The bigger her bump got, the more Lucilla doted relentlessly upon it.
So, at six months and pressure beginning to radiate on her feet and back, she could not have been more in love if she tried. With Orion, of course, he was a given, but her baby… Her baby… That was the one that left her utterly besotted when the kicks disturbed her hand in the middle of the night. It seemed she was no longer granted a second or third wear of whatever clothes she put on; they appeared to shrink and shrink until she could wear them no more and replacements would need to be ordered. It may have been an inconvenience, but it was an inconvenience she took great pleasure in.
When Orion clutched her too tight in bed, be it amorous or not, she loved uttering the words: "Mind the baby" and he adhered to it as seriously as she meant it. The afternoon naps on the spacious sofa made for a great time killer; and when Orion was present, his lunch hour was usually spent with sleep or sex or both. To say that Lucilla was enjoying her pregnancy was something of a laughable understatement.
"Will he be there?" She asked, absentmindedly, one night in bed; scrolling through her holopad as she had a habit of doing while her husband changed. Her days of removing his uniform for him were far behind her. Trawling through a selection of maternity dresses, she sought to spend money for the sake of it and as a General's pampered wife, why shouldn't she? It wasn't necessarily a habit or not yet, at least.
"As of yet, little dove, that remains to be seen." Orion answered grimly, bare chested and seated on his own side of the bed to begin removing his boots; a process in itself. He expected alarm or discomfort at the prospect, but when he glanced, Lucilla browsed still, unfazed.
"I'd much rather that he was." Orion turned fully on the mattress, bewildered and somewhat at a loss; he couldn't have heard her right, surely? Were they talking about the same person? Before he could try and tease an explanation, Lucilla's dream-like tone answered for him and confirmed: They were speaking of the same person. "I want to see his face when he realizes that he's lost." Cue the General's appreciative chuckle. Trust his Lucilla to want to flaunt her victory in the elder Hux's wrinkling face.
"I want him to see this." She began, cocky and haughty as she shifted on her behind and made the bump more visible; her weapon of choice for the evening. Said evening, of course, would be Lucilla's first public appearance since their pregnancy was officially announced and she had already resigned herself to being fawned over by older women. Wives only, mistresses not permitted. She had decided that that event would be where she would wield her power and show that she was not afraid.
This gathering was not solely for Lucilla, though she would treat it as such. It just so happened that the routine pregnancy appearance (an Imperial pride phenomenon, she was told) coincided with the unveiling of the first terrible machine, known as a Dreadnought. Hence the high-ranking attendees that she wouldn't normally dream of having near her or her baby; she could think of a certain father in law in particular but the opportunity was there to antagonize and she would take it.
"I also want him to see this." She informed him with the same almost insolent tone and extended her left hand. Naturally, she referred to the unique promise band that adorned her ring finger. His father had heard about the marriage, protested it. After all, it was completely unsanctioned and totally against protocol but that made it all the sweeter and would continue to do so when Brendol Hux would finally lay eyes on his obviously pregnant daughter in law. Not that she relished that title; nor did Brendol, as it happened.
"You don't seem too upset at the idea of seeing him." He pressed, having removed his boots and proceeded to massage his feet; another task Lucilla no longer fulfilled. They had swapped it, if anything.
"I can be amicable, Orion; if for nothing else but to save face." She retorted to the response of another titter. "However, I refuse to guarantee that nothing lethal will end up in his drink." Did that disturb him? No. Amuse him? Absolutely. Not that he thought her incapable of it, quite the opposite. Lucilla's beloved started to clamber into bed beside her with his pre-slumber rituals completed; one question remained, and he shuffled closer to ask it with a kiss to her shoulder.
"How are you?" An ordinary query for anyone else but instead of a polite inquiry to a friend or an acquaintance, it carried extra weight between this husband and wife.
"Tired." She replied, complete with a grimace that suggested as much, the answer he had been hoping for. With that established, the redhead could rest for the night without reaching for the bacta serum. "Aching." Ever the attentive husband, Orion enveloped his arms (as much as he could) under the bump and gathered her close; preparing to lie down.
"Do you need anything?"
"My father in law, foaming at the mouth, mid-cardiac arrest." He rewarded the blunt request with another kiss, to her temple this time. Lucilla powered down her holopad and set it aside then allowed him to guide her. His hand, like hers, guarded the bump; where the kicks against his open palm made the long shifts on the bridge worth it.
"In time, little dove. I promise."
"Are you sure you're quite alright?"The concerned question rippled in the private shuttle for the umpteenth time and for the umpteenth time, sapphire eyes closed in a silent prayer for patience.
"Darling, I'm fine. If you keep asking me, I won't be."
"If you preferred we didn't attend, no one would dare question our absence." His fret was understandable as his vision flickered from bump to face, face to bump. "If you are tired or ill, I will instruct the shuttle to return immediately and-"
"Orion." The verbal barrage ceased at the tone twinged with annoyance; a somewhat rare occurrence. "I have prepared myself for this. I have dressed and foregone a meal in anticipation of the banquet. I have not done all that just to scarper at the last moment. Besides, think of how it will look." To one particular person, and Orion knew just to who she referred this time.
"If at any stage during the evening, you find yourself unwell or uncomfortable, all you need do is inform me and we will leave instantly." Even with his hand encased in thick leather, and be it naked skin or not, the hold was of the same comfort and support to Lucilla. "I will not be leaving your side tonight, little dove; not for a moment." The leather-bound grasp guided her hand to his lips and, of course, Lucilla softened.
"Were you serious about the security detail?"
"Hand chosen by Phasma." He responded simply to a soft tut. "They will not encroach upon you, it is a sniper detail so you are free to enjoy your night."
"Starkiller was a loss." General Hux flawlessly addressed the First Order with finesse as any leader would; as he had at the maiden firing of Starkiller thought not as aggressive. Oozing smug charisma, as if the battle station hadn't been a blow to his career, he paused to let the breaths bait. "A tragic loss. And while her career may have been short-lived, she was only a peek, a mere scratch of the surface, of the fire power we are capable of creating." The applause chimed, light yet encouraging but subsequently died away when he straightened to speak again; his passion mounting with every word and his air expanding with it. He bristled with excitement and pride and, for once, smothering such emotions was not a professional priority.
General Organa had restricted the mission, using spies who had never come into contact (I.e. been captured) with First Order forces. Despite his protests, that meant Poe had to be sidelined and helplessly subjected to the visual torture like everyone else on the base. No one overly reacted to the fleeting, passing image of the General's (much younger) wife; perhaps his own General swiped him a look of pity as he stared, heartbroken, but his cousin went relatively unnoticed in her pristine finery. Finn shared his dismay but he could not share in the personal nature of the torment. All they could now was watch and perhaps learn from fly-on-the-wall perspective.
"What you are about to see is the latest and most technically advanced addition to the First Order combat fleet." Yet another pause to rouse suspense. "You will soon witness its capabilities upon a gang of fugitives who resisted inspection and became this machine's testing target; most fitting, I'm sure you'll agree." Polite laughter ensued on the transmission but the queasy feeling seemed to be widespread on the Resistance base.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the first of a new and deadly warship: The Dreadnought."
The Resistance spies spread the dreaded news to their agonized colleagues like plague by simply standing and recording. Live action feed of the schematics dominated the central platform and booming, real-time audio made their fate inescapable; as if they were present in the ballroom that night. Horrified expressions were common ground between new members and old alike; the disguised rebels hidden among the Imperials did their best to mask trepidation under gloating approval.
But things can always be worse, as Poe quickly learned. The Dreadnought's diagrams melted from giant holoport of the ballroom and, in turn, from the second-hand visuals of the Resistance's control room holotable. They were replaced with something far, far worse.
Dread creased every face as footage played to the crowd, footage of the warship wiping out a fleet of freighters in the Outer Rim; destroying both lives and livelihoods in seconds. Poe's stomach lurched (and he was sure he wasn't alone) as the gargantuan hull of the Dreadnought dwarfed the Corellian freighters and delivered three swift shots, one each, to devastating accuracy. The ships crumpled like paper and the Dreadnought's canons swivelled back into their defensive position, as if to deny involvement or responsibility; all without a Tie fighter in sight for backup or support. It didn't seem real, it couldn't be real. It had to be a scene from a holofilm that unfolded before the collective eyes of the Resistance that left them silenced and stunned.
Poe's mind tried to interpret the speed and the logistic of such a swift and brutal vessel. But before he could, the window of nothing but floating debris petered out to the thunderous applause of the highest First Order officials and its war mongering supporters; a death knell if ever there was one. Until the flame haired General took the place of the one-sided battle, his sickening contentment unwavering.
"Fleetkillers." He purred ominously, enough to be heard and enough for a communal shudder to rattle around the Resistance control room. "That is what they will call them." For a few seconds, expectant silence swallowed the room while the General paced briefly on his podium. There was more to come.
"So proud and confident are we of this new craft and its destructive potential, that we have decided to name her." When the General turned, hundreds of eyes, Resistance and Imperial alike, followed. Poe knew his cousin was present but witnessing that (uncomfortably uncharacteristically) adoring gesture of an outstretched hand to lift a far more delicate one almost to those wicked lips prompted bile to rise.
"Lucilla." Flattered but seemingly not surprised, ebony butterfly lashes lowered in apparent shyness while the pilot clutched the wall for support when his knees failed him. Numb, he eyed the transmission, distraught and uncomprehending; but again, things can always get worse. And they did.
The visual zoomed out and while his colleagues focused on the General and whatever vile words he spouted next, Poe fixated on something else; something else that made his blood run cold.
The bump. The bump that was cradled with devotion and reverence, the same bump that the dress had been meticulously designed and fitted around to emphasize it. Never mind the moderate but pregnancy-swollen cleavage that she had insisted upon herself. And that revelation was the final straw for Poe Dameron.
He didn't care how he got out but it was imperative. He pushed, shoved and barrelled his way towards the back of the room (his rank had put him table-side) and dived for the sliding door that almost didn't open fast enough; amidst protests and displeasure, of course. Thankfully, the Maker had placed a bucket nearby; empty, aside from a drain of oil from droid maintenance. The contents of his stomach replenished it and the howls of distress coated the walls of the abandoned corridor. Though not abandoned for long.
"Poe?!" The clamour of a set of footsteps and the scraping of durasteel on durasteel registered somewhere in his ears, in between hurling and retching on his knees and hugging the bucket. Vision blurry from squeezing his eyes too tightly shut, Poe relied on the voice and the frenzied beeping that accompanied it; Finn and BB8. "Poe? You okay? What happened?"
"How could she do this to us?!"He choked, petrified of expelling more but too traumatized to keep it in. "Him…! That…! That son of a bitch!" Another slower set dinned in the passageway, just as disturbed. Before Finn could open his mouth and Poe could lift his head, Keir appeared, white-faced and slumped on the wall beside his nephew, legs barely supporting him. Allied in their grief, they opted for silence that Finn respected when it seemed there was nothing else to be said. Until…
"Did you see it….?" The answer was non-verbal, an overcome sort of nod; the greying smuggler couldn't bring himself to anything more. When it was clear he would get nothing more, Poe pushed again. "What're we gonna do?"
"Nothin' we can do." Keir's trademark gruffness sounded hollow, though he seemed incapable of doing anything more than helplessly staring at one spot on the opposite wall, wallowing in even more loss. "She's his now, she's not our little Lucy anymore."