Chapter Text
It begins with Thrawn in the medbay.
Technically, it began three days, eight hours, and fifty-six minutes earlier, but it isn’t until Thrawn and Ezra return to the Chimaera from Thrawn’s latest summons to Naporar that things really sink in.
Actually: Scratch that. It really begins when Thrawn’s second in command, Eli Vanto, fails to meet them in the hangar upon their return and the Grand Admiral discovers his fleet to be in full-on lockdown.
Ezra has never truly seen the man lose his cool before. It’s completely subtle at first. He demands to know what happened, and Ezra must make a face that suggests it’s bad based on the thrum of fear and anxiety bled into the force, but then Commander Hammerly is stepping in to tell him any discussions need to happen behind closed doors, rather than out in the open. From there, Thrawn must guess the scale, and once they arrive at his office, things devolve into what Ezra is choosing to call disaster.
It’s a good call, because Thrawn makes a sound that Ezra — and Hammerly, apparently — have never heard before and politely excuses himself to the small ensuite dojo attached to his office. Ninety seconds and one annihilated sentinel droid later, Thrawn emerges from his dojo, returning his attention to the lightsaber scoring on his office walls, and calmly invites her to continue explaining what happened.
By the time they get to the holo footage of the incident, Thrawn has become someone Ezra has never met before, not even over Lothal. His eyes are always the color of blood, but their glow has become so bright they hurt to look st, and his lips are pulled back to expose his teeth in a vicious snarl.
There is only one possible conclusion as to how the interloper made it into the hangar — the records indicate their arrival, but the hangar master and her subordinates do not have any recollection of a newcomer — and it is that the intruder manipulated their minds with the Force. Ezra will question them personally and listen to the transcripts. His methodology is less forceful, but he has no doubt it will all check out.
The interloper’s only failure was in their timing as Thrawn was not aboard at the time they’d come to call. They do not seem particularly upset by this, Ezra notes upon watching the holofootage.
When Vanto happened upon the intruder in Thrawn’s office, he followed protocol first, notifying troop command and stalling for time. However, a star destroyer is a large ship, and since rejoining his former fleet, he has had no reason to travel under guard. The aforementioned troopers had no chance of arriving in time and even if they had, Ezra doubts there is much they could have done. The intruder was a darksider, if the orangish-red glint of the lightsaber recovered has anything to do with it, and it was a risky yet calculated move that led Vanto to give the enemy an opening during their ensuing scuffle, trading lightsaber impalement for a dagger he thrust into the Human’s chest, aiming for their heart. He twists that dagger as the darksider forcibly yanks their blade up and to the side to pull it out of his torso.
When the holo blinks out, Hammerly swallows and steps back. From behind his desk, Thrawn has folded his hands into a single tightly clenched fist. He regards them with hooded, slitted eyes, and his voice comes out as a deadly, near-silent hiss.
“Does he live?”
Hammerly gulps a breath and nods. “For now,” she says. The loyalty Thrawn commands is so complete that Ezra knows she’d never lie to him. She hasn’t even considered it, even if his behavior is scaring her. “Medical isn’t sure he’s going to make it.”
Ezra is a lot less afraid of Thrawn. He’s faced off with him at the very brink of mutual annihilation and is far more likely to push, but even he’s not stupid enough to test the leylines of the man’s exposed temper. “I don’t get it, though. They could’ve hidden until we got back.”
The darksider, after all, had been quite chatty and plenty willing to brag about their ties to Vader. Ezra had been honestly expecting a darksider to come for him, if they were after anyone. After all, Palpatine had seemed to need him for whatever insanity he was trying to bring down upon them by utilizing the World Between Worlds.
Thrawn holds Ezra’s gaze. “Commander Vanto has long paid for my actions,” he says blandly, except there is murder simmering in his gaze. “Did the inquisitor survive his injuries?”
“No, sir.” Hammerly’s hands are clenched tightly over her knees. She does an admirable job of holding his gaze, so she sees the vengeful disappointment that darkens his features further. “They were dead by the time the troopers made it to your office.”
⊰✦⊱
It begins with Thrawn in the medbay.
More specifically, it begins with Eli waking up in the medbay in utter agony, eyes crusty and difficult to open thanks to what must have been multiple rounds in bacta only to find Thrawn beside him. The Grand Admiral has stationed himself in one of those uncomfortable visitor’s chairs shoved into the corner of each bay. He’s slumped forward, a rogue lock of hair hanging down from its perfect coif and drifting with his deep breaths in sleep.
Eli holds still as he takes stock of his extremities. Fingers and toes wiggle despite the absolute fire that is his abdomen. It’s partially numb, and the starched sheets are pulled up to his shoulders so whatever’s happened to him since—
Kriff, he thinks, remembering. He looks over at Thrawn, reassessing the man’s face from his lower angle, grateful to be laying flat on his back rather than propped up as it gives him a better vantage point. Dark purple crescents mark a lack of sleep, and Thrawn’s fingers are gloved, rather than exposed, suggesting he’s been overdoing it in the dojo when he hasn’t been here or seeing to the day-to-day operations of his ship. And judging by the obvious beginnings of failed hair gel, he’s starting to neglect his usual routines.
So it’s bad, then. Eli figured, but the confirmation is pretty damning, even if most people wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
The door to his room swishes open. It’s too silent to be anyone but Bridger, who freezes when his blue eyes find Eli watching him. He chooses instead of reading the room to open his mouth. Eli lifts his shoulder and arm in a silent gesture for him to keep silent so Thrawn doesn’t wake up, but that slight movement pulls something that protests violently in his midsection and he ends up biting his lip instead of making a sound that would make him responsible for the thing he’d been trying to prevent in the first place.
Bridger gives him a sheepish, concerned grin. With a quick peek over at Thrawn to confirm they haven’t woken him, he raises his hand and does something to Eli that makes the pain unfurl.
“Thanks, kid,” Eli rasps in a jagged whisper, his throat dry with the discomfort that is the aftermath of the bacta tank’s throat rebreather apparatus.
Thrawn twitches at the sound of his voice, eyelashes fluttering, and a sliver of red emerges from behind pale blue eyelids.
“Va na?” The question is slurry with sleep, and Eli ignores how Bridger leans forward in interest. It isn’t a secret that Eli speaks Cheunh, but they do not converse in the language often, and almost never in front of others, given the way it draws unwanted attention. Idly, he hopes Ezra Bridger understands the gift of trust he’s been given, even though the question is nothing more than a simple check in. Thrawn is a warrior: even in this sleep deprived state, Eli does not doubt his awareness of Bridger’s presence.
“Mar, rcati’tohn,” Eli answers, the endearment slipping out after the affirmation without him even thinking about it. “Buscah.” He doubts an order to sleep will work, even on this very disoriented version of the man, but it’s worth a shot.
“Ttis’ah vez.” Thrawn’s open eyes are dull and his third, nictating eyelid refuses to retract all the way. The sleep deprivation must be more severe than Eli anticipated. From anyone else the words would sound perfunctory, but Thrawn is not a man that asks for anything, much less for someone else to live.
“Ch’ah ven,” he confirms, then, “Vacosehn vah csah,” he tries, changing tactics to beckon Thrawn closer. They are men of action after all, so he likely craves the demand to be doing something.
And indeed Thrawn does, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man whose waking state has more in common with rem sleep than anything resembling lucidity. Eli doesn’t have to tell Thrawn to fold himself forward and rest his head on Eli’s cot, he does it on his own, laying his head upon his folded arms. Gingerly, Eli moves his left hand to settle on Thrawn’s head in a move that is decidedly bold.
The action earns him a brief moment of true wakefulness from the Chiss, a startled flash of red eyes in the dim light of the room, but Eli swipes his thumb along the ridge of soft tissue on Thrawn’s forehead and reissues his earlier command. “Buscah,” he says, pushing weight into the word,“Ch’ah turczez,” promising that he’ll be alright. He hopes that isn’t a lie, because he doesn’t know much but assumes his present lack of bacta tank to be something positive.
“I only caught like thirty percent of that,” Bridger admits, long minutes after Thrawn acquiesces and lets himself slumber. It’s another testament to the trust Bridger has earned that he knows even this much of the Chiss language, especially considering the half curious, half shocked face he wears, complete with a grin that says he’s burning Eli’s behavior — and Thrawn’s (especially Thrawn’s)— into his memory for later.
That’d make two of them, because his actions are both bold and very possibly taking advantage of a situation where Thrawn is unfit to argue and Eli is in no shape to be reprimanded. He may never get an opportunity like this again.
“Want a medal?” Eli asks the question to the ceiling. He’s starting to feel weird, probably because he’s been running on fumes trying to survive his decision to bring a vibroblade to a lightsaber battle.
“Ha-ha. What did you call him? I know rcati is star, but I’ve never heard that word before.”
Eli uses his right hand to make a feeble, yet acceptably crude non-answer and changes the subject. “Is this a reprieve from the bacta or is it over?”
Bridger takes his attitude in stride, which must be some kindness shown because of his injuries. “You’ve got another week of sessions to finish regrowing your vital organs. They needed to pause to make sure your body wouldn’t reject them before they dip you again.”
“Kriff me.” Eli hates bacta. He’d rather face a tribunal than spend time swimming in that liquid hellchamber.
“Well, you were kind of kriffed after that inquisitor ran you through,” the Jedi acknowledges. “Thrawn spent his first three days back oscillating between ticking off the CMO by standing in front of your tank and willing you to live by glaring at you without blinking nearly enough, and being the most frightening person on the bridge, ever, which is crazy considering I did the purgil thing and most of these people have met Vader.”
“Ah,” he closes his eyes rather than let the ceiling begin to spin over his head. He strokes Thrawn’s forehead with his thumb again for good measure, then slides his hand back to cup the Chiss’ head properly. “How long has it been?”
“A week. You’ve been critical the whole time.”
“Even now?”
“Maybe a little less, but last I heard you’re still not out of the weeds, whatever that means.”
“Means I’m still pretty kriffed,” Eli groans. “If I don’t wake up again before they dunk me, you tell this one,” he tips his head toward Thrawn, keeping his eyes closed, “To keep it together, okay? I’ll pull through.”
Bridger squints in his direction. Eli refuses to open his eyes, but he feels the pause like a tangible thing. “Only if you tell me what that word means,” he counters. Eli knows he’s lying. “Rcati’tahn.”
“Rcati’tohn,” Eli corrects. The word has a thinner beginning, needs to rumble at the top of the mouth, and is round at the end. Bridger’s mangled it.
Thrawn makes a nearly silent, borderline subvocal hum of acknowledgement at the sound of his voice. Eli can’t help but to hum back. To a Human it means nothing, but for a Chiss, those nearly inaudible sounds are meant to soothe, and Eli’s gotten pretty decent at replicating it over the years, given his association with the Fleet’s children.
He opens a single eye to see Bridger watching him. The effort takes more out of him than he’s expecting and he’s not explaining anything more than he has to. “The direct translation is ‘starlight,’” he mumbles, knowing with absolute certainty that he's still in trouble because his body refuses to let him blush at the admission.
“Yeah, that’s not how you mean it.”
It is, though. The endearment is so very fitting for Thrawn, even though Eli has never before dared to use it, even as close proximity has pushed them back into the comforts of a once and yet again familiar orbit. Eli considers telling Bridger at least the first bit, but he’s far too tired to stay awake. It’s for the best, because he doesn’t think he’d normally be this forthcoming with an audience. He hasn’t been this forthcoming for far longer than he realized.
But that isn’t where his mind wanders to as his awareness fades. His last conscious thought, and something he wonders if Bridger understood from context is that while the word is not a direct translation, in Basic, it’s like he’d been saying darlin’.