iprotectyou | 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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"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."

OOM: The Flower

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