down the upset infant.
She wasn’t good with that.
She’s never been that close to a baby before—they’re fragile things and she’d nor time or the necessary ability to handle them.
And yet there she was. Dressed up as an entirely different and yet the same person: wife… mother.
The word made bile rise to her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth, as if the gesture alone could ease her upset stomach.
Mother…
That baby wasn’t hers.
She’d never been pregnant before. She’d never had a baby… let alone Krennic’s baby.
The idea was so absurd she wanted to laugh.
Her head spun.
And yet… she’d just nursed the said baby.
And yet… her heart just ached as she saw the said baby crying.
Krennic scooped the child with practiced ease, rocking him against his body. In under a minute, he managed to soothe him as Kleya adjusted her nightgown.
She pressed two fingers to her temples again, massaging the spot. It did little to relieve the pain and discomfort.
When she next looked up at him, Krennic stared back at her with furrowed brows.
“Kleya, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
She hid her face with her hands; the light entering the room through the clari-crystal windows blinded her.
“Kleya?” Krennic asked again, voice tight with worry.
She looked up, eyes red—the need to cry almost unbearable.
Kleya couldn’t recognize herself in this stranger’s body and it terrified her.
She cleared her throat and the next words that tumbled out of her mouth were bewildered, “Why are you here? Who is this baby? Why are you kissing me?”