“Guess again, old man,” Baze says as he unslings the rifle from his back, and never mind that he’s no younger. It’s relative anyway; in the shadow of Jedha’s cliffs, they’re both newborn.
“My mistake,” Chirrut says. “You are eternally as grim as a rancor with a toothache.” He leans in quick, moving past old defenses with the ease of one for whom all gates are thrown open, and kisses the furrowed corners of Baze’s mouth. “You’re happy, though.”
The Force hums with it, a low murmur in the air around him, a soundless rhythm plucked on invisible strings. It’s more than the mission — another shipment disrupted, another clean escape. That’s a fiercer kind of joy, and one shot through with weariness. It isn’t even the shard of resonant crystal that Chirrut isn’t supposed to know Baze slipped into a pocket before they ran, though such a fragment is useful for nothing but faith and remembrance, and other things Baze claims he has no use for. Whatever it means to him, Chirrut will let him leave unspoken. He’s more focused on the heat of Baze’s calloused palms coming up to cup his face, the blankets folded against one wall of their little room and the armor that won’t stay on for long. His fingers find the clasps, keyed to Baze’s biosignature and to his own, and the dented plates fall open. Baze is strong, and Chirrut will always love the shift of all that unyielding muscle beneath his hands, but nobody ought to carry something so heavy on their back for any longer than they have to. He doesn’t need it here.
“Of course I’m happy,” Baze mutters, low and rough, close and very present. “I’m home.”
Perhaps he’s smiling now, but Chirrut won’t know until he kisses him again.
.
(Let me know if you have any objection to me posting this on AO3, and whether you'd like it gifted. I won't be bothered in the slightest if you say no.)
Triple-Drabble, Chirrut/Baze, Rating: T
“My mistake,” Chirrut says. “You are eternally as grim as a rancor with a toothache.” He leans in quick, moving past old defenses with the ease of one for whom all gates are thrown open, and kisses the furrowed corners of Baze’s mouth. “You’re happy, though.”
The Force hums with it, a low murmur in the air around him, a soundless rhythm plucked on invisible strings. It’s more than the mission — another shipment disrupted, another clean escape. That’s a fiercer kind of joy, and one shot through with weariness. It isn’t even the shard of resonant crystal that Chirrut isn’t supposed to know Baze slipped into a pocket before they ran, though such a fragment is useful for nothing but faith and remembrance, and other things Baze claims he has no use for. Whatever it means to him, Chirrut will let him leave unspoken. He’s more focused on the heat of Baze’s calloused palms coming up to cup his face, the blankets folded against one wall of their little room and the armor that won’t stay on for long. His fingers find the clasps, keyed to Baze’s biosignature and to his own, and the dented plates fall open. Baze is strong, and Chirrut will always love the shift of all that unyielding muscle beneath his hands, but nobody ought to carry something so heavy on their back for any longer than they have to. He doesn’t need it here.
“Of course I’m happy,” Baze mutters, low and rough, close and very present. “I’m home.”
Perhaps he’s smiling now, but Chirrut won’t know until he kisses him again.
.
(Let me know if you have any objection to me posting this on AO3, and whether you'd like it gifted. I won't be bothered in the slightest if you say no.)