"I need to talk to the General," Rondel Aves addressed the guard standing outside the locked door to General Leia Organa's office. She didn't recognize him; he'd probably been recently promoted.
The man gave her a quick, appraising look. "She's awfully busy," he said, his voice careful, "I don't know if she's got time to see anybody."
Ah, yes. Of course.
Because while gentlemen may prefer blondes, they also tend to view them as about as intelligent as kalaks.
Them's the shakes, I guess.
Anyhow, it wasn't all bad. At any rate, her apparently overwhelmingly inane appearance earned her a horrified stare when she flashed her smile—and her badge.
Her hair had been dyed when the picture was taken, and her eyes had been a nice green instead of their normal amber color, but the hologram on the badge was clearly her, and she relished the look of shock on the guard's face.
"Trust me," she smiled still, "She'll want to see me."
"Yes, right away," the man stammered, looking unsure as to if he ought to salute. "Go right ahead, um…ma'am."
"Thank you."
It had been a long day, and it was almost done. Just this last check in.
The General was standing behind her desk—Rondel didn't think she'd ever seen the General sit—and looking furtively over the maps spread out before her. She didn't seem to notice as Rondel approached, just shuffled around the pages, then spoke without looking up.
"Have you ever been to Jakku, Aves?"
Not since that training regimen 6 years ago.
A canteen of water, a piece of cloth to protect her face and the promise of bragging rights if she made it to the outpost within 4 hours. She'd made it in 3.7, but had had wind burns on her lower arms and shins for the next month.
Rondel shook her head. "Several years ago, but only briefly."
Leia looked as though she might smile at that. "For that ridiculous training program, wasn't it?"
Though she too was tempted to smile, Rondel didn't respond. Some would classify the training as excessive, but it had built her, so she really couldn't complain about it.
The General was examining the maps again, leaving Rondel to her introspection. It seemed ages ago, that training, although it depended on her definition of ages. If six years ago was an eternity, then yes, it had been a while. But six years had flown, and she'd gone from recruit, to trainee, to soldier, and then again to recruit, but this time of a different variety.
She'd been shadowing the General for just over four years, doing whatever it took to keep the leader of the Resistance out of harm's way. Eventually, someone other than the man from whom she took orders had noticed, and she'd been promoted. Or titled, rather. But that was another story.
The day had been uneventful; as the head of security for General Organa, 'uneventful' was the best she could hope for. And tomorrow was sure to be a busy day. While Rondel's job wasn't one that made her privy to the General's plans, it was one that entitled her to the General's schedule, from which she could figure out the state of affairs of the base. Lazy days meant lulls between missions, hectic ones meant preparation for an attack, and quiet but intentional days meant a secret mission was in the works. The last few weeks had been very, very quiet.
"If there's nothing else, General?"
Leia looked up, finally, as if surprised that Rondel was still there. "No, go on. Excellent way you handled things in the Omicron Corridor today, by the way."
Rondel smiled. "I'll have the lieutenant check in with me once you're in your quarters?"
They spoke in code.
General Organa meant 'You impressed me', and Rondel meant 'Don't stay up too late'. All very formal and very professional, but Rondel appreciated the disguised familiarity behind it.
The General nodded slightly, going back to her maps. There was no bowing in the Resistance, no outward display of hierarchy besides the titles and authority. So Rondel turned sharply and strode out of the office, she and the General bidding each other an unspoken goodnight.
Nodding to the still-embarrassed guard outside of the office, she headed for her room. Something was building, some plan was being contrived, and she guessed tomorrow would see its fruition. But tonight meant sleep.
Or maybe it didn't.
Because three hours later, Rondel was jolted awake, and found herself glaring at the ceiling of her room, trying to focus on anything other than the way the walls were vibrating with the bass of the song being played next door.
It was a probably a great song, and probably meant a great party, but it was not a great lullaby. In fact, it sounded exactly like the type of song that had to be played so loudly it had to be shouted over. And it wasn't stopping.
Ace pilots aren't notorious for empathy, he probably doesn't even know he's doing it.
The thin walls did nothing to disguise the melody or rhythm of the song; she squeezed her eyes shut. If this kept up, she could have the song memorized in another ten minutes. Was she imagining that it was being played on a loop?
No one else on the wing seems to have a problem with it.
Else someone would've done something about the volume. 2am mustn't seem that late to the pilots whose bedrooms lined the wing with hers. Especially since they didn't have to report until 10am in the morning.
That's probably because no one else on the wing has to get up in two and a half hours.
She, however, was expected to rise at some unholy hour while the rest of the base continued in their blissful sleep.
Turning over, Rondel mused that four years ago, she would've balked at the thought of her room being in the most coveted wing on the base. She called it "coveted", because it was where all of the General's most trusted were housed, namely she, a few other administrators, and the aviators. And the rest of the base was either infatuated with a pilot, or wanted to be one.
It wasn't that she minded pilots—they were quick-thinkers, generally, smart and sharp, and carried about them an air of self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, all of which she generally liked in a person—it was that she minded their sleep schedule. Namely, when it disrupted hers.
The song was definitely playing over and over again.
…You'll never know what you can do…Until you get up as high as you can go…
She groaned, yanking the thin blanket off her body to wrap it around her head, trying to block out the sounds from the room right next to hers.
…Out along the edges…Always where I burn to be…
No use; her head was hammering with the bass of the song. And she knew from past experience that hitting the wall wouldn't give her any results.
Sighing dramatically, Rondel swung her feet to the floor, rolling her neck and sliding on her boots. She'd better just get this over with.
…You'll never say hello to you…Until you get it on the red—
The next line was interrupted by Rondel's sharp knock on the door next to hers; she slumped against it when the music didn't even falter. Pounding on the door, she rubbed at her temples with her spare hand.
"Dameron?" she called, "Come on, open up."
Nothing, except the sound of the song catching and restarting.
"I know what you're going to say," she yelled at the door, "but some of us are actually trying to sleep."
Her forearm was resting on the door and her forehead was resting on the back of her arm, so she stumbled a bit when the man of the hour, nay, the resistance, suddenly swung open the door. Waves of thick dark hair, a strong jawline, dark brown eyes, and hands that reached out to steady her, before letting go of her just as quickly.
"I know; you're fine."
"I'm fine," she mumbled, at the same time.
Poe Dameron shrugged, grinned, and leaned against the door jam. "Out of curiosity, what am I going to say?"
On anyone else, the move would've been corny, but it worked for him. Most things did, apparently, judging by his near-celebrity status as a pilot.
And the way he fills out that Henley shirt.
Rondel cocked her head. "That if I want peace and quiet I can retire early and go live on Lothal."
He shoved his hands in his pockets, considering, then shook his head. "I would've said Takodana, but not bad."
Rondel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The friendship between herself and the Resistance's golden boy had been an unexpected but consistent part of her time on D'Qar. "Whatever. Look, would it kill you to get a volume control or moderator or something for that monstrosity?"
"That monstrosity," he echoed indignantly, gesturing to the elaborate sound system spanning a wall behind him, "Cost me a month and a half's pay."
"It'll cost me twice that, if you don't turn it down and let me sleep in peace, and I oversleep and the General fires me."
It was Poe's turn to roll his eyes. "It's not a song you can play once, Rondel…"
"You know, I had gathered as much," she tapped her forehead for emphasis, before frowning slightly. "What are you even doing in there, with that song playing over and over again?"
"That, Miss Aves, is none of your concern."
She raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what the propriety is for, but it didn't answer the question…Wait, is it a secret? Something exotic and gossip-worthy that'll make all the new recruits pretend to like me so I'll tell them?"
"Since when are you concerned with what recruits think?"
"Rabbit trail; not falling for it."
"You brought it up—"
"Come on, what's going on?"
"Believe it or not, I didn't tell you so you'd be curious, it's just genuinely not interesting."
Rondel gasped in mock surprise. "But surely you must know that everything Poe Dameron, pilot extraordinaire, does is simply riveting."
"Man, you're tired."
Rondel snorted.
He blinked. "What?"
"Sometimes I'm terribly funny. Riveting. Like rivets? Which hold a plane together?"
Poe grinned, but shook his head. "You're not funny."
"But I am tired."
"You are."
"I am."
"It's true."
"So what're you doing?"
"Persistent, even when inordinately tired; noted. And it's not a big secret, or even a big deal…"
He pulled the door back a little further on its hinges, and Rondel could see an enormous bag, marked 'FLOUR', suspended from the ceiling. Her eyes widened and she brushed past him into the room.
"Either you're planning on making an excessively large birthday cake, or you," she whirled to face him, "are working on hand-to-hand."
"Who's birthday is even coming up?"
"Lyon Gaithers' is the day after tomorrow."
"I'm not even surprised you know that…"
Rondel didn't mean to, but she stopped listening. She'd never been in Poe's quarters before, and she was sure that later she'd regret missing the opportunity to be seriously intrusive, but for the moment, she was more focused on the energy of the room. Between the bag, the song, and the man behind her, she could feel it pulsing.
The secret mission—it's Poe's.
It made sense. She'd passed him on her way in and out of the General's office more times than usual this past week; it would follow that some of the intense planning had involved him. Which meant he was probably soon due to be leaving on some incredibly dangerous, probably foolhardy, escapade. Something that would greatly impact the Resistance. Something that would keep him awake at 2 in the morning, playing the same song again and again, working his nerves out on a punching bag.
And you're complaining about sleep.
She realized he was staring at her, waiting for her to realize she was staring at him. She coughed quickly, shook her head. "Um, Lyon doesn't eat cake anyways, so that's ridiculous," she mumbled.
Poe arched an eyebrow. "Why do I feel like your mind just went to 78 different places, before coming back to cake?"
"Probably," she fixed a smile on her face, willing herself to shake her weird mood change, "because it did."
Neither of them said anything for a minute, then Poe ducked his head.
"So you know, then," he lifted a hand to the back of his neck, running it up through his hair before letting it drop to his side again.
"I guessed," she said quietly, "Although now that you said that, yeah, I do."
I've never known before.
People disappeared and reappeared all the time. It was a military base and a military operation; Rondel got that. She just usually realized after the fact—after the hospital stitched up two gunners, after the pilots were back and spinning stories of their antics, after a piece of First Order intel magically materialized on their databases.
Or when Poe would tell her that he didn't need to get the cut above his eye checked out, it was fine, really.
They regarded each other for a long moment, and then Rondel drew herself up. She was not about to become that friend that dissolved in worry and fretting. She waited for her smile to feel genuine, then reached behind her for the flour bag. Spinning it lightly, she looked back at Poe, and lifted a shoulder.
"So are you going to show me what you've got?"
His face flushed with relief at the return to normalcy. "What, you think because I sit behind a throttle I don't know how to throw a punch?"
But he was smiling, and he picked up some cloth to wrap his fingers. Rondel grinned back, and braced herself behind the bag.
His first few hits surprised her. It wasn't that she had actually thought he couldn't hit—he'd been through the same training she had, and a few years before—it was that the bag was moving in a rhythm. He was used to this, good at this. She absorbed the punches with the burlap, rotating in a steady circle opposite of him, letting him get the most out of the cadence.
She had to admit, the song was good for this.
…Highway to the danger zone…Ride into the danger zone…
After twenty minutes or so, he stopped, breathing heavily. She pushed the bag away lightly, considering him as he unwrapped his hands.
"So, what's your call?" he jerked his chin at the bag.
"If I say 'not bad' will it go to your head?"
He laughed. "I don't think it would hurt my ego…"
Rondel smiled at the sound. "Don't get carried away; I could still take you down."
"You could take anyone down, Aves, that's why you've got the job you do."
"I thought it was because of my charming personality?"
"Well it's certainly not because of your taste in music…"
He dodged her when she feigned offense and swung at his arm. With a fake bow and a flourish, Poe flipped a few switches and the song sputtered into silence, mid-refrain. She supposed graciousness was in order, but Rondel's ears rang at the silence, and she couldn't help but smile in triumph.
"My work here is done," she chirped, heading for the door.
Shaking his head, Poe followed her, reaching around her to get the door for her. As she stepped out into the hallways, Rondel turned suddenly, catching the door before it shut.
"Hey Dameron?"
His head appeared in the space between the door and the frame. "Yeah?"
"Um," she took a step back as he did the same, startled by his closeness and the suddenness of his response. "Come back in one piece, and I'll teach you how to recover after that casting punch, okay?"
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Hey, who said anything's wrong with my casting punch?"
She held up her hands in mock surrender. "No one's saying anything, it's just a mess to recover from if you miss."
"See, that's the thing, Aves," he said conspiratorially, sticking his head farther out into the hall so she had to back up, "I never miss."
She wasn't sure if she imagined the wink or not, but a moment later Poe's door closed, and Rondel returned to her own room.
118 minutes before her day was supposed to begin.
As she closed the door behind her, took off her boots, unrumpled her blanket and lay down in her bunk, she realized: it was that code again. She'd meant 'be careful, be safe' and he'd meant 'don't worry, I'll be fine'. Smiling softly to herself, Rondel decided she could hardly complain about the 118 minutes. Because, honestly, she wouldn't give up a moment of the 32 she'd spent next door.