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“Shore leave was kind to you, I see,” said Thrawn in a flat drawl.
Pellaeon blinked. It was dark in the command room, like usual. The only light came from Thrawn’s glittering eyes and the dust of his art holos, and through those shadows, it was difficult to see the dry humor on Thrawn’s face.
“Ah,” said Pellaeon. “You’re joking, sir.”
Thrawn tipped his head down in acknowledgment. “Have a drink,” he said, gesturing lazily to a bottle of local rum he must have pinched through Supply. “Why so pale? I assumed you would spend your leave on the beach. Most others did.”
Including Thrawn, Pellaeon could tell. The sun had turned him a deep blue and brought out shimmering freckles all over his cheekbones. Obviously shore leave agreed with him! There was a new windswept quality to his hair, a relaxed set to his shoulders and lips, and worse than all else, a fresh scent of the sea clinging to his skin. In light of Pellaeon’s own misery it was disgusting.
Thrawn pushed him a glass of rum.
“How did you spend your leave, Captain?” he asked lightly.
“You don’t want to know,” Pellaeon grumbled.
“Ah,” said Thrawn, his voice cryptic but knowing. “A woman.”
The rum tasted of tropical fruit and spices. Pellaeon took a deep swig and wrinkled his nose. Suntan lotion, that was what it reminded him of. Bellany, the woman he’d picked up that first night in the cantina, had failed to wash her suntan lotion off before they slept together. Sometimes he still felt it coating his tongue.
“That bad?” asked Thrawn with easy sympathy.
“I met her the first night,” said Pellaeon darkly. “I couldn’t get rid of her a single second since. She scarcely allowed me to return to my post. Look—”
Thrawn’s faint smile faded a little as Pellaeon rolled up his sleeves, showing off his pale skin.
“Indoors at all hours,” Pellaeon groused. “Not a minute of sun.”
“Don’t tell me she was allergic,” said Thrawn, eyebrows raised.
“Lotharian. Claimed the sun would turn her a garish shade of green. Not good for her complexion — but—”
But the suntan lotion. Pellaeon swore under his breath and took another deep drink. Thrawn watched him, absently petting the ysalamir in his lap.
“Tell me this, sir,” Pellaeon said, his voice raspy from alcohol. “After spending my entire shore leave with that woman — all this drama, all this heartache for no reason — why can’t a woman just be like a man?”
“Oh?” said Thrawn, tone neutral, lips quirked.
“You know,” Pellaeon said.
Thrawn gave an ambivalent nod.
“A man won’t ask you where you’ve been when you come in late,” Pellaeon said. “A man won’t complain when you leave your shoes by the door or skip breakfast or have a pint of ale before lunch.”
“True enough,” Thrawn said. His eyes had gone distant, but Pellaeon hardly noticed. He was gearing up now into full vent.
“A man sees you talking with another man, what does he care?” he asked. “There’s simply no reason to fuss.”
“Mm,” said Thrawn.
“And men don’t shout for no reason,” said Pellaeon. “They’re honest. Essentially fair. Take you, for instance.”
Thrawn tilted his head back to meet Pellaeon’s eyes.
“Noble, honorable, competent,” said Pellaeon briskly. “Let’s say I do well in battle. You’ll simply acknowledge it and move on. No fuss.”
Thrawn nodded.
“And men are easy to please,” Pellaeon continued. “No need for theatrics or great expense in a date. When alone together, there’s no requirement for — for false pretences, or to wear a mask. One can be completely at ease.”
Thrawn raised his glass in a toast. “Quite true.”
“Let’s say we had dinner,” Pellaeon drove on, “and I were late. Would you shout?”
“Of course not,” said Thrawn, sounding amused.
“And if I forgot your birthday — what is your birthday, by the way?”
Thrawn opened his mouth to answer.
“No matter,” said Pellaeon.
Thrawn closed his mouth again.
“But if I forgot, would you give a damn?” Pellaeon asked.
“I should think I’d be ashamed to make a fuss,” Thrawn said.
“Too right. And if I took another man out on the town—” Pellaeon realized what he was saying and cut himself off with a long “—er…”
Graciously, Thrawn pretended not to notice. “I know precisely what you mean, of course,” he said briskly, refilling his glass. “In particular it’s bothersome on shore leave. Women have a certain expectation of commitment on most Imperial stations. Men do not.”
“Exactly,” said Pellaeon, relieved.
“My surfer boy didn’t even want to exchange comm numbers,” Thrawn went on, taking a small sip.
“Exact— I’m sorry?”
“And aesthetically there’s much to be said for the male form,” Thrawn continued. His eyes were distant again. “Young and muscular. Athletic but lithe. Whether warrior or sportsman, the shape is much more pleasing to the eye than—”
He made a curvy gesture with his hands. Pellaeon choked on his own spit.
“Well, to each their own,” said Thrawn kindly. “I suppose you prefer older gentlemen.”
“Older—?”
“And so frequently a woman expects a man to do all the work,” said Thrawn in a bland voice. He looked so casual and professional sitting in his command chair that Pellaeon couldn’t believe this was real. He rubbed his ears in the hope Thrawn’s words would magically change to something different. “A man at least can be coaxed to come halfway. And a particularly vigorous surfer boy can be convinced quite easily to do all the work himself.”
Surfer boy. He’d said it again. And earlier — young and muscular? Lithe? Pellaeon took another, clear-eyed look at Thrawn’s suntan and windswept hair and didn’t like what he saw one bit. Suddenly the tropical rum tasted sour on his tongue.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said quickly. “I really must see to the bridge.”
Thrawn inclined his head. If he thought it was strange that Pellaeon fumbled with his glass of rum or stumbled on his way out — or if he noticed the blush heating the back of Pellaeon’s neck — he didn’t say so. The woman Pellaeon dated on shore leave most certainly would have said so, he thought darkly. Probably while also haranguing him for being late to dinner and asking him to rub her feet to make up for it. How much nicer it would have been to spend a quiet shore leave on the beach with a comrade in arms: pleasant conversation, no expectations, no drama.
It was too easy to imagine himself in a beach chair at Thrawn’s side.
It was entirely too easy to imagine himself in bed at Thrawn’s side.
Pellaeon paused outside the bridge and rubbed his eyes with a muffled groan. He tried unsuccessfully to banish the images in his head. It was all that woman’s fault. If she’d been a little less demanding, surely he wouldn’t be in this predicament, imagining his male, rather masculine, really not at all feminine, commanding officer, who happened to be a man…
“Stars,” Pellaeon muttered.
Really, why couldn’t the women he slept with be more like Thrawn? It would make everything so much easier.