Chapter Text
They’ve been reading reports for hours now — or more accurately, Pellaeon’s been reading reports for hours, his shoulders hunched and his neck aching. Thrawn’s been pacing the room, clicking his art holos on and off, scrolling from one world to the next. Now he’s puttering in the kitchenette. Pellaeon’s got a vague pin on him as he reads, not really paying attention to his surroundings. He rubs the back of his neck, where the muscle is knotted up.
And something drops onto the strip of exposed skin above his collar, something wet and warm. Pellaeon jumps, turns his head, feels a damp wash rag almost slide right off the back of his neck and into his lap. He and Thrawn both snatch at it, their hands bumping as they rush to keep it from falling.
“Sorry,” says Pellaeon, blinking. “What—”
“My apologies,” says Thrawn. He shoos Pellaeon’s hand away and adjusts the rag with a finicky attention to detail, folding the edges over so they don’t get Pellaeon’s uniform wet. “The last time we did this, you complained of neck pain for a week.”
“Well, I hardly think a wet rag—”
“It’s bacta-infused.”
Thrawn takes a seat opposite Pellaeon a little heavily. He crosses his legs, lights his datapad up, already settling in to read. He doesn’t seem to notice that Pellaeon is staring at him. Maybe he doesn’t care.
Pellaeon rubs the edge of the rag between his forefinger and thumb.
He’ll leave it, he decides.