idontneedluck | The Importance of Health Insurance

The Importance of Health Insurance

Chirrut sits on the stoop he tends to favor these days, his bowl in front of him. His position here keeps him out of the path of the main patrols, but here he can hear trouble before it comes (or find it before it can hurt more of those he considers under his protection). It's been a long few days - the colder snap of winter came sooner than usual, catching all of Jedha unprepared.

"May the Force of others be with you." He calls, keeping the words alive at least, hopefully giving some comfort to those walking by. "May the Force of others..."

He stops.

Stills.

The Force asks, and he obeys, as he always will. The coins go in his purse, that is tucked into his robes, and he scoops up his staff to venture forth. It doesn't take him long to find what has roused him from his place.

The children are terrified, and small, their young pleading voices countered by the harsh tones of troopers. Something about market thieves. Something about making an example.

Chirrut takes a breath, centers, and smashes his staff into the face of the nearest trooper before they can get around to carrying out their plan.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Chirrut's hands are cold. Too cold. Baze chafes them, trying to warm him up, and presses a hand to his friend's clammy forehead to check for fever. "You shouldn't have done it," Baze says, sourness marring his tone. "You could have died. What would you have done had I not been there? Laid down in the dirt and waited for death? I won't leave you again. You clearly can't take care of yourself."

Baze looks away, focusing on warming Chirrut's hands. Tears sting the older man's eyes, and for once, he's glad Chirrut can't see his face.

"The Force would protect me." Chirrut protests. He's not a fool, he knows that one of the potential outcomes of his actions today was death... but he does not fear that. Death is only rejoining the Force, and he has lived a long, good life.

...

At least, he does not fear death for himself. The prospect of a universe without Baze, however...

He leans into Baze's hand, the rest of him unnaturally still as he tries to not aggravate his injuries. He contemplates the catch in Baze's voice, the anger and pain there, and wishes he knew a way to alleviate them.

Baze gives him an explosive scoff. "The Force!" the older man says, straightening his shoulders and leaning back to get a better look at Chirrut's face. "The Force failed you. I don't know when you'll stop relying on a symbol of a failed religion, but that day can't come too soon."

Baze almost lets go of Chirrut's hand during the tirade. The larger man reels in his expansive gestures, clinging to Chirrut.

It grieves Chirrut every time Baze says something like this - Baze, who was once the most devoted of them all. He can only repeat his assurances and hope, however. You can't force someone to believe... even when that someone is as close to you as Baze is to him.

"The Force did not fail me." His retort is tired and worn, grief tugging at his words and slowing them. When the heat of Baze's hands returns, he clings, unwilling to lose that warmth again. "I will be alright. I may never be a model again, but..."

Baze barks out a surprised, relieved laugh. That Chirrut can joke around is a solace; it means his friend isn't nearly as bad off as Baze thinks he is. "You were never suited to be a model," Baze says, scrubbing a gentle hand over Chirrut's hair. "You're pretty, but not that pretty."

The older man shifts by the bedside, trying to make his knees more comfortable as he kneels. "Are you hungry? Do you need water, or tea?" The offer is made out of concern, but also the slightest amount of guilt. Baze knows that he hurts Chirrut with the larger man's unbelief, and he would rather do anything else than hurt his friend.

"Water." He wants tea, honestly. However, he's not sure he'd stay awake to drink a properly brewed cup, and it would be a tragedy to waste their limited resources. Water it is, then.

He doesn't ask for food, because he knows their stores are painfully low. Maybe, when he's less tired, he can properly appreciate a meal...

There's a knock at the door. Chirrut tightens his hand around Baze's while he listens, adrenaline letting him focus.

"Not Imperials."

Baze squeezes his friend's hand, and release him, standing from the bedside. The larger man's hands drift to his gun as he crosses to the door. He opens it a crack, peeking through.

"Guardian Malbus?" A timid girl stands at the doorway, holding up a cloth-wrapped package. "This is for you."

"Thank you," Baze says, reaching through the door to take the gift that she presents. "But I'm not a Guardian anymore. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir," she says, and turns away to leave. Baze shuts the door and crosses to the table to unwrap the package.

"Seems that the neighbors provided food for us," he says, knowing that Chirrut will probably attribute the stroke of good fortune to the Force.

It's like Baze knows him or something. Chirrut makes a triumphant sound, a smile finding a home on his face.

"She sees you better than you see yourself." He notes, his tone cheerful if strained. It was almost shocking, how good it was to hear Baze called 'Guardian' again. "See, the Force does provide. It is all interconnected." His gestures are quickly aborted in favor of lying still again.

This, he feels, is going to be a very frustrating recovery.

Baze lets his grunt of displeasure speak for him. He removes the rice balls from the steamy wrap and brings one to Chirrut.

"The Force didn't provide. The neighbors did," Baze says, biting into one of the delicious balls. "And she sees me incorrectly. I haven't been a Guardian in years. Too many, really. She has no right to call me that."

Chirrut tries to sit up, and gives it up as a bad job with a huff of frustration. The rice ball is pleasantly warm though, and he curls his hands around it.

"Is it really so offensive a thing to be called?" Asks the man who will proudly (and probably too loudly to be safe) declare himself a Guardian if asked.

Baze thinks about that as he chews, turning the rice over on his tongue. "It's not offensive, necessarily," he says, polishing off the ball of food. "Just inaccurate. I'd rather she didn't refer to me using a term I've long since abandoned. There's nothing left for me to guard, therefore I am no longer a Guardian."

"You seem intent on guarding me." Chirrut points out, between bites of food. Now that he has something to eat, he finds he is ravenous. "Though I may be more challenging than a cave of kyber."

"Much," Baze agrees, noting how quickly his friend is eating. The older man crosses to the table again, and plucks up three more rice balls--two for Chirrut and one for himself. He returns to the bedside and presses the food into Chirrut's empty hands. "At least the kyber stayed put. You wander off Force knows where. It's like watching a blind puppy."

When Baze wanders off Chirrut tries to sit up again, and falls back with a huff again. He could bear the thought of death, recovery is just going to be annoying.

"I follow the Force." Chirrut insists, starting in on the second rice ball. "Today would have been a tragedy if I did not."

Baze harrumphs, taking a bite of his own rice ball. "And now you're going to be stuck in bed for the foreseeable future," he says, cocking an eyebrow. He sits on the floor near the bed in lotus position, crossing his legs over one another like the Guardians used to do when meditating. The larger man pokes Chirrut in the uninjured side with a meaty finger. "Do you need your bacta patch changed? We have one more."

Chirrut doesn't often wish he was a Jedi, not now. Beyond the fact he probably wouldn't be alive if he was, he has grown to prefer the Guardian philosophy, a life of service that isn't just a code word for glory.

(Chirrut may be a tiny bit bitter about the failures of the Jedi, not that he'll ever admit it.)

But it would be helpful now. He has heard they can put themselves in healing trances, use the power of the Force to initiate and speed healing.

"Probably. I'd do it myself but I'm pretty sure I'd just fall over." He doesn't add the entirely realistic 'and bleed on everything', because there's being fatalistic and there's being cruel, and there's a difference. "Though we might want to save it for the next time you're hurt."

Just in case Baze thinks Chirrut has forgotten the times he's found blood on his fingers during checks.

"We can get more if I'm hurt," Baze says, stuffing the last of his food in his mouth. His stubbornness is almost as bad as Chirrut's. Almost.

Baze returns to the table to search for the remaining bacta patch. He comes back to Chirrut's bedside and waits until he finishes eating to ease him onto his side on the bed. Then Baze lifts his robes and efficiently--and quickly, so Chirrut really doesn't bleed on everything--replaces the old patch with the fresh one.

"There," the larger man says, satisfied with the job. "If there's one thing I miss about the temple, it's the infirmary."

"Yes, but no one's come after me with a visor for years now." Chirrut points out, instead of adding to the things he misses (hours of prayer, the kitchens, Master Sheotar...). Turns out it didn't matter if anyone outside the temple discovered he had Force sensitivity - the Empire wanted the stones beneath their feet more than they wanted him.

He yawns, his jaw cracking with the force of it. He must be getting old - he doesn't remember injuries being this exhausting. Now that the bacta is at least making headway with his injuries and his stomach's full of warm food, his focus is shot.

"Baze?" His tone is querulous, demanding as he fights a losing battle to stay awake. "Don't go... baiting troopers. While I'm... asleep..." He mumbles something else, something probably fond or possibly just made to sound so by his lack of articulation. A few minutes more and he loses that ground as well, the tension going out of his frame as he surrenders to sleep.

Baze covers him with the blanket off of the larger man's bed, as Chirrut is lying on his own. Baze carefully tucks the heavy cloth around his friend's shoulders, thoughts spiraling down into dark places.

Chirrut could have died today. Would have, had Baze not noticed the stormtroopers heading to investigate the altercation in the market. The thought closes his throat, and brings bile up into his mouth. He wants to throw up, but he doesn't dare waste food.

Watching his friend's pale, clammy face relax in sleep, Baze gnaws on his lower lip. Where would he be without Chirrut? Baze can't imagine a world without him. He'd rather die.

His nails bite into his palms as he clenches his fists. He vows right then and there not to let Chirrut out of Baze's sight again. He'll be a Guardian again. Protecting his friend gives Baze a purpose. He refuses to fail.

Chirrut sleeps through the rest of the day, and into the night. NiJedha is never silent these days, with the transports forever landing and rising from the ruins of what used to be the temple, the clanking of AT-ST walkers through the streets, the rattle of heavy tanks. Still, it is quiet as it ever gets, and one might suppose that makes it peaceful.

Chirrut frets, shivering and twitching and fretting at the heavy blankets. The muttering starts low, almost indistinguishable from the noise of the city.

"... hearts of... no... let them pass..."

Baze had fallen asleep at Chirrut's bedside, back propped up against the side of the bed and head resting on the larger man's knees. He raises it groggily at the muttering, drawing a quick breath through his nose.

"Chirrut?" Baze says, peering at him in the dark. It's difficult to see--something he knows better than to complain about--so he sits up on his knees to get a better look at his friend's taut face. "Chirrut, are you okay?"

Chirrut doesn't answer, not directly. His face is dry, and flushed. His struggle against the confinement and heat of the blanket becomes more fierce. The pain his movement causes pitches his sharp intake of air at a whine.

"Baze? Baze, tell me. Tell me" The demand is heartbroken, almost a demand for a lie to defeat an obvious truth.

"Tell you what?" Baze says, his brow furrowed. "You're talking in your sleep, and not making any sense."

Baze takes Chirrut's sweaty hand, and notices with alarm how hot it really is. The older man rips the blanket off, balling it up and tossing it across the room. He presses the back of his hand across Chirrut's forehead, gasping when Baze feels the heat. "Chirrut, you're burning up. Don't move."

He runs to the 'fresher room, throwing a rag into the sink. Baze cranks the faucet handle on, jiggling his knee as the water soaks the cloth. He returns to his friend, rag in hand, and lays the cool cloth across Chirrut's head.

Chirrut sighs, relaxing as the cool cloth provides comfort.

He breathes, silent.

Slow.

Quiet.

"She wants to fight." It's muttered, soft, as agitation builds in his face again.

"Who?" Baze asks, despite himself. He knows Chirrut is too far gone to make sense. Baze wants to shake him awake, but doesn't dare with his injuries. The large man sponges off Chirrut's cheeks and neck, refreshing the cloth in the sink once it warms up and gets grimy with sweat. Baze tamps down his worries about the fever, narrowing his focus down to the repetitive motions of wiping his friend's face off.

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