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“Senior Captain Thrawn?”
Che’ri’s voice is so soft, almost a whisper, but it wakes him immediately. He looks up at her for a moment, blinking to clear his sleep-bleared eyes, and then sits up in his bunk, moving his feet to the floor.
“What’s wrong, Che’ri?” he murmurs sleepily, studying her with growing concern. Her face is flushed, crumpled, a mess of tears and tangled curls. Her hands are worrying at each other, nails clawing at her skin, so he takes them in his own, and squeezes them gently. Che’ri hiccups, and stifles a sob, and Thrawn reaches up to brush the hair out of her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again. Her eyes are downcast, their glow dim and clouded.
“Do you want to sit with me a while?” Thrawn offers, giving her hand a little tug. He expects her to plop down beside him; instead, she climbs into his lap, settling atop his legs like a roosting bird. Without a moment’s hesitation he wraps his arms around her, and she leans closer, resting her head against his chest.
“You don’t have to talk until you’re ready,” he whispers as her shivering slows, “but if it would help to tell me about it, I’m here to listen.”
“It seems silly now,” Che’ri says, her voice small and shaky. “It was just a nightmare.” She fiddles with the hem of her sleepgown. “But it was so real.”
“It’s okay to be frightened,” Thrawn says, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “And it’s okay to ask for help. I’m glad you came to find me.”
She relaxes a little at those words. “I was worried I would bother you.”
“Not at all,” Thrawn assures her, and he feels the rest of the tension leave her.
“Can I…stay here tonight?” Che’ri ventures, looking up at him. “I promise I’ll be quiet.”
“Of course,” Thrawn says. “But you must not be afraid to wake me up if I’m snoring.”
She laughs a little at that, and he’s glad to hear it. When he eases back to lie down a while later, she rolls off his chest to press against his side.
“Good night, Che’ri,” Thrawn says softly, pulling the blankets over them both and settling in. He’s not sure if she can hear him or not - from the sound of her soft whisper-purr, he suspects she may already be asleep - but he hopes she can.
/ / /
A booming hoot in the distance startles Thrawn from the haze of half-sleep. The quiet that follows, broken only by a chorus of insects, is just long enough to let him wonder if the sound was part of his dream – and then, from his other side, some distance away, another bird answers. The unseen pair call back and forth, striking up a solemn duet that reverberates through the forest.
Shaking the sleep from his head, Thrawn sits up a little straighter against the tree behind him. The fire is sputtering a little, having burned through most of its fuel; he reaches for another branch, and tosses it on. Here he is again, after all these years, making stick fires in the wilderness. It seems oddly circular, like something he’d have read from the old poets back in the Ascendancy. He can’t say he’s missed living in the wilds, but at least he has the skills to survive it. And his unlikely traveling companion, young though he is, has proven surprisingly knowledgeable in the field himself – though he’s been reluctant to elaborate on that.
On the other side of the fire, as far away from Thrawn as he can possibly get while still benefiting from the warmth of the campfire, is the Bridger boy. Asleep, with his brows at last unfurrowed, he really is just that – just a boy. As he has before, Thrawn finds himself wondering if the impulsive recklessness that comes along with youth was ultimately what gave Bridger the upper hand back there, over Lothal. For a long time he’s seen Bridger’s brashness as something that needs to be tempered to mold him into a better warrior. But how much of his success was due to tactical skill – and how much to sheer luck and courage?
Reaching for a long stick, Thrawn stabs at the fire a little – partly to encourage it, partly because it feels better than doing nothing. He has no idea how long night lasts on this part of the planet, at this time of year. And since Bridger is all but blind in the dark, their travel is halted until the sun reappears, whenever that may be. It’s less efficient than he would like, but he doesn’t mind resting a while, after the events of the past several days. And the night is peaceful, for the most part.
Peaceful, until Bridger cries out in his sleep, and his legs begin to jerk. Hoping the boy will settle down after just a moment, Thrawn turns back to the fire and rearranges the wood, waiting for the fussing and thrashing to stop.
It doesn’t stop.
With a sigh, Thrawn leans forward, reaches around the fire with his poking stick, and prods the boy’s shoulder. The stick leaves some soot marks, but they blend flawlessly into the rest of the wear and staining of the fabric. The whimpering stops, and Bridger’s eyes flicker open. Immediately the familiar scowl reappears, and his hand flies to his belt for a weapon that isn’t there.
“What do you want?” he spits, scooting a little farther back from the fire.
“It seemed your dreams were troubling you,” Thrawn says, choosing his words carefully. He’s determined to do what he can to keep the conversation civil; it’s in his long-term interest, after all, to make some progress in Bridger’s attitude toward him, if they’re going to be working together. “I understand the terror of nightmares is often more keenly felt among those who are…touched by the Force.”
“You make it sound like some kind of disease,” Bridger scoffs.
Ah. Backwards progress. Stifling a wince, Thrawn chances a different angle. “Would it help you to talk about it?”
Bridger’s dumbfounded, open-mouthed stare is enough to tell him that this wasn’t the best thing to say either.
“Never mind,” Thrawn says quickly. “I thought maybe -”
“It was…about my sister,” Bridger says, averting his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
The second line is expected. The first one puzzles him, for a moment. The files and records he’s found on Bridger have detailed his late parents fairly extensively, but none of them have mentioned any siblings. It trips him up briefly, until his mind recalls snippets of chatter, overheard radio banter between Bridger and –
The Mandalorian girl.
The realization hits him harder than he’d like. Thrawn knows well the stories of the Specters’ accomplishments, even those he hasn’t personally witnessed. He should have recognized their synergy as the kind that can only flourish when a group’s bonds are personal as well as professional – and bonds like that are not easily broken. Nor should they be.
“I see,” he says, stalling as he flounders for his next words. Before he can put them together, Bridger breaks the silence.
“How can you say that?” he hollers, and his voice cracks mid-sentence. “You can’t pretend to understand how I feel. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to lose everything.”
Thrawn blinks, slowly, and takes a long breath.
Yes, he wants to say, I do. More than you can imagine.
But instead he keeps his mouth shut, and says nothing.
Muttering something Thrawn can’t make out, Bridger reaches for the supply pack he’s been using as a pillow, lies down once more, and turns his back. Then he curls up a little, and says no more. Thrawn fumbles for another branch to throw on the fire, and then he leans back to rest against the tree again.
“Good night, Bridger,” he says, very softly. He’s not sure if the boy can hear him or not, over the crackling of the fire.
And he’s not sure which way he’d prefer.