iprotectyou | OOM: The Job

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OOM: The Job

The job pays well, at least. That's the only good thing about it.

The intel Baze was given was shaky at best, and while his target goes down without a fight, the Selkath bodyguard she employed is a surprise. An aquatic species resembling a catfish with aqua-colored skin, the Selkath fights viciously, tackling Baze from above and mauling his arm with venom-tipped claws.

Baze bellows, swinging his repeater cannon up and around to fire upon the creature. He pumps blaster bolts into him, stumbling away when the Selkath disengages. Baze didn't expect the claws. To a Selkath, use of their retractable claws is dishonorable, a sign of madness. Baze's arm burns, and he grits his teeth against the pain. He knows he has to find an antidote, and fast.

He staggers back home, back to Chirrut.

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Baze doesn't mind that Chirrut is soaking his chest. In fact, Baze welcomes it. Chirrut rarely has an outlet for grief, and he carries a lot of on his thin shoulders.

Baze wants to reassure him, to tell him that it's okay to cry, that Baze himself is okay. But he can't find the words, and his blackened tongue is still maddeningly thick. He pets Chirrut, massaging his neck and back, and takes comfort from the fact that his friend is here.

Baze is still in excruciating pain, still nauseated, but he's alive to feel it. That was too close. He's fairly certain that he died, and was leaving, before Chirrut forced him back by force of will. Baze does not credit the Force for saving him. That was all Chirrut.

"I'm okay," Baze forces out, coughing and jostling Chirrut on his place on the larger man's chest. "I'll be okay."

He manages to master himself - there's just too much to be done to come apart now. Even if all he wants to do at the moment is stay with his ear pressed to Baze's chest, reassuring himself that Baze hasn't gone on without him.

He sighs. Unwillingly, he leans back onto his heels, and considers his mental tally of things to do.

"You'll be better once your clean and I've treated your wound properly. That cloth probably isn't very clean to begin with."

Baze considers this. He'd rather not have the wounds be touched, thank you very much. Especially with something astringent like disinfectant. But he understands proper wound care all too well, and knows that it will help.

"Fine," he grumbles, and fumbles for the cloth. His fingers are still clumsy and half-paralyzed, so he doesn't manage to remove it. Chirrut bound the wounds rather tightly, even in the heat of the moment and with a scarf.

Baze is grudgingly impressed; his friend certainly knows how to keep a cool head. It's better than Baze would have done, and he knows it. He sighs, and holds his arm out to Chirrut. "I can't get the scarf off."

Thankfully, words are coming easier to Baze now that he can breathe again--even if he can only take shallow breaths, and his chest aches like fire with each inhale. Something has happened to his ribs, something he doesn't remember. Chirrut should. Baze will ask him about it later.

Chirrut slaps at the offered arm, more gently than the ire that had raged through him would dictate.

"Don't mess with that, we'll get there. Just don't fight me." Huffs the man who'd fight the temple's entire infirmary staff any day of the week. He goes for Baze's boots instead, plucking at knotted ties and braced clamps.

And Baze lets him, lying there and trying not to inhale too deeply. The larger man is exhausted, but the agony shooting through his arm and chest keeps him awake.

He's bursting with words. He wants to apologize again, wants to tell Chirrut that he's sorry for almost leaving, wants to tell him how much he would have missed him and that Baze is so glad he came back.

"Chirrut," Baze says, drawing another shallow breath. Pain lances through him. "What happened to my ribs?"

That wasn't what he meant to say. Apparently, later is now.

Chirrut freezes for a long minute. The terror of having to beat Baze back to life hasn't really faded. He's not sure how many ribs he cracked, or when, exactly, he did it. He finds he doesn't care much about those details.

He finishes tugging one boot off and starts in on the other.

"I cracked them." The words are flat, not an apology. "I'll make sure nothing is fractured, and tape them up."

Chirrut is so angry, Baze almost flinches at his tone.

"Oh," Baze says, with another huff of painful breath. That does make sense. Chirrut would have had to pound on his chest pretty hard to bring Baze back, he realizes. And how difficult that must have been for a blind man, much less Chirrut, who is much smaller than Baze.

He wants to roll over, to lean on his side, so he can better see Chirrut, but Baze doesn't dare move. For one, it would be painful, and for two, it would interrupt Chirrut in whatever he's doing to make Baze more comfortable.

"I'm sorry," Baze says, finally.

Chirrut huffs as he rummages through their supplies, hunting for soft sleep clothes for Baze.

"I'm not angry at you." This is... mostly the truth. He's just angry, fear and stress transmutating into something more pure. Baze is just part of it. The closest part.

"Here, we'll get these on you - pants first, I need to clean that wound." He's holding a deeply mismatched set of clothing. He pauses, frowning, halfway back to the bed.

"I... I don't think we have anything for pain, I... didn't think, I'm sorry. I'll get some later, and food..."

Baze almost calls Chirrut's bluff. Almost. Baze is tempted, but he knows that doing so will only make his friend madder, and Baze isn't about to kick the hornets' nest.

Baze grunts as he struggles to his feet. He crosses to Chirrut with a plodding tread, and takes the clothes with his good hand. "Thank you," Baze says, swaying on his feet. He starts to strip from his jumpsuit, his hand catching on one of the pockets. "I don't need anything for the pain. I just don't want you to leave again. I... I can't. I can't bear having you gone."

"You're going to regret saying that when you're able to feel it properly." Chirrut warns, worry thick in his voice. He's moved to support Baze though, keeping him from toppling over altogether and hurrying the process along.

"... You do know I'd always come back, don't you?"

With Chirrut's help, Baze manages to strip from his jumpsuit, leaving it on the floor, and step into the pants. His movements are stiff and clumsy, hundred by the scarf wrapped tightly around his aching arm.

"Maybe I will," he says, instead of answering Chirrut's question. But, unfortunately for Baze, it's a question that deserves an answer. He faces his friend, wishing not for the first time that he could see Baze's sober expression. His tone will have to carry it forward for him.

"Yes," he says, with the strength of his faith in his voice. He may not believe in the Force anymore, but he believes in Chirrut. "And I will always come back for you."

Chirrut knows that tone, and feels both warmth and pain. It used to be he wasn't the sole focus of that faith. He doesn't know how to make it otherwise.

"Good, you wouldn't like it if I had to hunt you down." Chirrut tugs Baze back towards the bed, insistently. "Now, sit down, lie down, I don't care but you might - I'll go fetch the kit and I'll put a proper bandage on that arm."

Baze sits down at first, stubbornly keeping his head up. Unfortunately for him, the walk across the room has made him both dizzy and winded, so he scoots down onto the bed in a lying position before Chirrut comes back.

When Chirrut does return with the kit, Baze lays a hand on his arm. "If you have to leave to get food before the markets close," he says, the words slurred from exhaustion, "I won't stop you. Just wait until I fall asleep."

"As if you would sleep knowing I'm at the market, I've heard that complaint often enough." Chirrut retorts, kneeling beside the bed and working on undoing the knots he tied in haste. "Besides, there's enough."

It's a slight falsehood. There is, however, enough for Baze.

"I don't know about that," Baze says, drawing a breath through his nose just because he can. He doesn't want to have that much difficulty breathing ever again. He yawns, letting Chirrut do what he will with Baze's arm--and wincing occasionally, especially when the wounds are exposed to the open air. "I'm pretty drained. Fighting for your life will do that to you. Even though you did most of the fighting."

His cleaning holds a bit of a ruthless streak - if they can avoid infection, all the better.

"Well, don't stop now, I don't like how deep this is." Chirrut huffs as he slathered the wound with salve and starts re-binding it.

Baze hisses in displeasure, wanting very much to pull his arm away from the torture Chirrut inflicts. The larger man keeps as still as he can, however, knowing that if Chirrut doesn't have the chance to be ruthless, the wound may get infected. Still, it hurts.

"I should have looked up," Baze says wearily. "I'm sorry. I know better."

"Hush, I'm not Mas..." He freezes on the name, and backtracks. "You couldn't have known. Though I would prefer you don't do this again, if either of us had been less quick..."

He trails off again, and doesn't bother to try to find new words. He's going to need a long time to forget the horror of finding Baze so still.

He ties off the last of the bandages, neatly tucking the ends under so they can't unravel. Putting the kit back to rights keeps his hands busy for a while longer.

Baze knows what name Chirrut was about to say, and the older man wishes the younger one had just said it. Baze thinks Master Sheotar is still alive, subduing stormtroopers and fighting the good fight, like he and Chirrut are. But some days, it's difficult to keep it up, and they barely scrape by, eking out a living. Days like today.

"It won't happen again," Baze grumbles, resting his arm againsr his chest. "I still need to talk to my contact, and get paid for the job. If I can, I'll try to squeeze more out of them for the Selkath."

Edited 2017-05-11 03:57 (UTC)

"Good. They should have warned you." It's bad enough that Baze takes these jobs - they shouldn't also come with bad intelligence.

"There. I'll check on it again in the morning. Let me get some food in you before you sleep. I think there's porridge that shouldn't take too long to make." And, added side benefit, he doesn't have to do much more cooking than heating water.

"They should have," Baze agrees, his words more a grumble. He snags Chirrut's robes with his good hand. "Is there enough for both of us?"

"There's enough." He repeats. It doesn't make it any more true, but he's not the one injured - he can skip a meal just fine. "Now let me cook, or you'll never get a meal, you bantha."

He gently pulls himself free, and collects his mug on the way over to their tiny kitchen. The 'tea' has long-since gone cold, but he sips it anyway. "There isn't much salt, so it's going to a little bland."

"That's fine," Baze says, trying to track Chirrut's progress through their tiny kitchen despite the sand weighing down the larger man's eyelids. "Bland food is better than no food."

He can't tell if Chirrut is lying, and that bothers Baze. Still, he does have faith in his friend. If Chirrut says there's enough, there's enough. Baze yawns, and gives into the temptation to close his eyes. His arm and chest ache fiercely, but there's nothing he can do about that, and he's ever so tired. Maybe Chirrut will forgive him a quick nap. Maybe...

His breathing steadies, an easy rhythm, so different than the harsh panting from before. Every inhale is agony still, but that doesn't keep him from dozing off.

When Baze goes quiet, Chirrut freezes, listening hard. But no, there's breathing, steady if not as easy as he would like. Asleep, then.

Chirrut quietly, fervently offers his thanks to the Force - the misses today were too close to be anything but the Force's aid. That done, he starts making the porridge, everything laid out so he can get through the task with a minimum of fumbling. Well, more fumbling today, as his nerves are a bit shot after thinking he'd come too late. Soon the scent of cooking grain fills the air, and he rummages through their stores to try and find something to mix in to lend the mash some flavor.

Baze sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning in a bed too small for his frame. His sleep is just deep enough to suffer nightmares, and when he sees the Selkath crash down upon him, claws biting into his flesh--

"Chirrut!" Baze cries. He sits up straight in bed, clutching his heart and panting, his eyes wild. It takes him a few moments to realize where he is, and to remember that he's safe, and not poisoned anymore.

He spots his friend in their tiny kitchen, and relaxes a fraction. Baze's arm is on fire, tight bands of it digging into his forearm, and that's a sufficient distraction from sleeping.

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