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“I’m sorry, sir, the Active Thermal Control System is having trouble at the moment.” The tech gives an apologetic half shrug at Pellaeon. Pellaeon hopes he’s misheard them. He does not need an additional headache.
“Just the weirdest thing, normally she vents excess engine heat just fine sir, but she’s pushing it all through the heating loops at the moment,” the tech goes on, gently patting on a wall panel as they speak.
Pellaeon breathes in.
“And when do you expect things to be back to normal, Lieutenant?”
The tech jolts themselves out of whatever moment they were in with the ship and frowns, clearly pondering.
“Well, sir, it may get a bit toasty for a while while we try and figure it out. It’s wicked difficult, really. The Chimaera has always had her own unique temperament, sir.”
Much like her commander, Pellaeon thinks, and it is an effort not to smile. They have far too many young crew on board, and it won’t do to have them see him as a man they can joke around with or, stars forbid, have them see him as fatherly.
“See to it that it gets fixed, Lieutenant.”
The tech is already arms deep into wiring again and makes some sort of noise that Pellaeon could consider an affirmative with a lot of goodwill. He lets it slide this time, mostly because it’s already starting to get boiling hot and he’d love for it to be fixed as soon as possible.
The temperatures aren’t much better on the bridge. It’s not like they can open a window for some cold space air, though, so Pellaeon prepares himself to deal with it.
For an hour or so, it goes reasonably well. He’s sweating, certainly, but not so hot that he can’t focus at all anymore. He glances at Thrawn every now and then. The Grand Admiral is seated in his command chair and looks as calm and collected as ever as he browses through the reports on his datapad.
Well. Perhaps he is from a hot climate and better equipped than the rest of them to deal with this. They could all be so lucky. It’s almost annoying, that iron control Thrawn seems to have over himself at any time. Annoyance at his commander’s ability to remain fully in command is absolutely ridiculous and not to mention unprofessional, but Pellaeon can’t help himself. Another sign it’s getting uncomfortably warm.
Another hour later, Pellaeon has sweated through his tunic. The officers scattered around the bridge do not look much better. Only Thrawn still looks as unaffected as ever, with not a hair out of place. He has not moved much at all in the past hour which isn’t out of the ordinary, but the barely-there twitch he gives when Pellaeon steps up next to him is. It’s almost as if he did not notice Pellaeon coming his way, which is entirely unlike Thrawn.
In his far too warm state, Pellaeon pays it no heed, and he’ll kick himself over that for a while to come later. Now, though, he has a more pressing matter.
“Sir, I think it is time we permit a more lax dress code.”
Thrawn glances up and blinks, rather sluggishly. It’s another thing Pellaeon will kick himself over later.
“Tunics off, sir,” he adds, finding himself impatient for a response as a drop of sweat makes its slow way down his cheek. “Kepis too.”
“Very well,” Thrawn says after another wait. He blinks again, then comes to his feet with a soft sound that Pellaeon thinks may have ben a sigh. “I shall be…meditating, Captain.”
Pellaeon watches him walk away with the odd feeling he’s just missed several important clues, but he has more pressing concerns. He turns back to the consoles, and for once he does not deliver a lecture on proper bridge behaviour when there’s a cheer at his announcement about dress code.
~~~
Though his day is far from routine, Pellaeon finds himself on his way to Thrawn’s quarters after his shift before his brain fully catches up. He’s still uncomfortably warm, it had only worked somewhat to convince himself that taking his tunic off had improved things. He’d prefer to retire to his quarters and sit under a cold shower for a while, but he always goes to Thrawn for a short debrief, and he doesn’t like to stray from the still brittle routine they have built up over the past few months.
Thrawn does not answer the door chime. That is not all that unusual, he has been known to occasionally get wrapped up in whatever new art piece he has. Pellaeon is comfortable nowadays to use his code cylinder to get in. It had taken some time to get there, and Thrawn had looked vaguely amused at Pellaeon’s reluctance. It was one of the many things that he did differently than any other commander Pellaeon had ever served with, and it had grown on him.
He steps into the command room and finds all lights shut off. A sense of unease creeps up on him. Normally, Thrawn keeps the lights dimmed to ensure Pellaeon can see, too. It’s not like him to forget something like that.
He is contemplating turning around and leaving when he notices light coming from Thrawn’s personal quarters. He’s been there once or twice since the Grand Admiral took over to deliver some urgent information. It feels like overstepping to check in on him, but Pellaeon has served long enough to know when he should follow up on a gut feeling. Worst case, he looks a bit of a fool, and he can live with that.
“Fucking seven hells.”
He did not mean to announce his arrival in Thrawn’s quarters like that, but he may be excused, he feels. He finds Thrawn draped over a sofa, looking absolutely miserable, his usual blue gone oddly gray-tinged. His eyes glow less than usual, and he’s clutching a little packet of Army hydration mix.
“You could have commed me,” Pellaeon goes on, already on his way to the small kitchenette in search of towels.
“I am fine,” Thrawn grinds out, with the Basic coming out tinged with a hint of something else that pulls hard on the vowels.
“Clearly.” Pellaeon soaks a few towels and comes back to put them in Thrawn’s neck. Mindful of Thrawn’s sensibilities, he tries not to touch him too much, but Thrawn makes a weak attempt at undoing the clasps of his tunic before his hand flops down and Pellaeon sighs.
“I’m calling the medics, and I’m taking this off.”
“No medics,” Thrawn growls, sounding more like himself. Pellaeon rolls his eyes.
“I’m not a doctor, sir.” He starts undoing the clasps of Thrawn’s tunic, but stops when a blue hand closes around his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.
“No medics.” The words come as an order now, and Thrawn’s eyes even blaze a bit. Pellaeon opens his mouth, then closes it. Over the past few months he’s learned when it is useless to try and argue with Thrawn.
“Okay. But if you get worse, I’ll comm them.” It’s a compromise, and they both know it. Thrawn lets go of his wrist and sags back onto the couch, breathing hard. Pellaeon really needs to get him cooled down.
He flings the tunic in the general direction of a small armchair and drapes cold towels over his neck and shoulders, then focuses on getting Thrawn’s boots off. Thrawn groans when Pellaeon gets his socks off and puts cold towels on his feet. It’s a rumbling sound coming from deep inside that massive chest, and Pellaeon forces his eyes further up. This is not the moment to notice how his soaked undershirt clings to the very considerable heft of his chest and his belly. Pellaeon is not some overeager cadet and he will not be making this weird, thank you very much.
He pauses at the clasp of Thrawn’s breeches. The obvious thing to do is get those off as well. And it would be a perfectly sensible thing to do, too. Had it been any other commander than Thrawn, it’d be somewhat awkward certainly, but Pellaeon would go ahead and do it.
Thrawn, though, Thrawn is different. Not in the obvious sense, Pellaeon has never cared for the Empire’s Human-bias. It’s also absolutely not because Pellaeon has any sort of less-than-professional thoughts about him - that’s something he will not be delving into now, or any time soon. No, this goes deeper. Pellaeon knows even if Thrawn has never mentioned anything about it that he must have felt an outcast. The only alien in the Imperial Navy, now the highest ranking individual of the whole Empire with plenty of people still eager to see him fall. It does not take a genius to realise the position Thrawn is in.
Pellaeon also knows that pity will not be tolerated.
He takes a deep breath in and reaches toward the clasp again.
“Just these, too,” he says, and Thrawn makes a vague sound of agreement. Pellaeon does not allow himself to overthink and deftly unclasps the closure. Thrawn’s muscles shake when he moves up to allow Pellaeon to slide the breeches down, and that, more than anything, erases any other thought in Pellaeon’s brain.
“Did you keep the tub?” He puts another cold towel over Thrawn’s groin. The Chimaera’s previous commander had led a rather lavish private life. Thrawn had the entertainment suite changed to his command room, but he had left the quarters alone. Likely, that stupidly huge tub was still there.
“Not much time to redecorate,” Thrawn says, and one side of his mouth moves up slightly.
“Good,” Pellaeon says. He then moves to put his arms under Thrawn’s armpits, intending to haul him up.
That is an extremely unfortunate sound coming from his back and Pellaeon winces as he slowly straightens back up.
Thrawn is heavy in a way that suggests he’s far more dense than a Human. Pellaeon had braced himself for considerable weight - Thrawn is tall and very broad, after all. This is something else, though.
It is strangely encouraging to see Thrawn look slightly amused at the wheeze Pellaeon cannot quite suppress. It had been unnerving to see him so entirely out of it.
“Right, can you walk?” Pellaeon knows the sensible thing would be to call for a med-droid that would be capable of supporting Thrawn. He also knows Thrawn will make it a point to be stubborn.
Thrawn glances at him, then comes to his feet. He sways for a moment and Pellaeon grabs his elbow. There is no way he can keep the Admiral upright, but he can’t not reach out. Another feeling he will put away somewhere deep inside his mind, preferably permanently.
Thankfully, even though Thrawn’s quarters are the largest on the ship, the fresher is just a few slow steps away. Thrawn gets in the tub with none of his usual fluidity, but he manages. Even with all of his bulk in it, the tub is still as stupidly large as Pellaeon remembers it. Large enough for two, some very persistent little voice at the back of his mind supplies, not at all helpfully.
Thrawn throws his head back and groans again as Pellaeon sets the taps to fill the tub with cool water. Still deliberately not looking at how Thrawn’s shirt clings to every single dip and fold, Pellaeon reaches out to take the detachable showerhead in hand. He aims the stream to gently flow over Thrawn’s head, mindful not to get it in his eyes. It brings his normally tidy hair into disarray and Pellaeon almost does something very foolish when his free hand twitches to gently stroke the hair back from Thrawn’s forehead.
Thrawn saves him some remaining dignity by reaching up and doing it himself. The relief is short-lived, because Thrawn then moves to peel his soaking wet undershirt off and flings it away with another relieved groan.
Pellaeon can’t not look.
There’s hints of it, of course, when Thrawn is in uniform. it is impossible not to notice the width of his shoulders, or the heft of his chest, or the way his uniform spans across his belly.
Without the uniform, though, these things become simply entirely undeniable.
Thrawn is muscled in a way that makes it clear nothing is for show. A healthy spread of fat and slight downward pull on the pectorals adds to the image in a most pleasing way. Pellaeon slowly follows a drop of water making its way down a thick, hairy pectoral all the way down to the swell of Thrawn’s belly.
There is an amused little huff before Pellaeon’s eyes can stray further down to where they have been wanting to stray, most unprofessionally, ever since Thrawn got in the tub. He feels his face colour, but he’s never been a coward and calmly looks up to meet that red-eyed stare.
“Are you not also warm, Gilad?” Thrawn almost purrs the words. It’s good that Thrawn has used his first name before, because otherwise it’d throw him for a loop. He’s looking enough like a fresh faced cadet as it is.
“Terribly,” he answers. It’s not a lie, but the discomfort was forgotten in light of Thrawn feeling so out of it. He’s acutely aware of how much he’s sweating, enough that his undershirt is soaked through, too.
“There is an expression in Basic that I think applies here,” Thrawn goes on, making absolutely no effort to hide the fact he is slowly looking over Pellaeon, pausing at where his shirt is sticking to where his soft pectorals sag over on his belly.
Pellaeon does not bother responding and lifts an eyebrow.
“Do my back, and I do yours.” Thrawn says, shifting slightly in the tub to make room.
Suddenly, Pellaeon hopes the repairs will still take a good while to come. There is, after all, rather a lot to explore here.