Morning Light, Part Two
Kanan hadn't stopped watching Hera. He wished he could say it was because he was intoxicated by the feeling of being able to see her again after almost two years of darkness. But it was because he could tell the medic was about to ground her, and he wanted to gauge her reaction.
The entire Ghost crew was crowded into the exam bay. They made quite a sight with Ezra's arm still in a sling, Sabine's gashed forehead bandaged with gauze and strips of bacta, Zeb glowering in the corner, Hera sitting on the table hooked up to a fetal monitor, and returned-from-the-dead Kanan beside her holding her hand. The medic, a gangly, red-faced human man, stood in front of them, data-pad in his hand, looking more and more flustered by the nano-second.
"Clinically speaking, General Syndulla," he ground out, "your team is a karking nightmare." He pointed an accusatory finger at Ezra, and moved down the line as he spoke. "You'll need physical therapy if you want that shoulder to work the way it's supposed to, you have a grade two concussion, your blood pressure is alarmingly high, you—I have no medical explanation for and it's pissing me off, and you—" He stopped when he got to Zeb and nodded curtly. "You're fine. But I've spoken with command and Captain Orrelios notwithstanding, you're all grounded effective immediately. You will be permitted to take the Ghost and escort the medical frigate off-world to Rendezvous One as preliminary base evacuations begin, but your duties end there until you can be medically cleared. Dismissed." The younger Spectres and Zeb filed out, but the medic pinned Hera to the table with a disapproving frown. "General Syndulla—you're being placed on maternity leave."
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "Now? With everything that's happened? The baby isn't due for another mo—"
"Your condition is borderline," the medic interrupted sharply. That got Hera's complete attention and Kanan didn't miss how her face suddenly turned pale. He squeezed her hand.
"What does that mean?" He asked, stepping in. He glanced at Hera. Her jaw was clenched tight. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her every way he knew how, but now was neither the time nor the place. "Is she okay? And the baby?"
"I feel fine," Hera said defiantly.
The medic jabbed a finger toward the vital signs monitor. "Krayt spit. With blood pressure as high as yours? That can't possibly be true. If it was any higher, I'd have you on bedrest and you'd be looking at an emergency delivery. No guarantees that won't happen anyway. You're under too much stress and your body isn't handling it as well as I'd like."
"Is the baby in distress?" She rubbed a hand across her abdomen, watching the monitor fearfully. It worried Kanan that Hera didn't try to argue that she did feel fine.
"He's fine—for now." The medic glared hard at Kanan. "Can you keep her off her feet?"
"I'll make sure she rests," he answered with a nod. But just looking at Hera told him she'd have no trouble following the medic's instructions.
"Good." The man's beady eyes narrowed and he gave Kanan an up-and-down look as he disconnected Hera from the monitor. "I still don't understand you." He turned, muttering to himself as he left the exam bay.
For the first time in months, Kanan and Hera were alone. Tentatively, he reached to place a hand on the curve of her belly. "He?"
A radiant smile lit her eyes for a fraction of a second. "We're having a son," she whispered.
The Ghost and the Gauntlet, along with the medical frigate, were among the first ships to evacuate Yavin Base. The situation was beyond dire; Leia Organa was believed to be dead, and the Death Star plans gone. No hope of winning. Little chance of surviving.
Hera almost didn't care.
Her crew—her family—were all fine, headed for the relative safety of the Alliance's rendezvous point. Sabine, Ezra, and Zeb were in command of the Gauntlet, the Lasat doing the flying while the young adults no doubt argued about who could better perform as co-pilot. Kanan was piloting the Ghost—Force, it was amazing to have him back again—while Hera watched from the right-hand seat. The trip was uneventful and they docked with the frigate as soon as they came out of hyperspace. Hera relayed that information back to Yavin.
"Copy, Ghost," the control officer acknowledged. "Light cruiser Expedient expected to arrive in two standard hours to relieve you."
She inhaled sharply; two hours was all that was standing between her and uninterrupted time with Kanan. "Copy that, command. Syndulla out." The transmission died and for a moment she and Kanan just look at each other, each of them holding their breath, half-afraid this wasn't real.
"What now?" He asked finally.
"Now," she repeated, "I..." They'd need a plan. If she was grounded and the fleet was in danger anyway, they'd need somewhere to go, someplace to be when it was time for the baby to be born. Lothal, she thought dimly, would probably be their safest bet. But she didn't say any of that. All she said was, "Just hold me."
He stood and so did she, wrapping her arms around his neck as his hands found her sides. He pulled her as close as he could and Hera was aggravated that their bodies didn't fit together the way she wanted them to—but having Kanan explore the new contour of her figure was nice, especially when he laid his palm over her navel and the baby responded with a firm kick.
He gasped, locking eyes with her. "That's—?"
"Your son," she said, laughing.
He glanced down at her belly, completely awed. "That's—Hera—" He breathed her name, overcome by emotion, and then his eyes snapped to meet hers. Guilt was clear. "I'm sorry I missed all this."
She shivered, thinking of the too-many nights she'd cried herself to sleep, scared and almost sick with worry that he wouldn't make it. "I'm just glad you're here now, love."
She traced her thumb softly over his lower lip and tiptoed up to close the distance between them. She sighed when she felt his mouth warm and pliant against her own. She parted her lips to deepen the kiss because, stars, she'd missed him and she needed him and nothing had felt right the last six months without him. She pressed as close as she could, but it still wasn't close enough; the baby, however, didn't appreciate the cramped quarters and responded with a series of kicks and stretches Kanan and Hera could both feel. He made a surprised sound, breaking their kiss.
"Hey there." He caressed her belly as he pulled back, still feeling the kicks beneath his palm. He met her eyes and looked back down again. "Is he always this active?"
Hera smiled wryly. "He doesn't like to sit still."
"Ah." Kanan drew out the syllable, exaggerating. "Sounds like someone else I know."
"Hush." She leaned in again, kissing him more insistently than before and she sighed, content, when he returned her kisses with fervor. She didn't realize just how hard her heart was pounding until he gently pulled back, cupping her face in his hand.
"The medic said you need to keep your blood pressure down, remember? In fact..." His smile faded. "You shouldn't even be up."
She rolled her eyes, throwing a hand on her hip. "Kanan Jarrus, I—"
The rest of that reply was lost in a startled yelp as he literally swept her off her feet and carried her down the hall to her cabin. His arms were strong around her; there was no indication that he'd almost died, let alone that he'd spent six months comatose. He set her on the bunk, and she noticed how his gaze drifted to the bassinet in the corner of the room. She wondered if he was feeling overwhelmed by it all. He'd had hours to take in changes that she'd had months to adjust to. But if he was struggling to re-orient himself, he wasn't showing it. He seemed calm; not unconcerned, exactly, but not anxious. Not consumed with worry over the fact that they were about to bring a child into a galaxy where the Empire was wielding a weapon capable of planetary destruction.
He knelt on the floor in front of her, easing one boot off, and then the other. He proceeded to undress her slowly, piece by piece, until she was down to her basics. He reached under her pillow and pulled out the neatly-folded loungewear he knew he'd find there. She stepped into the compression leggings first, sighing in relief when she tugged the high-waisted band up to support her stomach. Kanan's forehead creased in concern. She half-laughed.
"Carrying a baby is uncomfortable business," she explained with a shrug. "But worth it."
She pulled on her shirt—an old one of Kanan's—and sat down on the bunk again, cross-legged. Kanan didn't move, still kneeling as his fingertips traced absent-minded patterns on her belly over and over. The tenderness of his touch was enough to put tears in her eyes. Longing to touch him in return, she pulled the band out of his hair and ran her fingers through it lazily. He looked up at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. Her breath caught; how many times the last few months had she tried to come to grips with knowing she might never see that smile again?
"Kanan," she said thickly. "Are you alright?"
His hands fell still as he considered the question. "I'm fine," he said after a moment. "It's—I don't know how to explain it, Hera. But I'm fine."
She shook her head. "Do you remember...Lothal?"
"I remember rescuing you. I remember what you told me." He smiled again and Hera's heart skittered wildly.
"I meant it," she whispered, taking his chin in her hand. "I love you."
"I know." His eyes shifted as he searched his memory. "And I remember...I remember thinking I had to do whatever it took to keep you and the kids safe. Nothing after that—not until the tank."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "You were aware of what was going on? While you were in bacta, I mean?"
"Not always." He resumed letting his hands wander over her belly, reaching under her shirt this time. She pulled it up over the curve to make it easier for him and he fell quiet, tracing her stretch marks and leaving soft kisses on her skin.
She flushed, suddenly self-conscious. "Stop that," she admonished breathlessly. "You were in the middle of talking to me."
He grinned wickedly, sitting back on his heels, but his hands stayed right were they were. Then he nodded, sobering. "I could hear things, toward the end. Most of the time, it was just...impressions. Feelings. Things I could sense through the Force. I could always sense you. And—the baby."
Hera inhaled sharply, tears pricking her eyes. "You knew?"
"Since the morning you left Lothal to prep for your X-Wing strike." His voice turned husky and rough. He pressed both hands over the place where he could feel the baby kicking and stretching inside her. "This light, this life we created...it's what...I had to hang onto that. To you."
Errant tears rolled down his cheeks and she brushed them away, fighting tears of her own. "Kanan." She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him and then she told him what she'd been aching to tell him for months. "I'm scared."
"I know." He shifted out of the floor so that he was sitting next to her on the bunk, holding her tightly. "But I can feel in my bones it's gonna be okay. You, me, this baby—we're going to be fine."
"The Empire—"
"Hera, do you trust me?"
"Yes." She answered without hesitation.
"Okay. Then trust me."
She nodded. And then she lay back, putting her head in his lap, staring up into his clear, perfect eyes. A smile began at the corners of her mouth. "Kanan?"
"What?"
"Have you stopped to consider how stubborn this child could turn out to be, given the two of us as parents?"
"Mm." He dropped a kiss on her forehead as he pretended mull it over. "Have you stopped to consider how compassionate and kind this child could turn out to be, given you as his mother?"
She laughed, reaching back to jab his ribs. "Don't get sentimental on me," she warned. "I've had all I can handle for today."
"Fine, fine," he sighed in mock-surrender.
They didn't say anything else for a long time, just enjoying the comfort of each other's presence. Eventually, Hera drifted off to sleep, Kanan still holding her, and for the first time in six months, she slept soundly through the night.
Nearly forty-eight standard hours later, the Ghost was still docked with the medical frigate, despite the arrival of the relief vessel. To Hera's everlasting annoyance, the medic from Yavin base had arrived with the Expedient and immediately demanded to get a reading on all her vitals, do a sono, etc. Kanan was relieved. He'd meant what he said; in the very core of his being, he believed that everything would be alright. But he still felt a darkness, a sense of foreboding in the back of his mind, and he knew better than to ignore that. He all but dragged Hera aboard the medical frigate.
"Kanan," she argued for the dozenth time, "I feel fine."
She didn't, and he knew she didn't. There had been nothing but bad news from Yavin base, and the stress was taking a toll on Hera. He knew she was terrified and angry and helpless, and he knew that she'd had headaches and other discomforts she wasn't telling him about. "I hear you," he said, also for the dozenth time. "But I would feel better hearing it from the medic, too."
The medic, grudgingly and with reservation, gave his stamp of approval.
"I told you," Hera snapped. She was walking two steps ahead of him as they made their way back to the Ghost. She had an arm wrapped protectively over her middle.
Kanan lengthened his stride in an effort to keep up with her. "Cut me some slack here; I'm making up for six months of nervous-dad worries."
"I've worried enough for both of us," she muttered. He caught her by the arm, forcing her to turn around.
"Look at me." She did, with her chin raised and eyes defiant. "What is it?"
"Kanan, I—" She stopped, grinding her teeth in frustration. "I'm scared. It's not—it's not the baby—it's...something else. I don't know. But this is more than a bad feeling. Something is—"
"Wrong," he finished quietly, brows drawing together. "I know. But you'll tell me if something is wrong with you or the baby?"
"Yes, love." She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, letting go of her irritation and worry. "I promise."
It was a promise she didn't have to keep.
Just hours later, a tidal wave of darkness came crashing over Kanan's senses, several seconds of the most terrifying agony he'd ever known. And then nothing. Emptiness—a terrible, yawning emptiness in the Force where two billion lives had been. He had to steady himself against a wall. He heard his com chirping in his pocket and he knew it was Ezra—Ezra would have felt this, too—and in a dizzy split-second, he wondered about Hera. Hera, who had confided she felt the same sense of foreboding wrongness that he did, who was carrying his child; a child who could be Force-sensitive. That kind of stress on the two of them—it would be overwhelming.
Kanan was already running through the Ghost when he heard her cry out from the cockpit. He found her doubled over, hands braced on the control panel, face twisted in pain. She looked at him in panic.
"Kanan—Kanan," she gasped, breathing raggedly. There was a sheen of sweat on her skin. "I'm—I think I'm in labor—I feel—but it's too soon. Something's—something's wrong."
He reached out with the Force and felt her terror and pain and confusion as deeply as if they were his own. And for the first time, he sensed their child as someone totally separate from her, not just being carried by her. The baby was on his way—and fast.
For the third time in as many days, Kanan lifted Hera. He felt her body go rigid as another pain squeezed around her. "I've got you," he said, swallowing unease. "Just hang on."
There was a long, horrible minute after Hera's final push. Her agonized cry died away and then there was nothing. The baby didn't make a sound. Hera was too exhausted to wonder why at first, but Kanan, standing at the bedside, saw their baby in the medic's hands, completely limp. He bent down and kissed Hera's forehead with trembling lips, desperately hoping to distract her as the medics worked. But instinct was telling her there should have been a child in her arms by now.
"Kanan—where—" She struggled to speak, still panting hard from pain and exertion. "Why haven't they given him to me?" Panic began setting in and she tried to sit up fully.
Kanan put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You need—"
A sharp, angry wail interrupted him and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.
Jacen Syndulla Jarrus was laid in his mother's arms and Kanan half-laughed, half-cried as Hera took him. The entire galaxy stood still and he had trouble remembering what they'd been so worried about before.
It was hours before anyone had the heart to tell them the news of Alderaan.
Sometimes, the chaos and the joy and the fear accompanying Jacen's arrival seemed like it belonged to someone else's life. Here and now, when she was so warm and comfortable and safe, it was hard to imagine that it had all happened to her. Hard to remember that her entire life hadn't been as perfect and happy as it had been the last few weeks.
Hera woke slowly, stretching her arms over her head before she opened her eyes and let them focus. She smiled when she saw Kanan sitting in the chair by the bed, Jacen asleep on his shoulder.
"You should have gotten me up," she admonished, voice drowsy.
"And let you hog the baby?" He grinned. "Not a chance. Anyway—all he needed was a diaper change."
"Mm." She sat up, reclining comfortably with her back against the headboard. "He'll be hungry soon enough."
"And you can have him then."
"I gave birth to that child," she warned playfully. "I can have him whenever I want."
Kanan pretended to consider. "How about this?" He climbed in bed next to her, careful not to jostle the baby. He sat so their shoulders were touching, and she leaned against him, laying a kiss on the baby's forehead.
"Better," she said. She sighed in contentment—and shuddered. How close they'd come to losing everything.
"Hey." He shifted so he could look in her eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking about. "It's over now."
Hera nodded. It was hard not to let her mind wander back to pain and terror she'd felt giving birth to Jacen, and the bone-deep elation she'd felt when he was laid on her chest and took his first, squalling breaths. The joy of that moment was soon eclipsed by the news of the Empire's use of the Death Star. That, Kanan said, was probably what triggered her labor in the first place. The catastrophic loss of Alderaan sent devastating shockwaves through the Force, affecting both her and Force-sensitive Jacen. In vulnerable moments, when she picked him up and felt how tiny he still was, Hera felt guilty about not being able to carry him longer. But then Kanan reminded her that he was safe and perfectly (if inexplicably) healthy and, really, with the two of them for parents, hadn't he been destined for a dramatic entrance anyway?
It was a morbid joke; one that Hera was only able to laugh at because the Death Star was gone now, and the Empire temporarily on the defensive.
She glanced out the window, squinting in the early morning sun. As soon as she'd recovered enough to travel, they'd come to Lothal. In the months since Lothal's liberation, Ryder Azadi had seen fit to renovate and restore the old Bridger residence in Capital City, leaving it to Ezra. Ezra, in turn, gave it to Kanan and Hera. He wouldn't be needing it, he said, since he was going to Krownest with Sabine for the time being. The Spectres would be reunited eventually, but not for a long while. The Rebellion was important, but family more so.
Hera turned back to Kanan, smiling. "We're parents," she said suddenly.
"For a whole month now." Kanan nuzzled his cheek on top of Jacen's downy head. Much to his delight, the baby's hair was beginning to look dark green, and the very tips of his little ears were tinged with the pigmentation of Hera's skin. "And it's too late to give him back if you're having second thoughts. We're keeping him. I'm too attached."
Hera laughed. "You're the one I'd be giving back," she teased, nudging him. "I could easily drop you off right back where I found you on Gorse."
"But you're too attached."
She looked across the room to where her kalikori was proudly displayed, a piece for both Kanan and Jacen added, and then she looked at the slim band on her ring finger. "Something like that."
"Gee. I love you, too," he said. She could practically hear his eyes rolling. Any further comment was cut off when the baby started squirming against his shoulder, grunting his discontent as he searched for what he wanted. Kanan gently shifted him to Hera's waiting arms. "Your turn."
One-handed, she adjusted her top and her undergarments so the baby could nurse unimpeded. He held fast to her, sucking patiently, looking up at her with dozy eyes. One tiny hand wrapped around the end of her lek, just barely holding on, as if he knew to be gentle. Hera's heart melted completely, as it always did. After a while, she glanced up to find Kanan watching her, a steadfast and loving expression on his face. But there was something else, too. Her brows drew together in concern. "What is it?"
He hesitated before he asked a question of his own. "How long do I get to keep you?"
She hummed, looking away. She knew he was asking when she intended to return to the Alliance. "Well," she began slowly, "we have at least another six months of this." To illustrate her point, she shifted the baby from one breast to the other, waiting for him to re-settle before she continued. "And then you and I have six months of lost time to make up for. More, really, if you consider how long you were on Mandalore while I—"
"A year," he interrupted, awestruck. "You're going to spend a whole year just here on Lothal?"
"I'm not spending a whole year 'just' anything, Kanan Jarrus," she returned sharply. "I'll be with you and Jacen—my family. For longer than a year, if I can." She dropped her gaze, suddenly unsure. She hoped he'd understand her need to go back at all; even just thinking about it felt selfish. But there was still that drive nipping at her, deep down, telling her that her work wasn't finished until the Empire was gone for good and her son would have a free galaxy to grow up in.
She was taken completely by surprise when Kanan leaned in for an impulsive kiss. "That's the best news I think I've ever heard," he said.
Her eyes widened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, Hera."
"Stars, I love you." His face still lit up like a supernova every time she said that. She said it again, touching their foreheads together. "I love you, Kanan."
He didn't answer, but she didn't need him to. He held her as close as he could with the baby between them. Things in the galaxy were still uncertain, still dark, but here and now, none of that existed. All that existed was them and their child and the warmth of the sun as it streamed in through the window. The light of dawn promised hope, chasing away shadows of the past and worries of the future, and Hera basked in it.