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whirlybirbs · 2 years

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✶ ——— TO KNOW, DESPERATELY ; thrawn ; 2

summary: you and senior captain thrawn walk in the rentor gardens. your families negotiate. thrawn realizes you will be a distraction.

pairing: thrawn / female chiss!reader

word count: 7.1k

tags: arranged marriage, friends-to-lovers, chiss politics, set before greater good, thrawn being bad with social interactions, f!reader is funny

a/n: happy valentine’s day to all my pride-and-prejudice-hand-touch whores! i love you all! as a gift, have me roleplaying as timothy zahn for another seven thousand words. once again, this pretty gif is by @cloudxstrife from this set here.

< chp. 1 | read me on ao3

Chatter lulls across the debriefing hall.

As Samakro stands by the back of the room, arms tightly crossed, he notes that almost all of Admiral Ar'alani's task force is present.

Across the room, the Mid Captain can see the high-ranking bridge crew of the Grayshrike gathering in polite conversation — Senior Captain Xodlak’in’daro is there amongst them, watchful and observant as ever, keen on turning her own attention around the room.

Lakinda meets Samakro's eyes, then nods curtly. He returns the gesture.

His crew — or, should he say Thrawn's crew — have begun to settle in; most of the Springhawk's bridge crew gather at the tables along the center of the room. Chatter rolls around, and he notes that it seems like those three days of leave earlier in the week have done them all some good.

Samakro does a head-count to himself... Afpriuh, Laknym, Dalvu, Azmordi, Kharill...

The door to the meeting hall opens, and while Samakro isn't exactly surprised to see Thalias, he is surprised to see Che'ri. Bet'nih and her caregiver — a rather crone-like woman named Soomret if memory serves him — follow. Then, the Vigilent's own skywalker, Ab'begh, and her caregiver, that "Nana" woman, file in behind them.

If the skywalkers are here, then odds are Admiral Ar'alani would be handing out orders.

And Thrawn was nowhere to be found.

Thalias seems to see the same thing, too.

Which... was odd. Really odd. Her eyes flick around as Che'ri plops into her seat with a half-enthusiastic, half-interested look around the room. Thalias presses her lips into a fine line and scans the gathered crews. There are plenty of familiar faces. The caregiver is just shocked that he isn't here.

She meets Samakro's gaze on accident.

There's a shared moment of bafflement between them.

Where is he?

Not a damn clue.

And though Samakro doesn't trust Thalias as far as he could throw her, he does appreciate the shared confusion. Makes him feel sane.

I mean, a Senior Captain missing a key mission debrief? That's absurdity. Totally ridiculous — even more foolish — when one considers the role Thrawn had to play in the inevitable genre of these conferences.

This was about Yiv.

Maybe he's late, Thalias thinks to herself.

In the back of the room, Samakro is grumbling to himself, maybe he won't show.

A disgruntled noise is wrangled out of the back of Samakro's throat when, sure enough, Ar'alani strides in with Wuutrow in tow. The entire hall jumps to attention — and Samakro isn't exempt despite his curiosity on where the sithspit Thrawn was. The stiff rigidity that washes throughout the room is damn near exemplary, and almost enough to make Samakro disregard his minute anger in favor of pride.

As Ar'alani strides through the room, she finds both Lakinda's eyes as well as Samakro's. Each of the officers receives a well-meaning nod before she reaches the front of the room.

Her voice is as crystalline and as it is commanding.

"At ease."

The hall relaxes into a quieter version of earlier — officers, pilots, and warriors take their seats as Ar'alani settles on the raised platform at the front of the room. Wutroow assumes a stance to the far left, her own questis tucked beneath her arm, ready to assist. With a graceful tap, the Admiral's debrief syncs with the holoprojector to her right. Immediately, the room is bathed in frayed, white emittance. A star-map tilts around the low pedestal as she speaks.

Che'ri likes this part.

I mean, sure — it gets sort of boring. But, seeing the expanse of space swim around the room as the Admiral talks isn't so bad. In here, on the ground, the Chaos seems so pretty. Like the best, most beautiful Starday there could ever be, where you could see any star ever.

It wasn't so scary when it was laid out like this, either. Sure, between the plotted hyperlanes there were still swirling, snapping void-maws of starmatter that could definitely swallow the Springhawk whole, but Che'ri was ten now. Ten!

Her confidence, Thalias notes, has grown. Even now, Thalias is inspecting the skywalker's face out of the corner of her eye, ready to alleviate any anxieties that may arise — but Thalias doesn't find any. Only interest and a bright-eyed sort of curiosity that Thalias herself wishes she could have.

After all, from what Admiral Ar'alani is getting at, they're about to be diving headfirst into battle after battle. Cleaning up Yiv's remaining forces could be a mission that could span months, according to the Admiral's own words.

Before the skywalker and her caregiver even realize it, the debrief is over and the Admiral is calling for questions.

Purely a formal gesture — one that Lakinda has come to respect from her Admiral in the short time she's been assigned apart her fleet. As always, none come, and the debrief hall begins to stir with the expectation of dismissal when Ar'alani opens her mouth to speak once more.

"I'm sure some of you noted Senior Captain Thrawn's absence," she says slowly with a glacial sense of composure; Samakro narrows his eyes and Thalias finds her head tilting.

Ar'alani seems... amused? Thalias can't read it. Before she has any time to parse it, the Admiral continues as she shuts down the projector.

"He asked that I apologize on his behalf," she explains with a pointed breath of silence, "As he is preoccupied with the Commencement of Courting Rites."

Thalias swears her jaw almost drops. Samakro's not far behind, and he's sure that the someone who promptly chokes on their own spit is definitely Second Officer Kharill. Che'ri's eyes are so wide, they nearly outgrow her smile.

...Courting Rites?

"He is due back on Naporar within the next three days. He has stated, that in his leave, acting command falls to Mid Captain Samakro as we organize for departure."

Wutroow has to mind her presentation — she suppresses the desperate snicker that almost slips out. The mixed look of shock that ripples through the gathered audience is astounding. Poor Kharill is nearly doubled over trying to clear his throat when Wutroow catches Lakinda's uncharacteristic look of pure disbelief. Samakro looks like he's two seconds from pitching himself in front of an airbus by Ar'alani's own estimate. Thalias' jaw is nearly on the floor, and young Che'ri looks like she could vibrate through the walls on excitement alone.

Sure, Ar'alani could have specified that the union was arranged — but, oh, the looks on some of their faces at the consideration that the ever-stoic, ever-infuriating Senior Captain was to be willfully married...

Samakro can't believe it.

In fact, he refuses to believe it.

With everything that had gone in the last few months with trial after trial via the Aristocra... If Thrawn was planning on initiating courting rites, he would have mentioned it.... wouldn't he? Or, was the Senior Captain as aloof as he was in command when it came to sharing anything about himself? Surely, Samakro would have overhead something if Thrawn was vested in marriage.

…Who the hell wanted to marry Thrawn?

"If there are no further questions, you're all dismissed."

Ar'alani leaves the room, with Wutroow in tow, before anyone can even dream of asking a follow-up.

✶ ——— ✶ ——— ✶ ——— ✶

Thrawn — long before that was even his name — has never been good with people.

He realized this early on, during early academic years spent alongside peers who seemed to outshine him in regards to socialization. He never had many friends. Thrawn was always more content to withdraw, to watch, to try and piece together a person's modus operandi before engaging.

For this reason, he understands why his fellow classmates had always lauded him as a little odd. Mechanic in conversation. Always a bit distant, tepidly engaged, as if he was pretending to care.

He wasn't pretending. He was trying.

It's harder when he doesn't know the anticipated outcome of a conversation. Nowadays, Thrawn has learned to settle that not every conversation needs a yield. Sometimes, the act of conversation itself is enough of a gesture. Though it's a removal from his tactic-driven logic, he's gotten better at understanding it. He doesn't need to glean meaning from microexpressions and body language.

That doesn't mean it isn't a habit.

The last four days have given Thrawn plenty of time to agonize over the potential outcomes of this first meeting.

Typically, the Mitth were the more conservative family insofar as their courting expectations — which, frankly, was expected of one of the Ruling Nine. This often meant chaperoned visits, purposeful and traditional gift exchanges, and the rehearsal of a myriad of vows and oaths. Thurfian seemed unenthused to be the one tasked with educating Thrawn on these topics, but so was his role as newly anointed Syndic Prime.

It was a lot to stomach.

Marriage — this early in his career — was certainly not something Thrawn had planned for. Though, in this case, an arranged union most definitely fell well outside of his expected definition. There was the hope that maybe this will not become as likely a distraction as possible. In fact, he was beginning to think this arrangement could prove to be nothing more than another facet to his duties as a member of the Ascendency and, furthermore, the Mitth.

He had the wherewithal to acknowledge that engaging in anything other than surface-level pleasantries was ill-advised. Especially now, as this morning's call with Ar'alani proved to cement that point.

Their task force would be engaging in a campaign to finalize the end of Yiv's regime. That was the priority.

He could be pragmatic. He could see there was no time for this — a thought that he'd been rehearsing in his head while trying to gauge when he'd be back on Naporar to aid Mid Captain Samakro in preparations for their assignment. This was a sidebar, a non-priority. A momentary pause in duties as he traded his status for political family gain.

Though he may not enjoy it, such comes with life as a member of a ruling family.

Yes, this would be easy.

... Ten minutes into the meeting, the dawning horror that Thrawn gravely miscalculated hits him.

The two of you are quiet as you venture beyond the main curve of the garden, leaving the two family parties to begin what will inevitably become a squabble regarded for the ages. The pitch of voices practically crescendos when you and Thrawn turn towards the outer edge of the gardens — and he's immediately interested to find you're straining to eavesdrop.

Call it your own habit.

Your strides are slow. His hands are still clasped tightly behind his back, pristine charcoal gloves pressed to his spine. He drums his forefinger against his wrist. You wring your hands in front of you.

The other couple — the Stybla and Droc pair — pass you both on the outer edge of the same path. Both you and Thrawn offer them courteous nods. The gesture is returned.

Three steps, four steps, five...

You break the silence.

"How long do you think until they eat one another alive?" you ask slowly, with a well-mannered tilt of your head.

Thrawn tries to remind himself of his place. This is a duty. To walk, to learn. He doesn't need the gnawing elation of interest to distract him on what will inevitably be a long campaign at the edge of Ascendency space. But, that little, hidden part of him clamors to pick apart your words and meaning and the gentleness with which your humor bleeds into your smile.

Humor was a rarity within the Ascendency. True, self-aware humor.

The corner of his lip twitches. The Senior Captain adjusts his posture and exhales. Anchors himself. "If I'm being generous, perhaps an hour."

...His voice.

It's low — a rumbling baritone that has a near velvet quality to it. It's level, placid as a lake at dawn, the whole way through. The timbre of it is enough to catch your breath. Your immediate assessment is that it's pleasant.

Here he is: pleasant to look at, pleasant to listen to.

You, with your previous awareness of chittered secrets in the halls of the Aristocra, know there is always an angle when it comes to public image. The Mitth had done right to lift the Senior Captain where it mattered, pitching him as a talented asset to the family.

But, you'd been on shift for one of those many hearings last month — one that had consisted of three hours of questioning for Vigilent's bridge crew on the final skirmish.

To her credit, Admiral Ar'alani had fielded questions flawlessly.

However, a good line of that inflammatory questioning had come from Thurfian, you now realize, hellbent on spinning some sort of narrative about Thrawn. A good number of Aristocra seemed to accept it.

You wondered if any of them had ever met Mitth'raw'nuruodo. And if so, had the handsome face and warm voice thrown off their initial, pre-conceded distaste? The broad shoulders, the pristine uniform, the perfect picture of the Chiss Defense Fleet's might? Had it disarmed them, interested them?

Just as it's doing now, to you?

Rentor's sun has dipped lower, lower, lower into the city. Long shadows creep from the district below the high gardens as the blues of the day's sky begin to melt into orange. It's picturesque, really. Something you never saw much of back on Csilla. You'd spent so much of your time there, under artificial lights in the deep, sub-level cities.

"That is generous," you say lightly, turning a cheek to momentarily cast a look over your shoulder.

Thrawn finds himself watching. You are a curious thing. Beautiful, yes, but... He finds himself paying a critical amount of attention to the way you move with ease through the conversation.

He hadn't considered the trouble that would arise at the fact you are easy to talk to — even worse, that though even a handful of words have been spoken, Thrawn finds himself interested in what you have to say.

Horrific news for the man who had been hedging his bets on having no interest in you; for the man who was hoping you'd not prove a distraction to his career.

You have his attention.

You can tell.

It's flattering.

"You know," you begin slowly as you loosen up your steps a bit and turn your eyes to him; he dodges your gaze and his eyes hit the ground. Your voice is warm, "You are taller than I expected."

Thrawn musters a dry scoff from the back of his throat. "Is that so?"

You loosen your grip on your hands, moving to snag a wilted leaf from a flare-star bush as you pass. The leaf is purple. Your fingers run along the edge. Thrawn watches. He finds himself looking away when you raise your eyes to look at him again.

You aren't offended. In fact, it's... charming.

"Yes," you narrow your eyes a little, "And not as much as a Traditionalist as I feared, either."

Thrawn can feel a slight smirk tug at his mouth. He drops his head, clears his throat, and notes the evident tone of relief that weighs your words. "You anticipated me to monologue the rites to you?"

You raise a hand. "Please. If I hear them one more time, I'll throw myself from the balcony."

Thrawn hums. "Doubtful the fall would kill."

"A shame, really," you smirk back, well-timed and well-aimed, "Though, I'm sure if this evening pans out, we'll find out the answer soon enough."

You both cast looks over your shoulders this time.

Thrawn's eyes linger on your family's representative... Siama, Thurfian had named him. There had been malice in his voice, Thrawn realizes. Not towards him as he was used to. No, towards the Komisi Family Councilor.

"You'll forgive me if this is a useless line of questioning," Thrawn begins slowly as his hands fall from his back before he even realizes, "But, is it safe to assume Councilor Siama and Syndic Thurfian do not like one another?"

"From what I can glean," you say, flicking your eyes across his face. He seems to accept that explanation with ease; this time he holds your gaze as if he's searching for something, "I thought it was simply the usual inter-family politics. However..."

You shrug. Thrawn quirks a brow.

"...Perhaps, spiteful ex-lovers?" you supply with a mischievous smile — they certainly were arguing like it, "Though I suppose it would be unfair to sit here and spin rumors like I'm a member of the Aristocra myself. Very unbecoming."

He's shocked to find himself smiling. He reigns it in, muscling the stern yet calm look back onto his face once more. Thrawn reminds himself of his rank and drags his hands back behind his back.

His voice is light. "...It is an entertaining thought."

"Yes, well, it's either we entertain ourselves, lamenting our families," you say as you toss the leaf to the wind, "Or we truly follow the rites—"

"As is the Ascendency is ever-lasting, so shall I, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, commit myself to you—"

It's your turn to laugh. He doesn't seem like a man to joke — but, here he is. Spinning the beginning of the courting rites as if it's some laughable little thing. He holds his hands out before him, palms up, as he spares a sheepish look towards the gravel. He looks worried at first — as if the attempt at good humor might fail. But, your laugh placates that worry. His posture isn’t so forced once more.

You spare him a quick look before shaking your head. Your headdress tinkers. You play into his joke. "Fine, then. Go ahead and interrogate me, Senior Captain — then, the balcony..."

Hm. You weren't like other civilians he'd met. Frequently, the use of ranked titles made people squirm. Thrawn, absent-mindedly, revokes his previous assessment of a dancer. You must be military-aligned.

To your point, however, the rites were borderline interrogative in their line of questioning. Thrawn's head had spun at the possibility of answering his own half of these — but the purpose was served as to see the whole image of your betrothed as quickly as possible. They were often lacking in informed context; blurting out his preferable language of affection in a strange, far-off garden courtyard felt meaningless to Thrawn.

Wasn't the purpose of love to learn these things in time?

But, Thrawn supposes love, really, had no purpose here.

He reminds himself of how dangerous a distraction this could be.

Thrawn's eyes, a deep deep crimson, flicker across your own. "And perhaps I want to learn all that in due time?"

You catch yourself smiling up at him. You drop your face after a few moments. You cast a long look across the courtyard at the Droc and Stybla couple from before. They're eerily silent.

It could be worse, you think, at the very least Thrawn is... engaging.

And handsome. Had you mentioned that bit, yet?

Thick, void-black hair seems to have a mind of its own. A few wayward strands hang from the swept-back hairstyle. You note the way he ignores them as if he is perpetually used to the cowlick that springs the strands free.

"May I ask you something, then?" you ask, settling his previous response neatly into your heart.

"I will try my best to answer."

"Do you know why they matched us?"

Thrawn blinks. His admittance comes out slowly, with a hint of dejection. "I'm afraid I do not have a strong grasp on the political nuances of our arrangement."

One brow raises. You clasp your hands again. "Noted... Second question. Do you know who I am?"

"Only your name," he says slowly, "And that you're a cousin of the Komisi family... Do... Do you know who I am?"

Thrawn regrets asking the moment the question leaves his lips.

The look that slips across your face is sly, however.

Beneath it, relief seeps into your chest. The anxiety of having to tiptoe around the more... disheartening thematics of your union wasn't so big now. If Thrawn didn't know who you were, then that meant the Mitth had kept your confidential leave of service as such. You gathered the sense Thrawn wasn't lying. You would tell him in due time when first impressions were out of the way. He deserved that much.

"Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet," you say with a touch of exaltation, "As I said, you're taller than I expected."

"Now, is it only my name and title you're aware of," he breathes in a playful chide, "Or my reputation as well?"

"I prefer to make my own determinations," you offer; it's touched with sincerity. Thrawn appreciates it, "Though, I'd be lying if I said I was unaware of the stir you'd cause with the defeat of General Yiv. Congratulations, by the way."

His mouth twists into a frown. The two of you round a corner in the winding path of the garden. It's shadier here, hidden from the sun as vines climb the high walls. Thrawn exhales. The leaves dapple little patterns as the setting light sift through them. You both weave through the shadows.

"There is still work to be done before we can celebrate defeat," he mutters as a breeze ripples through the warm air, "Though we've removed him from power, his forces remain present in several relevant star systems."

You slide him a slow look. Your face paint itches. "Is this... sensitive information?"

Thrawn smirks. "You would have been made aware soon enough."

Ah. He's dropping hints. You nod and hum with a touch of amusement. Thrawn watches.

"I see. Fleeing the responsibilities of the rites so soon? Tsk, tsk, Senior Captain."

Thrawn looks at you then — and you can't place the emotion on his face. He's well-guarded.

When he speaks, his tone is inquisitive.

"You're comfortable with formal titles."

You clasp your hands and sway your head in a girlish way as if you've been caught in a bit of mischief. The light shimmers across the metallic lines contouring your face. All in all, it's a beautiful sight.

"Would you prefer I avoid them?"

"No, I just find it curious," he rumbles as he continues to watch your movements, "And the reality that I know very little about you is growing more considerable with each second."

"You need only ask."

"Are you military?"

"Cutting straight to the point," you flash a look of a challenge at him, then turn to admire the garden, "No."

"No?"

"Perhaps I was," you ruminate as you pluck yet another leaf from a passing vine and fiddle with it as you walk, "Perhaps I wasn't."

"Chiss Intelligence, then."

When you laugh — truly throw your head back and laugh — Thrawn feels a beam of pride rise through him. It spurs his own smile. Though it's well-guarded and hidden beneath a look towards the sunset, it's still there.

"Please," you chide, "Be nice."

"To some, that's a compliment."

"Do I seem so cold?" you remark, calling upon the stereotype that floats about the Ascendency on the behalf of the secretive police force; Chiss Intelligence was a dangerous foe and a powerful ally. All together something that would make any citizen's skin crawl, "Really, I thought I was doing well up to this point..."

"You are," Thrawn affirms, offering a thankful smile, "I admit I was nervous."

"As was I," you offer, "Given your reputation, I thought..."

Your words trail off.

What had you expected?

To start, not nearly someone so... calm. Not a thoughtful man who seemed engaged with your conversation — and not a man who seemed to enjoy the quiet chatter of two strangers navigating this horrifically odd circumstance.

"Yes...?" he presses, steps slowing as he raises his eyes and narrows them momentarily. You swear you hear anxiousness in his voice.

...Does he care what you think of him?

Your mouth parts and you flick your gaze across his face.

"I hesitated to think we may get along," you answer finally. It's kind.

Thrawn's eyes slip across your expression, noting its earnestness, and swallows down his nip of discomfort.

Let us hope they are kind, then, and patient. That is all people like us can ask for, after all.

Ar'alani's words echo softly in his thoughts.

The two of you are quiet for a while after that — now far away from the prying eyes of the two families belittling one another in well-hidden remarks and jabs, the pressure to remain astutely polished isn't so prevalent. Thrawn catches the way your arms swing, and how you seem lost in thought.

You both come to another turn, and it's then that you speak.

"Did you have any preconceived notions about me, then?"

Thrawn tuts. "No — but, I found myself intrigued with your family's history."

Your eyes brighten a little. "Is that so? A Mitth, intrigued with the traditions of a lowly, Great Family like the Komisis?"

You're teasing.

Thrawn finds he doesn't mind it.

He raises his chin and battles back a smirk. You catch it though, eyes lifted to watch his reaction.

"...I quite enjoy art," he explains slowly, "And your family seems to be rather gifted in the subject."

Art. Your brows knot as your lashes flutter in a minor wash of confusion. That was hardly the sort of interest you expected of a high-ranking officer within the CEDF. Interesting. Admirable, even.

As you walk, a slight smile slips across your face.

Yes, he'd fit in at some of the finer galleries in Rentor, chattering about the integral relation between medium and intent. You're sure Thrawn would enjoy conversations over the complexity of purposeful abstraction. Siama was the same type of man — one who had regaled you with the extensive history of the Komisi family estate. That included the multitude of art and architecture woven into the manor.

Though soon you would be a Mitth, you make a note to extend an offer for a formal dinner — there would be plenty of time for those within the rites.

"Quite the hobby for a man of your career. How did you acquire that interest?" you ask, interested.

Thrawn rubs his wrist absentmindedly. A nervous habit. "I... I attended the Academy here on Rentor. They had a rather well-curated collection of texts on Venthan Chassu's early works."

You hum. Suddenly, you raise a finger.

"Is he the one that does the—"

"Selonian nude studies?" Thrawn mutters in a slightly exasperated tone; even Ar'alani, with nearly no interest in art, was well aware of that artist's more... infamous work, "Fascinating how everyone always associates him with—"

"I mean, they're—"

"Selonians—?"

"...Furry little things..."

Thrawn bites back a snort. His tone is light when he speaks. "...Are you finished?"

"I'm not sure," you supply, mimicking his posture and clasping your hands behind your back, "I feel like there's some sort of psychoanalysis I could complete with this piece of information about you."

"So you are Chiss Intelligence, then."

He's grinning.

You mirror it.

"Maybe I should let you believe that," you say as you turn on your heel and walk backward for a moment; long enough to pin him with a humorous look and shrug, "It certainly would make conversations with me more interesting."

"Do you believe yourself to be disinteresting?" Thrawn asks with a frown, "I insist that's hardly the case."

That compliment is kind.

Your face softens. And you turn back around and settle to match his strides as you both round the long stretch of the garden's walk.

Now, the families have come back into view. In the light indigo of the evening sky, the stars have begun to crawl out. They glimmer gently.

"Thank you," you say honestly.

Thrawn's voice is warm. "Of course."

"I beg your pardon—?"

Quiet slips between you both again, but by no fault of your own — it's the rather loud stir flooding the courtyard that silences you both. Whereas previously the quiet between words has been contemplative and calm, this one is spiked with an edge of worry. One that brings you both to a complete stall in the garden's path.

Why do you ask?

Because there is now a desperate wedge of family members trying to separate Siama and Thurfian — the two men who are, literally, blue in the face. Their shouting match seems to escalate the moment both you and Thrawn come into view, with hands waving in your general directions. More pushing begins as the men crash against one another in the now escalating argument.

...This is a rarity.

Chiss politics were usually... more covert.

But, Komisis had a penchant for theatrics, and the Mitth didn't like to be muscled around. And, with Councilor Siama's previously established dislike for Thurfian...

Suddenly, the two families in the arbor across from the Komisi-Mitth argument begin to shout as well — but this time, it's directed at the sparring families. This turns both Siama and Thurfian on the two Councilor's, not from the Droc and Stybla family but another two houses.

It's a clamor of family members waving hands and moving to shout at others and arguments have now begun to bleed into the open air — and the three couples wandering the garden have completely halted their walks.

That's when the groom of the Stybla-Droc pair faints.

Flat out, stiff-as-a-board.

You watch it happen, too — and as you slap a hand over your mouth, you note Thrawn's evident wild-eyed expression. It seems as if he has no idea where to look, as suddenly the peace of the garden has been entirely upended.

The clamor ends when the poor bastard hits the ground — and all four families rush to usher him up.

It disperses a deal of tension, and it certainly gives you enough time to slip Thrawn a look and gesture to a bench at the far end of the garden.

He takes the suggestion with urgency.

You both — for lack of better words — scurry off.

The other couple, the one you'd overhead discussing the rapid decay of cell structure in exposed hyper-space, seems to be attempting the same sort of respite from the chaos. Across the quieter end of the courtyard, they've also stolen sanctuary at one of the large stone benches.

Thrawn looks over his shoulder as the brush off the Stybla man and winces.

You lean around him, cast an apathetic look his way, and slide it up to Thrawn. "Better now than before the High Courts."

"True. And this could always be going worse, I suppose," he offers, hand gesturing gracefully between the two of you before he extends his hand for you to sit.

You heed the gesture and settle neatly on the edge of the bench. You smooth the heavy silken skirt and are careful not to sit in the delicate, semi-transparent lilac scarf that drapes from the back of your headdress.

Thrawn watches with dedicated interest. There are many layers to your family's traditional garb — he finds himself particularly drawn to the intricacy of the embroidery. Each family has its colors. If Thrawn was not a member of the CEDF, he'd no doubt be expected to wear something along the lines of Mitth red.

Rather boring when compared to the pretty blues and greens of your silks.

"Your estimate was close," you say as you watch the gaggle of Chiss Aristocra and family affiliates drift about the lawn by the arbors; no doubt, they're calming back down. The Stybla man has recovered, it seems, but he looks a little unsteady on his feet.

Thrawn settles down next to you with his arms crossed. Long legs are spread a bit, just enough to take up a decent amount of space on his end of the bench. He's painfully aware of the starched lines of his CEDF dress uniform, now. His boots are shined to perfection.

He cocks his wrist back, tugging on his sleeve to reveal a slim, slate grey chronometer — and he hums at your appraisal of his estimate.

Thrawn's smirk is half-hearted. "My apologies it was the case even at all."

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the families. "None needed. So is the way of Komisi-Mitth politics, it seems."

"...Are you... familiar with them?" Thrawn asks slowly, head tilted, "The politics, I mean."

You slip him a look. "Still assessing whether or not I am Chiss Intelligence?"

The Senior Captain laughs quietly. He shakes his head. "No. I... As I said before, I lack the understanding to see why our union was arranged."

"Do you know about the mining operations on Kinoss?" you ask, for a start.

Thrawn nods. "Vaguely. Your family relies on the Mitth for transportation and overall logistic aid in the mining for precious stones there, correct?"

You lean and nod, impressed. "You've got a big piece of the grand, political puzzle nailed down, then."

"...Why now?" Thrawn asks after a moment of quiet.

You frown.

You've been thinking the same thing — but, the truth lay in who you two are. Mitth'raw'nuruodo and you. Separate, yet every bit intertwined with the politics of the Ascendency.

"I don't know. It's my understanding the Mitth proposed the union," you say slowly and keep your bias back, "Perhaps they hoped your success would sweeten the offer with good grace — after all, the Mitth make no money on mining operations if the product never comes of it. They could export it off-world, but... People pay for Komisi pieces."

Thrawn, however, notes the trepidation with which you speak.

"...Are you lying to me?"

You freeze.

When you turn to face him, you can see a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

You narrow your expression playfully. "Are you accusing me of lying to you?"

"It was a simple question—"

"—One that could be seen as an accusation—"

"—Hardly, I just noticed you... you worry your hands."

You still the hands that, as he verbalizes it, are caught wringing themselves. You'd been fiddling with your rings, too. Immediately, you shove them under your thighs and sit right on top of them. It's a bit defiant. You even raise your chin.

Thrawn muscles the smile off his face.

Distractions.

You're quiet for a moment after that — busy weighing the worst that could happen if Thrawn truly found out who you were. He was military. There were a handful of branches within the Ascendency's military structure who were sworn to varying degrees of secrecy... The Sentries, though, often fell amongst the highest.

You were no longer one of them.

It didn't mean that a near decade-long code was no longer your baseline mode of operation. And, the proceedings and findings were still ongoing.

You decide, pointedly, to deflect.

Thrawn notices and shelves it for later — something for, perhaps, Admiral Ar'alani's security clearance.

"You said General Yiv's forces remain," you draw out slowly, and Thrawn accepts the turning tide of the conversation with a gentle nod, "Does this mean you'll be assigned to the task force dedicated to... cleaning them up?"

"Precisely," Thrawn says; you note a bit of... regret in his eyes.

"...When?"

"After our meeting, I'll be on the first shuttle to Naporar tomorrow morning."

You hum.

You hadn't really thought about the future after this.

Perhaps there was a part of you that had been hoping this would all burn up — that the negotiations would fall apart and you'd no longer be betrothed to the infamous Senior Captain Thrawn. Perhaps you hadn't considered the long, winding intricacies of two families' traditions and how this first meeting was merely a literal walk in the park.

There will be expectations of you as a potential Mitth.

"Are you nervous?" you ask suddenly.

Thrawn blinks. His eyes roam your face — and he sees no malice. Only true, sincere wonder. When he's quiet, you continue.

"You're going to be engaged in conflict."

His brow's tense. Thrawn, truly, doesn't know how to answer this question. There must be a reason you're asking. He seems mildly unsure of himself when he asks, "...Does that frighten you?"

"Does it frighten you?" you ask, reinforcing your previous question.

The Senior Captain shakes his head. "I have confidence in my warriors and myself. Fear in the face of the unknown reaps no benefit. We must welcome the unfamiliar with calm, and preparedness."

Your smile is slow.

Thrawn's expression is soft.

"Does it frighten you?" he asks again.

"We're going to spend the rest of our lives together," you mutter, suddenly caught off guard by the softness in his voice, "I'd hate for that to be cut short by some... would-be-invader's wannabe replacement out in less space."

"Is this your way of saying," Thrawn starts slowly with a dash of amusement, "That you don't find me to be... disagreeable?"

You slide him a look — one that's heavy with a relieved sort of happiness.

"No, Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo, I believe you're quite agreeable," you wiggle your shoulders a little, trying to relieve the sudden tension winding itself through the air, "I might even venture to say you and I might make good friends."

The roll of his full name and title makes him smile. It even earns a chuckle.

"Then we're in agreeance," he concedes, "Friends."

"Friends."

Distracted.

The two of your hold each other's gazes for a while before he relents — and you relax against the bench as the swirling talk of families distracts your eye. They seem to have simmered down, and though Siama still looks as if he would like to reach across the herd and smack Thurfian's frown right off his face, they're talking politely. Some eyes are turned to you and Thrawn, chattering happily about the potential for a successful arrangement.

The quiet is nice as the breeze from the water drifts in and the garden breathes. Flowers have begun their nighttime ritual, curling inward from the budding cold and hiding from the winking stars.

The moon is nearly high in the sky now — and you know that soon, the meeting will be adjourned.

"You said you leave tomorrow?"

Thrawn casts a look at you from the corner of his eye. Your voice sounds distant. Your attention is on the families.

"Yes."

Suddenly, you're digging through the underlayer of one of your robes. There's a lighter dress beneath the heavier silks — this one pale green. The pocket space is limited, but your mini-questis is procured with a flick of your wrist.

"Does the CEDF allow for personal communique?"

Thrawn's expression ignites with interest.

...Distractions, distractions, distractions.

"Outside of the bridge and during allotted rest hours, yes."

"Would you allow me to send personal communique?"

Thrawn should say no. He should, and limit his attention to you as much as he can — but there's a part of his heart that tugs at the thought of you worrying. The Senior Captain hesitates, only for a moment, then takes the questis easily into his palm.

He slots his personal frequency into your contact bank.

The questis clicks shut. He offers it back smoothly.

"My shifts are in eight-hour rotations," he says easily, with an attempt to play this little personal transaction off as if it's nothing, "If I fail to respond, that is why."

Your smile is slow.

"Of course. I wouldn't want to distract the Captain of the Springhawk," you say easily, "Would I?"

...Perhaps he's fine with it.

Perhaps, he wishes you would.

He knows you will already.

The silence that falls again is comfortable. Easy.

And when the meeting is finally adjourned by the Patriels of both houses, you and Thrawn are separated by bows and handshakes and congratulatory remarks under the Rentor moon. It's colder now, and you can feel the shake in your hands as you smile through conversation. Your jaw is tense.

You're more exhausted than you realized.

As suddenly as the families brought you together, they separate you both. The seas part and each family resumes their side, and all that is left is for you to offer Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo a bow of the head. Your headdress tinkers.

He returns the gesture with a dastardly elegant bend at the waist.

"Safe travels, Senior Captain."

"Same to you."

✶ ——— ✶ ——— ✶ ——— ✶

Samakro swears there's going to be mutiny.

...Maybe that's a bit dramatic but —

"I apologize for my tardiness, Mid Captain."

The entire bridge goes silent the moment the doors slide open — and little Che'ri, posed in her chair at the near front of the helm, is already staring eagerly at the sudden arrival at the Senior Captain. Beside her, Thalias smothers a cough that sounds vaguely like a snicker.

Thrawn's long strides find him by Samakro's side in an instant; in his hands is his questis, and Samakro can see that Thrawn is pouring over a last-minute transmission from General Ba'kif. He's slightly winded, and the Senior Captain seems a bit more... disheveled than usual.

Samakro is stunned into slight silence. "I... Uh, it's good to have you sir."

"Yes," he offers, "Have we initiated the pre-flight check?"

"Yessir," Samakro says, hands behind his back, "We... We were waiting on you, sir."

When Thrawn looks up from his questis, he notes that the entirety of the bridge is staring. Not just looking, not waiting for directives. But staring. Thalias included — though her look is one of quiet goading; he's sure that Ar'alani had made a point to pass along the reason for his absence. Now, he's certainly sure she went about it in a manner that had simply fed into the gossip.

"I see," he breathes.

Samakro coughs. "I... believe congratulations is in order, sir?"

Che'ri bounces slightly on her knees.

"Thank you, Mid Captain," Thrawn says slowly and loud enough that everyone can hear, "I... Yes. On that note, let us get moving. As most of you have heard, I have a few things that require my attention upon returning."

Yessir.

Thalias grins.

As the crew falls back into its cadence of flow, as the Blue Dock disappears beneath them and space crawls in, Thrawn's questis vibrates quietly behind his back.

He assumes it's yet another note from General Ba'kif detailing the presumed strongholds of Yiv's forces, but...

No.

It's a simple message reading:

Best of luck, Senior Captain.

And so as Che'ri shifts them into hyperspace, Thrawn clicks his questis off and tries to tuck that lovely little distraction to the back of his mind.

#to know desperately #thrawn x reader #thrawn imagine #thrawn x reader insert #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn x oc #star wars imagine #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo

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