Work Text:
ISB attendant Lionel Heert taps his stylus against the edge of his desk, eyes darting between his work terminal and personal datapad. He's sent Dedra four messages in the last hour—each one slightly more urgent than the last—and the silence grows more concerning with each passing minute. Dedra Meero never ignores communications, especially not when they're flagged priority. It's as uncharacteristic as finding her desk in disarray, which is exactly what caught his attention an hour ago.
"Come on, Dedra," he mutters, refreshing the message thread again. Nothing.
Lionel glances at the small data chip resting next to his terminal, its blue security light pulsing gently. The information stored on it isn't just important—it's time-sensitive. Major Partagaz expects the analysis by morning, and Dedra had been working on it obsessively for the past three days. He'd never seen her so focused, not since the Ferrix situation.
The small clock in the corner of his display shows 19:23. Most of the office has cleared out, leaving only the soft hum of environmental systems and the occasional distant footsteps from the night shift security detail. Lionel stands, stretching his legs as he walks to Dedra's office door, peering through the small window. Her workspace sits pristine and empty, tea mug washed and placed on its designated coaster, chair perfectly aligned with the desk.
Everything in order, except for the missing data chip that contains surveillance footage from some mining facility on yet another world the rebels have managed to stir up trouble on.
He returns to his desk, picking up the chip and turning it over in his fingers. "This isn't like you," he says to the empty air. Dedra Meero doesn't forget things—especially not things that could earn her a commendation from Partagaz.
Lionel tries calling her personal comm again. It rings once, twice, three times before defaulting to the automated message system. His brow furrows as he ends the call without leaving a message. Five attempts in one hour might trigger an alert in the ISB communications monitoring system, and the last thing he wants is to create the impression that Supervisor Meero is unreachable.
Tapping his fingers against his desk, Lionel considers his options. He could deliver the chip directly to Partagaz, but that would reflect poorly on Dedra. He could attempt to finish the analysis himself, but he lacks both the clearance and context to make sense of the patterns Dedra had been tracking.
"Blast it," he whispers, reaching a decision that makes his stomach tighten. There's only one other person who might know where Dedra is, and the thought of contacting her directly makes his palms sweat.
Supervisor Alhena Grandi.
He’s known about the two of them from the start—not because either of them ever said anything, but because his intuition has never failed him when flirting is involved and Dedra Meero is many things, but subtle is not one of them when she’s flustered.
It started ages ago now. A too-pointed adjustment of Dedra’s collar. A lingering hand at the small of her back. That time Grandi had leaned in to whisper something and Dedra short-circuited so hard she dropped her stylus in the middle of a briefing.
Dedra, of course, had tried to deny everything. Insisted that Grandi was “just being polite” or “tactically personable.” But Heert had seen right through it.
“She’s flirting with you,” he’d told her flatly, over lunch in the Archives.
“She’s what?”
“Flirting. With you. I’m gay, Dedra, I have a license for this.”
"You're being ridiculous, Leo. Don't you have work to do?"
She’d refused to believe him at first. So he started pointing things out. Annotated data, practically. Flushed cheeks. Softened tone. That one time Grandi had called her “darling” in the hallway and Dedra nearly walked into a wall.
Heert may or may not have tried to subtly get them in the same room more often. Helped schedule late meetings where Grandi could “accidentally” show up. Suggested joint briefings. Shifted seating charts.
They’d figured it out on their own eventually, thank the stars. But he’ll always take a little pride in the fact that he’d seen it coming—and maybe helped nudge things along.Lionel takes a deep breath and opens a secure channel to Supervisor Grandi's office. To his surprise, she answers immediately.
"Supervisor Grandi," her voice comes through, composed and slightly curious. "This is unexpected, Attendant Heert."
"I apologize for the interruption, Supervisor," Lionel says, unconsciously straightening his posture despite being alone. "I've been trying to reach Supervisor Meero regarding some time-sensitive materials, but she's not responding to communications."
There's a brief pause, and Lionel can almost hear the calculation in the silence.
"I see," Alhena says finally. "And you thought I might know her whereabouts?"
The question hangs in the air, a reminder that all calls on official ISB channels are monitored, that whatever may or may not be happening between the two women can't be happening here. Lionel chooses his next words carefully.
"I believed you might have insights, given your close working relationship..."
A soft sound comes through the comm—something between a sigh and a chuckle. "Very diplomatic, Lionel. Yes, I'm aware of Dedra's location. And I am… inclined to believe she left her comm unit charging at home this morning and hasn't returned for it yet. Or something of that nature I'd assume."
The casual confirmation of their domestic arrangement makes Lionel blink in surprise. He hadn't expected such straightforward, thinly veiled acknowledgment.
"She has the preliminary report due to Partagaz by 0700," Lionel explains. "But she left the primary data chip on her desk."
Another pause, longer this time. "I see. That's... unusual for her."
"Exactly my concern, ma'am."
"She's been working herself to exhaustion lately," Alhena says, her voice softening slightly. "I suspect she simply forgot in her rush to continue working from home. Why don't you bring the chip to her apartment? You can deliver it directly to her."
Lionel's heart rate quickens. "Her apartment? I wouldn't want to intrude—"
"Nonsense," Alhena cuts him off. "You'll be doing us both a favor. Besides, I've made enough dinner for three, and I know for a fact that Dedra considers you something of a... necessary fixture in her professional life."
Coming from Dedra, that's practically a declaration of friendship. Lionel finds himself smiling despite his nervousness.
"I would be honored, Supervisor."
"Excellent. I'll send the address to your personal datapad. Shall we say within the hour?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
The call ends, and Lionel stares at his desk in disbelief. He’s about to enter the private sanctuary of the two most intimidating women in the ISB.
The thought is both terrifying and—if he’s honest—kind of thrilling. Not because he’s trying to impress them. Not anymore. Dedra’s his friend. Against all odds and logic and her entire personality, she’s become one of the people he cares about most. He’s seen her at her sharpest and her most brittle, watched her fall for someone and try to pretend she wasn’t, helped her stumble through it until she stopped pretending.
And now she’s happy. Weirdly, wonderfully, softly happy—when she thinks no one’s looking. He’d do anything for her. Even this.
Even dinner and drinks with Supervisor Alhena Grandi.
He secures the data chip in his breast pocket and tidies his workspace with quick, efficient movements. As he heads for the door, he pauses, remembering something that might help smooth what will undoubtedly be an awkward evening.
The commissary is nearly empty as Lionel slips inside, nodding politely to the night attendant. He makes his way to the back shelf where they keep the imported goods—items too frivolous for the standard Imperial allowance but available for purchase with personal credits. Behind the row of bitter caf supplements favored by most officers, Lionel finds what he's looking for: a small box of Nabooian honey candies.
He's seen Dedra eyeing them during particularly stressful weeks, though she's never actually purchased any herself. Once, during a late-night filing session, he'd left one on her desk without comment. The candy disappeared, and the next day, his workload had been mysteriously lightened. It became their unspoken ritual—a small sweetness in exchange for a small kindness.
Lionel purchases the box along with a package of spiced tea that he knows Alhena favors, based on the distinctive aroma that sometimes lingers in meeting rooms after she's been there. As he pays, he catches his reflection in the polished surface of the credit reader—hair slightly mussed from running his hand through it, uniform still crisp but showing the wrinkles of a long day.
He attempts to smooth down a wayward strand of hair and straightens his collar. Not because he’s trying to impress anyone—he gave up on that years ago—but because he knows the first twenty minutes are going to be deeply awkward. Walking into someone else’s domestic life always is, especially when one of those people could vaporize a junior agent with a look and the other is Dedra “this is not a social call” Meero.
The housing complex rises before Lionel in elegant, understated lines—a far cry from the brutalist severity of the ISB headquarters he left behind. As he steps out of the transport, the evening air carries the faint scent of polished durasteel and perfectly maintained artificial gardens. His fingers tighten around the small bag of treats, the data chip a quiet weight in his breast pocket as he approaches the entrance. He’s entered countless secure facilities without hesitation, but the thought of stepping into Dedra Meero’s private life makes his pulse tick upward with uncertainty.
The lobby is sleek and quiet, all polished stone and recessed lighting—clearly expensive, but designed to look effortless. The kind of place where powerful people live when they don’t want to be noticed. Not ISB housing. Not official. Just theirs.
Lionel adjusts his already-straight uniform as he steps into the turbolift and punches in the top floor.
“Penthouse,” he mutters, a dry smile tugging at his mouth. “Of course.”
In the mirrored wall of the lift, his reflection looks more nervous than he’d like. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. This wasn’t a mission. It was dinner. With friends. Weird, intimidating, terrifying friends.
The doors open with a soft hiss, revealing a short hallway with only two doors. No plaques. No identifiers. Just quiet, anonymous luxury. One of the doors has the faintest trace of lavender-silver polish on the keypad—worn by frequent use.
Lionel takes a deep breath before pressing the entry request button. The soft chime echoes inside, followed by a moment of silence that stretches just long enough to make him wonder if he should press it again. Then, footsteps approach.
The door slides open, and for a moment, Lionel doesn't recognize the woman standing before him. Supervisor Alhena Grandi has transformed. Her usual severe hairstyle has given way to loose waves that frame her face, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Gone is the crisp ISB uniform, replaced by flowing dark pants and a simple gray top that somehow looks both comfortable and elegant. Only her eyes remain the same—watchful, assessing, missing nothing.
"Punctual as always, Lionel," she says, her voice warmer than he's ever heard it at the office. She steps aside, gesturing him in. "Please, come in."
Lionel,ignoring the use of his first name, steps over the threshold and immediately feels like he’s crossed into an entirely different world.
The apartment is bright and airy, sunlight spilling through broad windows that stretch nearly floor-to-ceiling. The open-plan space is sleek but not sterile—white and charcoal tones offset by soft accents of blush, green, and warm wood. Plants spill from modern wall mounts, and there’s a distinct aroma of spiced tea and something herbal from the kitchen. A sculptural cat tree stands in one corner, clearly well-used. The furnishings are refined but comfortable, and the entire place feels… lived in. Chosen.
He blinks once, taking it all in.
Compared to his own ISB-provided unit—gray walls, gray carpet, a desk, and a bed—it’s borderline decadent. His flat has all the personality of a supply closet. This place has taste. Soft lighting. A chess table tucked near the window. A kitchen that suggests someone actually cooks. Boots by the door, a curated bar shelf, a quiet hum of presence.
“This is…” he starts, then trails off, searching for something that doesn’t sound too impressed.
“Not what you expected?” Alhena supplies as she crosses the room, her voice warm with amusement. She stops at a tidy little bar inset into the wall, already reaching for a bottle chilling in a compact cooler. “Not all of us ISB types sleep standing upright in black-plated lockers.”
Lionel huffs a laugh, finally stepping further inside. “I would never presume that of you, Supervisor. Though perhaps of Blevin.”
Alhena smirks faintly as she retrieves two glasses. “Dedra will be out in a moment. Wine?”
Before he can answer, a door slides open across the room, and Dedra Meero emerges in a cloud of steam from what must be the refresher, barefoot and toweling off the ends of her hair. Her usual crispness is nowhere to be found. She’s wearing loose charcoal lounge pants slung low on her hips and a fitted black tank top that bares her shoulders. Her hair is damp and unpinned, falling in slightly uneven waves around her face. Her feet are bare. There’s a faint flush across her cheeks and collarbone from the heat of the shower.
Lionel blinks.
Dedra freezes mid-step, expression flickering sharply from relaxed to rigid. Her eyes widen.
“Lionel?” she blurts, clearly startled, forgetting to use his preferred name in her surprise. “What—what are you doing here?”
She immediately glances toward Alhena, who’s pouring wine with an expression of perfect serenity. Dedra’s eyes narrow. “You invited him.”
“I did,” Alhena says mildly, not looking up. “He had something for you.”
“I’m not dressed for company,” Dedra hisses, still rooted to the spot.
“I think you look lovely,” Alhena replies, finally glancing over and clearly meaning it.
Lionel, for his part, has made a valiant effort to look anywhere but directly at Dedra. He holds up the data chip like a peace offering. “I, uh—brought the mining data. You left it on your desk. With the Partagaz deadline tomorrow, I figured—well. You’d want it.”
Dedra's irritation stutters, overridden by dawning horror. “Stars,” she mutters, pressing a hand to her temple, damp hair sticking to her wrist. “I completely forgot. I was so focused on getting back here to continue the analysis that I—” She cuts herself off, straightens visibly, and lifts her chin with practiced precision. “Thank you, Leo,” she says, carefully neutral. “That was… surprisingly thoughtful.”
"I also brought these," he adds, extending the bag of treats toward both women. "Just a small token."
Alhena moves forward to accept them, her fingers brushing his as she takes the package. "How considerate," she says, peering inside. "Nabooian candies and Alderaanian tea? You've been paying attention."
Dedra approaches, her usual precise movements slightly looser in the comfort of her home. She takes the data chip from Lionel's outstretched hand, examining it before slipping it into a pocket. "I need to get this loaded and start working immediately."
"After dinner," Alhena counters smoothly, handing Dedra a glass of deep red wine. "The analysis will wait an hour."
A silent conversation passes between the two women—Dedra's tightened lips and narrowed eyes met with Alhena's steady, unwavering gaze. Lionel watches, fascinated, as Dedra's resistance gradually melts under that look. It's nothing like their office interactions, where everything is coded and restrained. Here, something raw and honest passes between them.
"Fine," Dedra concedes finally, taking the wine. "One hour."
Alhena hands Lionel a glass as well, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "You've saved me from having to drag her away from her datapad at midnight. For that alone, you've earned your place at our table."
Lionel accepts the wine, noticing how Alhena's hand naturally finds the small of Dedra's back as they move toward the dining area. It's a casual touch, but Dedra leans into it ever so slightly—a reflexive response she would never allow herself at headquarters.
As they settle around a low table already set with plates and serving dishes, Lionel notices a movement from the corner of his eye. A large, fluffy mass of orange and white fur emerges from beneath a side table, green eyes fixed on him with aristocratic disdain.
"That's Maia," Dedra says, following his gaze. "She doesn't like strangers."
The cat moves with deliberate slowness, each step a statement of territorial ownership. She's enormous—long-haired and substantial, with a plumed tail held high like a banner.
The warmth of it lingers for just a beat before the spell gently, inevitably shifts.
Maia—having blessed him with her approval—slips away toward her perch by the window. Alhena rises with quiet purpose and glides toward the kitchen, her movements graceful and practiced. Dedra straightens a little, the easy lines of her posture sharpening again, expression flickering back toward the familiar—composed, analytical, slightly on edge.
And just like that, dinner begins.
The first few minutes unfold with the precision of a carefully coordinated operation—Alhena serving, Dedra maintaining a professional distance despite the casual setting, and Lionel sitting uncomfortably straight as though at an official function rather than a dinner among colleagues. He catches Dedra glancing at the pocket where she's stored the data chip at least three times in as many minutes, her mind clearly still at the office despite her physical presence at the table.
"The pattern recognition algorithm is still running simulations," Dedra says, breaking a silence that has stretched a beat too long. "I can probably integrate this new data within an hour."
Alhena passes a dish of something aromatic and unfamiliar to Lionel. “Shop talk can wait until after we’ve eaten, darling,” she says, her tone light but unmistakably final. “Lionel didn’t come all this way to discuss algorithms.”
“Technically, I did,” Lionel points out, then immediately regrets it when Dedra shoots him a look of smug vindication.
“See?” she says, gesturing with her fork. “He understands the urgency.”
Alhena merely raises an eyebrow and takes a slow sip of her wine. “And yet, remarkably, he’s still capable of having dinner first.”
“Also,” Dedra adds, tone more casual than usual, “he prefers Leo.”
Alhena blinks, just briefly thrown. “Does he?”
Lionel nods, trying not to look as touched as he feels. “I do, yeah. 'Lionel' always feels like I’m about to be told I’ve failed a performance review.”
Alhena chuckles, setting down her glass. “Well, Leo it is, then. My apologies.”
“None needed,” he says quickly. “Just… thanks.”
Dedra doesn’t look at him, but she gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and returns to her food.
Lionel suppresses a smile as he samples the food—some kind of grain dish with spices he can't identify but immediately appreciates. The flavor is complex and warming, nothing like the functional nutrition served at the ISB commissary.
"This is excellent," he says, genuinely surprised. "Did you make this?"
"Alhena cooks," Dedra answers before Alhena can respond. "I'm banned from the kitchen after the incident with the pressure cooker." It's such an unexpected glimpse into their domestic life that Lionel nearly chokes on his wine. The image of the precise, controlled Dedra Meero causing a kitchen disaster is delightfully incongruous.
"It was spectacular," Alhena adds, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "Three cleaning droids and a maintenance team later, we established new household protocols."
"You make it sound worse than it was," Dedra mutters, but there's no real annoyance in her voice.
Maia, apparently sensing the shift in mood, chooses this moment to approach Lionel again. She winds around his chair once, twice, her tail a silken banner against his leg, before sitting directly in front of him with expectant eyes.
"I think she’s demanding tribute,” Alhena observes, watching Maia pad toward Lionel with slow, deliberate confidence.
Lionel, helpless against such imperial command, sets his plate aside and slides from his chair to the floor, crossing his legs. The cat immediately climbs into the space created, turning three precise circles before settling into his lap with a rumbling purr that seems to vibrate through his entire body.
“Traitor,” Dedra says to the cat, but her lips twitch with something close to a smile.
They eat like that—one at the table, one on the floor, one half-curled in her chair, barefoot and content. The second glass of wine helps, loosening the seams between “colleague” and “friend,” easing the habitual tension that clings to all ISB officers like a uniform requirement.
Conversation meanders. The atmosphere warms.
By the time they’re halfway through the meal, Lionel’s balancing his plate on the arm of the chair above him, Maia draped across his thighs like a living luxury rug, and the last vestiges of formality have worn away.
He leans back slightly, emboldened by wine and the cat’s comfortable weight, and grins.
“Have you met Lagret’s new attendant? Bright-eyed recruit who spent three years in the field and somehow has no idea how anything actually works in the ISB.”
“The one with the unfortunate haircut?” Dedra asks without missing a beat, surprising Lionel.
“That’s the one,” he says, delighted. “Yesterday, he accidentally walked into a restricted briefing Blevin was running. Instead of apologizing, he looked Blevin dead in the eye and said, ‘Sir, I believe your security clearance is insufficient for the information I’m carrying,’ and walked right back out.”
Alhena nearly chokes on her wine. “He didn’t.”
"He absolutely did," Lionel confirms, grinning at the memory. "Blevin's face turned the exact shade of a Chandrilan sunset. Later, the attendant found me in the archives and asked if he'd committed career suicide. I told him he'd probably just earned himself a transfer to the Outer Rim."
"Or a promotion," Dedra says dryly. "Blevin responds well to being publicly humiliated. Just ask his ex-wife."
The conversation flows more freely after that, drifting from work anecdotes into more personal territory. Empty wine glasses accumulate on the low table alongside the remains of their meal, and the plates are eventually nudged aside to make room for a tin of honey candies and an open box of crackers that no one remembers retrieving.
Somewhere in the quiet lull between stories, they shift locations—casually, without announcement. Alhena kicks off her slippers and curls into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her. Dedra sprawls beside her, one arm draped over the back cushion, her hair still damp and a little unruly. Lionel ends up on the floor again, leaning back against the ottoman, Maia draped like royalty across his lap, purring softly as he absently strokes her fur.
The light has gone warmer as the evening stretches on. It’s quieter now, more intimate. The kind of atmosphere that doesn’t usually exist for people like them.
“Lionellllll,” Dedra says eventually, her voice a little lazier than usual, her smirk curling around the stem of her wine glass, “pass the honey candies, would you?”
He makes a face at her. “It’s Leo, as you well know, Supervisor Meero. Don't be an asshole Dedra.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head, mock-innocent. “I could have sworn your official records list you as Lionel Aldrich Heert.”
“They do,” he admits with a long-suffering sigh, “but only because changing it would require paperwork that might cross Partagaz’s desk, and I’d rather not explain why I’m rejecting my family name.”
Alhena arches a brow, intrigued. “Why do you hate it so much?”
Lionel blinks, then shrugs. “Because every time I hear it, I hear my mother’s disapproving tone. ‘Lionel Aldrich Heert, what have you done now?’” He mimics a stern, clipped accent that sounds one part Coruscanti aristocrat, one part war tribunal.
Alhena laughs. “That’s remarkably similar to how Dedra sounds when she’s displeased with a report. The number of times I've heard that exact tone when she walks through the door after work-”
Dedra glares at her over her glass. “I do not sound like that.”
“You absolutely do,” Lionel says, unable to hide his grin. “Especially when you’re about to make some poor analyst cry.”
“I have never made anyone cry,” Dedra replies, deeply affronted.
Alhena and Lionel exchange a slow, unified look of profound disbelief. Maia purrs louder, as if she agrees.
"What about the time you reduced Captain Edir to a stammering mess because he formatted the surveillance logs incorrectly?" Alhena asks.
"Or when you told Lieutenant Kazu her strategic analysis showed all the depth and insight of a puddle on Tatooine?" Lionel adds.
Dedra waves a dismissive hand. "That's just constructive feedback."
"Darling, your version of constructive feedback should come with a trauma counselor," Alhena says, her fond tone taking any sting from the words.
Dedra narrows her eyes. "At least I deliver my criticism directly. And about things that matter. Unlike someone who once sent a three-page memo detailing the correct way to arrange datapads on a desk—complete with diagrams—without signing it."
"The diagrams were helpful," Alhena defends herself. "And everyone knew it was from me. That was the point."
"The entire Analysis department spent a week trying to determine if it was an encrypted message," Dedra counters. "Datapads at precise thirty-degree angles? They thought it was a code."
Lionel laughs, delighted by this glimpse behind the curtain. "That explains why Yularen's assistant was measuring desk angles with a protractor last month."
The conversation flows easily now, moving like water down a well-worn channel—sometimes sharp with laughter, sometimes slow and speculative, looping from old ISB office absurdities to interdepartmental rivalries and back again. They trade stories about awkward bureaucratic clashes and supervisors with suspicious beverage choices. Alhena delivers a perfect impression of Yularen’s clipped outrage at a data formatting error she overheard one day when passing Partagaz's office. Dedra recounts a disastrous joint security review that ended with four department heads locked in a stairwell due to a systems test no one logged.
Lionel, three and a half glasses in, lets his guard down further. He finds himself talking more than usual. It’s easy to, here. No worries about trying to banter with Dedra between reports without another Supervisor or attendant getting a peek behind her carefully curated mask. Here he only has to concern himself with a lap full of cat, a pleasant buzz in his veins, and his responsibility to keep passing candies to Dedra when she finishes the ones in her hand.
All is going well until, someone mentions coordination issues between operations and field logistics, and Lionel chimes in without thinking.
“Yeah, Daine told me the coordination on that Fest operation could’ve been smoother.” He freezes as soon as the words are out. Maia glares up indignantly when he stops petting her. “I mean—uh. Commander Jir. He said that. Just… in passing.” There’s a beat of silence.
Alhena’s eyes sharpen immediately, subtle and dangerous. “Commander Jir,” she echoes. “Isn’t he the one who commended your efficiency in his after-action report?”
“He… may have mentioned something,” Lionel mutters, suddenly fascinated by a specific point on the rug just beside Maia’s tail.
“Oh, he more than mentioned it,” Dedra says, swirling the wine in her glass with far too much enjoyment. “If memory serves, it was a full four paragraphs on Attendant Heert’s ‘exceptional attention to detail and responsiveness to tactical needs.’ Very thorough.”
Lionel groans softly. “I should’ve known you read it.”
“Leo, you should know that Dedra reads everything,” Alhena says, smiling into her glass. “And comes home to share it with me. Especially when it's unusually... flattering.”
Maia chooses that moment to stretch across Lionel’s lap, pressing her claws just slightly into his thigh before settling again like a throne-shaped anchor. He takes it as a sign not to flee the room.
“I didn’t think it meant anything,” he mumbles after a moment. “I mean, he’s like that with everyone, probably. Polite. Respectful. Looks like a holodrama hero even out of uniform.”
Alhena raises an eyebrow. Dedra just waits.
Lionel hesitates, then exhales. “We, uh. We’ve hooked up. Once or twice.”
That quiets them. The wine haze doesn’t numb him quite enough. He still feels the weight of the silence, the sudden intimacy of his own words. He picks at a thread on the edge of the rug. “I think we might sort of… have something,” he continues, voice lower now. “Or I have something. I don’t know. He’s—Daine’s hard to read. He’s not like other stormtroopers I’ve worked with. He listens. And he always makes time, even when he’s on deployment. But then he disappears for days and I convince myself I imagined the whole thing.”
He pauses.
“I just… don’t think it means as much to him.” The air shifts a little. Not with judgment—just quiet understanding.
“Leo,” Alhena says gently, setting down her glass. “You’re not easy to overlook. If he’s sticking around, even inconsistently, that’s not nothing.”
Dedra nods once, more serious than usual. “He wouldn’t bother if he didn’t care. Especially not with your schedule. That's what you told me anyway. And it seems to have held true.”
Lionel blinks, not expecting that from either of them.
“…Thanks,” he says quietly. Then, in a tone just too quick to be entirely serious: “Of course, there’s a non-zero chance he’s just in it for the hot ISB uniform kink.”
Alhena snorts. “He does strike me as the type to appreciate an authoritative aesthetic. Not uncommon among officers,” she adds with a smirk.
“I’m not even in command,” Lionel protests, half-laughing. “I’m barely a blip on the hierarchy chart.”
Dedra raises an eyebrow. “Some people like a sub.”
Lionel nearly chokes on his wine. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Dedra freezes for half a second. Just long enough.
Her eyes flick to him, then to Alhena. “I have no idea what you’re implying,” she says coolly, taking a long sip of wine that doesn’t quite hide the faint pink rising in her cheeks.
Alhena grins like a woman who’s just been handed a loaded blaster. “Darling, please. You like being a good girl for me and we both know it.” Dedra visibly splutters. “And I could give Leo all the details,” Alhena adds, turning to Lionel with mock innocence. “If he wants proper blackmail material.”
Lionel’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I’d use it immediately. I’d have leverage for years.”
Dedra’s glare sharpens, but the blush blooming across her cheeks betrays her. “Both of you shut up or I’m filing misconduct reports before dawn.”
“You’d have to admit what the misconduct was,” Alhena points out sweetly.
“And I’d redact every line,” Dedra shoots back, crossing her arms. “Classified under ‘Absolutely None of Your Business.’”
“Still sounds like a confession,” Lionel says, grinning.
Alhena, very composed, takes a sip. “She has a point, though. You do give off nervous junior officer energy, even in the office.”
“You’re both monsters,” Lionel says, wiping his eyes, smiling despite himself. Maia purrs louder in agreement.
Alhena leans back with a smug expression, arms crossed, eyes glinting with mischief. “You started it.”
“I was trying to be vulnerable!”
“And we were supportive,” Dedra says, lifting her glass in mock salute. “For a solid three minutes. That’s impressive restraint, honestly.”
Lionel laughs, full and unguarded now. “Well, thanks. For the analysis. I’ll report back after the next... strategic operation.”
“Be sure to include footnotes,” Dedra deadpans.
“And a spreadsheet,” Alhena adds. “You know how we feel about data integrity.”
“Gods help me,” Lionel mutters, smiling as Maia shifts in his lap again. “I’m never escaping this room alive.”
Evening fades to true night, their conversations slow, and he notices Dedra's posture gradually softening. The wine and comfortable setting are taking their toll on her usual rigid self-control. Her blinks become longer, her responses slightly delayed. Without any apparent conscious decision, she shifts on the couch, moving incrementally closer to Alhena until their shoulders touch.
Alhena, without pausing in her story about a particularly disastrous training exercise, lifts her arm in silent invitation. Dedra hesitates only a moment before leaning into the space created, her head coming to rest against Alhena's shoulder.
Lionel pretends not to notice this intimate adjustment, keeping his eyes on Maia who had abandoned him for a spot beside the couch, while Alhena continues speaking. When he does glance up, the transformation is complete—Dedra has fully surrendered to comfort, her head now resting in Alhena's lap, eyes half-closed as Alhena's fingers absently stroke through her hair.
It's such a vulnerable position for the always-vigilant Dedra that Lionel feels almost voyeuristic witnessing it. Yet Alhena continues their conversation without missing a beat, one hand cradling her wine glass while the other moves in gentle, soothing patterns through Dedra's hair.
A pang shoots through his chest, a longing for a day when he too might have someone to curl into like that again. Someone tall, with light brown hair and grey eyes and high cheekbones and…
"She'll deny this happened in the morning," Alhena says softly, noticing his gaze. "But for now, we'll let her rest."
Dedra mumbles something incoherent, clearly not as asleep as she appears.
"Of course, dear," Alhena responds, as though the mumble made perfect sense, her fingers never ceasing their gentle movement.
"Still can't believe you let him into our home," Dedra tries again, a little louder this time. Her voice carries the slight slur of someone fighting against sleep and wine. "This is a sanctuary, Alhena."
Lionel, messily sprawled across the rug, doesn't even look up from where he's tracing the wood grain on the floor with one finger. "She invited me. Not my fault you forgot your data and you were in the shower."
"Still. 'S rude. Did not consult me." Dedra's indignation is undermined by the way she nestles more comfortably into Alhena's lap.
Alhena, half-focused on absently braiding a strand of Dedra's hair between her fingers, doesn't even try to look apologetic. "You've been threatening to fire him for two years and haven't. I assumed that meant he'd earned a seat at the table."
Lionel glances up at this, his eyebrows rising slightly. Two years of threats? He'd only been counting the explicit ones.
"Means I haven't found anyone better yet," Dedra huffs, eyes half-lidded. The typical razor-sharp focus in her gaze has dulled to something almost contemplative.
"Which is your way of saying you like having him around." Alhena's voice carries the quiet confidence of someone who knows she's right but won't insist on acknowledgment.
"I absolutely do not. Don't twist my words." Dedra's protest lacks her usual conviction, the syllables softening at the edges.
"Mm," Alhena says, sipping her wine, very much twisting them. The small sound contains volumes—amusement, affection, and the satisfaction of someone who sees through every defense.
Dedra turns in her lap to glare upward at her, but it's the least intimidating glare Lionel has ever seen her attempt. The expression that would send junior officers scurrying for cover in the halls of the ISB now appears almost petulant. She's already melting back into Alhena's lap again, her body betraying her words. She lets out a sigh and tangles her fingers in Alhena's shirt, clutching at her like a child.
"I'll admit," she mutters, the words barely audible, "he's good with the cat."
Lionel sits back up, genuine delight spreading across his face. He raises both hands in a half-drunken flourish, nearly upsetting Maia in his enthusiasm. "Oh! That's the first compliment you've given me in twenty-six months."
"I take it back, Lionel," Dedra says immediately. Her face is still pressed against Alhena's stomach, but they can all hear the smile in her voice.
Maia—majestic, indifferent, and clearly in charge—chooses this moment to rise from her position on the floor beside the couch. She stretches with deliberate slowness, extending each leg in turn before padding back over to him and rubbing her enormous head against Lionel's shoulder. Then, with the imperial confidence of a being who knows her worth, she flops across his legs like a sentient weighted blanket yet again, one paw extended to rest possessively on his knee.
Lionel freezes, afraid to move and break this moment of bestowed grace. The cat's weight is substantial, her fur impossibly soft against his hands. He beams down at her, then up at the two women watching from the couch.
"Have I told you tonight how much I love your creature," he says to Alhena, awestruck. The words come out hushed, almost reverential.
"She's not a creature, she's a lady," Dedra mutters from Alhena's lap. "Show some respect."
Lionel nods solemnly, chastened by this correction. He lowers his voice to a formal whisper. "Sorry. Your highness," he says, scratching behind Maia's ear. The cat's eyes narrow to pleased slits, her purr deepening to a rumble that vibrates through his legs.
Alhena raises an eyebrow and smirks down at Dedra. "You're getting soft."
"Shut up," Dedra responds, but there's no heat in it. Her voice is barely audible.
Lionel watches the silent communication that passes between the two women. There's an entire language written in these small gestures, one he's only beginning to decipher. It makes something in his chest ache, a sweet sort of pain that reminds him of watching starships depart for distant systems—beauty mingled with longing.
He thinks of Daine again, unbidden. Wonders what it would be like to have this kind of quiet certainty with someone, this unspoken understanding. Their last interaction had been all professional courtesy and careful distance in front of the squad, but Daine's eyes had lingered a moment too long when no one else was watching. Maybe… Maybe there's something to hope for there.
The apartment is quiet now except for the soft sound of Dedra's breathing and Maia's rumbling purr. He is lost in his own thoughts and Alhena is lost in the warm embrace of her lover, hand stroking up and down Dedra's back now as she lays curled even tighter against her. Outside the wide windows, Coruscant's endless lights twinkle against the night sky, a galaxy of artificial stars. Inside, in this bubble of warmth, time seems to slow, stretching the moment like honey dripping from a spoon.
Alhena's voice, when she finally speaks again, is soft enough not to disturb Dedra. "She works too hard," she says, her gaze resting on Dedra's sleeping face. "Always has."
"She expects perfection," Lionel replies, equally quiet. "From herself most of all."
Alhena's fingers still for a moment in Dedra's hair, a shadow passing across her face. "Yes. It's what makes her brilliant and what keeps her isolated." Her eyes lift to meet Lionel's. "Except from us, it seems."
The simple inclusion—us—makes something warm bloom in Lionel's chest. He looks down, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of that trust.
"I'm just her attendant," he murmurs.
"No," Alhena says with quiet certainty. "You're much more than that. She would never admit it, but you're one of the few people she actually trusts. One of the few people who manages to see through her." A small smile touches her lips. "Why else would she work so hard to keep you at a distance?"
Lionel considers this as he watches Maia's whiskers twitch in some feline dream. Perhaps there is truth in what Alhena says—that Dedra's sharp edges are less a weapon than a shield, her coolness less disdain than self-protection. The thought shifts something in his understanding of his supervisor, clicking into place like the final piece of an intelligence puzzle.
"I won't tell her you said that," he says finally, matching Alhena's smile with his own.
"Good," Alhena responds. "We both know how she feels about sentimentality."
They share a quiet laugh, careful not to disturb the sleeping woman between them, united in their unspoken affection for Dedra Meero—a woman who would rather face an Imperial Tribunal than acknowledge how much she needs either of them.
The chrono on the wall quietly chimes the late hour, its soft tone barely audible over Maia's contented purring. Lionel feels the pleasant weight of the evening settling around him—the wine, the conversation, the unexpected camaraderie that has transformed his relationship with these women in ways he couldn't have anticipated when he first pressed the entry request button hours ago. Dedra has fallen fully asleep now, her breathing deep and even, her face softened in repose.
"I should probably go," Lionel whispers, reluctantly disturbing the peaceful silence. "It's getting late."
Alhena nods, her fingers still absently stroking Dedra's back. "Probably wise. She'll need to be up early to finish that analysis."
With infinite care, Lionel begins the delicate process of extracting himself from beneath Maia. The cat opens one eye in mild annoyance as he gently lifts her, murmuring apologies as he settles her back onto the warm spot he's vacating on the floor. She stretches languidly before curling into a perfect circle, tail wrapped precisely around her body, already dismissing him from her royal attention.
Rising to his feet, Lionel feels the stiffness in his legs from sitting cross-legged for so long. He stretches discreetly, trying not to disturb the quiet atmosphere of the apartment. His gaze falls on Dedra, completely vulnerable in sleep, and he quickly averts his eyes, feeling like he's intruding on something private.
"Thank you for dinner," he says, keeping his voice low. "And for... everything. This was unexpected but very pleasant."
Alhena's expression softens as she looks up at him. "You should come again. Perhaps make it a regular occurrence."
The suggestion catches him off guard. "Really?"
"Yes," Alhena says with quiet certainty, slowly trying to shift Dedra's sleeping form from her lap to the couch. "I think it would be good for her." Her eyes drop to Dedra's sleeping form. "She needs more people in her life who see her as more than just the terrifying ISB Supervisor."
"Not sure she'd agree," Lionel says, though there's hope in his voice.
To his surprise, Dedra's eyes flutter open, proving she wasn't as deeply asleep as he'd thought. "I would," she mumbles, her voice thick with drowsiness. "Agree, that is." She shifts slightly, not leaving the comfort of Alhena's lap but turning to look at Lionel more directly. "You're... acceptable company, Leo."
Coming from Dedra, this is practically a declaration of eternal friendship. Lionel feels a ridiculous surge of pride at the words.
"High praise indeed," he says, unable to keep the smile from his face. "I'm honored, Supervisor." An attempt to remind himself that tomorrow they'll go back to having to pretend to be coworkers, a terrifying supervisor and her loyal attendant.
"Dedra," she corrects him, eyes already drifting closed again. "We're… we're not at the office yet. Still just Dedra."
"I'll see you out," Alhena says, carefully extracting herself the rest of the way from beneath Dedra, who makes a small sound of protest before settling back against a cushion. Alhena adjusts a light blanket over her and presses a kiss to her forehead before leading an unsteady Lionel toward the door.
At the threshold, she hands him a small package—the remaining honey candies, neatly wrapped. "For your journey home," she says with a small smile.
"Thank you," he replies, touched by the gesture. Their eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between them—an understanding, an alliance of sorts, both recognizing their shared affection for the sleeping woman on the couch.
Alhena's hand rests briefly on his arm, warm and solid. "Message when you get home safely. She'll never admit it, but she'll worry if you don't."
The night air feels cool against his face as he steps out of the building and into Coruscant's perpetual twilight. The upper levels of the city never truly go dark, illuminated by the ceaseless flow of traffic and the glowing facades of buildings stretching toward the stars. Lionel walks slowly, choosing to take the long route to the transport taht will take him back to his own apartment, in no rush to end this strange, wonderful evening.
His thoughts drift to the apartment he just left—its unexpected warmth, the sight of Dedra curled trustingly in Alhena Grandi's lap, the two of them laughing at a stupid comment he'd made, the soft domesticity that seems so at odds with their professional personas. He thinks of Maia claiming his lap, of laughter shared over wine, of secrets and gossip exchanged like currency. Most of all, he thinks of being called "acceptable company"—perhaps the highest compliment Dedra has ever paid anyone aside from Alhena.
When he finally reaches his own apartment in the mid-level Imperial housing complex, the contrast is stark. His quarters are neat but impersonal—standard-issue furniture, minimal decorations, nothing like the lived-in warmth of the space he just left. He's never particularly noticed the emptiness before, but tonight it feels pronounced.
Lionel changes into sleep clothes and settles on his bed, unwrapping one of the honey candies. The sweetness melts on his tongue as he picks up his personal datapad and composes a message:
[Arrived home safely. Thank you again for dinner and for trusting me with... everything. Maia is magnificent. Good night.]
He hesitates before sending it, wondering if it's too personal, too revealing of how much the evening meant to him. He thinks back to Alhena's request, 'she'll never admit it, but she'll worry if you don't', and before he can reconsider, he presses send.
The response comes more quickly than he expected, appearing on his screen within minutes:
[Good. Dedra insists I inform you that your handling of the data chip was "adequately responsible" and that your "insight regarding the Blevin situation was not entirely without merit." From her, this is practically a love letter. Sleep well, Leo. -A]
Lionel smiles at the screen, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. A moment later, another message appears:
[I did not say any of that. But thank you for the data chip. See you at 0700. Do not be late. -DM]
And then, just as he's about to set the datapad aside, a final message:
[Maia says you are acceptable and may return. I will allow it. -DM]
In his quiet apartment, surrounded by Imperial-issue furnishings and the distant hum of Coruscant's never-ending activity, Lionel Heert feels something shift inside him—a loneliness he hadn't fully acknowledged until now suddenly less acute. He falls asleep with the taste of honey on his tongue and the memory of a cat's purr vibrating through his chest, certain that something fundamental has changed in his relationship with Supervisor Dedra Meero.
Morning will bring a return to protocol and professional distance, but for tonight, he carries the knowledge that behind closed doors, she is simply Dedra, Alhena is simply Alhena, and he is not just an attendant but a trusted friend.
Across the city, in a warmly lit penthouse apartment, Dedra Meero mumbles something incoherent as Alhena guides her properly to bed. Maia jumps up beside them, claiming her territory with imperial confidence. And on the low table, beside empty wine glasses and the lingering evidence of an unexpected dinner guest, the data chip waits patiently for morning—its urgent contents temporarily superseded by something far more valuable.