A/N: Wrote this fic based on prompts provided by the giftee I was tasked to write for. She wanted some Hera and I was too happy to oblige! (And do y'all have any idea how hard it was for me to sit on this fic after I finished it?!) Since we don't know exactly how much time passed between "In the Name of the Rebellion" and "The Occupation," I decided to slip in a little hurt/comfort fic in there. I also decided to play a little fast and loose with science/medicine here because that's not my forte and because Star Wars. Posted on tumblr and Ao3 for the Alien April Challenge.

A Promise to Keep

As Hera woke up, she was aware of a tight, uncomfortable plastic mask over her nose and mouth. It made her feel claustrophobic. Swallowing panic, she reached for it with stiff, heavy fingers—

Kanan's hands closed over hers.

"Nope," he said. "You need that." She struggled weakly, but he gently eased her arms back down to her sides. He waited for her breathing to slow. (Breathing—why did it hurt?) "Okay?" He asked finally.

She nodded, dragging her eyes open. She found herself in the Ghost's medbay, but she didn't remember getting there. She remembered pain in her right ribs after the hard landing in her Y-Wing, bruised, no doubt, by her restraint harness. It hurt to breathe deeply or bend, but she'd had worse, and there were more pressing matters at hand, so she'd swallowed a couple of basic pain relievers and carried on. The next, day, the pain faded from her thoughts almost entirely during the hours Sabine and Ezra were who-knows-where and doing who-knows-what with Saw Gerrera. Hera, too anxious and worn to sleep that night, stayed up late to work on the Ghost's hyperdrive. The task was usually one she waited to tackle until Kanan was available to help her unscrew and lift the large, heavy durasteel panel that had to be moved in order to access the hyperdrive. But Kanan was asleep and Hera felt like she had to do this maintenance right now or die. So she'd done it herself. As soon as she lifted the panel, she felt a pop, searing pain, and immediate tightness in her chest. She remembered the floor coming up to meet her and nothing after that.

"What happened?" She croaked, throat dry.

"You pushed yourself too hard is what happened," he answered tersely. "Why didn't you say anything after your crash?"

"'Exciting landing,'" she corrected, piqued. "And it wasn't a big deal. Just sore."

"Well, 'just sore' turned out to be three cracked ribs, Hera. One broke completely when you tried to lift that panel—punctured your lung after that. You had a 'pneumothorax,' if you want to get clinical." He stopped, frowning. "You got lucky. It was mild. The droid gave you injections to help re-inflate your lung and help the ribs heal, and told me to keep you on oxygen for the next twenty-four hours. You have to go back to medical for a re-evaluation after that."

She blinked. "Oh."

"So, yeah. It was a big deal," he spat.

Hera was taken aback by the sharpness of his words. She pulled the mask down off her mouth so she could be clearly heard. "What's got you so bent out of shape? I'm the one laid up with an injury. Not you. And it's not like I haven't been hurt before."

He stood up beside the bunk, towering over her as he replaced the mask over her mouth and nose. His secondary motive in standing, she was sure, was to give her a clear and unobstructed view of his brooding glare. "I heard some interesting things about your work here while the kids and I were on Mandalore."

She huffed impatiently and it hurt, but she refused to let it show. "Like what?" She demanded through clenched teeth.

"Like the three consecutive overnight watch shifts you pulled in between briefings, recon grabs, and supply runs."

"That—"

"Wouldn't have happened if I'd been here with you."

Hera felt her temper flaring beneath a dull stab of guilt. She didn't appreciate his tone or anything else, but he wasn't wrong. With him and Ezra and Sabine gone, she'd been left with an empty ship (Zeb spent most of his on and off-duty time with Rex and Kallus these days) and the silence had been crushing. She'd filled her hours with a frantic busyness; being alone on her empty ship filled her with a sick dread that made her want to scream.

But she wasn't going to tell Kanan that.

"I'm twenty-eight years old," she snapped. "Not a child you have a babysit. I know how to take care of myself without you."

The words were harsh, maybe more so than she intended. She saw a brief, hurt look pass over Kanan's face as he settled back in the chair, arms folded and jaw set. "Well. I certainly hope so."

Hera froze. Was he—? Panic made her pulse spike; they both heard the accelerated beeps on the vital signs monitor. Kanan sighed, leaning forward with elbows on knees. He took Hera's hand. "That's not what I meant," he said softly.

She breathed as deeply as she could without flinching from the pain. She looked away from him, blinking back tears. "What, then?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "The time will come when this thing becomes a full-on war. We won't be the Spectres forever. What happens when you're assigned somewhere the rest of us can't follow?"

Hera shook her head. "I—" She clamped her mouth shut. It had truly never occurred to her, not once, that the Spectres could be split up on a permanent basis. Her crew would always be her crew; why wouldn't they? She hated herself now for that naïve line of thinking. Kanan was right, of course. There was no guarantee they'd be able to stay all together. Duty would call in some other part of the galaxy, and Ezra and Sabine were bound to leave the nest sooner or later; together, if her intuition was correct. And it almost always was.

"I need to know that you're not going to exhaust yourself, Hera, just to fill up empty space when the rest of us aren't here with you."

Her eyes snapped to his. His expression was earnest and pleading and she didn't have the nerve to tell him she'd been exhausted lately anyway, bone-tired for weeks in a way she never had been before. "This fight won't be won easily, Kanan," she murmured. Her voice was barely audible through the mask.

"No," he agreed somberly, shaking his head. "It won't. But it will be won without you killing yourself for it."

She pulled the mask down again and this time, he let it be. "Kanan," she pleaded quietly. She wanted him beside her. He knew.

He sat on the edge of the bunk, easing carefully. Hera shifted as well to make room for him, stifling a pained sound in her throat. Stars, everything hurt. Squeezing her eyes closed, she willed her muscles to relax and her stomach to stop churning.

"Do you need something for the pain?" Kanan's voice was edged with deep concern. She nodded and then she heard him fiddling with something at the head of the bed; her IV drip, she realized. "There," he said. "I kicked it up. You'll get sleepy pretty quick."

He stroked her forehead, over and over, and the simple contact soothed Hera's body and mind. Kanan wasn't kidding about the medicine kicking in fast; she felt warm and drowsy already. She intended to ask him just what he'd given her—there was one drug in particular that made her feel weepy and she hated it and she hated the lump rising in her throat now. She opened her eyes to look at Kanan, study him. Though he couldn't see, he was watching her, too.

"Losing so much of my squadron was a blow," she said thickly. She didn't bother wiping away the tears that streaked across her temples as she thought of how she still needed to notify the families. "When I go to sleep at night I can still see the blasterfire hitting our shields on Atollon. I still worry you're out there."

Hera cursed her loose tongue. She didn't want these words spilling out and her insecurities with them. (Why was it that after ten years, she still wanted to hide her heart from him?)

"I'm right here," he said simply. He was still stroking her forehead and the tenderness of the gesture was almost overwhelming.

She took shaky breaths. "What if we can't win, Kanan?" It felt too big right now. Too hard.

"You will. I have every faith. But Hera." She forced her eyes to focus on his face, and he waited until he knew he had the last of her limited concentration. "Promise me that no matter what happens, you won't do this to yourself again. Talk to me, talk to somebody. Just don't do this. I need to know you're gonna be okay."

There was something in his face and in his voice—or maybe it was the pain medication—or maybe she knew she was making a promise bigger than she realized—

Hera just lay there, blinking slowly at him. "Kanan," she whispered.

"Just promise me."

She could do that. Of course she could do that for him. "I promise. I promise, love."

"Good." He leaned forward and put the oxygen mask back on her. He kissed her forehead and lingered there for a moment. "Now rest."

"Stay," she mumbled.

He nodded. "For as long as I can."

Months Later

Hera swiped a gloved and greasy hand across her forehead. Her other hand rested on her prominent belly. "How about now?" She called to the mechanic in the X-Wing cockpit. The engine choked and sputtered and belched smoke as the young Pantoran tried the ignition sequence. Hera jumped back.

"Still misfiring, m'am!"

"I can see that," Hera muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. Aloud: "Let's leave this one for today before we drive ourselves crazy with it. How many more, Rish?"

Specialist Mari Rish jumped out of the cockpit, datapad in her hand. "Five more, general."

Hera thought her eyes were going to bug out of her head. "Five?" Had they not been working on X-Wings all day long? She grabbed the datapad, looking at the preliminary damage reports for each spacecraft.

"Gold Squadron really got thrashed yesterday," Rish explained.

"Somebody really gets thrashed every day," Hera retorted irritably. She sighed when she saw Rish's wide eyes and flushed face. The girl was a gentle soul; too gentle to be snapped at without provocation. "I'm sorry, Mari. What's next?"

"L-lieutenant Verlaine's ship," the mechanic stammered. They walked several paces through the hangar toward an X-Wing whose hull was blackened by blasterfire. "In addition to cosmetic damage, Lieutenant Verlaine said she thought the intake manifold—m'am?"

Hera had stopped mid-stride, taking a deep breath and exhaling in a slow stream as her abdomen tightened with a false contraction. She'd been feeling them more frequently as the weeks progressed—most often when she'd been on her feet for too long. They were uncomfortable and annoying rather than painful, but they—along with her baby's insistent, agitated kicks and stretches—told her she needed a rest. She glanced at her chrono. Her duty shift was nearly over. She pressed her hands on her belly. Hang tough, love. She thought. Just a few more minutes.

"M'am?" Rish was looking at her with concern.

She waved a hand and started walking again. "I'm fine. Just tired is all. Let's see about Lieutenant Verlaine's intake manifold. Was it on one of the sub-lights?"

"Yes m'am, but—" The girl stopped, gnawing her lip.

"But what?"

"I think—I think it can wait until tomorrow." The Pantoran's face drained of color, turning a pale, sickly blue. The statement was as close to insubordination as she'd ever come. "You should rest."

Hera pursed her lips, looking toward the line of ships waiting for repairs. "If we keep at it another couple of hours, we could—"

"Respectfully, General Syndulla, you don't look like you have another couple of hours in you."

"I don't," she admitted after a pause.

"And anyway," Rish continued quickly, "I can get some of the major repairs taken care of tonight. Commander Antilles owes me; his guys will help."

Hera's mouth twitched in a near-smile. "I don't want to know, do I?"

Rish flushed a deep mauve. "No, m'am."

"Alright." Hera sighed. "I appreciate your work today, Specialist Rish," she said gratefully. She handed the datapad back to the young Pantoran with a smile. "You've got an instinct for spacecraft—you sure you don't want to make the switch to piloting?"

"N-no m'am," the timid girl stammered, flushing at the praise. "I prefer ground-ops."

"Safer place to be," Hera admitted with a wink, "but not as fun." She inhaled sharply as the baby wedged into her ribs and another false contraction tightened around her middle. "If anyone asks," she finished wearily, "I'll be on the Ghost for the rest of the night, not to be disturbed."

"Yes, general."

There had been a time when Hera wouldn't have stopped to eat or drink—let alone rest—until every single ship under her command was in pristine condition. She'd have done half the work herself. But that time was long past. It had taken the first several weeks of her pregnancy for Hera to learn to balance her and her child's wellbeing with her responsibilities to the Rebellion; in fact, it had taken a couple of scares and a short bout of bedrest before she remembered her promise to Kanan. She'd promised she'd take care of herself, and now that meant the baby, too.

I need to know you're gonna be okay, he'd said. She heard his voice as often and as clearly as if he was still with her, reminding her to slow down.

When Hera got back to the Ghost, she got dressed for bed almost immediately. Showering could keep until morning; she wanted to get comfortable and get off her feet as quickly as possible. Before she settled in her favorite chair with a mug of herbal tea, she went to the medbay and got out the small fetal monitor she'd acquired. Lifting her shirt, she pressed the sensors to her skin.

The baby's heartbeat was clear and strong.

She sighed, letting go of the day's stress, and as she unwound, the baby unwound with her. "We'll be just fine, love," she murmured. She looked toward the chair where Kanan had been sitting beside her just months ago. "I promise."