iprotectyou | OOM: The Flower

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OOM: The Flower

Baze wasn't sure how it happened.

He'd found her. Nineteen years after the fall of the temple, he'd found Eiko, Chirrut's white flower. She was walking in the market, just as haughty as she pleased, staff slung over her shoulder and a dirty look for anyone who passed her by. Including Baze, until she recognized him.

"Baze!" she said, rushing forward to meet him. "I thought you were dead! Where's Chirrut?"

"Eiko! He's safe," Baze said, picking the slight girl up and swinging her around. "I'm so glad to have found you!"

She giggled, kicking her feet against his legs. "Put me down, you big oaf," she said, slapping him on his shoulder with the hand not holding her staff. "Please, I have to see him."

"Yes, of course," Baze said, setting her on her feet again. "Of course. Come with me."

He'd led her down the wrong alleyway. Imperial troops were there, 'questioning' a shopkeeper. The twi'lek's cries of pain echoed against the stone as the troopers beat him for information. Eiko refused to pass by. Instead, she launched into a furious defense, taking down stormtroopers with her staff at a speed Chirrut would be proud of.

Baze didn't see what happened next.

He'd had his back turned, firing at reinforcements when Eiko screamed. Blaster fire had scorched her chest and the side of her face. Bright, red blood stained her white skin, spattered across her body. She dropped to her knees, the grace suddenly gone from her movements. Her staff fell from her hands to clatter on the street, oddly loud despite the noise of the fight.

"Eiko! Eiko, no!" Baze cried, cradling her against his chest, but it was too late. Troopers swarmed the alleyway like so many fire ants. He had no choice but to flee, cutting a swath through them with his repeater cannon.

It had all happened so fast, Baze wasn't sure if he'd really found her, or if she was just a hallucination brought on by hunger and poor sleep. But the blood on his hands didn't lie.

He couldn't tell Chirrut.

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Chirrut is having a pretty good day, all told - he managed to impress enough people with his 'stories of the future' to get a decent amount of food for their dinner, he was able to coax a smile out of one of the young children who lives on his chosen street this week, and so far he hasn't had any Imperial entanglements. Chirrut feels Baze will be particularly happy about that last part.

He arrives back at their little apartment expecting Baze to be back already... and he isn't.

That's... odd. Not unheard of, but... he worries, a little bit.

This is a lie.

He worries a lot as he straightens up the place and starts a pot of tea.

Baze opens the door to their little apartment, praying to the Force that Chirrut isn't home already. The larger Guardian needs time to collect his thoughts, wash the blood off his hands, and make up a lie or two.

But Chirrut is home, as Baze notes, standing stock still in the front room. Of course he is.

"Chirrut," Baze says, wincing when his voice cracks with grief. "You're home."

Chirrut freezes, the welcoming smile dropping off his face.

Something is wrong. Something is extremely wrong - if he couldn't tell from Baze's voice, the Force is a malestrom around him, and...

"Is that blood I smell?" He already knows the answer. He sincerely wishes he didn't know the smell of human blood so well.

He sincerely wishes he'd stop smelling it in conjunction with Baze.

Baze decides not to look down at his hands, and also chooses to ignore how they're shaking. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. His hands are sore, and he doesn't know why.

"It's not mine," he says. It's the truth. It's a plea. "I need to wash."

"Baze?" There's relief in his tone, in his posture, but there's still something so deeply wrong it hurts. He slowly approaches Baze, gentle as if trying to catch some wounded and wary creature.

"Baze? What's wrong?"

Baze skitters away from him, nearly hopping on his feet. "No, don't touch me, Chirrut," the larger man says, trying to pass by his friend to get to the 'fresher room. "Let me get clean first."

"Baze. Tell me." He demands, pausing and waiting out his evasion. "You aren't exactly filling me with confidence about your injured state."

"I'm not hurting," Baze snaps, and on some level he knows that's a lie--and more importantly, knows Chirrut will be able to tell. The older man clenches his teeth, afraid to say anything more that might give him away. He's terrible at lying, especially to his friend who knows him better than he knows himself.

"Baze, what could possibly be so horrible that you cannot tell me?" Chirrut replies, forcing his tone to be gentler, soothing. Baze hasn't been this riled since...

Actually, he can't think of a time to match this. His worry grows by leaps and bounds, screaming in his posture, the furrows in his brow.

"I am here, as I have always been here."

And there it is. Baze can't tell him. Baze can hardly believe it himself. Not Eiko. Not Chirrut's flower. He worked so hard with her to help her be the best of her class, and now... Now she's lying in a filthy alleyway with a chest burned out by blaster fire.

And Baze left her there.

He starts to cry. "Chirrut," he says, and the word is agony, "let me by. I have to wash."

Chirrut jerks back as if stabbed, his face gone blank with shock. The amount of pain in Baze's voice makes him want to close the distance, force a confession, remind Baze that he's not going anywhere...

But he's hurting Baze more by trying.

That's... new. Unsettling. Horrible.

Carefully, he backs up a few more steps, bumping into the table as he goes and unsettling one fo the chairs. It's an inelegant movement, full of distraction.

Baze sniffles, and coughs. Fat, hot tears roll down his dirty cheeks, leaving trails in their wake. He shuffles into the 'fresher room and turns on the sink with trembling fingers, leaving bloodstains on the handle.

Then he gives into his grief. His sobs rack his massive frame, forcing a hunch to his shoulders. He cleans his hands as best as he can before giving into the urge to bury his face in his fingers, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if hurting himself will somehow bring Eiko back.

For a long minute (minutes? Hours? He doesn't know, and doesn't much care) Chirrut doesn't move. He... he doesn't know what to do. There was only one time he thought his presence might cause Baze pain, and that fear had been one of the first things eliminated.

What could he possibly have done to make Baze react like this? He can't think of anything even remotely helpful (he can't think), his behavior over the last few weeks fairly tame in comparison to some of the wilder stunts in previous months and years.

Why won't Baze talk to him?

He gives himself a firm shake, and heads back to their small kitchen. He grabs the pot of tea and two mugs.

He knows Baze will hear him slide against the wall when he sits just outside the 'fesher door. He knows Baze will smell the tea he pours out into the mugs.

The sounds of Baze crying tear his heart, nearly break down his resolution to let Baze come out on his own terms. He bows his head over his mug, and prays.

The most dramatic parts of Baze's sorrow taper off, leaving him hollowed out and caked in tear dust. His eyes hurt, and are puffy and red, and he shakes his head as he catches his reflection in the cracked mirror of the 'fresher. The smell of the tea centers him--what he can smell of it through his stuffed up nose, anyway. He wipes it on his sleeve, trying to breathe properly before he faces his friend.

He's going to have to lie again, he knows.

Baze cracks the door, searching for Chirrut. The larger man sniffs twice, slumping against the wall that Chirrut sits on. Baze leans against his friend, taking what comfort he can from his presence. "Thanks for the tea."

Chirrut's chant pauses when the door opens, and he forces himself to breathe, slow and calm.

He can't help the hitch when Baze leans against him, that's a feat beyond him even with any help the Force could provide.

"Have I done something to anger you?" He asks, his voice a well of contrition and worry. It'd be better, he thinks, if he could remember what it was he'd done wrong. Then at least he could explain himself.

"No!" Baze says, and clutches his friend's arm, desperate to reassure him. "I'm not angry with you. I'm... I'm sad. I'm grieving. And I c-can't tell you why."

Baze gnaws on his bottom lip, turning away from Chirrut. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Chirrut."

Chirrut fails to be reassured. He might, however, find a way to be angry himself. He manages to keep a hold of his temper, and prods Baze roughly with his finger.

"You are grieving, and you won't tell me why? We've shared hurts since we were children, Baze. Do you think somehow I will fail to care about this one thing?" It's... it's not a quite a snap, but it's well on its way there.

Baze is a logical creature, and what Chirrut says makes sense to him. He lets loose a choked sob, and rubs his arm where Chirrut poked him. "I... Chirrut, oh, Force, Chirrut, you might care too much."

Baze pillows his arms on his knees, and buries his face in his forearms. His next words are heavy, and leaden, but also come out in a high-pitched rush, mumbled into his knees. "I found her, Chirrut. I found her. And I left her, in the alley--she was shot, in the chest, and there was nothing I could do!"

He opens his mouth to cry without sound, gasping for breath. "Eiko, Chirrut. Eiko's dead."

Eiko

Laughter like bells and a determination as strong as durasteel.

The wild rush of a sparring match, her skill so finely honed he had to work (and work hard) to gain the upper hand.

The joy bubbling through her words, warmth on even the coldest days.

Of all the things Baze could have said, Chirrut was not prepared for that. He'd worried about her, thought of what adventures she must be having out in the universe...

Beautiful flower

Soundlessly, he curls up on himself, pulling his knees up and ducking his head down, his hands in his hair.

Baze immediately turns back to Chirrut, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. The larger man cradles the smaller one against his massive chest, clinging to him in their shared sorrow.

Baze thought he was finished with crying for the moment, but no. He feels so very old, sobbing into Chirrut's hair. Baze can't comfort Chirrut in the way he needs to be comforted, and he knows it. All he can do is grieve with him, and let him know that Baze is there.

His first, stunned, stumbling thought is that he has to go find her. If he finds her, he can at least honor her the way she should be, send her on to the Force with what dignity may be left...

But no.

He knows better than that.

The Empire wouldn't leave those they killed lying about - disease and contagion are ever-present worries in the battered city. She would be gone by now.

Baze is sobbing, his body racked with the force of it. Chirrut... feels he should be crying. Should be lost to the world with it.

All he feels is numb, the blood in his veins a roar in his ears.

He should weep.

He should be angry.

He should...

"I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force..."

Baze's crying tapers off as he listens to Chirrut's chant. His mantra.

Baze can't tell Chirrut, but he's begun to question the Force and its will for them. There's been too many friends dying, too much grief. The Imperials have laid their boots across NiJedha's neck, grinding the citizens under their heels. Baze doesn't join Chirrut in his praying, choosing instead to breathe deeply through his blocked nose.

He's only certain of one thing. "They shot her," he growls softly, a rumble deep in his chest. "We should kill them."

That brings Chirrut up in a hurry, his expression a thunderous mask of fury.

"You would honor her with death?" He demands, incredulous.

"Oh," Baze breathes, his face falling. He shifts uneasily, loosening his hold on Chirrut to let his hands fall to the floor. "I didn't think of it that way."

He feels guilty, naturally, but supplanting that is a deep-seated rage, festering in his heart. It's not fair that Eiko died. It's not just. And her blood is on Baze's hands, no matter how much he wants to pretend otherwise.

If he kills troops for her, Chirrut would never know.

Chirrut relaxes, or forces himself to relax - either way, he no longer looks geared for a fight. His world just got a little smaller, a little more fragile. Whatever would he do if he lost Baze as well?

"I know, I know, I'm... I'm sorry." This now, this is the time to cry, he thinks. To scream like when the Jedi fell across the galaxy. The agony is nearly the same.

It... would be a good time, for that.

"I should make us more tea." This pot, after all, is now cold.

Baze reaches out and squeezes his friend's hand. "No, I'm sorry, I should have... I should have done something. I was there, I was with her... I turned away."

Tears prick his eyes again, and he dashes them away with an angry hand. "Oh, Chirrut. What are we to do?"

Edited 2017-04-16 08:56 (UTC)

"... What would have been left for me, if I had lost you both?" Chirrut asks, hollowly. He hasn't lived away from Baze for any significant amount of time since he was a boy.

"I... don't know what to do." He adds helplessly. "I don't."

"Tea," Baze says eventually, sniffling. "You're right. We should make more tea. That's all we can do right now."

He wrings his hands like a wet rag, getting to his feet. The older man scoops up the pot and crosses to the sink, where he dumps out the old liquid. "What a waste," Baze says, feeling his joints creak as he moves about the kitchen. Numbness settles in his heart, and it's almost a relief compared to the awful grief.

"Chirrut," Baze says, leaning heavily over the sink. "Aren't you going to cry?"

Chirrut doesn't have a good answer for that. He doesn't even, really, have a bad one.

Baze deserves one.

He scrubs his hands over his hair (getting too long, it needs to be trimmed), trying to chase away the fog. He should want to cry. Need to cry. Be drowning it it.

He cried that cold watch while he waited for Baze to wake up from the bacta after being stabbed.

He cried when the Jedi died.

He may have cried for the temple, there are parts of that night he doesn't remember very well. He imagines maybe he did, the further from that night he gets.

But now, now when he knows he should, he wants to, he needs to... nothing. Just agony where his heart should be.

"I would." If there was any way to make that happen, he would drown the world in tears.

Baze stares at him for a long while. The older man licks his dry lips. "Okay," he says, filling the teapot with cool water. "I'll cry for both of us."

But not now. Now, it's time for tea. Now, it's time for a reaffirmation of life. Now, it's time to honor Eiko by living and breathing and loving and moving on. Baze is all cried out for the moment. He'll cry again later, after Chirrut is asleep, and Baze is alone in the night to face his helpless sorrow.

And later, when he's alone in the streets, he'll seek vengeance. He'll find the faceless men of the Empire who condemned a young, albino girl to die, and kill them.

He puts the kettle on the hot plate. "Chirrut," Baze says, not facing him. "Are you hungry?"

"I..." The word stops, choked.

Had he been in the market when Eiko died? Casually picking between wk'ou melons while she breathed her last? Trading pleasantries with vendors while she bled in the street?

He makes a strangled sound low in his throat, grimacing. Inelegantly he hauls himself up to his feet, ducking into the 'fresher.

One step.

Two.

Chirrut drops to his knees, dry-heaving.

Baze would prefer it if Chirrut just cried. Those sounds through the open door are something Baze never wants to hear again. They're the sounds of true anguish, true despair. The culmination of his and Chirrut's loss, of Eiko and the temple and Master Sheotar and Elder Koroban and Master Cabaril and all of the young acolytes Baze and Chirrut trained--all of the heavy grief is condensed into those sounds.

Baze almost starts crying again. His lip quivers, and his nails bite into his palms as he clenches his fists--making him realise why his hands were sore in the first place. He forces himself to draw deep, cleansing breaths, filling his lungs with cool, sweet air. His throat is raw. His nose is stuffed. And his head aches fiercely.

He finishes making tea, unsure if Chirrut will want any. Baze pours the tea into the rinsed out mugs, and slumps by the door to the 'fresher.

It takes effort, effort he doesn't have or want to spare, to master himself again. His throat burns, an unpleasant accompaniment to the pain in his heart.

Baze is outside the door.

He wants to hide here forever, to shield himself from any more loss. He wants to cling to Baze, to reassure himself that he's not alone.

Wearily, aching, he drags himself to his feet and stumbles to the door, palming it open. Chirrut leans on the door frame heavily.

Tea.

Baze made tea.

Tea, for the man with no tears to offer for the dead.

Chirrut hangs his head.

Baze scrambles to his feet when he feels more than hears the door open, tea mugs in hand. "Chirrut?" Baze ventures, testing how the name sounds. He doesn't know what to ask. 'Are you better?' is an absurd, heartless question. 'Is there anything I can do?' is just as bad. So Baze allows the name to hang in the air, praying that his friend will sense that the larger man is there for him, living moment by painful moment in tandem.

Eventually, the silence becomes too much to bear. "I made tea," Baze says, his voice high and crackling in his ears. Stating the obvious is better than nothing. "We shouldn't waste it."

Chirrut steps forward, heavy and wooden, to accept one of the mugs. The warmth leeches into his skin, the familiar sweet-bitter taste of the tea washing away the sourness in his mouth.

"Baze." His voice grinds, creaking.

"Thank you."

Baze reaches out, hesitates, and finally settles his meaty hand on his friend's shoulder. It feels right. Baze hopes Chirrut can take encouragement from him, as he's taking from the younger man. The older former Guardian prays they'll get through this--praying not to the Force, as he's so used to, but to the universe as a whole, which in his mind is a distinction. He's not sure what to pray to now.

He can't smile, not now. But he hopes he can be reassuring, at least, when he speaks.

"You're welcome," Baze says, his normally low voice gruff and gravelly, strained by sobbing. "I made a large pot."

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OOM: The Flower

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