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Streams of rouge starlight filtered into the grand admiral's office as Pellaeon stood in the door frame. Despite the room's darkness, Pellaeon could still clearly make out Thrawn's hunched-over silhouette behind his desk.
With a soft sigh, the captain flicked on the lights as the door hissed shut behind him. It was not his first time finding Thrawn away from his bed, and he knew it wouldn't be his last.
The scent of whiskey and stale cigarra smoke stained the air as Pellaeon neared the grand admiral.
"Nightmares?" Pellaeon asked, his question direct yet not condescending.
Thrawn didn't speak as he brought the half-empty bottle of Corellian whiskey closer to his lips.
The captain remained silent as he cataloged Thrawn's sweat-soaked undershirt; he was thin, too thin. In the nine months since Rukh's blade pierced his chest, Thrawn had abandoned his prescribed meal plan for absorbic capsules and alcohol, only relinquishing his newfound diet when he wanted something from Pellaeon.
Feeling his fingers dig into his palm, Pellaeon attempted to remain calm. Arguing with Thrawn was never enjoyable, especially since he could become particularly cruel after finishing a bottle.
"Do you want to talk about them?" He asked, knowing the question would lead nowhere.
"Not particularly," Thrawn said lazily as filtered smoke oozed from his lips. "I would prefer to be alone."
Pellaeon felt his mouth heat with debate. Why was Thrawn so committed to killing himself in perhaps the slowest way imaginable? Why could Pellaeon only watch as the best mind of his generation caved inwards on itself until only ash remained?
The words leaped from Pellaeon's tongue before he could fully process them. "Why are you so intent on hurting yourself?"
Thrawn turned in his chair, a bitter amusement burning within his liquor-soaked gaze. "I could ask the same of you, captain," the grand admiral replied, his voice low, challenging, as he deflected the question. "A retreat? Really?"
Pellaeon knew better than to take the bait; Thrawn could argue for hours without acknowledging the original question.
Since Thrawn had regained consciousness, he simply had not been able to let Pellaeon's handling of Bilbringi go, often resorting to it when the captain questioned him on anything relating to his health or worsening reliance on alcohol.
With a quiet sigh, Pellaeon forced the tension to leave his shoulders as he met Thrawn's gaze with steady professionalism. "Why are you so insistent on pushing me away?"
Thrawn set the bottle on his desk, an almost invisible tremor reaching his hands before he steepled his fingers. "I don't see how I can change something that never was, to begin with."
The control within Thrawn's words made Pellaeon's chest feel tight as if it had been him who Rukh's blade pierced all those months ago. He knew Thrawn was only trying to get under his skin, a poor distraction to hide the shadow before him. Yet, Pellaeon could not lie to himself; the remark still cut deep.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Pellaeon gave Thrawn a curt nod before turning on his heel, silently hoping to hear his name leave the grand admiral's lips, wanting nothing more than to be asked to stay.
But in the end, no sound dared to disrupt the silence between them as the door hissed shut behind the captain, depositing him once more amid the lonely hallway of the Chimaera as he forced his gaze to remain ahead of him.
One day Thrawn would apologize, and Pellaeon would forgive him. He had to.
Until then, the captain supposed all he had were the memories of who Thrawn used to be.