Chapter Text
The Battle of Bilbringi had nearly killed them both: Thrawn from blood loss, Pellaeon from sheer stress. He considered both wounds roughly equal — at least Thrawn had the luxury of
a week-long bacta bath and a medically-induced coma
rest.
But now Thrawn was finally being released from sick bay, and the Battle of Chandrila had gone off swimmingly, and the Siege of the Inner Rim Trading Route was locked tight.
“What’s next on the agenda, sir?” asked Pellaeon, watching as Thrawn got dressed. Thrawn slipped a pale-green hospital smock over his head and laid it on the bed behind him, a hard knot of scar tissue on his chest where he’d been stabbed. “Onto Stage Six? Straight to Coruscant?”
Thrawn tugged his white tunic from the hanger and held it open, slipping one arm into the sleeve with stiff, sore movements. After a moment, Pellaeon stood and helped him, holding the tunic open for Thrawn so he didn’t strain his chest.
“Or shall we take the Mid-Rim Hyperspace Routes first?” Pellaeon asked.
“The Mid-Rim, certainly,” said Thrawn. His voice was heavy, a bit thick from lack of use. He shrugged into the tunic and did up the buttons, his long fingers seeming thinner thanks to his time in sick bay. “But first, I think it’s time I took some leave.”
Pellaeon watched as Thrawn hooked his fingers in his scrub waistband and slid his trousers down. It took him a moment to catch up to the rest of the sentence.
“Leave, sir?” he said.
Thrawn stepped into his white uniform trousers. “Yes, Gilad. Don’t play dumb. I know you already submitted a request on my behalf.”
Pellaeon shot a sharp look at the door to make sure there were no nurses lingering around to hear Thrawn use his first name. “Yes, well, someone had to,” he hissed. “With due respect, sir, you did just take a knife to the chest.”
“You’re just angry I figured it out before you could surprise me,” Thrawn said.
He may have been right. A little.
“I do occasionally take leave, you know,” said Thrawn mildly. “I appreciate the effort, Gilad, but I don’t need my men to submit leave for me.”
“Really,” Pellaeon scoffed. “When was the last time you took leave?”
Thrawn buttoned his trousers, his eyes hooded, his cheeks a little hollow. “I went to Hoth once,” he said.
“And when was that?” asked Pellaeon. “Before or after the first Death Star?”
He meant it as a bit of hyperbole, but Thrawn gave him a blank, sidelong look and said, “Before.”
He looked away again while Pellaeon chewed on that, adjusting his cuffs and pulling on his gloves.
“Well, you’re officially on leave now, sir,” Pellaeon said at last. He checked his chrono. “In five minutes, that is. Rest assured the fleet will be in good hands while you’re gone.”
“Oh, Gilad,” said Thrawn. He sat down heavily on the mattress and reached for his boots. “How could I possibly relax knowing my right-hand man is undergoing all this stress without me?”
Pellaeon narrowed his eyes, not fooled by the innocent tone. “I’m not taking leave with you, sir,” he said flatly.
“You’d leave me to suffer boredom on my own?” asked Thrawn.
“You won’t be bored,” said Pellaeon, with a certain satisfied viciousness. He grabbed his datapad and sat next to Thrawn, their thighs touching. “Look here. I know shore leave isn’t feasible at the moment, so I’ve taken it upon myself to make some downloads. The art stores of Ancient Alderaan, here — a full library of tactical games — an anonymous membership in Cloud City’s holo-chess league — seven terabytes of reading material—”
Thrawn watched good-naturedly as Pellaeon indicated each item. Then he slid his hand over Pellaeon’s and pointed to a blinking icon in the corner of the screen. “What’s this?” he said innocently.
Pellaeon looked at the blinking icon. A message icon. He hadn’t seen it before. He tapped it and watched as the message tab came up.
Leave approved → Gilad Pellaeon → start time 1000.
Today.
Pellaeon looked up from the message and found Thrawn reading the message with raised eyebrows. “Look at that,” said Thrawn softly. “Someone submitted you for leave as well. How thoughtful.”
Pellaeon gave him a beady-eyed look, but Thrawn was immune to it. He tightened his bootlaces and straightened up — and, just briefly, the color drained from his face, a spot of bacta-induced exhaustion, of dizziness, and he leaned against Pellaeon’s shoulder. Pellaeon held still, his stomach fluttering, his mind split between concern and a faint conviction that he was being manipulated.
“Will you spend it with me, then?” Thrawn asked. “Those tactical games you downloaded will be much more challenging with a human partner.”
Pellaeon snorted and lifted his datapad. “I’m canceling this ticket right now,” he said.
“You cancel yours and I’ll cancel mine.”
Pellaeon narrowed his eyes, his finger hovering over the cancellation button. Thrawn raised his eyebrows.
“What do you have planned?” Pellaeon asked begrudgingly.
Thrawn’s only answer was a slow, almost predatory smile.
It wasn’t the most exotic location. The climate was temperate, not tropical — perhaps even a bit cold. The lighting was artificial, a little glaring. The food service was frankly terrible, the drink selection minimal, the entertainment prospects low.
But all things told, Thrawn’s bedroom wasn’t the worst place Pellaeon could think of to spend a week of leave. He lay in bed, half-dressed, and watched with hooded eyes as Thrawn came back from the kitchen with two glasses of wine balanced in one hand.
“And what activities do you have planned?” Pellaeon asked, accepting his glass with a nod.
“Only the most vigorous and rewarding of activities,” said Thrawn. He slipped into bed, his glass held aloft to keep it from spilling, and drew the blankets over his lap. He took a sip, savored the taste of the wine.
“Sleep?” Pellaeon guessed.
Thrawn nodded. “Sleep.”