milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Chirrut spends hours tending the tea plants today, replanting groupings of three or four into individual plants, arranging and re-arranging the pots to best find the warmth (and supposedly light) of the sun, making sure the watering system would cover the new arrangement of plants... there was a lot to do. It is peaceable work and the time flies by.

Baze isn't in his brewery when Chirrut is done, so he meanders upstairs to get cleaned up. While he cannot see muddy fingerprints, he has it on good authority that they're highly annoying.

The pain catches him once he's inside. Sudden loss, sharp and aching as a stab through the chest turns any scream into a shocked breath of air, almost silent in its agony.

Baze.

That sense of knowing where Baze is, that he's alright... it's gone. He's gone.

Chirrut isn't sure how long he spends on his knees, frozen in that moment, too stunned to figure out what comes next. He can only barely remember a time Baze wasn't by his side, not too far away. He's still not, Chirrut knows in his head, but his heart doesn't want to listen. His heart is too busy screaming.

Finally he picks himself up, dusting himself off by habit. Downstairs, he should head downstairs, ask Bar, she'd... well, she'd have the best chance of knowing. Then maybe X, if he doesn't find his answer. Then... Too much, that's enough of a plan. He turns back to the door, but... no.

Muddy fingerprints are annoying. He's been told this.

Washing his hands doesn't take long. There's... there's no rush now.

When Chirrut gets to the Bar, he is greeted with a note, written on paper that would have been painfully precious in NiJedha. To anyone watching, his expression does not change as he reads it over and over again, tracing the raised ink with gentle fingers.

This? Baze died for this? So senseless. Baze deserved more.

Chirrut has a quiet word with the Bar, and is rewarded with a stack of books and a copy of his reader, which he takes to one of the chairs by the fire, a rat following behind with a cup of tea. Not Sapir - a surprise tea. For Baze. The books are on brewing beer and moonshine, a project he's wholly unsuited for, but he intends to master.

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Chirrut frowns - Baze must be feeling horrific. Gently he tugs Baze towards the 'fresher, figuring he can deal with the mass of armor and weaponry there just as easily as he can now, and at least then everything will be all in one spot. He knows the room by heart at this point, making it easier to guide Baze along.

Force damn it. Why is Baze so useless? Anger at himself ripples through him, galvanizing him into action.

"I can do it myself," Baze croaks, drawing breaths through his blocked nose.

First, he peels away from Chirrut. Then Baze sheds the coolant tank--and flinches at the remembered sound of the monster's claws puncturing the metal--and sets his repeater cannon aside on the bench in the 'fresher. After hitting the release on his armor, he catches the red carapace after it falls away from his body, setting it aside in the corner.

He still waits thirty seconds for the tap water to turn clear, out of habit. Luckily, the stream has warmed in that time, and Baze plunges his hands under the flow. He cups the water in his hands and raises them to his face, scrubbing away at his eyes.

"Thank you, Chirrut," Baze says, resting his fingers in the warmth.

He can't thank his friend enough.

Chirrut frowns, the expression beginning to etch itself into his skin, and ignores Baze's anger for a moment of self-indulgence. He hugs Baze from behind while his friend is distracted with cleaning, pressing his ear against that broad back to catch the sound of a beloved heartbeat.

Safe.

Chirrut doesn't want a fight, not so soon after getting his heart back, so he releases Baze just as quickly and heads for the door.

"I'll be just out here, if you need me."

"Sure," Baze says, and abruptly feels that that is inadequate. "Of course."

That, too, seems wrong, but Baze doesn't know what to say. Damn it. He keeps hurting his friend. Chirrut doesn't deserve this, any of it. Baze wants to run and hide, but he doesn't dare leave Chirrut behind again. Baze promised.

He focuses on cleaning his face, the motions mechanical. Strangely, once he's done, he does feel a bit better.

But only a bit.

He exits the 'fresher, leaving his armor and weapon behind, and seeks out Chirrut. Cupping his cheek, Baze sighs.

"Chirrut, I--" Baze starts, and finds he can't speak. He can't say the words, "please forgive me," as much as he wants to. They choke him.

For all that the Force sometimes speaks to him, Chirrut is not a telepath. He just knows Baze is hurting, and sick, and tired.

"Come on, off with this, and the boots, I'll find one of those robes, and you can sleep, yes?" Chirrut encourages, plucking at Baze's overalls.

Chirrut keeps caring for Baze, keeps tending to him. Does that mean his friend forgives him? Can he be forgiven?

Baze opens his mouth to ask the question again--and sneezes gold glitter into his arm.

"Force damn it," Baze rasps, clenching his fists. Why can't he ask this simple question? "Please, Chirrut, I... I have to know. Do... Can you forgive me? I know I don't deserve it, but... Please."

"... Forgive you?" Chirrut repeats, confusion heavy in his voice. "What... Baze, what have you done that requires forgiveness?" Surely Baze doesn't mean returning to him - as if Chirrut would want him to stay away.

Baze offers Chirrut a pained grimace that he can't see. Why is this so hard? Surely Chirrut isn't being difficult on purpose.

"I left you behind?" Baze croaks, dragging his thumbs over Chirrut's cheeks. "I went and got myself killed? I mean, you felt it--I'm sorry."

"Ridiculous bantha, you're forgiven, though you don't need it in the first place. You didn't leave intending to be killed..."

He pauses, the frown finding its way back to his face.

"You... didn't, right?"

"What? No!" Baze says, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time since he became sick. The fist around his heart unclenches, and he presses a grateful kiss to his friend's brow.

"Thank you," Baze says, sighing again. "Apparently I got myself all twisted up over nothing."

Chirrut tsks, fondly, and plucks at Baze's coveralls again.

"Off, now - you need sleep, and you're not going to do that all geared up."

Baze smiles fondly, and releases Chirrut, stepping back. The larger Guardian strips of his jumpsuit and his boots, eventually standing in just his underclothes. He shivers despite the room being warmer than Jedha ever was, being sick.

He crosses to the bed and practically falls into it, curling up under the covers.

"Bonnie made all the sick people soup, before. It was really good. Lots of vegetables," Baze says, already drowsy. "I hope I didn't get her sick, too. I hope I don't get you sick."

"You can make everyone sick, I don't care." Chirrut replies, following Baze, not content to be farther away than absolutely necessary at this point.

Right now, that means curling up behind Baze so he can contentedly listen to Baze's heartbeat.

Baze's heartbeat is much slower and more even than the rapid, staccato drumming of earlier; he's no longer nervous, but is instead boneless and content. He has his afterlife back, and his friend with him.

He reaches a hand behind himself to wrap around Chirrut's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Soon, his breathing--still rough, still labored--evens out, as much as it can while he's ill. He dozes fitfully, plagued by nightmares of inhuman creatures screeching into the dark.

Chirrut half-drowses, waking to try and sooth the stress away when it builds up. He would defend Baze from these dangers as well, if he could only get at them.

Chirrut's efforts, though unnoticed by the sleeping Baze, aren't in vain. He does, eventually, settle into a deeper, dreamless sleep, only waking late, late in the morning--going on the afternoon, and much later than he usually rises.

The first thing Baze does upon waking is to turn and find Chirrut. The second thing Baze does upon waking is to sneeze silver glitter into his arm.

Chirrut smiles, wanly, glad to hear Baze waking properly, if still ill. Chirrut... never really slept, too afraid that this miracle had a time limit, and Baze would disappear again.

"You're awake - do you want breakfast? Tea?" He asks, as he runs his hands over Baze's face, theoretically to check if Baze has a fever.

Baze doesn't, in fact, have a fever, only the cold to contend with. He smiles back at his friend, though Baze does notice how thin Chirrut's smile is.

"Tea would be lovely, and breakfast, too," Baze says, rubbing Chirrut's shoulder. "Yes, I'm awake. Finally. What time is it, anyway?"

Baze can't stand it anymore. He loops a glittery arm around Chirrut's shoulders and tugs him closer. "And you, my friend? Did you sleep all right?"

"Nearing noon, I-rk." Chirrut is cut off by the tug, and ends up in a cuddle he doesn't know how to get out of. Or if he wants to get out of. Probably not, here it is warm and smells of Baze, and he can hear Baze's heartbeat.

"Not really. But that's alright, I'm not sick."

Baze purses his lips and runs a hand over Chirrut's short-cropped hair, trying to memorize every detail of him. The larger Guardian almost lost his chance to be with his smaller friend. Chirrut may have forgiven Baze, but he hasn't yet forgiven himself.

He might not ever be able to.

"It's not all right," Baze insists, cupping the back of his friend's neck and pressing their foreheads together. "You should have a nap later today. Maybe after breakfast. I'm... I'm not going anywhere. I'm here, with you. I'm safe."

I'm sorry.

"Fine, if you nap too, you're still sick. This thing is tenacious, whatever it is." Chirrut deflects, allowing himself a few more minutes before giving Baze a shove and rolling free. "I'll go chase down a waitrat to bring us breakfast."

Baze could have cuddled for longer, but that's always true. He sneezes into his arm again--with green glitter making an appearance--and rolls his lazy self out of bed to make use of the 'fresher.

Once clean, he finds his jumpsuit--which is still encrusted with glitter. He dons it anyway, and returns to the 'fresher to linger over his armor. He'd told Chirrut that Baze was going to try to aear it less, but he just feels so exposed. He inspects it for claw marks and finds none, nor is there blood, both of which surprise him. Eventually, he leaves the armor behind; he decides he's relatively safe in the temple room, and Chirrut can hear his heartbeat better this way besides.

He settles on the bed in the lotus position, waiting for Chirrut. "What did you order?"

Chirrut pauses in the doorway, listening.

"Oh good, you're dressed - you can answer the door." He declares, letting the door close behind him and shucking off the majority of his robes to lay in a pile at the end of the bed so he can more comfortably go back go enjoying the warmth of the bed.

"I'm not sure, something about ranches." Chirrut shrugs, "Bar gave me a list so I picked from it, I hope it's tasty."

Baze laughs, and piles the blankets on top of Chirrut. The larger Guardian drops a pillow on the smaller one's face.

"Sounds good to me," Baze says, smiling. He stretches out on the bed next to his friend--after sneezing into his arm, of course. The glitter is now turquoise. "Ugh. I hope this illness goes away soon. It seems like everyone in the bar has it already. Emcee did. So did Jay."

Chirrut does not protest being buried, comfortably cuddling down in the swath of fabric.

"You're waiting until everyone's recovered before you give it to me, aren't you? Ugh, it would be a disease dealing in color." Stupid color.