#phila x jorgan if you squint

[meanbihexual]

May I Have This Dance?

Art by the amazing @birdy-the-artist

Valorum Ballroom, Senate Tower, Coruscant, 3637 BBY, one month after the defeat of the Revanites on Yavin IV

Theron slid two fingers under his collar and tugged on the starched fabric, hoping that this time—unlike his previous attempts over the past half hour—the gesture would actually loosen the garment’s grip on his throat.

“It doesn’t work,” came a gruff voice from beside him, and Theron turned to see Aric Jorgan approaching, clad in his dark blue dress uniform, an impressive array of medals glinting across the left side of jacket. “I’ve tried every time I’m forced into one of these events, and I always leave feeling like I’ve been strangled by a vine snake.”

Theron sighed and dropped his hand.

“The Director owes me one for not faking my death to get out of this,” he muttered, and Jorgan chuckled.

“At least you didn’t get carted off at the crack of dawn by Saresh’s team of ‘Couturier Impresarios.’”

“Her what?” Theron didn’t often consider himself clueless, but he had to admit that he hadn’t even the slightest idea what that jumble of syllables meant.

“Stylists, apparently, though they were offended when I called them that. Showed up at 0600 hours this morning, almost fainted when Phila, Dorne, and Qiy said they were planning on wearing their dress uniforms, and then practically carried them off the ship to get them ready for tonight,” Jorgan answered, and Theron couldn’t help but notice the flash of terror in the man’s eyes as he spoke.

He didn’t blame him in the slightest.

“Phila commed me around lunch,” Jorgan continued, “said all the women from Yavin were there getting glammed up, willing or not. Except Grandmaster Shan—I guess she got out of it somehow.”

“I guess there are some perks to being the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order,” Theron said. Then, after a brief pause: “I bet Safi hated that.”

“I’ll be hearing about the indignities for weeks, if it makes you feel any better,” Jorgan commiserated.

Theron nodded absently, craning his neck for a better view of the entrance to the ballroom. At the top of a small flight of stairs the double doors were thrown open, having already admitted the substantial crowd that now milled around the floor, waiting for the official start of the ball, but the hallway that stretched beyond them stood vacant.

“You’d think they’d be here already, if they’ve been getting ready for 12 hours,” he said, his hand rising to fidget with his collar once more.

Jorgan raised an eyebrow in a strange expression Theron wasn’t able to interpret before it dissolved with a shrug.

“Saresh probably wants them to make a grand entrance, after all the work she had her people do.”

An agreement was on Theron’s lips when a flurry of movement near the entrance caught his attention. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, vaguely aware that Jorgan was following him, as the voice of the Senate Herald rang across the room.

“Jedi Master Safiya Adraiel, Hero of Tython, Battlemaster of the Jedi Order,” he announced in his smooth, cultured tones, pitched to perfectly cut through the ambient sounds of the people below.

Theron looked up and forgot how to breathe.

Safi stood at the top of the staircase, perched on her toes like she wasn’t sure if she was going to descend or turn and run. Midnight blue silk fell to her feet in soft folds, topped by an intricately beaded bodice that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers. Her arms were encased in sheer fabric of the same shade as the rest of the dress, with her shoulders and the skin above her decolletage left bare. She wore her usual mask, but her hair was pinned in an elaborate coiffure with just a few curls left down to frame her face.

Theron knew he was staring but was powerless to do anything else; in all honesty, he was surprised that his mouth wasn’t hanging open. He’d known she was beautiful, of course, had known it since the moment he first laid eyes on her, but tonight…tonight, she was magical.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” he heard Jorgan mutter, but he couldn’t spare any attention for the comment or what it might have meant.

He might never have managed another coherent thought if Safi hadn’t moved then, wrapping one arm across her middle in a gesture that he recognized from sleepless nights spent sharing secrets and confessing insecurities. In an instant Theron was in motion, striding forward and breaking through the front line of the staring crowd, eyes never leaving her face, hand outstretched toward her.

Safi smiled, the small, shy gesture lighting up her face in a way that made Theron’s heart race, and lifted her skirts daintily with one hand before starting down the stairway. When she reached the bottom, she laid her hand in Theron’s, her lips parting in delighted surprise when he brought her hand to his lips and ghosted a soft kiss across the back of her knuckles. Before she had time to respond, he had tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and begun to escort her back to his previous position next to Jorgan as the herald began announcing the next arrival.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Safi murmured in a low voice as they made their way across the floor. “Jedi aren’t normally announced like it. It caught me off guard.”

“Anytime,” Theron choked out, his voice hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to use the muscles that made speech possible. Then, because he couldn’t say nothing, “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she said again, ducking her head slightly as a blush slowly rose to color her cheeks. “I feel a little out of place. I’m sure I’m nothing special compared to the people who attend these balls regularly.”

Theron stopped walking for a moment and used his free hand to tilt her chin up until he could see her face.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight,” he whispered, his voice fierce and passionate despite its low volume.

Safi’s blush deepened, but her smile returned.

“I’ll let you have that one, but only because my wife isn’t here yet.” Jorgan’s voice made them both turn, and he inclined his head to Safi. “Master Safiya, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Captain Jorgan,” she responded warmly. “Phila should be announced soon, she was only a few places behind me.”

“That’s my cue, then,” he said, and with a brief nod of his head he started off in the direction of the entrance.

“You look very nice tonight, too,” Safi said, turning her attention back to Theron. She trailed her hand along the sleeve of his jacket, a formal affair in deep blue and gold that was remarkably similar in cut to his favorite red one. “I like the blue. We match.”

Theron was sure that this had not been left to chance—the jacket, along with the other pieces of his ensemble, had been delivered by courier that morning—but he only nodded in agreement. “Everyone will be jealous of our coordination when we dance.”

One eyebrow arched delicately above her mask.

“That’s quite a presumption you’re making, Agent Shan.” Her words rang with laughter, and Theron couldn’t suppress a grin when he answered.

“I could convince you, if you see any dark corners we can sneak away to…” He made a show of craning his neck to look around the ballroom as Safi giggled.

“Or you could just ask,” she remarked dryly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the laughs that wound themselves around her words.

“There’s an idea,” Theron replied consideringly, as though Safi had said something brilliant rather than simply pointing out the obvious.

She shook her head, and Theron had the distinct suspicion that she was rolling her eyes behind her mask.

While they’d been speaking, the herald had announced the last of the guests, and now the opening strains of a Corellian Waltz floated from the orchestra at the far end of the room.

“Perfect timing.” Theron grinned and took Safi’s hand, executing a rather good imitation of one of the extravagant court bows used by Alderaanian nobility.

“May I have this dance?”

Safi’s smile shone like the stars when she answered.

“You may.”