#I headcanon that at one point in the clone wars the Corries would do this for the senators

[mae-lou-ron]

Give Me the Twilight

Summary: Overworked and overtired, Commander Fox is just trying to make it through the rest of his shift, but with a budding migraine, it’s easier said than done. Lucky for him, you’ve got some ideas in mind about how to soothe him.

Pairing: Marshal Commander Fox x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Fox suffering from a migraine, descriptions of migraine symptoms and triggers, sensory overload, Fox has teefies, teasing, senator reader is in a revealing dress and Fox can’t handle it. SFW with references to later non-descript sexual activity. Fluff (kissing, head massage, mando'a nicknames).

Word Count: 2,200

A/N: @ghostymarni marni, marni… what the heck are we going to do about all the delicious things you’ve been creating lately. DUH, MAE, YOU SAY? WE WRITE ABOUT IT, OF COURSE. But seriously, these pieces you did have been rolling around in my brain since you posted them, and I had a migraine yesterday, so like any normal person with clone brain rot, instead of resting, I projected it onto your sharp-toofed Fox and dumped 2,000+ words about it into my word processor. Beware: I wanted to riddle this thing with as much Fox Fanon™ as I could think of, so that's what I did. Fox girlies, I humbly present my offering to you.

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Marshal Commander Fox was thankful for three very specific things at this particular moment in time: the environmental filters on his helmet, the fresh batch of caf from the mess, and last but certainly not least—returning to his office to discover you were there, waiting for him.

"Well hello, ad’ika..." His warm, modulated voice rumbled through the room as he stepped over the threshold. "...are you lost?"

You turned your head, keeping your back to him. "What makes you say that, Commander?" you cooed. "Maybe this is exactly where I want to be..."

A silence descended upon the room, broken only by the quiet trill of the door locking and a soft clunk of his mug on the desk. His footsteps drew closer, slow and deliberate, bringing the lingering roasted scent that mingled with his presence. It was then you noticed he still hadn't removed his helmet despite the dimmed lighting—it looked like Fox was suffering from another migraine.

But before you could turn around, you felt the familiar weight of his armor pressed against your back, followed by the telltale hiss of a pressure seal. He set his helmet on the table in front of you before resting his gloved hands on its edge, one on each side of your waist. He sighed deeply as he caged you with his large frame, nuzzling his face into the back of your neck and shoulder; the darkness and pressure over his eyes relieved some of the throbbing behind them.

"I take it your evening concluded early, senator?" he said while running his nose along your bare shoulder, savoring the gentle scent of your skin. He had noticed that you recently stopped wearing perfume around him—another thing he greatly appreciated, especially right now when his head was already pounding enough without the added barrage to his sense of smell. "And tell me how is it you got in here without being seen?" he said with mock scolding.

"Mmm," you hummed, feeling his thick curls brush your shoulder. "I have my ways too, Commander... and you should know by now that I can be quite resourceful when I want something." You smiled, gently running your fingertips over his vambraces before covering his hands with yours. "Or someone..." Your sultry tone caused him to chuckle softly as he moved somehow even closer. "But the gala was actually quite short since the Chancellor never made his appearance..." Your breath hitched as his teeth grazed up the side of your neck. "And I was hoping to see you there..." you added, swallowing thickly.

"I was called away... the Chancellor..." he sighed, his warm breath fanning across your skin. "...you know what, it's not important," he said, his hands toying with the very silky and very red fabric that spilled out over your hips. "Did you wear this for me?" he rumbled.

To his delight, the dress was completely backless, save for a delicate silver chain that ran from the collar down to where the silky fabric draped over the curve of your backside, stopping dangerously above your hips. If he didn’t know any better, it looked like the chain was the only thing keeping the fabric on your body. His gloves were then discarded onto the table along with his helmet. You shivered as his fingertips slid under the chain, sweeping down along your exposed spine.

"Perhaps," you smirked as his hands alternated toying with the fabric and your soft skin. "It is one of my favorite colors, after all." A soft gasp escaped your lips as his mouth moved the base of your neck.

"Ah, so you were hoping to tease me, mesh'la... is that it?" he said darkly, spinning you around to face him. The long skirt of the garment gracefully swished and flared out at the abrupt movement.

"Well," you planted your hands on his shoulders, leaning close into his ear. "I was wearing something over it... but seeing me like this? Well, that's just for you..." you said huskily, making him groan deeply as his fingertips dug into the soft swell of your hips.

"Oh, mesh'la," his voice melted into an even deeper timbre. He loved when you did this. Whether it was wearing a nod to his colors, or the delicate fennec fox pin you often put in your hair for assembly. A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of the tiny tooka cat figure you'd playfully pushed into his hand that time you "ran into each other" at the night market a couple of months ago. What you probably didn't know was how he'd kept that precious trinket in his belt ever since, carrying a tiny piece of you with him wherever he went.

He held you against him as he rested his forehead to your temple. The scent of you, combined with the way the smooth fabric hugged your curves so perfectly, was somehow simultaneously soothing his nerves and driving him wild despite the other growing desire to lie down and close his eyes.

Suddenly, the courtyard lights began its ridiculous nightly display, flooding through the window with their bright, swirling patterns. Fox recoiled with a pained groan, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes as the capillaries in his head exploded from a lingering ache into searing agony. Without hesitation, you went to the wall panel and activated the blast shield, plunging the room into a gentle darkness broken only by the soft glow of floor lighting.

"Are you alright?" you asked softly as he continued to rub his eyes. "Fox?" you implored, reaching for him. But before you could touch him, he gently snatched your wrist and brought it to his face, nuzzling into it before he planted a warm kiss on your palm, gazing intently into you with those impossibly deep golden eyes. He leaned in, dragging his teeth over the soft pulse point on your wrist.

"Yes…better now that you're here..." he said in a strained voice against your skin. You sighed and gently wrapped your fingertips around his jaw, caressing the stubble on his scarred cheek. He leaned into you, and your fingers moved into his hair, displacing some of his salt and pepper locks.

"Come here..." you murmured before you started gently massaging his scalp, earning you a deep groan from him as he wrapped his arms around your waist, leaning into you.

His eyes fluttered closed as you massaged the back of his head down to his neck, giving you the perfect moment to press feather-light kisses to each of his eyelids, silently worshiping your hardworking Commander. Your fingers traced down his jaw and neck as you whispered, "Come home with me... let me take care of you."

He started to speak, but you cut him off. "I don't want to hear it. You let them work you to the bone, you deserve to be looked aft—" Your words were silenced as he wrapped his hand around the back of your neck, drawing you into a gentle kiss.

"Hush now, cyar'ika," he chuckled gently against your lips. Fox's ochre eyes met yours with playful sternness, glinting in the dim light. "I was only about to ask if you still have those bacta patches..." he added with a soft peck.

"I do," you cooed, tracing the scar that ran along his jaw. "And some painkillers, and that tea you like, it'll help you relax." His lips quirked up in a small, grateful smile as you traced more soothing circles into his hairline.

"Being with you relaxes me..." he nuzzled into your cheek as you grinned, feeling his dark eyelashes flutter against your cheekbone. Your soothing touch combined with your gentle presence worked wonders, already melting away much of the lingering tension from Fox's arduous day.

"I should check if it's clear before it gets too late," he said, reluctantly pulling away to retrieve his helmet and gloves. After donning both, he opened the door and scanned the darkened corridor.

"Most practical, as usual, Commander," you stiffened your posture, playfully mocking your own senatorial facade as he returned to you, the door whooshing shut behind him.

"Well, we can't have anyone catching you sneaking out of my office at this hour," he murmured with a smirk in his tone, his gloved fingers trailing down your arm. "Especially not dressed like this..." he tilted his head and looked at you longingly from behind his visor with a soft sigh, disappointed that you'd worn that kriffing dress for him and he was in no state to be doing anything about it.

You were now very good at reading him with his helmet on. For so long it, was the only way you'd seen him. The first time you saw his face, you couldn't stop staring at him. You were instantly taken with how beautiful he was. You chuckled and squeezed his hand gently before reaching for the more modest, yet still opulently traditional overcoat you had adorned earlier.

"I'll still have the dress tomorrow, you know," you grinned, flashing him a good view of your leg as you walked towards the door. He took note of the deep slit in your dress that stopped at your mid-thigh—all Fox could think about in that moment was you guiding his hand to wander under and touch...

"Fox?"

"Here's what we're going to do, mesh'la..." he said urgently, fingers adjusting the collar of your coat. "I'm taking you home, then you're going to put some bacta patches on my head and make some tea and whatever else— and then I'm going to take my time worshiping every inch of you in that dress until you're begging me to take it off you." His voice was low and gravelly in your ear, sending shivers down your spine as his fingers traced up the edge of the slit.

"But first things first..." He pulled his hand away, making you grumble. He chuckled softly at your soured expression as he chivalrously offered you the crook of his elbow, now mocking his own stoic soldier facade. "Senator..."

You rolled your eyes but smiled at his gentle sense of humor, taking his arm with an equally dramatic flourish. "Why thank you, Commander. How very gallant of you to escort a lady home at this late hour."

As you left his office and strode through the empty corridors, you couldn't help but notice how he drew you closer to him before slipping out of the building and into the ever-bustling Coruscant evening.

You looked quite the pair as you walked arm in arm through the streets, with your dress billowing elegantly behind you and Fox in his polished guard armor, painted with those deep red stripes. Fox again found himself thankful for his helmet—not just for shielding him from Coruscant’s bright neon lights and roaring ambience, but for allowing him to steal glances at you without or anyone else noticing the lovesick expression on his face. He couldn't help it.

To any passerby, you appeared just as any other senator and Corrie would moving through the city late at night. But the way you walked beside him—proud and unabashed to be on his arm— it made his chest tighten with that feeling he was beginning to frequently associate with you. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine being your proper escort for the evening, accompanying you to the gala and back home like a normal couple. But those thoughts quickly faded as his mind focused on what he truly cherished— being safely tucked away from prying eyes for another precious night with you. And better still were the times when those precious nights stretched into even more precious mornings.

[postapocalyptic-cryptic]

ooh 1 2 7 and 10 for a fic of your choice!!

Hi Cato! Gonna talk about my Corries No Order 66 AU because it's so beloved.

1. How long have you been working on the WIP?

It's been rattling around in my brain for a while, but it really started to coalesce into its own AU, distinct from the other vague no o66 AUs I write, when I wrote Over This By Now at the end of November. So quite a while considering I've yet to post any of it lsakdgjklg

2. What tropes or fandom headcanons are you involving? Are you challenging any tropes or headcanons?

Well, it’s me, so it’s going to be whump and hurt/comfort. Also, No Order 66 is in itself a Star Wars fandom trope. I suppose you could say I’m challenging it as well as using it, because everything is definitely not sunshine and rainbows in the aftermath. I think there are a lot of interesting social and political issues to be poked at with the clones and the Jedi and I do so love to poke. [author’s note: though I love to poke (verb: to point at or jab), I do not love poke (noun: dish involving vegetables and raw seafood). I do not like poke bowls. Please do not feed them to me.]

I’ve got a lot of Coruscant Guard headcanons that I’ll be using in this fic, but the major one, which is a subplot, isn’t one I’ve shared yet!

It’s more of a plot point than a headcanon, but essentially, Fox catches pneumonia some time during the second year of the war. He never quite manages to kick it, and it lingers for a few months, sometimes flaring up (and traumatizing poor Thire as seen in Over This By Now). He doesn’t fully recover from it until shortly after the war’s official end, which in this fic happens in 21 BBY. 

Note: I don’t know the term for pneumonia that lingers like what I’m describing. From what I can tell, it’s not exactly walking pneumonia, which seems to refer to less severe rather than lingering pneumonia. I know it’s something that happens, though, because it happened to a hockey teammate of mine a few years back. As always, I’m not a doctor, I just play one on AO3.

7. Do you listen to music while writing your WIP? If so, what? Do you have a playlist?

It depends! I don’t have a playlist for this particular fic, and I don’t usually like listening to music with lyrics while writing. I find it distracting. Most of the time, if I listen to anything, I listen to lofi. Star Wars Lofi Hip Hop is a classic and a fave, as are Monterey Bay Aquarium’s many hits on Krill Waves Radio.

10. Is your WIP an AU or canon-compliant? Either way, talk about any research you had to do, lore you had to make, or timelines you had to screw with to make it work. Talk about what makes your universe tick!

Well, it’s definitely an AU. It’s maybe The Most AU I have going right now without straying out of Star Wars all together. I’m still working on how exactly the war ended (I know, I know, that’s the important part), but I can say it wasn’t through anything like the typical fandom trope of “something’s wrong with the Guard and people find out” (though I do like that trope and there is absolutely something wrong with the GAR). I’m thinking of putting my Thrawn hat on and bringing my favorite Unknown Regions Blue Bastards into it but ssshhh I’m not sure about that yet.

This question is making me realize that I need to write things down or else they get lost in my head BUT ANYWAYS

A big part of the universe is the development of clone trooper culture beyond Kamino and the war, and considering what it means to start truly living in the middle of your life. I want to experiment (and have the characters experiment) with different living arrangements and jobs and ways of doing things and relating to the world, so I’m brushing off a bit of my psychiatry and psychology research to think about what would be a good way to live for a group of people like the Guard. I’m also spending a lot of time thinking about what they’d want, how they’d want to go about making new lives for themselves.

I didn’t really have to play around with the timeline, because I’m just cutting the war short in the middle, and it’s not a lore-heavy story so far, so I’m going to leave off here. Thank you for the questions!

[alderaani]

prison break (echo x reader)

A valentines gift for @just-some-girl-92 as part of the event being run by @starwarsfandomfests! Thanks so much for putting another one of these together @lilhawkeye3, and I really hope you like this Dell! I think credit for white haired Echo goes to @/amiro-art? That was the first place I saw it anyway, and I’ve really liked the headcanon that it’s like that post-techno union ever since!

Based on this prompt: Character A moves in next to Character B. They have conjoined balconies and A's pet/child wanders into B's apartment.

Fives and Echo are both reunited and well in this because everyone gets to be happy on Valentine’s Day and I said so. We don’t need canon on this blog.

The other side of the wall explodes with noise. 

It makes you pause, looking up from the knitting trailing over your knees to cock your head towards the opposite apartment. You think you hear the screech of furniture legs being pushed along the floor, then the frantic rumble of several male voices speaking over the top of each other, the clatter and clang of things as they are removed and replaced.

It’s odd. When Tith-Mar lived next door, you used to hear it every time he coughed, or swore at that awful old holodrama he used to watch every Taungsday. As much as you tried to stop yourself you couldn’t help but get invested, and that was almost worse. Out of pride you never put it on your own unit, but that just meant you ended up half pressed against the wall, eventually not even pretending you weren’t listening to Capula and Mont confess their love. It had given you something to talk about, anyway, when you went onto the balcony to water your plants and he went out there to smoke the fancy deathsticks he joked he’d live and die by.

In the year since the war ended and Tith-Mar was finally able to move back out to be with his daughter on Ryloth you’ve never quite gotten used to the quiet. There was a strange comfort in knowing that there was someone on the other side of the wall. Maybe it came from the three years of water shortages and occasional outages - or, notably, the rampage of the Zillo beast, which hadn’t come quite close enough to flatten you in your sleep, but had downed enough of the power grid that you’d been locked in your apartment for five rotations. You miss the soft Rylothi folk music he used to play in the mornings, and you miss seeing him sometimes, blowing smoke up into the brisk Coruscant mornings with his blue lek, faded now in old age, wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

You just miss the comforting assurance of having someone else there. If it wasn’t for the sound of the door going, and the occasional thump of something being moved, you’d hardly know that you had neighbours at all now. It’s almost funny to think back on the furore it caused when the Republic bought the apartment for GAR resettlement. It led to the only neighbourhood meeting the building has ever had, and you’ve been very glad for that fact after discovering that a solid faction of your fellow citizens are bigots. It’s something you knew, objectively, but witnessing it from the people you personally rub shoulders with was a harder pill to swallow than having to watch some of the anti-clone protests on the holonews. You’ve not tried to remember the more colourful misconceptions about clone troopers aired by prim soft-handed mid-levellers as they sat in a lobby you can remember the Coruscant Guard clearing rubble from with nothing but their hands. However, you do very vividly remember someone from two floors up asking you if you’d ‘really feel safe’ living next to ‘those walking warmongers’, being young and living on your own. You’d shut that down, of course, and the resulting vote had passed in favour.

You’d honestly half expected the troopers to reject the place after that, and you wouldn’t have blamed them either. 

Everyone had known the day they moved in, had pretended not to watch as a GAR issue speeder loaded with two armoured figures and a meagre quantity of possessions had pulled up on the walkway and made their way cautiously inside. You’d thought about introducing yourself, knocking or something, but concluded in the end that they didn’t need anyone else ogling them. You’d figured that there would be plenty of time for that later...and now here you are, a whole year on, and that glimpse is just about the closest you’ve ever gotten to them. You think they still spend a lot of time off-planet, helping with the reconstruction missions the now-voluntary GAR conducts throughout the Mid and Outer Rims. You hadn’t even been sure that they were home at the moment, actually. 

There’s no doubting it now, as the frantic thumps and raised voices continue. Through your balcony door, cracked open to catch some of the soft breeze the weather engineers have scheduled today, you can make out a little of what their voices are saying, one frantic and forceful, the other softer, but no less worried.

“ - kriffing hell, can’t believe we’ve lost...Rex will have our heads…”

“...can’t have gotten far...can’t even walk!”

“ - already checked the fresher, Echo!”

“It can’t hurt to check twice...knew we shouldn’t have…”

You bite your lip, turning round while debating whether you should offer your help. Then you freeze. The baby on the other side of your caf table freezes too, chubby hand poised to grab the cookie you’d been saving for later. They’re standing on legs that wobble a bit, and there’s a glint of steely determination in the dark eyes that fix on your face. 

“Hello,” you say a little weakly, realising very abruptly what the troopers must have lost.

The kid appraises you for a moment longer, brow furrowed and intent. There’s a huge amount of judgement there for such a small face, those focused eyes taking you in for several very long seconds. Then they huff, and very deliberately turn their attention back to the cookie. You smother an incredulous laugh. 

“Not impressed, huh?” You say, carefully setting your knitting aside and uncovering your legs. “Can’t say I blame you, I prefer cookies too.”

The baby doesn’t dignify this with any attention, instead making a soft crowing noise as their little fingers strike victory and retract with the cookie firmly in grasp. When they immediately move to cram it into their mouth you burst into action, leaning across the caf table to swipe it. Just those mere seconds of contact have made it slightly damp. 

The baby’s face scrunches in outrage, and they let go of the table edge, sinking down onto their padded bottom with a sharp, high noise of annoyance. They don’t cry, but the frown is something spectacular.

“Sorry, kid.” You force yourself the rest of the way up, keeping a hold on the cookie with one hand. Can kids this young even eat solid foods yet? Do they have any allergies? You don’t have any siblings, so the last time you were around a baby was when you were one. For all this one’s bravado, they look awfully breakable. “I’ll hang on to this for now, yeah?”

You don’t think that they’re old enough to understand what you’re saying, but the huff the baby lets out feels extremely pointed. You stare down at them on your rug.

“Don’t suppose you could give me any pointers on how to hold you?”

It turns out babies are wriggly. You put the cookie down long enough to hoist the kid into your arms and attempt to manoeuvre their little arms and legs so that they’re not jabbing into your vital organs, but at the sight of the food being placed far away, the kid lets out a piercing noise, right into your ear, and attempts to kamikaze their way back to it. A body that two seconds ago was ramrod solid and deliberately unwieldy is suddenly boneless and impossible to hold onto. Your brain goes empty of everything but wrestling with several pounds of struggling infant. 

You end up on the floor, eventually, but at least both of you are in one piece. You’re breathing heavily. The kid’s face is thunderous. It’s very cute, but you can’t wait to give it back and appreciate that from a distance. Somehow, you manage to settle them onto your hip.

“What the f - heck was that for?” You ask, purely to make yourself feel better. Even if the kid could answer you, you get the feeling they simply wouldn’t. “Was it because I put the biscuit down?”

The kid makes a huffing noise. You roll your eyes, but can’t help smiling. The baby’s dark, just-curling hair is soft against the skin of your upper arm, and their weight is warm and solid against your side. 

“I’m not taking it away from you. I’m gonna let you have it, just need to make sure it’s safe for womp-rats first. And return you before those poor guys tear their place apart, okay?”

You re-collect the cookie and struggle back to your feet, looking towards the open balcony. Visions flash through your mind of the baby pulling that boneless trick out there, with nothing but spacelanes separating them from the ground 50 stories below, and...no. You’re not even vaguely risking that. The front door is definitely the better option, but somehow more daunting, as you stand before the neighbouring apartment with your heart in your throat.

The second you knock, the frantic voices inside cut off abruptly, and then you hear the mad scramble that ensues to reach the door. It wooshes open, and suddenly you’re face to face with your neighbours for the first time. 

They’re less identical than you’d expected. Maybe that’s a stupid thought, but it’s the first one that stumbles, half formed and dazed, into the open void your brain has just become. The second, very unhelpful follow up, is that they’re also much prettier than you’d expected. Not that you’d necessarily expected anything, but - you’ve never seen one of the clones without their helmets before. The Corrie Guard, back during the war, had made a point of never taking them off as far as you’d ever seen. That was apparently a crying shame. One of them has thick, dark curly hair, a tidy goatee, and a tattoo on his forehead. The other’s hair is a sharp, startling white, interrupted by metal nodes of some sort. Some sort of post-war medical adaptation, you assume. He’s slightly leaner all over, his eyes a little larger in his face. But the way both of them sag against the door frame is exactly the same.

“Thank the fucking force,” The dark haired one breathes, clutching at his chest.

The other trooper elbows him sharply in the ribs. “Fives.”

“She’s ten months old, Echo. She’s not gonna repeat it.”

“She just escaped from our apartment after General Skywalker swore up and down she’s not mobile yet. It’s gonna be her first word just to spite us.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself and flush a little when all attention snaps back to you.

“That I can believe,” you force yourself to say. “Hi. I think I found something of yours.”

You hold out your armful of infant and - you presume Fives is his name - reaches out to take her, groaning in relief. 

“Thank you,” he says, fervent, taking a moment to bury his face into the child’s hair. She puts a determined thumb into her mouth and stares at your hand, still clutching the cookie. The trooper turns her in his arms and holds her up at eye level. “You are a menace, Leia. I thought we were gonna have to call in a search.”

It’s nice to have a name for that little displeased face. Leia regards the trooper for a moment before sticking her hand into his face. His eyes are impossibly warm as he pretends to gobble her fingers, and it is, quite frankly, cute as fuck. He turns his attention back to you, but just as he opens his mouth, the sound of a comm going off somewhere behind them cuts through the moment.

“That’ll be the General,” The white-haired trooper laughs. “You better take her and show him, before he raises down half of Coruscant trying to get here.”

Fives nods, flashing another blinding grin at you, before he and Leia are gone. The trooper you’re left with blows out a breath and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Well,” he says, his mouth crooking into a wry smile. “That was exciting.” 

He sticks his hand out, and when you take it, his palm is rough and his grip firm. You give him your name without thinking about it, staring into the kind, golden depths of his eyes. They crinkle at the corners when he grins. 

“I’m Echo. And - I know Fives already said it, but seriously, thank you. Where the shab did you find her?”

“Trying to steal biscuits from my caf table,” you say, laughing openly when Echo drops his face back into his hand and groans with embarrassment. “I think she got in through the balcony door.”

“Force, we didn’t even think of that. What a first impression, you must think we’re idiots.” 

You shake your head, enamoured by the faint colour you can see rising in his cheeks. He brings his metal hand up to his face and presses the cool prosthetic against his skin. 

“Not at all. You should have seen the look she gave me when I found her, she knows she’s in charge.” 

Echo smiles bashfully. “It’s the first time we’ve ever won the lot to babysit the twins, our Company would have crucified us if we’d lost her.” 

“Then I’m very glad to have provided a rescue.” 

There’s a short silence as you fidget with your sleeves, strange anticipation churning in your gut. There’s no reason to keep standing here now that the pleasantries are done with, the baby exchanged, but...some part of you resists it, almost looking for an excuse to stay. He and Fives are the first new friendly faces you’ve met in a long time, soothing a sting you didn’t know was there.

“I - um -,” Echo begins suddenly, shifting a little. The colour in his face deepens. “I really like your plants. I’ve always meant to say something. We keep trying to guess what they are.” 

“Oh!” Your heart turns over in your chest and you wouldn’t be able to stop the smile bursting onto your face if you tried. Those damn things are so hard to keep alive through the unpredictable engineered weather. You don’t think you’re particularly house proud, but you do preen a little that he’s noticed. “Thank you, I, um, I water them every morning. I could...go through them with you one day? If you like?” 

Echo’s head dips an assent. “I’d really like that.” 

You linger a moment longer, a pleased thrill still lingering in your belly, but there’s no putting it off now. “I suppose I should let you go. But...please knock if you need anything.” 

Echo smiles. “Hopefully not in pursuit of any more babies.” 

You’re just about to turn away when you remember the cookie in your hand, slightly smushed now. “Oh! Can you give this to Leia? I wanted to make sure she could eat them, first, but I promised. Seemed only fair, since she went to all that trouble.” 

Echo huffs, his expression softening, taking the cookie with careful hands. “I’ll make sure her highness gets it.” 

Then you go back to your quiet apartment, somehow deflated when faced with the monotony of your knitting and your music. You hear a few more sounds from the other side of the wall, faint laughter, perhaps a child squealing, and find your curiosity has not been sated at all.

It’s a wonderful surprise, then, when two days later on a clear, sunlit morning, you slide open your balcony door to water the plants and find Echo waiting, his face tipped up to the brightening sky. There is a packet of cookies resting on the duracrete by his feet, and two steaming mugs of caf on the railing by his elbow. 

It feels like something special...It feels like a beginning. 

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