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Those who do not know Thrawn, who do not know him the way his people do, do not know that there are rules. They are not standard rules, not etched into stone or listed in any Imperial registry. Anyone who serves in the military knows that every CO comes with their own operating procedure.
At a glance, from afar, one might look at Thrawn and think him to be typical, alien-status aside. He gives orders and expects results, provides both positive and negative feedback, runs a tight ship. Typical.
He is anything but.
The bridge crew learns this on day zero, at their first all-hands in the Chimaera’s largest ready room, the one set beside the training rooms closest to secondary command. Thrawn strides in, Vanto beside him, not a step behind like other aides are. Most will ignore that, seeing it as xenophobia at work.
Most will be wrong.
Hammerly leans against a console, already knowing what comes next. Idly, she wonders if the ship’s interim commander does, too. The woman hides her discomfort under a stern glare, but Hammerly has spent enough time on the bridge with Vanto to know the tells of an itchy temper.
“I am Commodore Thrawn,” Thrawn introduces himself. “From this point forward, I shall be in command of the Chimaera.” He casts his gaze around the room. Hammerly does too, seeing several officers wince at direct eye contact or shy away from it altogether, though whether it’s in fear or revulsion she doesn't know. Thrawn doesn't appear concerned with the mixed reception, he never does. Vanto hands him his datapad, and she notices that he seems light, almost jubilant. He shifts back as if to yield the floor fully to Thrawn, and she notes that the single beat-up rank tile he’s worn for as long as she's known him has been replaced by eight new ones.
Well, she thinks, that would do it.
“If you have any questions,” Thrawn continues, “Please feel free to ask them now or request a meeting if you would rather not do so in a public forum.” He gestures to Vanto with a wide hand, fingers unfurled and relaxed. “Lieutenant Commander Vanto will identify a time in my schedule to accommodate a meeting. Additionally, my office hours will be posted should you prefer a less formal, yet private option.”
He waits for nearly a minute. There are some quiet murmurs and shifting, but no questions come. That could be due to the general confusion of the crew being given the opportunity to ask questions or from the very significant glowering coming from Faro, who is all but openly threatening the senior staff to keep their mouths shut.
“Very well,” Thrawn relents, in the least relenting way possible. It takes a few beats, but the anxious swell of the room fades out. “Your assignments will be reviewed and optimized in the coming weeks, with the aid of Commander Faro.” This too seems to put them at ease. “Let us work together to ensure the might and glory of the Empire,” he concludes and in perfect unison the entire room salutes, every one of them held at perfect attention. Thrawn returns the salute, then he and Vanto leave.
The room erupts into chaos the moment the hatch closes behind them.
This, Hammerly thinks, smirking, is what typical under Thrawn's command feels like.
★
Faro finds her not two days in. Hammerly is unsurprised; She has been able to feel the other woman's piercing gaze on the side of her head for the last one and a half bridge shifts. She's the natural target, by nature of her position just outside Thrawn’s actual inner circle, which is really just Vanto being a protective nuna over his primary because Thrawn will attempt to photosynthesize from the halogens rather than rest like a being’s supposed to.
Also, Thrawn has taken care not to show favoritism, but it is obvious that she knows what he expects far better than the Chimaera's more senior sensor officers. His gaze brightens when she provides him with information he requires while her fellow officers sputter and try to hastily provide conclusions.
“So,” Commander Faro says, coming up behind her. “You headed to the mess?”
She's on her mid-shift break, which means she's either headed to the mess or to her berth for a ration bar. She looks over her shoulder, stops, stiffens to attention. “Yes ma’am.”
Faro clicks her tongue, waving her off. “We're not on duty for the next sixty minutes,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Mind if I join?”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Hammerly offers a hesitant smile in the face of the terse not-quite-frown on the commander’s face, “Vanto—the Lieutenant Commander,” she corrects hastily, referring to him as an ensign is force of habit, “Is the one you ought to be cozying up to.”
Faro sighs, but looks relieved when Hammerly pointedly turns her back to the lift that goes to the crew levels and rounds the corner toward the senior officers' mess. A bit sheepishly, she asks, as they fall into step beside one another, “Do you happen to know how to pry Vanto away from Thrawn’s side to do so?”
“Ah, I see.” They've always lived in each other's pockets, but she hasn't decided whether or not Faro deserves this information. She thinks about this over the walk to the mess. “I’m guessing you tried putting a meeting on his calendar?”
“Commodore Thrawn has invited himself to the last two I’ve scheduled.”
Hammerly hides a smile by ducking her head as they grab trays and head for the chow line. Vanto is obvious in his protectiveness. He’s always had to be, given the circumstances. What people don't get is that Thrawn is just as protective of him and twenty times as slippery when it comes to being caught at it, not that most people can wrap their brains around the concept that someone of higher rank could be invested in the well-being of their subordinates.
There are some who do. It’s why her text-comms are full of messages from former ship-mates begging for help to get them transferred.
She wonders if they both think no one notices. No one does, she decides, because most can't see past their outsides: The alien and the yokel, or so many have whispered about them.
Nevermind that Vanto's smart as a whip and holds a wicked grudge, while Thrawn could take down an entire battalion in unarmed combat and will face courts martial for saving lives rather than resources.
Faro clears her throat, looking annoyed by Hammerly's extended musings.
“Um, that tracks,” she offers. “I mean,” she eyes the protein gloop that's shoved onto her tray and wonders if the ration bars in her cabin might be more appetizing, “You've obviously read Thrawn's file.”
“I have, yes,” she hedges uneasily.
Meaning? She knows how many times the commodore’s been court-martialed. “So,” Hammerly carefully summarizes, “You know that Vanto has been with him since the beginning.“
She turns away from the chow line and grabs a water pod, waiting for Faro to fuss over her caf so they can find seating. “That's just how the commodore is,” Hammerly admits. “Always one step ahead. He's not the most socially adept being, but he means well, you know?”
The hum of affirmation she receives is unsure. Given Faro's opinion on Thrawn’s file and the fact that it’s been less than a tenday? Fair enough.
“At the all hands the other day,” Hammerly tries a different angle, “He meant it. As long as his door panel’s green, you can request access and he almost always grants it. He's intimidating but once you get past that, he's approachable. I mean,” her eyes narrow, ready to assess Faro’s response. “He's a person, after all.”
“I don't care about that,” Faro bats the testiness of Hammerly’s words away with a flippancy that doesn't lend itself to truth. “Honestly, Commander, I just want to make all our lives easier. It doesn't matter what species he is or what rock he comes from.”
Yeah, Faro says that, Hammerly thinks, but there's still something haughty in her nature. It'll take more than three shifts for her to mean what she's saying. Hammerly gets it, she really does. It took her a couple weeks to catch on, too.
“A lot of them say that,” Hammerly is careful to keep her tone light and free of accusation. “A lot of them also think that Vanto's just the glorified caf runner who clings to Thrawn's side and takes notes.”
Faro's expression cools and Hammerly blinks, surprised at the sudden change in temperature. “Then what is he, Commander Hammerly?”
Swallowing against the sheer pressure Faro's exerting in her direction, Hammerly forces herself to take a bite of mushy protein and accept the fact that she’s been caught off-balance. “Thrawn doesn't think anyone is beneath him,” she begins tentatively. She hasn't entirely formed the thought in her head, but if she isn't careful she's going to bring a mess of trouble down on Vanto. “He sees everyone from you to the most junior enlisted, the techs and maintenance crew, all of us, like people with skills and experiences. We all have something to contribute. We matter.”
“That’s nice,” Faro’s tone is purposefully saccharine and brutally dismissive as she looks down at her meal, spooning a bite rather aggressively.. “It is important that everyone know their place in the command structure.”
“It is indeed,” Thrawn concurs, his voice coming from directly over Hammerly’s head. He’s behind her, she realizes. She tips her head back and meets his glowing eyes, meanwhile Faro goes rigid and deathly pale. His chin juts out microscopically as he looks at his first officer, a micro-acknowledgement she doesn’t seem to recognize. In contrast to Faro, Thrawn is still and calm. There’s nothing harsh or pressuring about his body language. Hammerly doesn’t think he’s angry. In fact, she sometimes wonders if he’s still trying to figure out Human behaviors, letting situations play out so he can analyze them later.
“My,” he looks down at Hammerly, “Caf runner, did you call him?—” Hammerly nods, not entirely failing to conceal her wince. It’s not the worst thing to be caught saying, but it's not great. Faro looks like she wishes to slide down the bench and under the table. Thrawn has heard plenty of their conversation “—is presently occupied with his analysis on the thefts we’ve been tasked with investigating,” he inclines his head to Faro. “I saw fit to take a break while he draws his conclusions and procure us both a refill.” He shrugs elegantly, a large motion on a large, yet compact frame, simultaneously indicating that he has two mugs in hand. Hammerly knows he’s not a threat, but she can see how Faro might feel differently. The commodore has this aura, like the apex predators on her homeworld. “He does not always run caf,” Thrawn muses. “And the note-taking is largely at his own discretion.” He tips one of the covered mugs toward them both. “Enjoy your latemeal, Commanders.”
Faro’s forehead hits the table once he’s gone—once she follows his hulking slink toward the mess exit. Hammerly benevolently pulls Faro’s tray away so that her short hair doesn’t get into her veg-mash.
“The good news is that the mess is mostly empty, and he doesn’t speak loudly enough for words to carry,” Hammerly offers.
“The fact that you say good news,” Faro mutters to the tabletop, “Suggests that there is also bad news.”
“Well, yes. Thrawn wasn’t angry—I’ve never seen him angry, honestly. The problem is that he used what we’ll call his ‘linguistically stumped’ tone when saying the words caf runner, which means he’s probably going to ask Vanto for the deeper ‘translation,’” She provides helpfully. “The bigger problem is that Vanto will almost definitely ask for context and Thrawn will repeat our entire conversation verbatim.”
“Kriff me,” she groans, then props herself back upright. “Thrawn really didn’t get what you meant though?”
“I mean, he isn’t Human. He speaks damn good Basic, but a lot of idioms and hyperbole are lost on him.”
★
As the weeks and months pass, stories emerge and Faro catches on. Thrawn saves the life of a brand new stormtrooper during a raid of a pirate vessel, has a lengthy conversation with a maintenance tech who moonlights as a watercolor painter (and even commissions an artwork that he pays twice the rate she asks for), shows his bridge crew through his continued actions that he is a leader who listens and considers and deliberates all points of view whenever possible. Hell, he even puts on training clinics in the officer’s dojo every other week in addition to his office hours.
So yes, Faro gets over her small bout of imposter syndrome and settles into her harsh, organization and rules driven baseline. Hammerly is no longer hounded, and seems to be in good standing with both her CO and his first officer (thank the Maker). Vanto’s position is likewise solidified as Thrawn’s aide, despite Thrawn being fully self-sufficient and Vanto woefully overqualified.
Hammerly has her own opinions on that last bit, of course. She’s seen what Thrawn without Vanto looks like.
He’s a grown adult male… whatever his species is. Chiss, she thinks she’s heard Vanto say once, years ago. She's certain Thrawn is capable of taking care of himself, he just… doesn’t. Not really, as far as she can tell, anytime Thrawn is on a ship for a stretch without him. Vanto’s presence is, in not so many words, very necessary to Thrawn’s optimal performance. She’s heard the troopers and pilots refer to them as a married couple—and not in a derogatory way, either. They’re almost always together, unless Thrawn’s doing his solitude thing—art analysis, reflection, whatever.
But when the ship is up for resupply and tech upgrades at a depot on the cusp of the Outer Rim, she's not surprised to see Vanto taken off the shift rota while Thrawn remains present throughout Vanto’s upcoming absence for the next three tendays.
She considers warning Faro, but decides that this is probably best learned by experiencing it in full.
In the First Officer’s defense, she makes it a week before summoning Hammerly to her office. Hammerly is kind of impressed she held out that long.
“I need help,” Faro admits. “He's driving me insane. How does Vanto deal with this? Does his species—and I am genuinely asking based on the conditions I am dealing with—not require sleep?”
“Honestly, I couldn't tell you. I believe he does, but Vanto would be the one to know about it.” No matter the hour, Thrawn just about always responds to a summons faster than even the jumpiest ensign, and is always meticulously put together.
Faro sighs, the disgruntled woof of sound reminding Hammerly of the woman laying her head on the mess table months earlier. “I have served under difficult officers. He isn't difficult, I mean, he's perfectly polite in all our in-person conversations and comms, but—”
“Lieutenant Commander Vanto manages a lot of his Thrawn-ness,” Hammerly admits. “Always has. Maybe you should message him for help.”
“But he's home. Who even knows if they have a long distance—”
“Your Core World prejudice is showing, ma’am,” Hammerly asserts, wringing her hands uncomfortably.
Refocusing on the present, instead of her scattered thoughts, Faro winces. “You’ve got me there,” she concedes, suitably chastised. “I suppose it's worth a shot.”
Ten minutes and two very complex matrix sheets later, Faro decides she really ought to give her own aide a commendation and a compensation bump because this dank is not for the faint of heart.
★
As a rule, Faro prefers not to go on ground missions. It isn't because she cannot hack it, but rather because she knows that each person has the role at which they excel. Troopers of all specialities or ISB are best suited to handle ground ops. She is an officer, best stationed on the bridge or in a command center offering guidance and corralling people.
Commodore Thrawn is much more hands on than any officer she has ever met. He walks willingly into hostile situations and even worse, seems to enjoy them. So, as not to look weak, she tags along with him and Vanto, leaving the Chimaera to the second officer temporarily. Thrawn seems to believe her presence will be valuable, if only because he thinks all officers should have myriad experiences.
He acts as if he is the control, the lone variable that controls the experiment. As he suggests this, Vanto glares into the side of his head, suggesting Faro’s about to get more than she's comfortable reckoning with.
Fifteen hours and one very unpleasant dinner party hosted by an arrogant senator later, Faro and Thrawn find themselves detained by insurgents, caught on the wrong side of a terrorist attack. Thrawn quickly deduces that the senator is being framed for the assassination attempt on a local drug lord with ties to the Hutts. The insurgents, Faro adds, are likely being funded by the Hutts to oust the senator in the hopes of installing their own official. The senator’s child has been taken by insurgents to ensure compliance.
It's all a cycle of corruption, honestly.
The insurgents speak a mixture of trade languages, but mostly Huttese. She recognizes most of it, but knows better than to let on. Beside her, Thrawn has been silent for hours. If she didn't know him any better—that is to say, if she'd never encountered him before—she might think that he was asleep.
She can feel his focus like a tangible thing. He's been this way since the attack, when they lost track of Vanto in the haze from the bombing. Both Thrawn and Faro are unharmed, but Vanto had been closer to the action. He'd been going to refill their drinks from what he had called an ‘pretentiously posh’ bar when an unattended camtono exploded.
There's not much to do but monitor the positioning and rotation of the guards. They each take the opportunity to utilize a ‘fresher when offered, quietly comparing notes about their observations.
Unlike Faro, Thrawn can somehow see through the hood they put over his face. He knows the guard placements of the corridor outside. Half of them she hadn't been able to hear, which is how he admits to his superior vision.
It isn't until early the next morning—the pale fog rolling through the tiny, barred, but otherwise open window at the top of their cell, suggesting they are partially underground—that Thrawn rises from the bench.
He signals the quick-sign for contact, which Faro takes to believe that there is some kind of conflict. This is confirmed when one of the two guards they can hear outside the cell tells the other to stay out while they see what's happening.
It doesn't take much for him to lure the guard into their room. Of the two monitoring them, it's the more unstable one that remains.
“So this is your plan, is it? Take advantage of what's happening over there?” The man grins. “People get in fights all the time,” he continues. “We hold ‘em when they can't pay for their spice. Cheap labor an’ all.”
Faro eyes the man’s stance, checks to see what weapons he's holding. The blaster is most obvious, but he's sure to have a blade concealed somewhere. Most notably, she can tell that he's got a data card around his neck, concealed beneath a threadbare shirt, which probably controls the doors.
“It isn't your boy, you know,” the man continues, his chip-toothed smile going savage, “The pretty thing you showed up with. Or, at least he was until he got blasted.”
Eyes darting to the Commodore, Faro notes that he doesn't rise to the bait. She wonders for a brief second what has to happen in a life to earn someone that kind of patience, but then Thrawn is engaging, stepping in close with grace and confidence.
The insurgent shucks his blaster from its holster, pushing the muzzle square into Thrawn's chest. “None of that,” he says. “Or you'll be in the ground and—” he looks conspiratorially at Thrawn, and says, in Sy Bisti, “Well, let's just say they'll give her to me as a gift, if you know what I mean. They let us—”
Faro has been an officer for many, many years. It's not the first time someone has threatened to sexually assault her, but Sy Bisti’s linguistics really drive home the point, seeing as the word ‘gift’ in this context means ‘pleasure slave.’ She rolls her eyes and intends to tell him in the same language to go kriff himself, except the insurgent’s breath exits his lungs in a startled gasp. Thrawn has a single, expansive hand wrapped around the man's neck—has him suspended in the air by that single point of contact, his other directing the blaster that had been pointing at him toward the floor.
The commodore does not utter a word. He simply meets the insurgent's eyes and with a flash of teeth, a furious scowl, he snaps the man's neck one-handed.
The man drops. Thrawn plucks the blaster from his twitching hand before he can accidentally fire it and offers it to her while yanking the card off the chain. “Come,” he says, in Basic.
Faro blinks at him, accepting the blaster on autopilot. They leave the cell.
She has never reported her knowledge of Sy Bisti, she reflects as they move through the compound. It's not like she's perfectly fluent. Her understanding is mostly conversational from long stints on the Outer Rim during the Clone Wars.
Most importantly, Thrawn doesn't know that she knows what that man was insinuating.
She's been perfectly fine with Thrawn for a while now. He's a good commanding officer and arguably the smartest person she knows. But this is something else, something different.
It is something she recalls Hammerly saying when Faro had asked her why she constantly gets transfer requests from the Thunderwasp.
This is just how Thrawn is. He gives a damn. Not just about success but about his people.
“Sir,” she whispers to him when they get outside, going around the back of the compound and away from the sounds of blasterfire, “Do you think that Lieutenant Commander Vanto—”
Thrawn's eyes flit to hers and blaze. “Vanto is alive,” he says with the utmost certainty. “He is the reason for all of this—”
The rest of his words are cut off by another explosion. By the time Faro has her hearing back, Vanto's in front of them with a hotwired off-road vehicle, wires dangling and transponder ripped out in its entirety. His nose is broken and his face is covered in soot and shrapnel abrasions, but his dark eyes are set and steady. “Let's go,” the lieutenant commander barks at them, voice overloud due to the explosions.
They hop in with the vehicle beginning to accelerate: Thrawn in front, Faro in back, blaster poised to fire at any who would try to come up behind them.
No shots come, and they bounce their way into the forest. Vanto deviates from the beaten path with an efficiency that surprises her, considering he's driving one handed, which—
She leans forward, looking between Thrawn and Vanto. The lieutenant commander’s singed and dirty uniform tunic is open. Tucked against him, hidden beneath the stained weave of his dark green shirt is the Senator's three year old daughter. She's clinging to his grimy now off-white undershirt, dead asleep.
“Vanto, how in the kark—”
“I wasn't as injured as they thought I was,” he admits, sheepishly. Thrawn turns his head to the side and studies him for a long, long moment, lips pursing. The commodore doesn't speak, and Vanto keeps his eyes on the road. “It also just so happens that I’m good with kids.”
Faro throws herself into the shuttle’s semi-comfortable seat and, in an act of sheer exhaustion, lets herself slouch into it. Thrawn sits primly, looking as put together as he had when they had arrived on world the previous morning. Vanto lands beside him with the air of a drunk. It's more of a stumble than anything.
Thrawn tilts his head to look down at his aide. “You should have allowed them to treat you.”
“That man was pissed at me for bleeding on his kid, sir,” he responds, covering his eyes with a hand before wincing from the state of his nose. They speak softly, but Faro can hear them. “Nevermind that I did so to save her from dying.”
He breathes through his mouth, and Thrawn looks him up and down, eyebrow arching as his breaths wheeze and rattle.
“Just a couple broken ribs, I’m sure,” he says. “Par for the course.”
“And the laceration in the vicinity of your left kidney?”
“Shrapnel,” he tells Thrawn. “Bound it as best I could.”
“It is deep,” Thrawn says forebodingly.
Vanto sighs, coughs, and winces. “No bacta.”
Shaking his head, Thrawn says, “There is nothing brave about suffering, Commander.”
Vanto turns his head. “Suffering is the part where I get sedated and swim in slime. In my basics, no less.”
Thrawn's eyes glitter. It's a different kind of look. Not the pensive one she's used to, not the inquisitive one he turns on Vanto when they're putting the pieces of their analysis and research together to form a solid picture.
“I’ll be alright, sir,” Vanto offers a wan smile.
They fall silent but for the sound of Vanto’s breath. The shuttle takes off and Thrawn rises, locating the medpack housed in the aft storage locker. He pulls out a couple patches, some hypospray, then reconsiders, shoving them back into the kit in order to heft the whole thing to Vanto’s side.
He sets it in the seat he previously occupied and crouches in front of his aide. “Lieutenant Commander Vanto.”
Vanto doesn't budge.
“Vanto,” Thrawn repeats, fingers going to the man’s wrist, encircling it. He waits for a moment, taking the younger man's pulse, focusing on the movement of the man’s chest, then face. His eyes narrow. “Eli,” he says, not speaking louder but putting weight behind the name.
Brown eyes open and fix on Thrawn. “Karabast, Thrawn,” he swears, sounding as dazed as he looks. Seconds pass and he adds, “Did you just first name me, sir?”
Thrawn ignores the question, pulling a sterile flannel from the kit to wipe the crusted blood and grime from Vanto's face. With something to hold it, his head lolls forward. Faro notes that the palm Thrawn used to crush the trachea of a man now gently cradles Vanto's chin.
“Bacta,” Thrawn intones regretfully, speaking softly into the space between them. He fixes Vanto with a stern look even as he works to gently dab around the younger man's broken nose, disallowing any argument. “Yes, it is krayt spit, but it is still non-negotiable.”
★
It's Ascension Week and the whole of Coruscant’s upper levels are one big Imperial themed Party. Faro and Hammerly are well on their way to being drunk, though not as drunk as some of their peers, which is why Hammerly saves both their ales when Lieutenant Pyrondi blabs, “So, ma’ams, are you in on the pool?”
Faro, knowing it's unlikely that Pyrondi will remember the tail end of the first cantina they've visited, indulges her for once. “Which one? Engineering’s remote-droid wars? Or the spotchka brewing on level besh?”
Pyrondi snorts. “I mean Commander Vanto and the admiral!”
Hammerly nearly chokes on her drink and does a poor job of hiding it by slurping the rest of it down.
“There's no way,” one of the comms officers on the end of the half-moon booth laughs.
“Mmm, I don't know,” Dobbs says, and Faro has no idea how the man gets his invites to officers' outings. She organized this event but she sure as hell didn't invite him. “I can see it. Vanto totally has the hots for him.”
“I did hear that Vanto likes aliens,” One of the second shift officers adds.
Everyone goes around and shares their thoughts, until finally they get to Hammerly, who sighs. “They're nothing but professional,” she offers. “And Thrawn is by the book on everything except battle. He would never.”
The rest of the table erupts into boos and jeers.
”And you, ma’am?”
To Faro’s right, Hammerly raises an eyebrow in her direction, an echo of Pyrondi’s gleeful questioning.
”I… abstain.”
Hammerly joins them in booing this time.
“You have to take a side,” Hammerly says, when they're staggering their way back to the barracks, dodging drunkards that are worse off than themselves, offering lazy salutes to junior officers who sway into and out of attention as they pass. “You can't not.”
Faro nudges her with an elbow, at least she's pretty sure. They bounce off each other at odd intervals, not exactly walking in straight lines thanks to the libations.
“There's no gambling aboard ship,” Faro says, the way she does to the lieutenants who aren't good at evading her scrutiny. She knows gambling goes on, and so long as no one is getting hurt it isn't her problem so long as she never finds out about it.
“We're not aboard ship, ma’am,” Hammerly drawls. “Come on, surely you have an opinion.”
“I think they're perfectly cordial and would never break fraternization protocols.”
Hammerly snorts. “Mock me all you want, but if I say what I really think to the crew it will be a problem. They know I came with them.”
Faro blinks. “So you think they're—”
“Look, I've never seen anything beyond perfectly acceptable behavior between them.” She smiles, a little wistfully. “I just know that Thrawn drinks tang bark tea when Vanto's on leave, and that's what Vanto’s cologne smells like, if you've ever seen him in dress uniform. I also know that whenever Thrawn gets too deep in his art, Vanto skips late meal in the officers’ mess to take two trays to Thrawn's office. I heard him complaining about having to eat the red protein mush cold, and honestly it's atrocious when it's hot enough to burn your tastebuds off.” She pauses long enough to take in Faro's stunned expression. “I don't know if they know they're together, but they're together.”
“I watched Thrawn murder a man who threatened me, Hammerly. Maybe that's just how Thrawn is. Maybe anybody could—”
Hammerly smirks. “Do you really think that?”
Faro sighs. “No, but—”
“Aha! So you agree!” She turns too quickly and Faro reaches out to steady her. They nearly topple over.
“I’m reserving judgment,” Faro presses. “Fight me on it and I will drop you.”
Hammerly's drunk pout is a powerful thing, but Faro knows better than to spill any secrets, be it drunk or simply loosened up on an Ascension Week Taungsday.
It's a lot like the betting. Turning away from the whispers and keeping herself from encountering it means she can never truly be certain that it’s happening, even though it absolutely is.