All Work and No Play
If she didn't know better she'd swear the rest of them were doing this on purpose.
She hasn't had a moment to herself all week, and she badly needs to talk to Theron. She doesn't know where they stand- she doesn't even know if they's the right word to use, not after so many years, not when the idea of they was an impossibility until she woke up and found the entire universe had changed- and the uncertainty of it is a distraction she can't afford. The way he looks at her is a distraction, too, not because he stares (he doesn't; he is careful not to stare) but because there's something in it that she can't quite parse.
It isn't pity, not exactly, though there's a thread of it blended in, running deep. It's-
She doesn't know what it is.
(It serves her right, probably.
In hindsight she'd been awful to Theron after Manaan, once it was clear they'd be working together for at least the foreseeable future. War is war and he was still a damn 'pub, and she'd learned from experience that just because the Republic says they're the good guys doesn't mean they won't fuck you sideways the minute you let your guard down. She'd work with him, fine, but she wasn't going to make it easy for him.
Even she had to admit he was quite a slicer- better than her by a decent margin, though she'd never say it to his face- and in combat he was skillful enough if more prone to injury than most, but how had he ever been a field agent? He'd never have managed as a Cipher; she could make him blush at a word, which was terribly amusing, so she flirted mercilessly. He'd look away, flustered, muttering about how she was distracting him. His hesitancy was a challenge.
She always did love a challenge.
One day on Rishi, though, she was eyeing him speculatively over the top edge of her datapad when he looked up, caught her gaze and, for once, didn't break contact.
"Something interesting?"
He was cleaning one of his blasters; she avoided the obvious joke, just winked and went back to reading.
When she heard him chuckle, she grinned behind her screen.)
They need to talk, but the work never stops.
Her attention's pulled in a dozen directions simultaneously and with all of them finally in the same place the War Table sessions are endless, stretching late into the night. Every plan she signs off on generates three more; they haven't got funds enough for half of them. (Saving the galaxy's expensive, apparently. Her bank account's surprisingly flush- somehow she's got five years of back pay, and Lana just smiles slyly and changes the subject when she asks- but rebellions run on contraband, not credits.)
The two of them cross paths often enough, at meetings and in the training room now that she's cleared for it and in the canteen, but they're never alone in those public spaces. Even her daily runs have become a group event, keeping their soldiers in good trim but robbing her of yet another opportunity for private conversation. Their rooms aren't a good option, either- Theron's stuck down in the main hall until they're done excavating the lower level for Command quarters, and though she's got her own room it's hardly isolated, just down the corridor from Hylo's crew and the bounty hunters, and the walls are thin. When she naps between meetings her sleep is fitful; she startles awake at every loud conversation, every stack of crates scraping down the hall. It would stand to reason, then, the reverse is probably true.
Some things shouldn't be overheard.
Tonight she's actually got a few free hours (though she can't fight the nagging idea that there's something important she's forgotten) and she's entertaining the idea of hauling Theron into a storage closet- it's a massively stupid idea, she knows, because they need to talk and that's exactly the opposite of the sort of thing you pull people into closets to do but she's running out of other options- when he slides in beside her on one of the long benches at dinner, pushes a cup of caf in her direction.
"You look like you need this," Theron says, and takes a long drink from his own mug before starting in on a sandwich.
She laughs, both because he's completely wrong about her facial expression and because he still knows her well enough to remember her vices. "Is it that obvious? The stuff here's awful, though."
"Deadly, yeah." His mouth's half-full, and he covers it with his free hand until he's finished chewing. "This is- sorry-" he swallows and clears his throat- "this is out of my personal stash. Don't tell anyone."
She wraps her hands around the cup, giving it a cautious sniff. It does smell like the real thing; she takes a sip.
Oh.
The noise she makes is somewhere far across the border of decency, and when she opens her eyes Theron's grinning.
"You're welcome."
"Have I mentioned recently that you're my favorite?" She lifts her cup and fills her mouth again, letting the bitter taste rest on the back of her tongue before she swallows. "Although I may have to confiscate the rest of this. Commander's fiat."
"You wouldn't dare," he says around another bite of sandwich. "And you told Nico yesterday he was your favorite, so I'm not sure I believe you."
"He finished fixing the hyperdrive on the 'shrike yesterday morning," she spears a piece of crisp-fried potato on the tines of her fork, crunching as she talks. (Her table manners went out the window long ago with him and Lana both- too many discussions with mouths full of ration bars, walking and talking and eating all at the same time.) "I promised him a crate of Corellian Red as payment and it's coming on next week's transport, but I really want to fly her sooner so I needed the ignition switch back. Thankfully," she says, and punctuates the gesture with another wave of the fork, "he's susceptible to flattery."
Theron laughs. "Somehow I'm not surprised. When do you think you'll take her up?"
That gives her an idea.
"What are you doing after dinner? We don't have a meeting, for once- I could give you the grand tour?" As she says it a trio of soldiers settle onto the bench on the far side of Theron and he shifts over to make room for them, crowding her until they're pressed together hip to hip.
He starts to answer, his mouth already opening around a yes when he stops, forehead furrowing in irritation. "I've got a holoconference in ten minutes, but after that... wait. Isn't Lana's party tonight?"
"Lana's- oh, stars, you're right." She sighs. She knew there'd been something she was forgetting. "I don't think Commanders are allowed to skip parties in their honor, either. Normally I wouldn't mind a chance to unwind a little, but-"
"And I haven't got a thing to wear." He nudges into her with his shoulder; she smiles at the familiarity of it. "Y'know, I still owe you a drink."
"For my five-year mark. I remember."
"Probably should be two drinks, now- ten years. That must be close to a record."
It might be. She runs through the list in her head. Cipher Three survived longer, but he'd gone rogue long before, and Cipher Twelve- "For an active Cipher, yes, but I'm not sure I qualify any more. And after the last five years, I think I need a bottle."
"I won't argue with that." Theron nudges her again, toward the edge of the bench, with a tilt of his head. "I'm buying tonight, at any rate."
She stands to let him up. "I'm expensive, you know. Fair warning."
"Whyren's, neat. I remember, too." He slips out from behind the table, switches positions with her so she can sit back down; once she's settled back on the bench, he leans down until his mouth is level with her ear. "And the best things always are."
By the time she turns around he's already walking away, and the uniformed soldier who'd been sitting on the far side of Theron whistles quietly.
"Your opinion is noted," she eyes the man's rank badge as he quiets abruptly. Republic, with enough sense even now to fear the Ghost of the Empire. "Sergeant."
"Yes, Commander. Ma'am." He winks at her, though.
She finishes her dinner in her room.
They really, really need to talk.
Short again this week- this would have been the first part of the chapter, but the rest won't get done this week and I didn't want to leave you hanging too long.
Up next: War Stories (for real, this time, in which we may push our rating a bit.)