#i'm headcanoning one of Baze's Mums as having PTSD which is why he knows how to cope with Chirrut's situation

[benevolentbridgetroll]

FRIEND! What do I have to do to get that librarian knights baze/chirrut fic because I will do it. Name your price.

aksidfhedjfil, BUDDY!!! I’m so flattered. This fic is murdering me tbh. I have a 20 page google doc with headcanons and plotting that just … keeps growing, but every time I try to write it turns into “Chirrut is relief. Baze is very relief too. There is much crying and also tender hugging”. I’ve never actually written fic before so it’s all a bit Much.

Anyway, your ask has kicked my butt into actually pinning down a tiny snippet (thank you for that) so here it is. I hope it doesn’t disappoint because you asked for knightly librarianship and this is post-temple angst, but it’s in the same universe and it’s all I got.

If anyone is interested in more of this, the other post is here.

Chirrut jerks awake from the latest occurrence of his worst childhood nightmare drenched in sweat. He stuffs his fists under his armpits in an attempt to get his shaking under control and drags in shallow, panicked breaths. It’s always the same scenario: not only has he lost the battle against the encroaching darkness eating away at his vision, but his other senses have also gone dead. He’s floating untethered but completely trapped in his own body, unable to hear anything but the rabbit-fast, fragile thump of his heartbeat in his ears, or feel anything but the cold sweat slicking his skin. There’s nothing but terror, suffocating and inescapable.

He all but throws himself out of bed and crosses his room to the window. He’s been blind for almost two decades now and has come to terms with his disability in every way that matters; the fact that this particular night terror still plagues him is a source of unending frustration. When he reaches the windowsill, he nudges the glass pane open to take a deep breath of cold, outside air while his fingers stretch out to find the bumpy leaves of the spearmint plant he keeps there. As he plucks off a leaf and brings it to his nose, he can feel the tension start to slowly ease out of his muscles. Going through the familiar motions of this particular ritual has always helped him to centre himself and this time is no different. In strict observance of its next step, he turns his gaze inwards and lovingly unfolds the well-worn memory of how it all began.

The dreams had started before he arrived at the temple, when he was but a child and the idea of losing his sight seemed like the most terrifying thing in the world. The first few times he’d woken up screaming, he’d been slapped and promptly dumped outside the family tent to shiver the rest of the night away. So he’d rapidly learned to be quiet about it, his reactions limited to stifled gasps and violent shudders. After arriving at the temple, he’d been almost grateful for the practice: he doubted that waking everyone up screaming in the middle of the night would have garnered him much goodwill amongst his already wary dormitory mates. He would either curl up tightly under his blanket, trying to regulate his his own erratic breathing by counting the even exhalations of the child in the next bed, or get up and make his way into one of the inner courtyards where the icy flagstones under his bare feet and the cold, clean scent of the wind nipping at his nose would chase away the lingering cobwebs of his panic.

That was before Baze.

When the bright boy with his steady presence and complete lack of selfishness had wandered into the temple and immediately become the centre of its enclosed universe, Chirrut had been cagey. He’d long since learned not to expect anything from strangers and even though the regularity of temple life was slowly eroding his inherent mistrust of pretty much everything, old habits had deep roots and were not so easily shrugged off. But this kind-eyed boy had kept reaching his hand out to Chirrut until one day, Chirrut had tentatively started to reach back.

In view of all this, Chirrut shouldn’t have been surprised when, the next time he crept outside to banish the ugly fear crawling under his skin, he suddenly had a set of warm fingers wrapped around his own to offset the cold. He was further caught off guard when Baze tugged him forward and out into the garden where, with quiet words and gentle hands, he introduced Chirrut to new textures and smells, catching up all of his senses and firmly grounding him back in his body.

Once Chirrut was fully in control again, he’d starting gathering the courage to actually look Baze in the face and thank him properly. Steeling himself, he’d lifted his head just in time to catch the impish gleam in the older boy’s eye as he gleefully stuffed a handful of loamy earth down the back of Chirrut’s nightshirt. With an outraged shriek, Chirrut had gamely joined battle and when they’d crawled back into his bed together an hour later, caked in dirt and happily exhausted, Chirrut had pressed his back to Baze’s, relishing the warmth. The next morning, the Masters had found them runny-nosed and tangled in filthy sheets and Chirrut had borne their scolding as well as the extra laundry shift they dished out with good grace, basking in the glow of his friend’s conspiratorial smile.

The next time Baze had left to on his bi-weekly visit to his family, he had brought back a textured clay pot containing a tiny spearmint shoot and had stood it on Chirrut’s bedside table with a proud grunt; “Now you don’t have to go outside anymore”. With hindsight, Chirrut can pinpoint this as the exact moment when he had finally let his hackles drop and uncomplainingly fallen into Baze Malbus’ orbit.

Of course, the plant and pot now decorating Chirrut’s solitary room are not the ones that Baze had gifted him as a child. Like most of his possessions, they were lost when the temple was sacked. But these replacements were one of the first things that Chirrut had brought into his pokey new home. Baze may be away (not gone, never gone), his absence a gaping hole at Chirrut’s side, but Chirrut does everything he can to keep his husband close in his thoughts and his gestures. 

Chirrut draws in one last deep, steadying breath before pulling the window closed and tapping his wrist-pad to check the time. He sighs, no point in trying to go back to bed then. He’ll just make himself a cup of strong tea before going out. It’ll make him early to meet his contact, but Nijedha is big and alive enough a city to be awake at night, even under imperial curfew. A leisurely stroll through beloved streets will help him settle the last of his jangling nerves before the main event. The thought of just what that entails is enough to make his cheek dimple with the barest imprint of a vicious smile, because it turns out that Chirrut Îmwe’s absolute favourite thing in the world - apart from the way Baze honk-laughs at his more obnoxious jokes - is sabotage.