Chirrut Imwe

As Baze walks the bacta works. It's really too little bacta for too much damage, but at least Chirrut can breathe without fire, can pick up the whirling threads of the world and start making sense of them again. His exhaustion makes him an easy passenger. He notes with an odd sort of apathy the noises of their apartment block, the smells that grow rank in the stairwell, the way the building echos with the creaks and groans of age.

Their room is tidy, if somewhat spartan. Chirrut makes a dissatisfied noise as the jostling of getting through the doorway breaks through his daze.