milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The first time Baze attempted a serious whittling project, he went at it recklessly.

It only took five minutes before the knife blade slipped from the wood and opened a gash in his thumb. He stubbornly continued carving, but ended up getting blood all over the balsa wood. Another ten minutes passed before the blade skipped off a knot and sliced his index finger. More blood. More carving. At that point, the wood was slippery, so he had to stop.

He applied bandages to his fingers and waited a day before trying again. But try again he did, and learned how to properly protect himself with a Bar-provided thumb pad for his blade hand.

And he learned more than that. He learned that cuts made with the grain will peel away smoothly; cuts made against the grain will give resistance and eventually split. He learned the pull stroke, the push stroke, and straight-away rough cutting. He learned to whittle slowly, to use the strokes as a meditative practice.

Though his carved fish and eggs and demon bunnies are still crude, he thinks he can whittle in his sleep.

Today he's leaning against the bar, holding a block of balsa wood in his left hand and his pocket knife in his right, with the blade facing towards him. He braces the thumb of his right hand against the wood, and squeezes his fingers in order to draw the blade towards his thumb. His strokes are short and controlled.

He's getting wood shavings everywhere. Someone might want to tell him to clean up.

(OOC: Chirrut may pop into any and all threads!)

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Just the guy Wilford's been looking for! The fact that Baze might not want to see him has actually crossed his mind, but does he care? Of course not.

"I've been wondering where you've been hiding."

Not that Wilford can talk. Once Chirrut kicked his ass, Wilford went to go hide as well.

Base tries not to let his lip curl, but he's never been good at hiding his emotions. He continues carving, focusing on the block of balsa wood in front of him rather than the man.

"Wilford. What do you want?"

Wow. Rude much? Wilford pretends not to notice and just ploughs on through with his usual amount of self-imposed obliviousness.

"I was looking for you the other day," he says, already pulling out his wallet. He thumbs through the cash and pulls out an amount that even to a person unfamiliar with the currency would look like a lot.

"Two grand, wasn't it?" Wilford asks.

He counts out double that amount and offers it over.

Baze finally raises his head to blink blearily at Wilford. The larger man looks at the cash, then at the smaller man, then at the cash again. Finally, Baze sighs, shuts his knife with a click, and pockets that and the money.

"Don't think this makes it right between us."

Wilford actually looks a little confused over that, for just a moment. Money usually solves all his problems.

"You're standing here. What's the problem then?"

Baze sets the block of wood aside on the bar and folds his arms. "I want an apology."

"For what?" Wilford asks.

Wilford has nothing to apologise for. Everybody walked away, in a manner of speaking.

Baze sighs through his nose. "I died because your intel was bad. We all did. Are you incapable of taking responsibility when you screw up?" he says, leveling a look at Wilford. "Or is life just not sacred to you?"

Wilford shrugs, like he doesn't really understand why any of this is a problem.

"Intel's bad all the time. Doesn't make anything special. You're still here. Why are you griping?"

The answer to Baze's questions are both yes, it would seem.

Baze stares. Then he harrumphs, pulling the knife out of his pocket and picking up the block of wood to start whittling again.

"Typical. I ask a couple of serious questions and you deflect."

"What do you mean, typical? So you got knocked around a little bit. It happens to the best of us."

It's not like Wilford enjoyed getting ripped apart. It's definitely in his top three worst ways to get killed.

Baze made a monumentally stupid decision, following Wilford. But he's not about to admit that, not when the man can't even muster up an apology.

"I wouldn't be as upset if Chirrut didn't feel the death. But he did, and so here we are."

"Yeah, about that. You need to tell your boyfriend to chill the fuck out, man. I tried to give him your cash, and he tried to kick the shit out of me."

And succeeded. But Wilford won't admit that either.

"Tried?" Baze says. This is his Most Skeptical face. Bask in it,
Wilford. "I'm not surprised in the slightest. I don't know why you are. Chirrut has always been protective. He probably holds you responsible."

"I didn't pull the trigger." Or, you know, but him alive.

Why are people so tedious?

"You got something to get out of your system, just get it over with."

Wilford feels like he should have worn contacts today.

Baze is tempted. Oh, so tempted. But he knows more violence won't get Wilford to accept responsibility, especially if he's asking for it.

"You're really not going to apologize, are you?"

Arguments with Wilford tend to end with someone getting punched in the face.

"For what? You carrying a fucking bomb on your back that got us all killed?"

Baze made his own decision to go. Nobody forced him.

Baze sets his jaw, stubbornly carving into the wood. "For one, my coolant tank didn't blow up. For two, that wasn't what killed us. What killed us was the monsters you didn't know how to kill first."

"I never said I was an expert. I wouldn't have wanted to go up there if I was."

And now that he knows what's up there, he has no intent on going back.

"Well, don't blame me for your idiocy," Baze grumbles, his knife biting into the block of balsa. "My coolant tank being ruptured had nothing to do with our deaths."

This is really starting to get on Wilford's nerves.

"Then tell that to your crazy boyfriend and his stupid fucking stick."

Good god, it's not Wilford's fault Baze got himself killed. He barely takes responsibility for getting himself killed out there.

Baze has the presence of mind to toss the block of wood, barely hearing it as it skitters across the floor, before he slams his fist into Wilford's face.

Crunch. Baze doesn't pull his punch, either. He steps into it, all the power of his muscled shoulders unfurling into a vicious strike. Wilford's glasses snap like twigs under Baze's knuckles, cutting them.

Wilford should have been more ready for that. He really should have.

He's distantly aware of the way his busted frames cut into his face. Just like he's distantly aware of the way Baze's fist immediately follows. And the way something slams into the back of his head a second later.

The floor. It's the floor. He's on the floor. That's where he is right now.

It takes a few seconds for the rest of his brain to start working again, and for him to realise that if he doesn't get up, or roll over, or do something, there will be blood in his eye.

"Feel better?" he asks, trying to sit up and figure out where exactly on his face he got cut. The problem is that his whole damn face hurts.

"Much," Baze growls, shaking out his bruised knuckles. He looks around for Security, ready to turn himself in. "I'm surprised you're still conscious."

"Jury's still out."

Wilford stays on the floor, because he might fall over again if he gets back up. That was a hell of a punch.

He's bleeding from the side of his nose, and that's great. Is it on his shirt? It's probably on his shirt. Damnit.