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It would go this way. Eli doesn’t even bother complaining as they step off the lambda into an empty hangar bay and are met with four medics in hazardous materials garb.
“Please remove your clothing,” one says, voice heavily modulated by the respirator she says.
Eli grouses. These are his favorite boots, perfectly broken in and worn. Truthfully, if he served under any other officer he probably would have been told to retire them. But Thrawn doesn’t care about decorum, just results. Which is probably why he has never cared that his hair is entirely out of regulation, either.
Eli unceremoniously strips—tries not to blush when he catches one medic correcting her gaze—and holds his arm out in a cross per the instructions barked at him. The subsequent spray is ice cold and he gasps when the foam hits his skin.
“Would it have killed you to warm it up first?” Eli hisses.
“Keep your mouth closed,” the medic snaps.
He closes his mouth and his eyes and takes a step forward when commanded. Another spray to rinse and he is actively shivering now. The medic tosses him a towel with instructions to dry off. Only when he has safely secured the towel around his hips does he look at Thrawn.
He is similarly wrapped, hair hanging over his forehead, looking every bit like a very wet and very angry tooka. As much as Thrawn favors the cold, apparently he also hated the ice cold shower.
Together they are ushered into a tent that stretches out of the bay, into the hall, and into their holding cell. It is usually a training room, frequently used by the pilots, but now it will be home for the next 72 hours. On one of the workout benches rests two sets of PT gear.
“Well, this is a plus,” Eli says and picks up the one clearly meant for him. “I was starting to think we were going to be hanging out in towels.”
Thrawn huffs a laugh at that and they both dress quietly.
Eli rubs his hands up his biceps in a vain attempt to get warm. “So, what do you think we’ll have to do to get a datapad?”
Thrawn’s eyes glint. “I am the admiral, they will provide whatever I ask for.”
Eli grins as Thrawn strides over to the comm on the wall.
It was a nice idea, that they would get exactly what they want when they ask for it, but the universe has never been so nice. And honestly, if they can run into toxic spores, it isn’t all that surprising when the request is denied.
“ Why ?” Thrawn growls into the comm.
“Sir, the monsteris boxic is known to cause hallucinations or other cognitive failures. It is best that you do not have a datapad where you can reach command of the ship for any reason.”
“Thank you for your explanation of the circumstances,” Thrawn says frostily and kills the comm.
Eli shrugs. “Well, we are in a gym.”
And that lasts for all of two hours before they both fall on the mat, exhausted. They take turns in the fresher, redress in new PT gear and find themselves back on the mat, this time propped up against boxes.
“What do you think Colonel Yularen will think of this?” Eli asks after a few moments.
“He either will find comedy in it or I will receive another lecture for going on missions though I am the commanding officer.”
“What, are you supposed to just let stormtroopers do all the talking for you? Half those guys have taken so many blows to the bucket they can’t string a sentence together.”
Thrawn smirks. “So it would seem.”
Eli leans back. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.”
“Sure thing, sir.”
After that, they drift into silence. They usually do. They have spent the better part of a decade together and, though Eli considers Thrawn to be his best friend, there are only so many topics one can cover—especially while assuming they are being watched.
In the beginning, Eli learned quickly that Thrawn was loath to offer any information about his homeworld, but over the years he has offered small tidbits—like how he prefers snow to heat not only for biological reasons, but because he grew up in a particularly snowy climate or how he prefers hearty soups because it again favors the type of food served there.
Eli has always been an open book, but Thrawn is more like a word puzzle—small hints and pieces to create a larger picture. It has been something Eli enjoys figuring out over the years.
Sleep creeps up on Eli, an inevitable difference between him and Thrawn. They are still seated on the sparring mats, leaning up against the boxes—both just lost in thought—and Eli shivers. He has always been like this—as sleep approaches, his heart rate slows, his body temperature drops, and he feels like he is freezing. Later, he will wake up drenched in his own sweat and twisted in blankets, but he’ll never get there if he can’t cocoon himself first.
Thrawn stands and crosses the training room to enter the joined fresher. Not one to question his movements, Eli crosses his arms across his chest, buries his icy nose in the collar of his shirt and tries to succumb to his exhaustion.
A towel is draped across him and he looks up.
“There are no blankets.”
Eli can feel his lips turn up in a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“There are also no pillows. You have my permission to lean on me if needed.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, sir.”
~
Eli wakes up with a pillow under his head and wonders vaguely where Thrawn found one in the middle of the night. This thought remains persistent in his mind up until he feels fingers run absentmindedly through the hair at his temple. He stays still, willing his muscles to relax, though he can feel them tensing up.
“What do you suppose is the purpose of holoprojectors in the training room?” Thrawn asks. The jig is up, and though Thrawn’s hand remains on his head, there is no sense in pretending anymore.
“Sir?” Eli sits up, stifling a yawn.
Thrawn motions to the screens on the other side of the room where the cardio equipment is. He has turned it on, though the channel is a stuffy newscaster relaying economic statistics. Eli squints—the numbers are definitely wrong.
“I reckon it's for the folks who don’t like to run,” he explains. “They can watch something and zone out—let their mind focus on something other than running.”
“I see.”
Eli stands and tries to ignore how every joint in his body is protesting sleeping on an exercise mat. “I’m pretty sure we can find something better to watch, if you want.”
Thrawn tosses him the remote and Eli catches it easily.
The door to the gym slides open and two medics in hazmat gear waddle through the doorway. “Stay back!” one barks when Eli takes a half step towards him.
Eli has had the displeasure of being held captive multiple times in his short life and finds himself putting his hands up on instinct. Thrawn, on the other hand, remains seated—as unbothered as a nexu in a prairie.
One of the medics sets a tray of food on the bench and the other sets pillows and blankets on the floor before they all but sprint out of the room.
“Hey!” Eli shouts after them. “Would it kill you to give us a deck of cards or something?”
Neither Thrawn nor Eli are men who like to remain idle. If they ever manage to take shore leave, they find local adventures—museums, trails, pubs. And when they return home at night, they usually spend it reading or working or in general just enjoying each other’s silence.
With a heavy sigh, Eli meanders over to the food. “Our options are protein paste or protein paste.”
Thrawn stands and saunters over. He frowns. “They did not give us toast.”
The statement may as well be a declaration of war. There are only two things Thrawn needs to start his morning—a cup of caf, overly sweetened, and a carb. It doesn’t have to be fancy, half the time he is content with toast and jam, but the current lack is a definite disappointment.
“I’ll tell them to bring toast the next couple days.”
Thrawn waves him off—a rude gesture to some, but to Eli it is the casual response of ‘don’t worry about it’. It’s only for a few days, anyway.
The day lists into comfort. They switch to Sy Bisti and debate the realism of a show about medics that is currently on. Later they spar, and they conclude the evening with dinner and a game of cards—only after Eli taught him the rules and still loses.
“Are you sure you can’t see through my cards, too?” he asks him, all smiles and easy camaraderie.
“Positive,” Thrawn says and lays down his winning hand again .
“I’m unconvinced,” Eli says and returns his hand to pick up the cards and shuffle again.
“I do not need to, I only need to watch you.”
Eli blushes, and can feel the heat crawl up his neck to his cheeks. “Oh yeah? And what are my tells?”
“Telling you is a tactically poor decision.”
“Fine, be that way.”
Later, when they lay down for bed—Thrawn deciding to go to retire with him for a change due to lack of other activities—they lay facing each other, though with a modest distance between them.
“Feels a bit like camping,” Eli whispers in Sy Bisti, though they have been talking at full volume all day. It feels different when the lights are off and Thrawn’s eyes are a beacon in the darkness.
“Did you camp frequently as a child?” Thrawn asks in the same language.
“Yep, did you?”
“Sometimes. I have camped more times with you in our tenure together than in my childhood.”
“I imagine it’s hard to camp in the cold.”
“Perhaps with improper equipment it is.”
“I still don’t think I’d be a fan.”
“You do not like the cold, so that is likely an accurate assumption.”
Eli huffs and rolls to his back. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
~
The next day passes similarly to the first. Eli wakes to the sound of the holoprojector playing the news quietly and Thrawn’s thumb rubbing gentle arches along his shoulder. Apparently in his sleep, Eli had scooted closer to him, either way it is a nice way to start the day.
Breakfast is shit, as is lunch and dinner. They spar and watch another boring program—this time a game show that Eli used to watch when he stayed home sick from school as a child.
“So they spin the wheel, act ridiculous, and possibly win a prize?”
“Yep.”
“And sometimes the prize is not a prize.”
“Exactly.”
Thrawn is silent for a long moment. “Why?”
“I don’t know, I guess we just don’t have a lot to look forward to. Game shows give us hope that maybe one day we can make a break and get out of our shitty existence. Same as playing the lottery.”
“Do you believe your existence to be… shitty?”
They are sitting side by side, propped up against the boxes again. “Maybe once,” he says and lets his hand fall close to Thrawn’s, so just the tips of their fingers are touching. “But not anymore.”
Thrawn smirks, but says nothing.
And that night when they lay down for bed in complete darkness save for the crimson aura of Thrawn’s gaze, their hands meet in the distance between their bodies.
They don’t interlock fingers, they only ensure that the other is still there as they drift on to sleep.
~
Eventually their time in quarantine comes to an end. At the end of the third day, the medics arrive without hazmat suits.
“Well, sirs, it looks like you’re clear to return to duty without restrictions.” He hands each of them their datapads. “Congratulations on not dying.”
“Thanks,” Eli grumbles.
The medic leaves and they both linger there for a moment. The door is right there , but the outside seems so much less desirable. Their quarantine had not felt like isolation, but rather an indulgence—time alone together doing whatever the hell they wanted to do. For the most part, anyway.
He feels oddly relaxed and, if he is any good at reading Thrawn, he looks similarly unwilling to return to work.
They share a glance and Eli offers him a small smile before they both take a step towards the door. They are immediately met with chaos, hundreds of missives, correspondences that need immediate attention, requests to reschedule meetings and briefings and suddenly everyone wants to wish them well.
By the end of the night they are exhausted.
At two in the morning, Eli finally decides to toss in the towel. “I’m hitting the hay, sir,” Eli says and stands, subsequently cracking every vertebrae in his back.
Thrawn looks up from his datapad, his gaze a little unfocused as he brings himself back to the real world. “Sleep well, I will also retire soon.”
Eli nods and makes his way to their shared room.
“Lieutenant Commander?”
He stops and looks over his shoulder.
“You blink when you have a good hand. Your brows furrow when you do not.”
With a laugh, he turns to face him fully and leans against the doorframe. “I feel like I should be embarrassed that you saw through me so quickly.”
“Do not be. You do the same when you are debating two options. When it is possible, you blink as if you are dismissing one plan or another. When you are faced with a difficult option, you bare down and glare until you figure out a feasible option.”
Eli shakes his head. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
His smile falters ever so slightly. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”
They stand there, watching each other—Eli can feel his brows furrowing and relaxes his features. The hand isn’t a good one, it never has been with Thrawn, but he can make the most of it.
“It’s awful late,” Eli whispers.
Thrawn looks up. Eli has played his hand and now it is his turn. “Perhaps Governor Pryce can wait for my answer until the morning.”