i wanna shout out reviewer "nonmoose", for reminding me that i had yet to update here and also for making me smile with that comment. much appreciated!

With that said, Pellaeon turned back around, disengaged the door's locking mechanism, and walked out.

Thrawn watched him go, silent and contemplative.

One month's time.

He turned back to stare out into the abyss before him, bringing a hand up against his chin in thought.

It would be enough time, so long as everything fell into place. And the pieces very much would fall into their places - there were only a few individuals who would need more coaxing before they would be willing to concede. All he needed was the time to set the plan into motion and accomplish it.

Time that he may not have…

He uncurled his fingers and pressed two of them against the split in his lip. The pain barely registered. The wound was already starting to heal over, and while the bruise was still vibrant it too was slowly beginning to fade. In a few days' time both signs of the previous altercation would be gone, likely without any lasting scarring.

(Of course, healing was a process that could be hurried along with bacta and bandages and whatever else the doctor had brought with him in his bag.

Thrawn had not asked for the assistance, and Dympha had yet to extend an offer.)

The pressure of his fingers increased as he pressed down on the cut harder, and sharp flare a of pain bloomed before he relinquished. With a sigh, he let his arm fall back down to his side.

There was little point in worrying himself over something as frivolous as the New Republic's meeting or their presence aboard this ship. What they did or did not discuss was of little consequence to Thrawn, and he had no interest in becoming a part of that discussion. It simply did not matter - so long as the senator and her entourage did not learn of his continued existence. It may prove to be difficult if the crew could not be convinced to hold their tongues regarding his sudden reappearance, but he had great faith in Pellaeon's capabilities in handling them.

Trust was something that the admiral had curated among those who remained aboard his ship. Thrawn knew better than to believe that Pellaeon would tolerate anything less.

And besides, nothing that could be considered worthy of effort would ever be simple.

He turned his attention to the sight beyond the wall of transparisteel.

The nearby moon was luminous; a grand brightness in the otherwise black sheet of space. The faint outline of the Chimaera's shadow could be seen on its cratered surface, an oddly geometric shape on a very organic surface. Like a stray ink blot on a blank sheet of flimsi.

A slow moving imperfection.

(Like needles sewing split skin back together. The subtle misery of the repetitious piercing of flesh that could not be hurried along, for risk of the doctor's hands slipping.)

Something pulled at him. Something that had wormed its way to the front of his thoughts, trying to tug him away from his thoughts. He knew what it was, unfortunately.

He turned around, red eyes stared back at the way Pellaeon had left. Where the door on the other side of the room loomed, left unlocked and unattended.

There was an itch at the back of his skull.

Thrawn did his best to ignore it, even as he glared at the unlocked door.

(Nonexistent eyes crawled at the back of his neck, like the sharp point of a needle dragging down the length of his spine.)

Perfectly between thoracic vertebrae five and six. Clean cut. Dympha's cold voice hummed in his head, floating up from some long past conversation. Less impressive considering it was an assassin. But still. Passing grade for efficiency.

Icy fingers slid their way into his back in an agonizingly familiar pain.

With a sharp inhalation through clenched teeth, Thrawn turned with a military precision and walked to the door with a quiet anger.

His fingers found the door's panel, and typed in his override code once more. It noteworthy that his old code still worked. Thrawn thought it to be a strange oversight of protocol, and possibly a danger should anyone have figured it out. It was something to ponder on later when he could think properly.

The sound of the locking mechanism reengaging allowed him some comfort. But it did nothing to sooth the ghost at his back; he turned around and pressed his back against the metal's cool surface. Hard.

Frustration is a common emotion felt by those who suffered from extreme injury as Dympha so often reminded him. Unfortunately it was something that Thrawn had become very fed up with over the years - both the frustration and all of its underlying causes.

If Dympha were here he would be chastising Thrawn. Reminding him that stress birthed stress and casually mentioning its affects on the heart.

Thrawn tried to focus his breathing. Scanned the room and tried to remind himself that he was alone.

He tried to even out his breathing—

When had it even grown so frantic?

And took stock of himself and his intentions. He had to focus on the immediate future.

He already knew what he was going to say to the Chimaera's crew, how that would differ from what he said to the other Star Destroyer captains, and - possibly - to the rest of the Empire at large. The meeting between Pellaeon and the senator was not a surprise but the choice of location was unexpected. It was interesting that the New Republic had not pushed harder for the finalization of a treaty to occur on more neutral territory. A concession that was surprising of Senator Organa, because he knew that the Chimaera was not her idea.

No, it had certainly been Pellaeon's suggestion. A home advantage disguised as a show of good faith. Not that he expected Pellaeon to actually use that advantage; a very Corellian sense of honor still ran deep in Pellaeon's blood it seemed. Instead the location likely served as a comfort for the admiral.

Thrawn found understanding in that; this ship had once been a place of comfort for him too. For a long time it had been home.

With great care, he forced his tense muscles to relax and he slowly slid down the door until he was seated on the floor. The presence of a solid surface at his back had managed to lessen the pain that hummed along his spinal cord, but he still ached.

(He always kriffing ached.)

It was as if his body refused to forget the pain even a decade later; it didn't help that age had been catching up with him. He felt the reminders of both everywhere. His chest, his back, his hands and neck—

He could still feel the weight of Pellaeon's fists at his neck, shoving him up against the transparisteel. It isn't difficult for his mind to fill in the blanks, to unwrap each of those pale fingers and have them tightening around his throat instead.

It played in his head like a loop. Over and over again, as he sat there. And he allowed it to do so, until he was numbed to it; until it was just another ghost meant to haunt him.

At one time Dympha had told him that everything would get better with time. He had to allow himself to heal, to put distance between himself and what had occurred so long ago.

Yet time only ever seemed to make things worsen.

There was a part of him, deep down, that was uneasy at how he had yet to get better. That was afraid that he had gone on for so long existing like this, that he would never be able to find better.

He wasn't even sure if he knew what better would be.