A/N: Inspired by a string of convoluted conversation with TheYellowLantern, lothcat1138, and Westward Glance. Thanks for the inspiration, guys!

Keeping It

The human child looked like its father—to an almost startling degree. Not at first, though. No. At first, the child—"baby," Hera called it when it was in its smallest form—looked just sort of…soft and round. No distinguishable features; neither its mother's green skin and lekku nor its father's dark hair and prominent nose. Mostly, it cried.

Except for when Hera held it. It always stopped crying when Hera picked it up, even when it appeared to be sick or in pain. She held it carefully, whispering things in its ear, too quiet for Chopper's audio sensors to pick up. But her touch and the sound of her voice never failed to soothe its fusses and cries. It was evident that Hera had developed, in addition to her many other talents and abilities, the ability to mother this small human exceptionally well.

But perhaps the relationship between Hera and the child was reciprocal in nature; Chopper noticed that as often as the child stopped crying when she held it, she stopped crying when she held it. Crying was something Hera did often during her pregnancy and for quite some time thereafter—always in private, of course, and never for very long. But Chopper had learned the tell-tale signs: swollen eyes, hoarse voice, damp cheeks. The death of Kanan Jarrus had affected Hera irreversibly, Chopper was afraid. But holding the child seemed to lift her spirits, mostly. (Once or twice, she'd cried harder after picking the child up, which distressed Chopper greatly.)

When it was several months old, it started reaching for Hera voluntarily, putting its arms around her neck and holding tightly when she picked it up. By the time it was one standard year old, it could speak a single intelligible word in the middle of its babbles: mom. Hera's face shone like a supernova each and every time she heard it.

Chopper was wary.

He'd seen that same look in her eyes before and he had attached a label to it: love. Chopper had had ten years to observe the way that Hera looked at Kanan, and that particular expression was one of love. Although this kind of love, the way Hera loved the child, Chopper reasoned, was much different than the way she'd loved its father. Still, it was love. Chopper thought—and often at that—about cautioning Hera against forming any kind of permanent bond with the child. What if something happened to it? Chopper just knew she'd never recover from such a thing. He couldn't watch her grieve over someone twice. Adjusting to Kanan's absence had been brutal enough.

By the time it was a year and a half old, the child looked much more like its father. It had hair (green, though), a dimpled grin, and angular, quirky brows. It was also able to toddle around now, pointing to things and very nearly speaking their correct names. "Chop" and "mom" were still the most intelligible. It used Chopper as a brace when it stood, and patted its chubby hand on the side of Chopper's body when it got excited about something. It figured out how to stand on Chopper's strut and hold on as the droid wheeled through the ship. The sound of the child's laugh was one Chopper found himself growing fond of, and he fought that feeling gear and gyro.

He rolled into the cockpit late one night when he knew Hera was there working on the navi-computer. He was very vocal in his displeasure about the unidentified marks and sticky grime the child's fingers had left on his paint.

Hera swiveled in her seat, turning around to look at him with narrowed eyes. "His name is Jacen," she corrected. It was the five hundred thirty-seventh time she'd said that, and she was apparently tired of repeating herself. "What is wrong with you? Jacen is my son, Chopper. He's not going anywhere. Get used to it or find somewhere else to work. I'm sure the maintenance workers on the flagship could use another astromech—maybe for scrap."

Chopper shot back before he had time to think too much about it: I told you not to name Kanan when he came aboard. Look how that ended up for us.

Us. It was such a simple slip to make; the inclusion of a pronoun which suddenly clarified the root of Chopper's irritation.

Hera's eyes widened and her expression went soft. "I will always miss him," she said. She leaned forward, elbows on knees. "It's okay if you do, too. It was hard. It's still hard."

Chopper swiveled his dome to mimic the humanoid no gesture. Grieving was not something he'd been programmed for. He refused.

"You're Jacen's friend, you know," Hera said. Her voice was quiet. "Sometimes, he asks about you first thing in the morning. That little boy adores you. I know—it's hard to—when he looks so much like Kanan." Her voice started taking on that thick, hoarse quality and she looked away. "It's hard for me, sometimes."

Chopper considered that for a moment. It doesn't concern you—getting attached?

"Everything concerns me," she sighed. She turned back to the navi-computer. "But I'm not getting attached, Chopper. I am attached. From the very first moment I knew I was pregnant with him. I worry about him. I worry about the future. But that's not going to stop me from loving him with my whole heart."

Chopper grumbled. Sentient behavior was so illogical. If you keep your distance, you won't get hurt.

"Oh, for kark's sake." Hera swore, which was rare, and it instilled a healthy amount of fear in Chopper. The Twi'lek glared. "I did nothing but keep my distance from Kanan for ten years, remember?" Her tone was sharp. "And that did hurt. Almost more than anything else." She tried hard to stop frowning. "I'm done letting fear dictate how I live my life. I'm certainly not going to let it dictate how I care for my son." A pause. "And you shouldn't, either."

Chopper rolled back and forth on his struts, considering. I'm not afraid. Just looking out for you—please excuse my good intentions. He turned to leave, but not before he saw Hera roll her eyes. Spectre Seven, he said at the door.

"What?"

If you insist on keeping him, we should call him Spectre Seven.

"Spectre Seven," she repeated. She didn't sound displeased. "I am keeping him and I'll take that under advisement."

Chopper wheeled out, pausing in the hall outside of Spectre Seven's—Jacen's—room. Though the child was sleeping, he let himself inside, rolling quietly. Blue eyes peeped open to look at the droid, and one little hand stuck through the crib slats. Chopper drew closer, extending a manipulator arm for the little one to latch onto. Jacen mumbled unintelligibly as he fell back to sleep, holding tight to Chopper.

Inwardly, Chopper cursed himself; he hadn't ever meant to let this boy worm his way into his limited affections. Almost every sentient he cared for was either dead or absent. Sentients were a liability, as far as Chopper was concerned. Yet—he couldn't stay away from them.

And this one did look so much like Kanan and Hera.

Yes—this child had wormed his way into Chopper's affections. Grudgingly, Chop decided to let him stay.