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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"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.

Chirrut turns at the noise, spoon in one hand.

"Baze? Baze, lie back down, I still need to tape your ribs. I'll be right there." He's managed to find some dried fruit, so he mixes that in with the vain hope it might make the whole more palatable. Munching on the last handful, he spoons up a bowl for Baze and heads over.

"How do you feel?" He doesn't bother hiding the worry in his voice, worry is a given at this point.

Baze struggles into a lying position again just as Chirrut comes over with the bowl. The larger man sighs, forcing himself up to lean on the wall.

"Like bantha poodu," Baze says, drumming up a smile for his friend from Force knows where. "I can't lie down--I have to sit up to eat. You can tape up my ribs after that."

He takes the bowl of porridge and starts wolfing it down, but soon stops. Baze gives his friend a searching look. "Chirrut Imwe, where is your bowl?"

"I'll eat later, I need to strap your ribs first." Chirrut dismisses with a vague wave of his hand. "You'll be in trouble if one of those cracks moves on to a full break, which it might. I wasn't being gentle." When he hands off the bowl he then heads over to where they keep their supplies, searching for the tape.

"You'd better," Baze grumbles, and returns to scarfing down the porridge. The fight for his life burned a lot of energy, and he's veritably starving. Even though the porridge is blander than bland, it's still food. His spoon clinks against the empty bowl, and he sets it down on his belly, disappointed that it's empty.

Curling his toes, he watches Chirrut putter about the room and mess around with their supplies. "I don't blame you, you know. For cracking them. You did what you had to do."

Chirrut freezes.

He stands, tape and padding held loosely in his hand, his head bowed as he breathes. Under his breath, he clings to one of the old chants, the stress and pain of the day threatening to undo him. If he thinks about it too hard, he can feel the crack of bone under his hands again.

"I know."

Baze watches him for a few moments. Then the larger man hauls himself out of bed--slowly, ever so painfully slow--and pads over to his smaller friend. He loops his arms around Chirrut's thin shoulders--so strong, so proud, so bent with grief and sorrow and anger--and leans on him, heavily.

Words won't work here, Baze knows. Much as he'd like to, he can't simply tell Chirrut that he's all right, that they're safe now. That despite the pain Baze is in, he's glad to be alive and glad Chirrut is with him and just generally glad--happy, even. He sniffles, tears welling in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away.

Edited 2017-05-14 00:06 (UTC)

Chirrut is shaking.

He almost lost his best friend in the galaxy. He thought he had, for a moment. For too many moments. He was almost certain that he'd only managed to get back in time to be there when Baze left.

And to top it off he hurt Baze, something he hasn't done in years, and never outside of actual sparring. It was necessary, he knows it was necessary...

"You bantha. You're going to stress your ribs."

Baze squeezes him tighter in response. Yes, the larger man's ribs hurt like burning, especially when he inhales, but he's not about to let the smaller one go. Tears roll down Baze's cheeks and drip off his chin, soaking Chirrut's shoulder. His trembling makes Baze even more certain that embracing him is the best choice, despite the dizziness and pain it takes to do so.

"Shut up, Chirrut," Baze murmurs, his voice choked. "Just let me hold you."

And hold me back, he doesn't say.

He doesn't have to. With his protest on record, Chirrut can't fight his need for comfort anymore. He can rationalize it any way he likes, but he's still leaning back against Baze, holding on with a fierce grip.

It might be a while before he's able to let go.

That's just fine with Baze. There's a rush of air as Chirrut grips him, a quick exhale of surprise. He clings to his friend, smiling, tears slowing. Baze's ribs ache and his arm burns, but he pays his pain no mind--until it gets to be unbearable. Still, he stubbornly holds on to his small friend, offering all the comfort he can.

His hitch in breathing and the stiffness of his hold are the only outward signs of his injury, but they should be obvious to Chirrut, who can read him better than he can himself. Still, he holds on.

Sooner than he'd really like, Chirrut finds he can only focus on Baze's pain. He sighs, a soft tired sound, and pulls away.

"Back to bed with you - you're not going to heal wandering about." He chides.

Baze almost protests. He wasn't near done holding his friend. But Chirrut is right, and Baze knows it. Still doesn't make breaking away any easier. He staggers back to the bed, sitting down heavily on the creaky frame once he reaches it.

"Time to tape my ribs, I guess," Baze mumbles, exhaustion catching up with him again. With a full belly and a blanket, he could probably sleep, despite the fire arching up his arm.

Chirrut can practically taste Baze's need for comfort (and he'd be lying if he didn't need it as well). He pats Baze's shoulder when he's in reach, dumping his supplies beside Baze in an untidy heap.

Very carefully he maps out exactly which ribs are cracked (more than he likes, less than he feared), then sets about with the tape, ruthlessly binding his chest. When he's done Baze looks distinctly mummy-esque in parts, but the tape is neat and precise.

"Now. Lie down, and scoot over." He knows already he's not going to sleep if Baze is half a room away, so... he's not going to do that.

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