Another excerpt from Promises You'll Only Make: The Book of Dayja!
Once inside the commodore's Chimaera office, Dayja wrinkled his nose in distaste, immediately unsnapping the tight collar choking at his neck. With a muttered “Ugh,” he shrugged out of the gaberwool tunic and slung it on the back of Thrawn's chair, leaving him in the far more comfortable black shirt beneath. He pushed up his sleeves and began digging around in his carrybag for a micro-ion pulse mine. After detonating it and tossing it down onto the desk, he turned to Thrawn.
“So, I figured I’d start with…” Dayja cocked an eyebrow at the very strange look Thrawn was giving him. “You good?"
Dayja followed the line of his red gaze to his own bare forearms and, most likely, the tattoos there. He cleared his throat and Thrawn’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “If you start analyzing me, Commodore, I swear to—“
“Apologies, Agent,” Thrawn said. “I meant no disrespect.” He turned and disappeared into one of the anterooms, returning a minute later with a steaming carafe of caf and a clear mug. “I was not certain what ratio of caf to whiskey you required.”
Dayja blinked at him. At the time he’d requested whiskey and caf in Yularen's office, he’d been joking. Well, not about the caf part. But now that it was here he was hardly going to turn it down.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Dayja said, accepting a steaming mug of spiked caf. Thrawn looked at him expectantly and he took a small sip, resisting the urge to cough with some difficulty.
Thrawn had opted for the 50/50 ratio, apparently.
