(Note: the end of this chapter is not safe for work.)

Dress Rehearsals

Nar Shaddaa

They file one by one into the main room, and as Lana leans against the couch to fasten the ankle strap of one shoe she looks back over her shoulder with a scowl.

"I do hope you're right about tonight being calm. If I've got to fight in these-" she points, then switches feet with a slight hop- "I make no promises."

Nine grins. "They're reinforced. You're more likely to break the other person than a heel."

"Reminds me of that gala we crashed on Onderon. Remember, Lana?" Theron's sprawled out on the couch, ready for the better part of an hour- without much choice of outfit beyond what they'd purchased earlier, he'd only had to shower and do his hair and it still took him twenty minutes; he'd kept looking wistfully at the huge bathing-tub until she'd had to promise him that they'd try it out later to get him out of the way of the mirror without having to burn him with the curling iron- and he sits up, peering over the back of it at them. "You kicked that guard right in the- wow, am I ever underdressed."

"You're fine." Lana straightens, tugging down at the center of the long skirt to settle the slits on each side at a somewhat more reasonable level. "I'd argue I'm overdressed, but my options were limited. You do like your dresses short, Nine."

She shrugs, crossing the room to the large mirror on the far wall. With a flick of one wrist she pushes it to one side and presses her palm to the surface beneath; the safe chimes and slides open, half-empty shelves fanning out for ease of viewing. There isn't much left here any more, but the little holdouts in their holsters are still there on the middle rack. "My proper clothing's still on Dromund Kaas, minus what I lost when my ship was ransacked. Anything I left here was something I thought I'd only need here... so, yes. Short, tight, or a combination of the two. One dresses to fit in, after all."

She picks up the first of the holsters and straps it tight around her upper leg, high up under her skirt where it won't show (even on a good night Nar Shaddaa's never entirely dull) and then slips its twin around her other thigh before she lets her skirt float back down to cover them. A few trial hops, then, to test their position, up and down as her heels click on the floor- the blasters don't budge.

Perfect.

"I'm not sure where you'll keep your lightsaber, though." Turning back to Lana, she shrugs. "Not that you need a weapon to be dangerous."

"I can do without for a night, I think. It wouldn't be the first time."

Kaliyo cranes her neck to look over her own shoulder, forehead scrunching in thought, then points to the top shelf. "Give me the two-shot, yeah? I don't think anything else'll fit."

She picks up the tiny blaster and slides it across the floor to Kaliyo, who wedges it down the front of her dress, leaning forward to adjust herself accordingly; Theron looks back and forth between the three of them and just shakes his head.

"If I ever complain about suiting up for an undercover again," he says, "you have my permission to kick me."

"Noted." She grins. "Would you like a tiny gun, or are you good with your holdout?"

He lifts one hand to tap his own back, just between his shoulder bladers. "I'm good. Should I call us a ride, or-?"

"There's a taxi beacon on the landing pad outside. I think the car I've got here only seats two, and we probably ought to keep it out of sight until we're ready for final load-in." With a pass of her fingertips over its frame, the safe slides closed. "Tee-Seven, you're on watch duty. Try not to burn the place down, hm?"

The droid's been plugged straight into the mainframe since they arrived; the chirp she gets in reply makes her stop halfway out the door onto the balcony.

"What, the maintenance droid? Kay-Six's never been particularly chatty, but I'm sure she wouldn't object. Why?"

Another series of chirps, this time ending in a trill that sets them all giggling.

"Yes," she laughs, "she's definitely less annoying than Cee-Two."

The industrial sector's mostly quiet at this hour, more hovercars leaving than entering (Nar Shaddaa never kept normal hours, not even in the business districts, but its white-collar denizens were more likely than most to be the home-for-dinner type). Even so, the taxi pad at the base of the Ternion building has a landing queue four cars deep, and when they pile out into the street there's a neat roped-off line of people standing in front of double doors lit from above by an umbrella-shaped neon light.

This must be the place.

Theron starts toward the back of the line; she catches him by one sleeve, shaking her head. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't do lines."

"Are we on the list?" Theron says out of the corner of his mouth as he falls into step at her shoulder, she and Kaliyo matched stride for stride in their approach- stars know they've done this often enough, hips swaying and heels clicking sharply and smirks fixed on pouting mouths; it's tedious, really, but it works every damn time- and Lana trailing a step behind. "I always wanted to say that."

"We're expected, though I'd like to keep things off the record for now," she murmurs, fixing her gaze on the bouncers as the men's eyes track her up and down and their folded arms relax. Every damn time. "But no. I just don't do lines."

By the time they've reached the entrance the shorter bouncer, a barrel-chested Twi'lek in a suit pulling just slightly at its topmost button, already has one hand on the door. The other, a taller and even broader-shouldered Zabrak ( his suit actually fits, but his tie's knotted appallingly), holds up one finger to halt their advance.

"Three of you this evening?"

"Four." She fucks up the accent a little on the first word- oh, she hates that nasal Hutt Space accent, but her own would raise too many questions tonight. Cocking one hip, she leans against Kaliyo a little for good measure as she tilts her head back toward Theron. "He's with us."

(That came out better.)

Hand still lifted, he shifts his eyes over to the rope and the restless line behind it. "You ladies are good to come in, but he needs to-"

"Oh, no. That won't do at all," she says, and reaches out, folding the man's raised finger down as his partner tries to hide a grin. "What am I supposed to do, pay for my own drinks?"

The Twi'lek looks past her to Theron, shaking his head in sympathy. "Man, you know you're in for an expensive night, right?"

Behind her she can feel Theron start forward- searching for a response, she thinks, the way his boot scrapes a little on the pavement, a half-stuttered catch of his heel before he steps up behind her and drapes one arm lazily around her waist. "Writeoff. What corporate doesn't know won't hurt 'em, and you know how it is. Gotta keep the ladies happy."

"Such a good boy. Wasted on business, really." She winks, her focus still on the Zabrak. The bouncer rolls his eyes even as she reaches for his hand again, keeps pressure on it, guiding it over toward the door handle. "Now, shall we?"

He sighs. "Look. You see the line-"

"They'll understand, I'm sure. Party of-" she straightens his tie with her other hand, just for good measure- "four."

The bouncer sighs again; she draws her arm back, smooths a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, and smiles.

And waits.

"Party of four." At his grudging nod the other bouncer moves, too, and the doors part to reveal a sleek burnished-metal turbolift. "Enjoy."

The grumbling from the line intensifies, just reaching a dull roar as the doors close again behind them and she taps the single button on its control pad; she does manage to keep a straight face until they're alone, at least, even as Kaliyo's already starting to laugh.

"And the record remains unbroken." Kaliyo grins. "Never found a bouncer we couldn't talk our way past."

"Not entirely true. What about that time with the droid?"

"That place was weird, and droids don't count- can't rely on the droid wanting to fuck you. Different tactical plan."

Theron rubs his forehead. "And we used to wonder how Imp Intelligence always ran circles around us. We never stood a chance, did we?"

"You caught your cue nicely." She turns in place to face the doors. The lift's not so small, build for eight or ten, and he's closer than he needs to be, strictly speaking; her shoulder brushes against his arm as she moves. "But I've got a feeling you did more than your share of undercovers."

(That was one of the things they chose not to talk about. There were things neither of them wanted to know.

Theron wouldn't have lived long as a Cipher. Not because he didn't have the skill for it, not at all- he could match her step for step, shot for shot. But there is a softness, a depth of conviction at the center of him that the Empire would have broken. They would have had to; he'd never have managed the worst of the work, otherwise-

-but oh, what a shame that would have been.)

"That'd be telling." He nudges her with his elbow as the lift starts to slow.

"You all make it seem so easy." Lana shakes her head in bemusement. "The benefit of training, I suppose."

The doors slide open, then, and even in the entryway the bass hits her like a stun grenade. She's going to like this place, she thinks. "Anyone can learn to lie. It's keeping the story straight that's hard. Shall we?"

They step out into organized chaos.

As the light shifts blue-pink-violet in time with the pulse of the music she counts at least eight groups of dancers, some alone on high platforms and others in pairs and trios around ceiling-high poles; at the back of the room the largest stage sits dark and vacant. Too early yet for headliners, probably. Servers, trays heavy with drinks and plates (smart to have a kitchen in a place like this, with no restaurants nearby- they'd lose patrons to hungry stomachs otherwise), make their way between bar stations and the tables ringing the crowded dance floor- and, unheard of on Nar Shaddaa where the Hutts run everything, not a single gambling table. No sabacc, no dice: nothing to pull attention away from the dancers.

She couldn't have designed it better herself.

Still glancing around the room, she doesn't see Sia'hla. They're a few minutes early, though.

"The offices are that way, I think." Lana's at her right shoulder, voice low, and tilts her head toward a guard-flanked door in one corner. "Or do we wait?"

"We're on her turf, and we're asking a pretty big favor. We wait." They keep moving through the room toward a vacant table and when they reach it she slides gracefully into the padded chair, patting the seat beside her. "But we ought to make sure we're seen."

Sure enough, they're barely settled when a harried-looking Mirialan server turns away from a rowdy table to make her way toward them- and almost drops her tray when one of the men slides his hand up the back of her dress to grab a generous handful of ass. The girl sighs, looking up at the stage between the tables; one of the dancers meets her eye and grins, leans over and snatches the half-full bottle right out off the cooler on the table.

"What did I fucking tell you-" the Cathar, one ear flicking amusedly, takes a long drink off the bottle as the rest of the table protests and starts to stand- "about touching?"

"Hey! We paid good credits for that!" The handsy one's so drunk he's practically falling over. When he reaches up toward the stage he stumbles, hand brushing at one bare leg before he grabs the edge of the platform to keep himself from toppling over completely; with a swift step she pins his hand flat with one stiletto heel.

"Then you can afford to tip better," the Cathar says over his yelps, raising the bottle high overhead. At her whistle, two bouncers close ranks around the table and drag the whole group off by the collars of their loudly printed shirts. "Bye-bye."

The far table now vacant, the server flicks a two-fingered salute toward the stage; the dancer, teeth bared, knocks the bottle back one more time with a wink before she sets it down and spins herself back up onto the pole in time with her partner. Scooping the bottle up onto her tray, the Mirialan girl smooths her skirt back down and finally draws alongside their table.

"Sorry about that," she chirps cheerfully over the diminishing noise of the still-shouting men, cut off by the sharp slam of a door. "What can I get you? Drink specials this evening are- oh!" She raises one hand to her ear. "Yes- yes, ma'am. Your office?"

Nine smiles.

"She's ready for you."

"You should have called me," Sia'hla says, arms wrapped tight around her neck; she defaults to Huttese, as she always did, though her Basic was leaps and bounds where it'd been even five years ago. "I thought you were dead, numa."

Theron and Lana, silent and a little awkward, hang back at the open office door; she'd been the first into the room with Kaliyo just behind, familiar faces first, just in case. It hadn't mattered, though. Sia'd been up and out of her seat before she got more than half a dozen paces into the office, half-anger and half-affection and mostly just an embrace fierce enough to break ribs.

(She should have called her.

She should have called a lot of people who probably still think she's dead. But none of the rest of them ever called her sister.

Did anyone else ever call her that? She can't remember-)

"And you-" head turning toward Kaliyo, tone sharper- "you were going to-"

"She didn't know." Nine pulls away, just a little. "For all anyone knew, I was dead. All courtesy of your top-floor neighbors."

"I was going to say she promised to help me get this place going and then ran off to Void-knows-where instead, but yes, I know. You said that before."

Kaliyo makes a face. "I left you all the credits. And you did just fine without me."

Guessing by their expressions Theron's catching about three-quarters of their conversation and Lana somewhat less; she gestures toward the doorway, switching to Basic. "You can come in, you know. I should introduce you both properly."

Sia'hla nods, still a little uneasy; she can tell by the way her lekku twitch, the silver ribbons wound around them flickering against the matching material of her dress. "And then you can explain why 'get rid of the thing on the roof' sounds a lot like 'please let me explode your nightclub.' I'm a little bit confused on the details."

"We might want drinks for that. And a sound dampener. Theron, would you-?"

He pulls a flat disc from his jacket pocket. "Whenever you're ready."

"Oh, I think we can do better than that." Sia'hla steps back across to the heavy desk at the room's center, fingers brushing along one edge until there's a soft click and the unmistakable static purr of a high-powered scrambling field.

"Smart girl." She smiles as Theron tucks the disc back away with a shrug.

"Not so smart. But I had a good teacher."

An hour and the better part of a bottle of whiskey later, Sia'hla sets her glass down on the table with a clunk and sits back, arms crossed.

"I want to help," she says. "I do. But you know this will shut us down for days. Longer, maybe. The cost-"

"They won't retaliate, I promise- when the orbital fortress goes down, the Zakuulans will withdraw. They always do. And the direct damage from the explosion this far down would be minimal." Setting her own glass down, she leans forward. "We can compensate you. But we've tried hitting the turrets from the air and it's impossible. This is the only way."

"It's not that." Sia'hla rubs at her neck, fingers creeping beneath the edge of her collar, a faint ridge of scar just visible as the fabric stretches. "I've kept the Hutts and the Black Sun out of here- no spice dealers, no slavers, no pimps. Better for my girls, but it's hard when half the vendors won't sell to me and the other half are stuck in the blockade. And someone's always asking for help- a sister, a cousin-" she sighs. "I bought out ten contracts last year alone. How could I say no? I remember. I help, if I can."

She nods. She remembers, too.

"But if we lose more than a few days' profit," Sia'hla finishes, "I can't- I'm sorry. I know I owe you, but-"

"And I don't think we've got that kind of money to spare." Lana scans down the screen of her datapad. "We've got to feed our own people too, Nine. But surely we can come to some sort of compromise."

She picks up her glass again, swirls the last remnant of her drink around and around. There must be some way past this- they're fighting an empire, they've got no chance at all if they can't even manage something so simple-

(Pity Marr was such a fool, Valkorion murmurs. He's standing at the far edge of the office, looking out the mirrored window to the club floor below. With my aid, my children would be kneeling at his feet even now. Instead, here we are.

She rolls her eyes. If you don't like it, you're more than welcome to leave. Try your luck with the Republic, perhaps- Saresh'd give both eyes for a chance at more power.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, glancing back over his shoulder. Such gratitude.

Go away. I'm trying to think.

Then I might suggest quieter music, he says, and turns back to the window.)

Music-

She looks up. "What if we could offset your losses? If we could get a headliner in here for a night- a good band, or… oh, I don't know, poach a solo dancer off from Vertica or one of the high-roller clubs. Between all of us we ought to have enough strings to pull to make that happen."

"The bandleader of the Black Aureks owes me a favor." Kaliyo crunches an ice cube between her teeth. "Like, six favors, technically, but I'm willing to consolidate. Call it one for each band member."

Sia'hla nods. "It would help. As for dancers-" her lekku twitch at the tips as she gnaws on her lower lip. "What about you? You used to pull a good crowd, and you did call me looking for work."

"Only when I thought I needed a foot in the door. And used to is the operative phrase- five or six years ago, maybe, but I've been out of the game for far too long on any of my old covers," she says. "I sincerely doubt anyone is hanging around waiting for my comeback."

"I'm not so sure. I used to get a dozen messages a day trying to book Xari and me together, even since I've stopped performing-" Sia'hla grins, then, and claps her hands together. "What if we both un-retired? One night only. It'd be just like old times, except for the explosion at the end."

It's an idea. It's a terrible idea and she's getting way too old for this shit, but-

"We'll need unrestricted access- and rehearsal space," she says after a moment. "And I'd need to borrow costumes."

Lana sighs. "Nine. No."

"You'll be on the roof, Lana. You won't even have to watch." A very reasonable argument, all things considered.

"That's not the point. What if you're recognized? If it's anything like that holovid, we'll never-"

"With a wig and makeup no one would know, and I promise to keep all my clothes on. This isn't even that kind of club." She tries not to laugh as Lana makes a series of very aggravated faces. "Theron, you're awfully quiet. Opinion?"

He's barely keeping a neutral expression, but only just. "I don't think any of the costumes I saw out there will fit me, but you're the boss."

Lana buries her head in her hands.

Three days. Time enough to advertise.

No point in having a show if one doesn't advertise it, after all.

Time enough to plan, to organize, to load things in. Veeroa's put a ferocious little team together, a rabble of Nar Shaddaa gutter trash unified only in their hatred of the Eternal Empire, but these days that's enough. Their impromptu dropship, a modded shuttle, sits parked on the rooftop of an adjacent industrial complex, waiting; Lana deems it acceptable. Herself, she spends the better part of two hours crawling through the ceiling space above the changing-rooms mapping out the best route to the utility conduits, hauling climbing rigs and gear and cutting torches into a niche just outside the access panel.

(Not the explosives yet, of course. Not yet.)

Time enough to practice. Her bruise-studded thighs and shins and upper arms howl protest whenever she moves but she's slowly wrangling her body back into some semblance of a dancer's grace, a few pieces of choreography halfway memorized.

It'll be fine, Sia'hla says as they dangle their legs over the edge of the stage, sipping at bottles of water between practice sessions. We'll make it up as we go along.

If only that worked so well with other things.

The lead dresser, a stern-looking middle aged Twi'lek, looks her over critically as she steps up onto the platform.

"About the same size as Jai'ahna, I think. We should be able to make something work. Kit off, love-" with a smack to her backside that makes her jump- "let me see what I'm dealing with."

Nine lifts her dress over her head as the woman turns, grabbing a laser tape and a pincushion off a nearby table. She does not miss this part of undercover work.

(They used to joke about it, sitting around tables in the relaxation area at headquarters.

On its surface, who got what assignments undercover was determined by skillset and experience but in practice it was always the same- she got most of the body work, Seb the gangster roles, Daivi the business types.

This is ridiculous, Seb would say over his caf cup. I'm way prettier than you. I'll be the entertainment and then you can break his kneecaps.

Different verses, same song.)

"Neck looks fine," the woman mutters to herself around a mouthful of pins. "Any tattoos, brands, scars that need covering?"

"Just a few." She points.

When the dresser looks at her again she chokes and the pins go flying; one lodges half a centimeter deep in the muscle of her upper thigh. "Kriffing f- all right. No midriffs, then. We'll just have to compensate with legs and tits."

"That," she says, extracting the pin, a bead of blood welling up in its place, "will be fine."

Two days.

Kaliyo, true to her word- even a broken chrono comes up correct sometimes- comes back from the Red Light sector with contract in hand. (She doesn't ask what exactly the bandleader's favor involved. With Kaliyo it's usually better not to know.)

They've all got a thousand other things to do, reports to read and missions to plan and supplies, always supplies; Lana reads the day's memos aloud to her as she stands in front of her bathroom mirror, adjusting the straps of a climbing-harness around her thighs. It'll be a long climb. It'd be a longer fall.

"We've had a message from Voss." Lana's cross-legged on the wide counter, datapads scattered around her on all sides. "They're asking for our help."

"We've been offering them aid since we started, and they've always said no." She pulls a buckle tight- oh, too tight, ouch- "What's changed their mind?"

"The Voss themselves continue to maintain neutrality-"

She sighs. "Still? They're under occupation. Hardly neutral."

"-if you'd let me finish, Nine, I was about to say that the Gormak have a different opinion. One of their shamans apparently had a vision. Something big is coming, and he's convinced that our involvement will mean the difference between victory and failure."

"What's our timeline?" Wrong buckle again. She adjusts. "We're not ready to try Alderaan again yet, though that reminds me I've got a message I need to send when I'm done with this. We could hit Voss next."

Lana frowns and pushes her hair back out of her eyes. "That's the problem with shamans. All I've been able to get out of them is that it's a very vague something. The sooner the better, I suppose."

"Put Sana-Rae on it. She should be able to give us some insight on how to proceed- I killed rather a lot of Gormak my last trip through Voss. We'll need to tread lightly."

"I'll call her. Anything else?"

She points. "Pull this clip, will you? I need a strap check."

It's a delicate message, this one. She considers her words carefully.

She's going to owe the Rists a favor, probably, and that's always dangerous- the last time she owed House Rist a favor it meant two break-ins, ten thousand credits in bribes and a hour spent desperately hoping that the glass vial beneath her tongue didn't break because if it did she was going to be well and properly fucked-

-but Ioana Rist's still her best bet, even if she hasn't seen her in ages (not since Intelligence dissolved the first time round and they all scattered to the winds; when the rest of them went to the military, her family recalled her home. Lucky her.)

Blasted Alderaan. A braver commander might have tried a face-on assault despite the danger, but she isn't that kind of brave. If only Theron hadn't-

No. It wasn't Theron's fault. If only Jace Malcom weren't so Void-damned stubborn.

She writes.

Ioana-

I know what you're going to say before you say it, so consider this my apology in advance. Not dead. Surprise.

I've got to ask you a favor- nothing scandalous, I promise. You're familiar with the recent construction development over at the cliffs (not to mention the change in skyline), I assume. I can't imagine the family's too happy, particularly whomever owns that lovely estate just above it… you wouldn't happen to know who, would you?

I'm planning a trip to Alderaan soon, and I'd love to borrow the property. I promise to leave it with a much improved view-

Drinks on me?

xx

-IX

Five minutes later, she's brushing her teeth when her datapad chimes. She spits, and walks back into the bedroom to check it; Theron looks up at her from the bed with a raised eyebrow.

"That was quick."

"Quite. Let's just hope it's not a no."

She reads.

DARLING

I knew you weren't dead. You're much harder to kill than that, I think. Remember that time with the Tears? You barely even flinched.

No, our new neighbors haven't endeared themselves. If I wanted a cluttered skyline I'd have moved to Coruscant, I haven't been off-planet in years and it's miserable. I know exactly which house you mean- we used to go to summer parties there when I was a child- although I'm afraid I've no idea who owns it now.

I'll make inquiries to Mother and let you know. She's got all the forks of our sordid little family tree memorized, of course. (All the better to marry one off with, ancestors help me.)

Bring brandy- Kaasi if you can. The stuff here's awful.

-Io

She smiles. "It's not a no."

"Good," Theron reaches out for her. "Now put that thing down and come to bed."

One day.

They can't do any more than this.

Everything's planned down to the minute; it'll either work or it won't. Everything's loaded in save the explosives. Everyone's ready, roles rehearsed, trajectories mapped and remapped.

It'll work. It has to.

Still, she looks around the dressing room one final time as she squeezes herself into the last of the costumes, a masquerade of a minidress that's more or less a mess of straps with matching briefs beneath; they've all fit well enough, but she'll have to wear this one beneath her climbing jumpsuit and- hm.

She jumps up and down experimentally, bends down to touch her toes. The cutouts on her side move a little, hipbones peeking up above each strap. Might be fine.

Might not. Best to check properly.

Slipping her feet into the matching shoes from the shelf beneath the costume rack, she sets her commpad on the edge of the little practice stage and turns its speakers on, cueing up the agreed-upon setlist for tomorrow's performance. As the first song begins she steps up, points her foot, starts to run through the movements of the dance-

"I've got your makeup bag. Should I put it on the counter, or-" Theron says as the door swings inward and she pauses, upside down, kept aloft by one foot hooked around the pole and one hand holding on, opposite foot arching down to meet her upturned head- "I don't know how you do that but I'm pretty sure that people aren't supposed to bend that way."

"The counter's fine." She unfolds into a split, then eases herself down. "Sorry, I'm nearly ready to go. Just needed a fit check."

"Oh, it fits," he grins, "but I could have told you that. I can see your ink, though."

One last test- she tips backward into a bridge, kicking her feet over. "I know. I'll put makeup over it tomorrow. I'm more making sure I don't prove Lana right- the performance is one thing, but-"

"Perfectly decent. Relatively speaking."

She rubs her eyes. "Stars, this thing's absurd. I know I said it before, but I really am getting too old for this."

"I should probably say you look great, but I don't know if that's managerially appropriate or just me talking." Theron settles into the massive padded chair in front of the stage as she sits down to remove her shoes. "Besides sitting out there until we're ready to move, I don't really know what I'm doing."

"Neither do most managers. In my experience they pretty much just skim off your tips and try to get into your pants- the role's just an easy excuse for you to have access back here without anyone asking too many questions."

"Look smug and stare at you? Check." He shrugs. "I was never much for this kind of club, honestly. My team dragged me out to one maybe four years ago, before the surrender… it was supposed to be a distraction. I think I spent the entire time listening to this one dancer talk about her kid. He was five. Liked that holoshow about the cartoon wampa."

She laughs. "You think she was telling the truth?"

"She showed me pictures. Cute kid."

That does sound like something he'd do; she shakes her head, still laughing, and pries off her other shoe. "The best clients were always the chatty ones. I used to make up stories- putting myself through secretarial school, war orphan, boyfriend lost me in a sabacc game. The usual."

"Does that ever actually happen?"

She winks. "Not everyone's as skeptical as you, Mister Former SIS Agent. And I dare say I was pretty good for an amateur."

"I suppose asking for a demonstration would be inappropriate, wouldn't it?"

The song finishes, the next one beginning; eyebrow raised, she stands. "You've been watching me practice for days. Or is that a request?"

"Dunno," he says, folding his arms across his chest, looking up at her with a sly little smile. "Are you taking requests?"

"I might be persuaded." Darling boy, awkward as ever but he tries, oh, he tries- "Let me get the door."

She sets her shoes back on the costume rack, sets the lock on the hallway door, and walks back to where Theron's still seated. She's always liked this song; as the first verse begins she slips behind him, wraps her arms around his shoulders and when he raises one hand up toward her face she hums playfully and pushes it down.

"You still have to follow the rules, Theron. No touching."

That, she thinks, was a very disappointed noise.

She's certainly not going to make it easy on him; as he tucks his hands beneath the backs of his thighs she runs her own down his chest, lips light on the side of his neck, singing under her breath.

"So-" he catches on the word, just for a second- "d'you come here often?"

She grins.

The chair's low, armless and wide enough to lay across and this is almost certainly why- there's enough room for her to balance against it without forcing him to one side or another, arching back over his body until her hair brushes his lap, arms stretched elegantly overhead and then curling in so her fingertips rake along his sides as she rights herself again. Another trick, next, leg extended and then brought down beside him to rest on his shoulder; as he turns his head in response his mouth grazes the bare expanse of her inner thigh and she laughs both at the feel of it and because he is such a cheater and she tells him so.

"I'm behaving." His hands are still tucked beneath him, even as his teeth nip at her skin. "You said no touching. Not my fault-" he gets her hip, then, and the edge of her costume as she slides around in front of him- "not my fault you're right there."

"You try that with someone else, you'd be thrown out on your ass." As emphasis she rolls her hips in time with the music, slow and steady and just out of reach no matter how far he leans forward toward her. Oh, he likes to watch her and she knows it, almost as much as she likes to tease; she glances back over her shoulder with a wink. "But I like you, so I'll allow it."

"I wouldn't," he says, "with anyone else. You know that."

(Does she?

She thinks she does, somehow, but-)

She turns around to face him, pushes him with one finger on the center of his forehead until he's straight upright against the back of the chair. "Some people hate to be pinned down."

"Maybe so, but-" Theron shifts but his hands don't move. Instead he lifts one foot as she starts to move forward, hooks it behind her knee and she stumbles. Too close to him to do anything but fall, she adjusts her hands instead to let her weight rest on his shoulders, her knees sinking into the cushion to each side. A tactile metaphor, her meaning caught and thrown back at her: she doubts he could move much now even if he wanted to- "I think I like it."

She stops.

"Though if I were the one doing the pinning?" Heat along her collarbone, a line traced by the tip of his tongue; she grinds down onto his lap, still in time with the music but mostly that's accidental. Void and stars and the wild space between, she doesn't know how he does it but it happens every time, the way he takes her apart with the slightest little touch-

"I think-" fingers in his hair, a kiss against his temple- "I think I like it, too."

(is this how this goes, she doesn't know the words to this song, not at all)

"Try," she says, "and I'll tell you?"

He hums as she did, wordless against her skin, point-counterpoint with her stuttering heart. "No more rules, then?"

"Forget the rules. Just-"

Rising up enough to slide her backward along his thighs and bring his mouth in line with hers, Theron catches her wrists with his now-free hands and turns; she falls back further, back against the seat cushion and they aren't playing at anything at all, now, skirt shoved up and underwear down and trousers unfastened and then his hands on hers again, holding tight, lacing through, pinning down-

(and oh, oh, oh, she likes it too, this they that the two of them are-

-but she's certain he knew already, even without words to give it voice)