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For all that his moral landscape was nothing but a blasted heath, Galen discovered that Orson Krennic had some boundaries he would not cross; namely, if Galen resisted or flat-out denied his advances, sometimes he would pout and bluster, threaten and monologue, but he never crossed the line of consent. Galen wondered if this made him a good person, then dismissed the thought as foolish; but the idea crept back, reformed: maybe Orson Krennic was a good partner?
He had taken lately to totaling how many of Krennic's actions could be counted as good or moral; similarly, how many of those actions were taken as a direct result of Galen's presence and influence—which was most of them, but not all. Krennic was demanding and exacting in his work, just as he was in all things, but it wasn't all barbarism and darkness: he held no special hatred for any species, culture, gender, or gender expression, and only cared about a person or being's competence; he was not cruel to his underlings, promoting those who strove for excellence and produced results; he kept promises, and would even compromise on non-urgent matters. (Not on the Death Star. On that, Krennic was consistently fanatical and zealous, at times almost working himself into a frenzy. Those were the moments he hated Krennic the most.)
Krennic was also good to Galen, much as Galen loathed to admit it; in private, Krennic was softer, more considerate, and in general less outwardly megalomaniacal. Inwardly, he still had that darkness in him; an insidious, oily night wreathed in bureaucratic order, frosty and soulless.
It would be so much easier if Orson Krennic was only darkness, and no light. It would be so much easier if Galen himself was only light, and no darkness.
On the days when the worst of Krennic was at the forefront—when he ordered war crimes as easily and thoughtlessly as one might pick out a shirt—Galen shunned him, emotionally and sexually; it was the only thing that got to Krennic. (Galen supposed it shattered the illusion Krennic usually lived in, where Galen had never rejected him and they had joined together to happily and enthusiastically serve the Empire together.)
"You're so juvenile, Galen," Krennic would fume when Galen rebuffed his advances, facing away from Krennic in bed. "You know why I'm here—why you're here."
I'm here because you killed my wife. Galen knew better than to vocalize the response that both men heard hanging in the air.
Anybody who saw Krennic would be certain that the Empire was using him, his hungry ambition, his desire for power and control, but Galen had always known it was the other way around: the Empire was always the ideal choice for Krennic, a fast track to power that allowed Krennic to weaponize his extraordinarily adaptive mind: his ruthless cunning, his paranoid sensibilities, his incredible memory. In his most exhausted and vulnerable moments, when he didn't have the energy to snuff out soft flames of hope, Galen imagined Krennic in a Rebel uniform; what he could've accomplished had his ambition been cut with compassion, had Krennic himself been handled a little more gently, with more empathy as a child.
One day, worn down by the soul-crushing weight of the Empire's demands, choking on guilt for having any positive feelings for Orson, for playing the part of the dutiful scientist (despite his plan, he still felt the guilt, hot and thick like boiling tar clawing up his throat); when Krennic grew moody after Galen pushed him away in disgust, Galen snapped, "You took the easy way, Orson, like you always do."
Krennic paused, then repeated, his voice flat, "The easy way."
Galen hadn't meant to bring up this topic, but now that he had—"The Empire are bullies, they have nearly every resource at their command and spread fear that paralyzes people into compliance. You're reducing yourself in order to gain what little they give you—you could be so much more, do so much more. Yet here you are."
He expected an immediate scoff, another diatribe about how pathetic the Rebellion was, how the Empire was good for the galaxy—but there was only silence. A long enough silence that Galen, flat on his stomach in bed, facing away from Krennic, tentatively looked up, wondering if Krennic had left the room without him noticing.
He hadn't; Krennic was still sitting on the bed, his face completely shut down. Not set in his usual icy servant-of-the-Empire mask, but horribly blank in a way that made Galen feel slightly sick (sicker still knowing that feeling stemmed from concern, genuine concern for the war criminal sitting beside him).
"You are not in a position to critique how I came to be here, Galen Erso," Krennic said, his voice was soft, weary, and hollow; his lisp was completely unmasked, something Galen had never heard. The shock at the naked vulnerability in Krennic's voice kept Galen still as Krennic got up and left the bedroom, the door quietly sliding shut behind him.
Galen knew what Krennic meant; you turned me down, and look what happened. Ridiculous. Galen supposed that Krennic would see this as Galen breaking Krennic's heart—though even thinking the sentiment felt melodramatic. Krennic had never straight-out asked Galen to choose between Lyra and himself; the choice had been obvious, and Krennic had quietly taken himself out of the equation. How unfair it was, for Krennic to put his decision to join the Empire on Galen's shoulders; as if, as a naive twenty-something, Galen would have guessed where the fates would find them! As if it was Galen's responsibility for the moral fortitude of a grown man!
Yes, it was unfair; and what a tremendously useless fact it was to point out.
It wasn't fair that Krennic blamed Galen for his decisions. It wasn't fair that Lyra had died for Galen; for nothing, when she could have taken Jyn and run. It wasn't fair. None of it was.
Knowing what he did now, Galen thought with black humor, perhaps he would've sacrificed his own happiness at the time—even at the cost of losing Jyn, his Stardust—if it meant that the Empire would not have gained Orson Krennic as a weapon.
But life wasn't fair, and the galaxy wouldn't take pity on a man working for the Empire, for a ruin like Galen Erso.