iprotectyou | OOM: The Job

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Chirrut tries not to worry when Baze is away. It will be as the Force wills, he knows. No amount of stress on his part will change the outcome one way or the other.

He still wishes Baze wouldn't do this.

He still frets when Baze isn't within call, within touch.

Today has been particularly bad. He abandoned the marketplace altogether, returning back to a cold apartment (Baze isn't back yet, Baze isn't supposed to be back yet but it would have made a nice surprise). At least here any slip-ups on his part won't have consequences. He can only imagine what Baze would say if he managed to get himself hurt just because he was too worried.

Being able to worry freely doesn't help.

He re-brews used tea leaves (fourth brewing, they barely carry any flavor at all) just to have something warm to wrap his hands around. Outside, the heavy tread of the Imperial walkers marches endlessly on.

...

Wait.

Chirrut abandons his mug and hurries to the door of the apartment, fumbling at the light switch as he passes to make sure the lights are on - the heavy tread isn't walkers. It's Baze.

Baze lurches through the door as soon as Chirrut pulls it open. The larger man's hand is too numb to grasp the handle. He knows he smells of blood and sweat and poison, and there's a bit of froth on his lips that he can't quite lick away.

"Chirrut," Baze says, wobbling on his feet. "Help."

Chirrut never wants to hear that tone of voice ever again. Even if he lives forever, he never wants to hear that tone again.

"Baze? Baze!" The training he's had says he shouldn't be panicky, that nerves shouldn't rattle like Jedhan knots in his beggar's bowl at the end of the day, but...

As the Force wills.

Chirrut slides under Baze's arm and wraps his own around Baze's shoulder, hauling the larger man into the apartment and away from prying eyes. He knows the number of steps to the beds by heart - today there seem to be more, seems to take forever. Finally he bumps up against the furniture, and starts tugging Baze's armor off, nimble fingers finding the straps from long habit.

"Baze, what happened, talk to me. Tell me."

But Baze can't. His tongue has gone thick in his mouth, and he's shaking too much to get the words out. His hand is numb, his arm is numb, Force, even his shoulder--and yet they burn. His eyelids droop and his vision goes blurry; he can't breathe. He feels weak, he feels nauseated, he feels swollen.

"S-Selkath," he gasps, clawing at Chirrut's robes with his good hand. Baze pants raggedly, his chest shuddering with each pained hitch in his breathing.

Chirrut's heart stops.

Thankfully his fingers do not, and the armor, cannon, and all go crashing to the floor. Selkath toxin, extremely dangerous to humans, and a nasty way to...

Chirrut refuses to finish that thought, instead focusing on helping Baze lie down without hurting himself further.
"Easy, easy, remember those breathing exercises Master Daagh used to make us perform for hours on end? Focus on those, the air is a river and you just need to ride the current..." Chirrut soothes, even though he used to complain about that particular metaphor endlessly. What would he know about rivers? That was before he knew about rivers other than water. Rivers of refugees. Rivers of tears. Rivers of blood.

He traces his hands carefully down the arm Baze isn't using until he finds them - nasty, jagged claw marks, deep into the muscle. Nothing seems to be rapidly bleeding, however, so he snags a scarf left abandoned earlier in the morning and uses it to bind off the wound, forcing himself to ignore the pain he is causing.

Baze can't talk, but he can cry out. So he does--with each gasp, with each broken sob. It's not until Chirrut has finished binding his wounds that Baze tries to focus on the river metaphor. Breathing has never been more difficult in his life, and he fights against the vice squeezing his ribs, his lungs, his heart.

More than anything, he wants to apologize.

He's sorry, so sorry, that he rushed headlong into a bad situation, like Chirrut always warned him about. That he didn't look up, when he knew he should have.

That he's leaving Chirrut alone.

Baze's eyes drift closed, unbidden. He fumbles for Chirrut's hand, and finds he doesn't have the strength to squeeze it.

Chirrut sobs on a breath, and he tells himself it's because he's having difficulties getting the buttons of Baze's shirt to open, not because of the lax slide of Baze's hand.

He takes his heartbreak out on the shirt. Buttons go flying.

Carefully he pulls the blankets of the bed up, and he really doesn't have time to hesitate, he doesn't... but he pauses, just for a moment, to press a kiss to Baze's forehead, tasting bitterness and salt. He settles his hands against Baze's face, wishing he knew if Baze was looking at him.

"Baze? Baze, listen to me. I have to go get treatment. I will be back as fast as I can. Don't... don't go without me, Baze. Don't you dare." Chirrut chokes out.

Then he rises, grabbing his staff and the purse with his limited supply of coins, and takes off at a run.

Baze barely hears his friend's words; they fade in and out. But he hears the most important ones: "Don't go."

He wants to tell Chirrut not to be silly. Of course he won't.

But he can't guarantee that. Not with his breathing ratcheted up and the pain blinding him and the nausea. Not with his heart slamming against his ribs so hard, he fears it will stop.

But he can try. Baze Malbus is a fighter, and will always fight, especially when he's being forced to leave Chirrut behind.

Chirrut sprints, abandoning stealth and safety for all the speed he can muster. He knows, he thinks he knows, who would have a therapy for this toxin. There is an herbalist, a young sweet girl who inherited her mother's shop not too long ago, who needed their help then when street gangs would have made her livelihood impossible. He had been impressed by her confident knowledge then - he can only hope it extends this far.

He wishes, fervently, that she didn't live on the other side of the city.

He has to backtrack twice, both times to avoid Imperial patrols. Neither of them were particularly large but he can't afford any delay today. Baze is dying. Baze could be...

He tries not to think about that either.

When he reaches the tiny shop with its rattly beaded curtain, he's panting hard enough to make words impossible, giving the girl he was hoping to find plenty of time to pepper him with questions.

At first, Baze doesn't worry. He waits for his friend, faithfully. But soon... Surely his friend didn't mean to leave him alone for this long. Surely not.

With each tortured breath, his panic rises, and his faith cracks. He wants to cry out for Chirrut, scream his name, say goodbye. Baze can't even press his hands to his venom-squeezed heart.

Chirrut left him. Chirrut left him to die.

The transaction is a quick one. Once he has air again he practically snarls his demand. He doesn't listen to any of her questions, barely listens to the instructions, and leaves before she can start questioning again. The trip back nearly takes longer than the flight out. More Imperials, seemingly everywhere, stymie his progress.

He could cry. He could fly against every Imperial he encounters, destroying them with the strength of his anxiety and rage.

He goes around.

Finally, the familiar staircase with it's multitude of unsavory odors. The hallway, with the hole in the tilework halfway down just waiting for the day he puts his foot in it and twists his ankle.

He bursts into the apartment, barely putting any care into remembering to close the door, and hurries to Baze's side.

Baze is unresponsive. His skin is cool and clammy to the touch, feeling like greasy clay. He's drenched in sweat. Chirrut won't find the comforting beat of Baze's heart or the bellows of his breathing--they've stopped.

No.

No.

Baze's shirt is ripped across as he pulls it off of Baze's chest, stooping to press his ear against the sturdy frame of his ribs. No heartbeat. No heartbeat, he can't...

That glow, that sense of Baze nearby, keeps him from utter despair. It's a near thing.

It takes every slivered shred of his training, of his faith, to continue functioning at all - he firmly pinches Baze's nose shut as he seals his mouth to Baze's, ignoring the blood he can taste, ignoring the laxity of his jaw, to force air into Baze's lungs. One breath. Two.

Then locking his fingers together, he places them over Baze's heart, and shoves his body weight into Baze's chest. Again. Again. Againagainagainagain... something cracks under his hands. He ignores that too - he can apologize for damaged bones later.

Air fills Baze's lungs, blood pumps into and out of his heart.

He gasps back into sweet, sweet life, his head tilted back and his back arched. He goes limp again, and for a brief moment, breathes peacefully. Then his heart starts pounding and his breathing ratchets up again and the poison coursing through his veins makes itself known to him.

But it doesn't matter. Chirrut is back, and Baze is glad.

Chirrut curses Baze out with every foul word he knows. When he runs out of words, he starts repeating himself, because he hasn't even remotely run out of anger. The diatribe carries him through reclaiming the medicine he dropped, scooping the viscous material out of the jar with two fingers, yanking open Baze's jaw with a bare modicum of gentleness, and slopping the goop under Baze's tongue. It smells horrendous.

He hopes it tastes even worse.

The antidote is foul, beyond foul, and Baze would spit it out if he could--but he still can't move. But his breathing eases up immediately, as does his heart rate, and soon his arm starts tingling with renewed feeling--and renewed pain. He wraps it around Chirrut as soon as he can move, tugging the smaller man to the larger one's chest, and burying his nose in his short-cropped, sweaty mess of hair.

"Chirrut," Baze slurs, his tongue still heavy. He forces the words out, despite exhaustion, despite everything. "Y-You came back for me."

Chirrut allows himself to be pulled down. With his ear pressed against Baze's chest, he can hear that wonderful symphony of life.

That had been close. Close enough that he can still feel the Force roiling with the near miss.

"You bantha." The anger is still there, but nearly swamped with relief. Baze's shirt is getting soaked, but that's alright. His eyes are just leaking.

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..."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 4

OOM: The Job

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject