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Twenty-three years should have dulled the ache.
He should have felt nothing as he rolled over in the middle of the night, covers scratching uncomfortably over his thighs as he stretched for his questis, fingers clumsy with sleep. His heart shouldn’t have surged with jagged-edged hope as he ran down the list of people: Lacheri was safely working on Ool, Thalias with her– both likely just rising with the time difference. Wutroow was at the Kivu homestead for solstice; she'd checked in with him when her shuttle had touched down the night before.
That jagged-edged hope snagged tighter, choking in his throat as he thumbed open the security screen.
Twenty-three years should have dulled the ache– the breath shouldn’t have left Samakro in a desperate rush at the message blinking on the screen– a private channel, used only to relay updates on a case no one cared to remember anymore. A private channel that, until now, had only ever given Samakro two words at a time: status updated . Proof that the Ascendancy’s long-forgotten exile had sent relevant information through their convoluted signals; proof that Thrawn was alive . He never received the information itself, not since he’d lost his security clearance and been swiftly pulled from service– Ar’alani did it as a courtesy, that was all.
00.31: / Status: asset pulled. Retrieval in process. //
>>
04.08: / you can see him. if you want. //
>>
>>[MESSAGE DATA ERASED]<<
>>
>> [CHANNEL DEACTIVATED]<<
Want .
Samakro hadn’t known what he wanted in a very long time.
***
Twenty-three years should have dulled the ache. What happened, instead, was this:
Samakro arrives at a private medical center on the dark side of Naporar just as the starlight is beginning to shift the shadows on the surface, far from the reaches of the flashy main base. A shuttle had carried him from Ufsa-controlled space to the hangar of the CEDF headquarters, but he’d taken a speedbike to the final coordinates, unwilling to draw any additional attention to an already-precarious situation.
The medical center is as nondescript on the inside as it is on the outside: gray permacrete walls, unmarked rooms with tinted windows that shield any possible patients from prying eyes. He’s unnerved by the stillness that closes in all around him, his footsteps echoing far too sharply in the otherwise silent hallways, and the directions that Ar’alani had pinged him suddenly feel inadequate in the face of the labyrinth before him. Perhaps it was a dream, perhaps they’d given up searching and resigned Thrawn to a fate amongst the void of space–
The spiral of thought leaves him in an instant as he turns another corner, the sight before him stealing the breath from his lungs.
Ar’alani and Wutroow wait together, their hands linked tightly between them as Wutroow smooths a hand down Ar’alani’s shoulder, a gesture of such somber comfort that drops like a stone in Samakro’s stomach. Ar’alani herself has the heel of her palm pressed to the ridges of her forehead, eyes pinched shut.
Supreme General Ba’kif– far greyer and weaker than the last time Samakro had seen him– is turned to face Samakro, the expression on his face guarded and hesitant. It makes sense, Samakro thinks, considering that he’d broken Ba’kif’s nose in their last interaction– twenty one years ago, now. He’d been so angry , then. Fierce in his grief and incandescent in his rage– the words of Ar’alani ringing in his head: he planned it. They planned it together, Sam, Thrawn was protecting us –
“Mid Captain,” Ba’kif starts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “He’s–”
“I’m no longer an officer,” Samakro growls, the words harsh and biting. “You made sure of that when you stripped me of the Springhawk and relieved me of duty, Supreme General.” He can feel the heavy weight of Wutroow’s stare at his outburst, the cavern of silence that follows, and he trains his eyes on the floor. “Just– where is he?” he asks, and each word is softer than the last, painful as they’re pulled from his lips.
“He’s not himself yet, Sam,” Wutroow says, standing firmly with Ar’alani.
“What do you mean? Lani… she said he wasn’t hurt–”
“It’s not- it’s not physical,” she whispers, and Samakro looks up in time to see the shine in her eyes before she closes them. “He’s there and he can talk– he can eat, write, read. But- he’s different, his mind is…” she starts, and he waits as she composes herself, swallowing with a sharp inhale. “Bruised. That’s- that’s the only way I can think to describe it, Sam. Bruised.”
“Navigator Vah’nya looked at him once he arrived here,” Ba’kif interrupts, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “You remember her from the Springhawk, I’m sure. She was familiar with him… before. They met in the rescue of a kidnapped sky-walker, and she volunteered to see what had changed.” Ba’kif trails off, his gaze taking on a haunted glaze. “She- we had to force them apart,” he whispers, the words cracked with grief. “What she saw– she couldn’t pull away. Like she was trapped .”
The silence stretches out once again. The ache in his chest grows to a nauseating intensity as he stares between the three of them, taking in how exhausted they look– the far-away blankness of Ar’alani’s gaze, the pinch of Wutroow’s brow, the deep bags under Ba’kif’s eyes. Samakro hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived, but it wasn’t– it wasn’t this. Hopelessness .
“I want to see him,” Samakro says, breaking the trance. “I won’t stay long if he doesn’t… want me there. If he asks me to leave, I’ll leave,” he continues, sucking in a breath as his eyes stung. “But I have to see him. It’s been– just. Please.”
Wutroow meets his gaze, a sad understanding gleaming in her eyes, and nods. “Be careful,” she whispers, her fingers flexing as her grip on Ar’alani hand tightens. Samakro can’t bring himself to respond, only nods as Ba’kif taps a code into the panel on the door and steps away.
The first thing Samakro notices is that Thrawn isn’t alone.
There are two beds crammed into the tight space of the room, whirring machines tucked around in the few remaining free spaces. A bacta drip winds itself around the post of the bed farthest from the door, slinking up into the pale wrist of–
of a human . A younger boy, by the looks of it– deep blue hair and skin similar to the shade of Ivant’s, his eyes squeezed shut in a fitful sleep. Samakro’s gaze is pinned to him for a moment, unable to shake the feeling of awe; the Ascendancy hardly gets visitors, and humans are a rarity that he had only encountered twice. For him to have made it this far was a testament to his strength, and a further testament to the Ascendancy’s willingness to protect him rather than interrogate.
Out of instinct, Samakro’s gaze shifts- intending to scan the rest of the room- and his chest seizes up, his next inhale catching harshly in his throat.
“ Thrawn –” he croaks, eyes stinging with the flood of tears that well up– the word so wholly inadequate.
Twenty-three years should have dulled the ache . Instead, a gaping maw of emotion opens up in the center of his chest, the pain of their last moments together as fresh as the moment they happened.
Vah viz ch'eo ch'an'eci , Samakro had said. You have my soul .
When Thrawn lifts his gaze, Samakro knows with a certainty that should scare him that nothing has changed.
Twenty-three years have hardened Thrawn’s features: the fullness of his cheeks turned gaunt, the angles of his shoulders sharp under the loose gown. Thick streaks of gray color the hair at his temples- the strands haphazardly falling in his eyes with an unkemptness that speaks of neglect- and fresh scars dot the skin exposed above his collarbone, gleaming with sheen of bacta patches. His arm hangs bandaged in a sling, but Samakro can’t bring himself to ask– not when Thrawn’s eyes are boring into his own with such terrifying intensity and- and sorrow , oh –
“Sam–” Thrawn starts, and his voice is the same, it’s still him – “Sam, I’m- ktah , I’m sorry –” he sobs, his expression crumpling with a devastatingly palpable grief.
I don’t expect to be gone from the Ascendancy more than a few months. A year, perhaps, at the most.
Twenty-three years have kept them apart, and Samakro won’t get them back, but–
but they don’t have to waste any more . Samakro moves in a sudden rush as the breath floods back into his lungs, leaning his weight over the side of Thrawn’s hospital bed until he can wrap his hand around the back of Thrawn’s neck, pulling him in until the ridges of their foreheads are pressed together. The contact - the feeling of Thrawn’s skin beneath his fingertips and pressed into his space, alive - rips a sob from his throat, the pain an afterthought as tears stream down his cheeks. “I never—” he starts, choking on the words as his fingers tighten at the nape of Thrawn’s neck. The skin is soft there- still , he thinks, that never changed - and he feels more than hears the painful inhale Thrawn takes. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispers, his other hand coming up to cradle Thrawn’s jaw.
Thrawn shudders under his touch, the heave of his shoulders pushing them closer, and he reaches up until his hand covers Samakro’s like he might pull it away only to grip it tightly, a sharp sob bubbling out. “I’m sorry, Samakro–” he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry – I tried to-”
Samakro shakes his head, their ridges bumping together until stars bloom behind his eyes. “Don’t,” he says, grip tightening like Thrawn might disappear without it. He wants to tell Thrawn that the apology can’t fix it– that an apology won’t be any use against the forces neither of them could control, that Samakro only cares that he has him now, but the words aren’t enough.
They’ve never been enough. Words couldn’t keep Thrawn here the first time, and Samakro doesn’t believe in making the same mistake twice.
He pulls back until just their noses touch, tugging gently at the hair at Thrawn’s nape until his eyes snap up, deep red and filled with tears. The freckles are still smattered across his cheeks, white specks that Samakro had never been close enough to count but wanted to , and he’s here . Thrawn’s here after twenty-three years, lips trembling and pulse hammering where Samakro can feel it on his neck, alive in the way that Samakro had held on hope for all this time. It’s easy, then, to lean in– to press their lips together until Thrawn sobs through his teeth, mouths opening and claiming and breathing and alive, they’re alive, Samakro is kissing him and Thrawn is kissing him back.
Everything else can come later.