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sarkastically · 7 years

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Smaller Than Himself

Spiritassassin Week 2017, Prompt 1: First Impressions

Baze Malbus is little more than one giant bruise when he is brought to the temple. A giant bruise and a mess of tangled, dirty hair. He has five broken ribs, a black eye, a split lip, and a twisted ankle that he limps on, hissing pain with every step but refusing to lie down, refusing to take it easy. He doesn't want to be coddled, he insists. He is not an invalid, not a child. He is just hurt. It is evident in the way he says it, quick, slapdash with no modicum of shame at all, that not only has he been hurt before, but that he is used to it, so used to it that he doesn't understand why the masters make tutting noises, why the healers frown and turn their heads when they find the seemingly never-ending collection of scars across his broad body. He just scowls at them, obviously annoyed by how much they care, unused to the that feeling, and repeats that he is not a child.

He is fourteen, still a child despite his size and his declaration, despite the bright flares of his eyes that show, in all the worst ways, that he knows things that children should not know, but this type of knowledge is common on Jedha. Jedhan has many words for child, many words for adult and all the layers in-between. They follow a range of innocence, a marking of how much one has seen and endured and felt. No one knows where to put Baze on the scale yet, and all he does is snarl, all bite, all teeth like something backed into a corner over and over again, like something that has never known a kind touch once in its life. He is so large for fourteen. He is so tall, and he is so broad. There are trees in the temple garden smaller and frailer than this boy who claims he is not a boy, never has been a boy, doesn’t even know what that is because he is just him. He is just him. And that is what the masters go with. This is Baze, they say and little else because everything that he is screams at the world around him in his clenched fists and his clenched face and the way he hisses words through his teeth as though they will be stolen from him otherwise.

He is a not a candle flickering low in the wind. He is not fragile. He is a blaster bolt in the night lighting up the entire city with its brilliance born of pain and heartbreak and anger.

The masters know that they are going to have their hands full with him. It will go one way or the other. They will heal him, tame him, uncurl his fists, unbreak his heart, lighten his soul. Or they will heal him and watch him slip back into the night to blaze the world around him with the fire spilling out of his chest, unfurling from his eyes, a streak of ruin, to burn himself out. They have seen it before, but there is no way of knowing which way the scales will tip. All is as the Force wills it, after all. All is as the Force wills it. It becomes a hard statement when they watch the burning children, the ghost fire children, limp into their circle and then rocket back out to meet what is likely to be an untimely end.

All is as the Force wills it sometimes becomes a hollow, sad mantra, a way of dealing with the fact that sometimes there is nothing that can be done, nothing that can be changed, sometimes even the softest hand, even the most well meaning attempt can fail if the person on the other side doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to try. You cannot force someone to be saved.

All is as the Force wills it, they tell him, and Baze, bright eyes, sad heart, burning, a brush fire, a high pitched scream caught in the wind and echoing in the valleys, looks at them as though he doesn’t understand any of the words they are saying, as though he doesn’t know the Force when he drips with it, as though he doesn’t understand the concept of will as though he lives from one moment to the next without considering how, without making conscious choices, bouncing off the walls when he hits them to change direction.

It is a hinge point. It is a crux. It is a marking.

Something may rise or fail on this point.

When he speaks, he speaks in rumbles, the shake of the ground, the way that sounds reflect off the walls of the kyber caves and grow and swell until they are the only things that can be heard. Baze sounds like that. Sounds like someone meant for talking. Sounds like someone meant for prayers and holy scripture. He sounds like a Guardian.

Or a gun. Or ruin. It is so hard to tell, and there are so many ways in which the world can turn that they will never know until they know, until it is too late for it to be anything else no matter how hard they may wish for another outcome.

“What’s the Force?” he asks. For a moment there is a lull. For a moment there is a gleam. It is hope and sparkly bright and altogether everywhere like kyber dust in the air of the cutting room, everything illuminated. Until it dims. “And if it wills everything, why does it will the bad things as well?”

The masters dare not ask for definitions. They have them in droves, in the set of his eyes, in the scars across his body, in the three breaks the healers found that never set right but cause him no pain so they did not want to consider breaking them again, in the way that he holds himself smaller than himself and away, in his hair which looks like no one has ever combed it. In the way that he looks like no one has ever cared for him, ever loved him. Not once.

He is one of the cases that make even the most devoted of the masters wonder why the Force would will things like this even though they know better. They know better. But it still hurts, still rolls doubt over them like a wave of cold water crashing, sucking at their feet; undertow those from worlds with oceans explain when they sit around together and talk about the day.

Baze Malbus is an undertow. Strong, deceptive, dangerous, lurking and unseen until it is too late, until you have been pulled under.

They begin to believe that he will flee, fly again on the winds, as soon as he can. This is no Jedha bird rising from the ashes. This is no resurrection. This is just another lost cause child who will burn himself out. They begin to say farewell prayers in the night. They begin to make a bundle that maybe they can persuade him into taking with him, one that might keep him alive a little bit longer.

He is fourteen, but he is much older.

Chirrut Imwe is thirteen, but he is much younger.

Born of the temple, raised in the temple, soft in the Force, which is not the same thing as weak. Chirrut is not weak, never has been, scraped in the temple gardens when he was six years old and scrawny and small for his age, fought with the older, bigger children to prove that he could match them, that he could best them, that he was not to be looked over, passed over. Soft in the Force, a phrase used for one who sits in it, surrounded by it, a rock in a stream, hands in the water, feeling everything, disturbing nothing. Chirrut is Force inundated. It flows in him, around him, through him.

Soft in the Force people cannot be Jedi, cannot bend the universe’s energy to their will because they are more cognizant of it, of the way it works, flows. They understand where it needs to be, what it needs to do. They let it be what it is instead of what they want it to be.

Baze Malbus, the masters know, could have been Jedi, could have been Sith. Everything about him screams wanting, a need to make things different by any means possible, and his energy is strong enough it crackles into the air around him. He makes everything too bright or too dark or too loud. Static. Thunder. Lights behind eyelids. Earthquakes.

Their meeting is inevitable. Their meeting is the crash of a drum in the middle of silent meditation. Their meeting is a mountain falling down, a city burning, a sea pitching out of its bed.

Their meeting is two boys in the middle of a garden.

There are flowers on the tree in the center. Baze stands under it and stares up as though he has never seen flowers before, and his eyes are wide with something like awe, something gentler than everything else he has ever been before. It is a rare moment. It is a young moment on the face of someone who has obviously not had many of those. He stands, dirty face tipped up, hair a tangled mess on his shoulders, mouth open and stares as though trying to memorize every petal, every leaf, as though trying to absorb it all inside of himself so that he never loses it because he knows that it too will soon disappear as everything lovely disappears, sucked away into the giant hole of wanting that is the world.

Soft soft soft. He is soft in this moment. He is rounded edges. He is a dirty giant with flower petals in his hair, and joy in his eyes. He is all those layers peeled down to the heart of him, to the quick, to something that he has never been before. And this is the Baze Malbus that Chirrut sees. This is the moment that burns itself into his mind, that never fades, that lingers on the tip of his tongue for years to come like a word that can never be fully remembered, like something that can never be spoken.

Chirrut is thirteen and very young, but he loves this boy under the tree in a way that he doesn’t understand. It hits him like a foot to the chest in training, it knocks all the wind out of him like a fall he did not quite prepare for because he was laughing, it makes his head spin like dipping his fingers too far into the Force. He doesn’t understand it. He will not understand it for years to come.

(In truth, he will never quite understand it because those who think they can fully explain love know nothing. He will never quite understand, but he will always trust in it. The same way that he trusts in the Force, he will trust in it, because it surrounds him, and he can feel it. Even when his sight wanes, dims, disappears to leave him in a world of Force sense, he will know it. He will see it. And this memory, long distant, long over, never to be repeated because there is no longer a temple, no longer a garden, and this tree burned--he remembers it burning, remembers the tears in the thick of Baze’s voice when they found it and he howled like something very large wounded, something that would never be healed again--will always be there, will always be in his mind and before his eyes. His Baze, dirty, forgotten, harsh, covered in petals and looking up in awe. So very much a child for a moment. That boy who never learned to be one, who was never given the chance. Who seemed to have crawled out of a hole in Jedha with his fists clenched and blood on his face from the start. That boy not a boy never a boy, smiling.)

All of that is to come. All of that is the future, a future that tugs at his hand, fingers twined around his own, waiting to see if he will close them, if he will hold it or let it fall.

It is a hinge point. It is a crux. It is a marking.

May the Force of others be with you, it rises unbidden to the front of his mind.

There are many mantras in the temple. There are many lessons. There are the hard ones, the training, putting his body through form after form, getting faster, getting stronger so that even though he is lean, even though he is all arms and legs and skinny, he cannot be caught unless he wills it, can defend himself against anything, against everything. He might not win, but he can fight. His body is like kyber, hard and strong.

Chirrut likes the hard lessons; he likes the training. The Force is just a thing that is there for him. It has always been there, and he feels that it always will be, lurking, questing, bumping into his ankles in the middle of the night because something, something is happening somewhere and it needs to tell him. The Force is a lot like the younger initiates in this way only Chirrut cannot shoo it away when it gets too annoying. He has to listen to it and the way that it prattles. And if he talks a lot sometimes it is only because he is tired of listening always, wants someone else to listen for once, wants the sound of his voice, his own thoughts to be prevalent.

May the Force of others be with you is buoyant, a bouncing ball on the stone streets, falling but always rising again. It speaks less of the great universal power in everything and more of the way in which that energy manifests itself through others, through everyone, everything that lives. You are not alone in the Force, and the Force is not only in you, it preaches. Learn to see the Force in others, learn to see their beauty and their darkness and the way they fit into the pattern. Learn to look beyond yourself.

It is Chirrut’s favorite mantra, the one that spins from his lips when he has done something to displease the masters, when he is in trouble, when he is being, as they say, a child and not serious at all. He says it flippantly, lightly, as though the words are of no consequence at all, as though they are as weightless as his own great heart in his chest which fills and empties inside the cage of his body without him even considering that it happens. His heart is a truth. His heart is a constant. Like the Force.

(Baze Malbus is an undertow someone will warn him in two years when he is fifteen and pining painfully without realizing the truth behind the feeling. He will suck you down, he will drown you in the dark waters of himself without even realizing it. You will never rise again. Chirrut, you’re a bird, and you won’t survive that. You won’t swim to the surface. You’ll just sink with wet feathers, slip beneath the surface and no one will see you again.

There are birds that pluck fish from the water, Chirrut will answer, fifteen and head over heels and unable to listen to sensible suggestions. There are birds that swim. There are birds that rise again. I’m a bird, but I’m the Jedha bird.)

That, too, is part of that future in his hands, on the tips of his fingers, still not quite clenched, still not quite decided.

The Force of others.

Baze is still struck by the petals, standing still, eyes closed, flowers all over his face like he could just stay there forever, like he could turn into a tree himself and be happier with his life than he ever has been so far. In this moment, forgotten, peaceful, carved out of something that is not rock, that is not stone, that will not cut his hands to ribbons, that will not hurt like so much else has hurt in the past, like so much else that will hurt in the future. Baze is full size, not curled in on himself, not lurking, not hiding. The Force on him is bright, which he cannot see, cannot feel, cannot know, has never known really except that he is lucky. He is Baze, and he is lucky because no matter what happens, no matter how bad the situation, no matter how hurt, he always gets better. He always gets away before it gets worse. Luck is sometimes the Force in disguise. Luck can be how it bestows itself to those who do not have the eyes or the knowledge to know it for itself.

(I don’t need luck; I have you.)

Everyone’s Force is different. Different on everyone the way that ears are different and smiles. Unique and pleasant and wonderful to look for, wonderful to spot the subtle ways in which they are not the same. Chirrut learned that early on as a child with Force eyes, with Force sense, soft in it, surrounded by it. All he had to do was look or listen or feel. It was just. There. Always. Like his heart, like his feet, like his hands. Taken for granted and underappreciated.

There are flower petals falling, there is a soft breeze in Jedha, there is the sound of the city rising over the stone walls and the scent of jasmine heavy in the air, and it is serene. There is no drum. There is no avalanche. There is no fire. There is no heavy sea. There is nothing hard or harsh or broken in the moment. Just two boys, one lost in the first real softness he can remember, the other lost in watching him.

Their meeting is inevitable.

His hands clench and now everything is decided. “May the Force of others be with you.” Chirrut knows nothing else to say.

Baze curls inward, shoulders hunching reflexively, defensively, everything in his body tensing as he looks toward the sound. But there are flowers in his hair, stuck to the dirt on his face, trapped in his collarbones, and he does not look menacing. He looks frightened. He looks like everything he has been hiding.

Their meeting is soft.

#spiritassassin #spiritassassin week #sara's fic #spiritassassin week first impressions #sara's drabbles

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kerriss · 7 years

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First impressions

#spiritassassin week #spirit assassin #chirrut imwe #baze malbus #Star Wars #first impressions #sketch #drawing #my art

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anathtsurugi · 5 years

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All right, my fellow chickadees, a lot has been going on in the world of Anath Tsurugi. Much more than computer breakdowns and the allure of a shiny new fandom. While I don't imagine those of you who've recently started following me for my Good Omens content expected anything like this, I feel like those of you who have been with me for Star Wars and Red vs. Blue and longer might want to know some of this. Might want to know some of the things that have gone into the recent chapters of my work. I just feel like, maybe, I owe you all some sort of explanation?

No. That's wrong. I know I don't owe anybody anything. I suppose I just want to get it out into the world, get my thoughts in order, as it were. It doesn't matter so terribly much if nobody reads it; it will be a lot to take in. Mostly, I just want to tell you all a story. Because telling stories is how I cope, how I interact with reality. My need in all of this is to try and create something beautiful out of something that was painful.

So...would you mind if I told you a story?

As most things are with me, this is a story about love, about love and friendship and heartbreak and family and resilience. At the end, though, it's nothing more and nothing less than a story about love.

As some of you may have heard or picked up on, my wife and I have been attempting to have a baby. At this point, it's been roughly a year since the process began (financing, insurance coverage, choosing a donor, etc.). The first attempt didn't take, but the second one did. My wife got pregnant and we were both suddenly anxious/excited/hellafuckingnervous parents to be.

As honesty is the name of the game tonight, I would have to say that 'The Colder the Winter, the Warmer the Spring' has largely been fueled by my own anxieties over becoming a parent. Like...am I good enough to properly raise another human being? What human in their right mind would even give me the chance? What is it possible for someone as emotionally stunted as I am to give to a child? Is the love between my wife and I strong enough to do for a little one in a world that will already be against them merely for the crime of being born to two women?

Whether intentionally or unintentionally, I imagine you'll have seen a lot of this in my telling of the story of Zeb, Alex, and little Arkalia, and will probably see it more now that you know it's there. But really, that seems to have happened with a lot of the major storytelling undertakings in my life. The 400K Sleeping Beauty epic I wrote for the Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle fandom was fueled almost exclusively by my pining for my then roommate, now wife. The MCU and Red vs. Blue verses I crafted sprang up around the planning of our wedding. I suppose this was just the natural next step, for us and for my craft. If you see genuine terror in my writing of Zeb's and Alex's fears over not being good enough parental figures for Ari, that is why. This is my way to ask and to hopefully deal with the answers to these questions.

So things were going well on planet Earth, or at least they were in our little corner of it. First trimester was plugging along. We were dreaming up names and having conversations about how we wanted to parent. I was going ugly early on the whole 'wait on your wife hand and foot' thing and upping my nutritional game in the kitchen. We were designing a Miyazaki nursery of epic geekdom and talking about how we'd be covered on all bases, since she's such a huge Harry Potter fan and I'm nothing if not an uber Star Wars nerd. I was learning she considered me a more fit parent (which makes zero sense to me, given that she's the one with a decent head on her shoulders, whereas me? I'm just a dreamer, and sometimes it seems that's all I'll ever be, but...yeah, that's a conversation for another time), but the point is that it was all fine. Sure it was nerve-wracking, but we'd figure it out somehow, just like we did everything else. It was what we wanted. We were in it together.

Then we got back the results from the genetic testing the doctor's office advised we have done.

And oh, no. No, it wasn't fine at all.

Trisomy 18.

I had never heard of Trisomy 18 before we got those results. I suppose Trisomy 21 is the one you hear about because it's actually survivable. With Trisomy 18, the 5% of babies who aren't stillborn largely don't make it past the first year. It was not, they informed us, an infallible diagnosis. They would schedule us an ultrasound to be certain, but the numbers were not in our favor.

We didn't talk to anyone but each other that week, not really certain how we wanted to handle things until we knew more. Some of the extended family is fairly religious and conservative and we just didn't need that bullshit on top of everything else. We didn't need other opinions. It was our decision, and the conclusion we came to was that if the diagnosis was truly that bleak, then we would terminate the pregnancy before things got out of hand...before continuing would bring harm to my wife or suffering to either her or the baby. At that point, it becomes a question of 'Do you love your child enough to take the decision onto yourself, even though it will break your heart? Do you love them enough not to force them to suffer for someone else's misguided notion of what is and is not life?'

I didn't consider much during that week the effect all of this was having on me. I told myself I had accepted and was prepared to move forward should the worst happen. My concern was largely for my wife and what she was going through. She was, after all, the one who'd been experiencing it all. We were barely out of the first trimester and she wasn't showing yet. So far as I knew, we hadn't reached the point of quickening. It was all still distinctly her experience. If I hoped for a miracle, it was for her sake, not my own. I thought, 'I can take it. I'm tough. Put the world on my shoulders and I'll carry it for you. I would give everything I am to take your pain from you.'

I am, as I mentioned earlier, very emotionally stunted. I know it was far from their intention, but the impression I received from my own parents growing up was that my thoughts and my feelings on any given matter were not particularly important. Oh, I was consulted, certainly. The veneer was there, but if the correct answer was not given, it was little better than if I'd said nothing at all. So I had long since ceased to say anything of any real value out loud. (In truth, my wife was one of the few people to make me feel that my thoughts and feelings had value, but again, that's another story.) I don't often give of myself outwardly. Trying to draw words from my throat is oftentimes comparable to trying to pull a ball of razor wire up from the pit of my stomach. Sometimes the only way I can give of myself is in writing. All the things I can't give voice to come out in my work. So I am, probably to an unhealthy degree, somewhat proud of my own stoicism. With me, it's always 'No. You don't get to break. No matter what they throw at you, you will not feel it. You will remain unharmed, unbent, and utterly unbroken.'

(Heh, shit. Writing it out like that now, I'm suddenly left wondering if that isn't the reason I'm so damn good at breaking characters. Because writing out those moments of absolute shatter are the only way I'll ever allow myself to feel them...because it isn't me breaking. But...in a way, it is. Isn't it.)

Point here being that allowing that mentality to boil beneath the surface will eventually erupt to sucker punch you in the face. That happened to me as I was leaving work to go and pick my wife up for the ultrasound. The thoughts I hadn't allowed myself to think all week suddenly started to creep in on me.

Is this...somehow my fault?

(At the level of logic, you know it's not. It's a bloody game of genetic roulette. A one in five thousand chance. But there's always the one. Somebody's always going to take the bullet.)

Was I not ready for this? Did I not want it enough?

(Ridiculous. I know what it's like to get shafted at the genetic lottery. I've been dealing with PCOS since I was 18. While the disease isn't fully understood, there is a genetic component. Saying that this was somehow either of our fault was akin to saying that my own illness was somehow my fault. Even so...even so, you can't help but ask...)

Bloody fucking hell! Did I do this? Was there something- anything I could've done to stop this?

(You know. You know you couldn't have done. But still the thought haunts you.)

I hadn't allowed myself to feel it...to cry. I don't doubt that we both hoped for their numbers to somehow be wrong, but I think we both already knew at that point that it was over, and I hadn't let myself start to grieve. So there I was, hurtling down the highway with tears pouring silently down my face.

Traffic depending, it takes anywhere from a half hour to an hour to get between the bookstore and her office, so I had time to get myself back in order. I didn't want to make this any worse for her than it already was. I know what it does to her to know I've been crying, since I do it so rarely.

(You don't get to break.)

But...well...then something happened on the way to the hospital. I had my iphone on shuffle playing the playlist I'd compiled to listen to while working on Star Wars fic, and while we were driving, our wedding song came up in the shuffle. 'Boxes' by the Goo Goo Dolls. We had our first dance to it and I sang it to her while we danced.

I need a family to drive me crazy

Call me out when I'm low and lazy

It won't be perfect, but we'll be fine

'Cause I've got your back and you've got mine

I should probably have it understood that I have 'Boxes' on all of my writing playlists. It's just the love song to me now, and as far as fic writing goes, I tend to gravitate to ships that reflect the relationship my wife and I share. Kalluzeb, KuroFai, Bagginshield, Stucky, SpiritAssassin, MaineWash, Shallura, Kanera, Klance, Sterek, Zutara, and now, of course, the Ineffable Husbands themselves. The list goes on, believe me. Every word I write for each one of my couples is my love song to her, and my experience of the love between us. If you've ever commented on the depth of love and emotion you felt when reading one of my stories, then you've felt what I've felt, and I hope I've made your world a little brighter for it. In this particular instance, though...this...our love song...if we were going to have a miracle that day, that was it. (I know. One song on one playlist, nothing particularly miraculous there. But a one in seven hundred chance during a fifteen minute drive? I was going to take what I could get.)

You are the memory that won't ever lapse

When twenty-five years have suddenly passed

Wherever you take me, it's clear I will go

Your love's the one love that I need to know

You are the sun in the desolate sky

Your life's in these words and it can't be denied

Wherever you take me, it's clear I will go

Your love's the one love that I need to know

If I hadn't been driving, I would've reached out to hold her hand then. Normally, we sing the song together when it comes on, then we play it again, maybe a third time if we're really feeling it. I couldn't sing this time, not during the first play through, anyway. I was a little too choked up. But I managed a few of the lyrics the second time through.

I don't have the words to tell you what a comfort that song was in that moment. It could've been any song on that playlist, but it just happened to be that one.

(This hurts. We're both writers, but I don't think either of us could hope to express just how much it hurts. But remember...I chose you and you chose me. You were my dearest friend and I love you more than I can ever hope to say. It hurts now. It may never not hurt, but we'll get through. We'll be fine. We'll get through it together, like we came through everything else to stand at the altar together...and how we'll come through it all again to hold a new little someone. We're here together.)

So we faced it together, got the news we were expecting. There were other tests they could've done, but neither of us saw any point to it by then. Even if it wasn't specifically Trisomy 18, it was plainly something just as bad. We made the call there, and I do want it understood that we made the decision to terminate the pregnancy. Despite what ultimately ended up happening, I won't have that spun any other way.

So calls were made, insurances were checked out, and the procedure was scheduled. We were, unfortunately, just a touch too far outside the first trimester to safely be able to just take a pill. The abortion had to be done surgically, and my wife preferred to be put under for it, fearing she might panic if she were conscious.

And I did, of course, promise to tell you how this all started to align with the writing of the more recent chapters of TCTW, along with my beginning scraps of Good Omens fic. It began that same day, actually – the day of the ultrasound. Because I had to come home from that and write Ash's birth scene.

That wasn't all that difficult. Largely numb at that point, I didn't have much trouble writing out the dream of a happy birth. But it started to get harder a few days later when I was sitting alone in the waiting room. By then I was working on the scene where Kallus is finally able to contact Zeb after coming out of his two week coma. It wasn't even a little bit of a stretch for me to write Zeb's desperation and panic during that scene because they were my own (though I suppose I managed to spare myself a little grief writing the scene from Kallus' POV instead of Zeb's).

Another thing I ought to tell you about myself is that I'm...something of a method writer, I suppose is the term, in that I will attempt to write when I'm angry, when I'm in pain, when I'm exhausted, when I'm heartbroken, in an effort to convey the experience of these things faithfully. So, in some strange way, this was almost...familiar territory for me. To write my own feelings into the scene as it was happening. Everything came off without any trouble. The doctors came to me after it was over and told me that he'd already had no heartbeat by the time they'd begun the procedure. It was comforting in its own way. Eliminated several question marks as to whether or not we'd made the right choice. I brought my wife home once she was awake enough to be discharged, and it seemed we were pretty well on the road to recovery. But, as some of you may have already noticed, this is where we come to the part of the story where something more is lost.

My wife needed something to turn her attention to, so it seemed to us a good time to handle OS updates for my eight-year-old laptop, which was an odyssey of itself. Point being that somewhere in the middle of all this my WIP draft of that chapter was lost to the digital ether.

Everyone around me was asking why it should be so hard to rewrite the lost scene. After all, I'd written it before, hadn't I?

Yes. Yes, I had.

I had written that scene when I was alone in a hospital waiting room, heartbroken and afraid, conscious every moment for an experience my wife was blessedly able to sleep through. This was why it was so devastating to me to lose that scene. Bitter as it was, it was a piece I'd poured a large part of my heart into in a moment of despair. In its own odd way, it had been beautiful in its desolation. I had already lost something precious that day. Why did I also have to lose what I had managed to create from that anguish?

It was a moment I knew I never wanted to revisit. Nor could I ever hope to recapture the emotion of it in writing, no matter how many times I tried. I could never portray the rawness of what I'd felt in that moment. So I didn't try. The scene as it exists now is particularly disheartening to me, not because it's bad, but because it's just...not what I wrote. The scene currently in the story is hollow and has no heart. There's no truth in it. The piece of my self that I gave in that moment was lost, and I can never get it back.

So, with yet one more loss endured, I continued on. I managed to make the rest of that chapter what I wanted it to be, so I could at least be proud of that. Chapter 15 was also easy enough to handle, as it was far removed from the family and childbirth aspects of the story, simply building upon what already existed in Rebels canon. But then the time came to write chapter 16, and once again I struggled.

By its very nature, TCTW has always heavily featured pregnancy and childbirth, so there was never going to be any skirting that, but another aspect I had always planned for was Zelina experiencing the death of one of the babies she was delivering. It was always meant to be part of her character arc as a rising medic and I knew I couldn't turn away from it. My wife asked me if I could change it, but I wasn't going to do that. If I was going to change something like that, it was going to be because the story merited it, because it would benefit from such a change. It was not going to be because of my own weakness. Even so, I know I delayed writing it for as long as I feasibly could. (That was also when Good Omens started to come into the picture, but we'll unpack that in a moment.)

For all I claimed to be a method writer just a few paragraphs ago, I can tell you now that I've never had such a visceral response to a scene I was actively writing as I did that one. My fingers trembled on the keys, feeling a little weak as I moved through the words. In fact, my whole body felt weak and I had to bite down hard on my lip to keep back the feeling of nausea, everything inside of me rebelling at the notion of describing the death of this little baby. For all Zelina's experience with Akinah and her stillborn son is such a small part of the overall chapter, of the overall story, it was still the hardest thing I'd ever had to write. As with everything else, though, it seems I managed to keep this in, too, as my wife tells me none of this was outwardly visible while I was writing. I sat next to her the whole time and, apparently, the only indication I gave that anything was wrong was the fact that I was still and quiet throughout. (To give you a better standard of comparison for what she's used to, I'm normally much more expressive when I write. I'll start mouthing dialogue or testing out expressions or gestures I'm describing. I once had to explain to my brother-in-law that I was actually channeling a character when he was concerned over a horrified look I had in my eyes at the time. If I, personally, were horrified, you wouldn't know it. All you would get would be a blank slate. So of course my wife would notice something was off this time.)

It was such a little thing...such a little thing, but still it was hard. It was a relief to move on, to have death and despair conquered throughout the rest of the chapter, but even near the end of it, when Zeb is lingering over saying goodbye to Arkalia, knowing he'll have to give her up...in some small way, he speaks with my voice...saying goodbye to the son my wife and I might have had.

Of course, that particular goodbye will turn out much happier than my own did in the end. But will you be seeing me continue to deal with this a lot in future pieces? Most definitely. TCTW will continue to bear most of the emotional fulcrum (yup, little in joke there), but it's also why I've been getting into writing Good Omens fic of late. Though the theme of parenting's remained the same, it's allowed me to turn my energies toward things a little more light-hearted. This was all about the time I started piecing together my little Good Omens 'Star Wars' AU, and when I put out my mini one shot of Crowley and Aziraphale as parents. Though I have started to come up with a wider verse for that particular ficlet (because it's me; how can I not? There's actually an in joke with my wife and I whenever the subject of long fic comes up with me. She'll ask, "What's the one thing I asked you not to do?" "Write Sleeping Beauty." "And what did you do?" "Wrote Sleeping Beauty," I respond meekly.).

And for all I said my Good Omens fic is giving me the opportunity for more light-hearted fare, I have also got a story idea that deals with Crowley and Aziraphale losing a pregnancy, but also with the one they don't lose. So you'll be seeing me deal, yes, but hopefully you'll also see some worthwhile stories come out of it all since, as I said, telling stories is how I cope. You'll be seeing my newly blended concoctions of angst, loss, and sorrow, but you'll see joy from me, as well. Because, as a great storyteller once said, "...let there also be Hope. It may be a grim, thin hope...but let us know that we do not live in vain." Really, that's what writing and storytelling are to me, whether they be fan fiction or any other kind – torches against the long nights that are pain and sadness, and blades against the endless tangles of thorns that are self-doubt and fear.

Wow. Heheh. Waxed hella poetic for a minute there. But no. I don't think I'll tone it down. It's a truth, and whether that truth is used to discover the strength to be a parent through a Rebel warrior and an ex-Imperial, to find a way to live through pain with an angel and a demon who have endured for over 6,000 years, or even just to find the way to a smile with a ninja and a mage in a coffeeshop AU where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts...a truth is a truth. My wife and I might not ever be facing down giant planet-killing super weapons or averting the Apocalypse with nothing more than a flaming sword and a tire iron, but when our IRL challenges feel as insurmountable as those things, well...it helps to be able to weave a story and begin to find some of those truths.

And yes, we are doing better. It's been a few months now and we're starting over again. The going can just be a little slow since not every attempt is successful and, let's face it, assisted reproductive technology don't come cheap. And as much work as I put into my fic writing, there's not a whole lot of money to be made in the field (none at all, in fact, but...turning away from it...who really wants to read another publishing hopeful's dewy-eyed delusions of sci-fi grandeur?). So if the going seems slower with me, I do apologize. Know that I never cease to write (as I'm quite certain that if I did, I would simply go mad...*backward glance* er...well...madder, at any rate, but that's neither here nor there) and I'm hopeful of creating some good things from all this. It just...sometimes it takes a while to slog through everything. So, as always, I hope I continue to do for you. Whatever capacity you might support me or my work in, know that my wife and I appreciate it.

It won't be perfect, but we'll be fine.

#Adventures in storytelling #Kalluzeb #Star Wars Rebels #Misadventures in reproduction #Ineffable Husbands #Good Omens #Miscarriage #Abortion #Fandom and how it relates to my life my love and my work #I guess you could call this a behind the scenes look #Personal

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sirchik · 7 years

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spiritassassin week, day 1: First impressions

sorry, i just sit a long time with this theme and i don’t get it at all %) so here’s the little story

#spiritassassin #baze x chirrut #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #jyn erso #sketch #comics #rogue one

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anagrammaddict · 7 years

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I wrote a bit of Rogue One / Baze x Chirrut fic in the past week for SpiritAssassin Week, so putting them all in a list with links to AO3. They’re also all on my tumblr somewhere. in the fic tag. don’t know, my tumblr tag system is not the most organised thing

Help A Blind Man Cross The Road (prompt: first impressions) Mostly on-the-spot nonsense, Baze getting conned into helping a blind old uncle.

The Greatest Show (prompt: AU) Chirrut & Baze as Space Circus performers. Chirrut is the Ringmaster lol. I didn’t have time to come up with a cool name for Baze’s act, so High Voltage Acrobat it is.

Oblivion (prompt: hurt / comfort) Baze loses it and runs off. Chirrut to the rescue. Bonus: lesbian spiritassassin

About A Plant (prompt: confessions) Mostly banter. Baze gets captured by ravagers. His new cell-mate is someone he definitely is not expecting.

Scarlet & A Scar (prompts: bodyswap (sort of) and soul-bonded) Chirrut & Baze die on Scarif but are reincarnated in different lifetimes, always together. It took me awhile to be happy with this one, now I’m pretty pleased with it. Basically mostly OF, or a series of AUs.

Small Messages (bou din waa zuk) (prompt: celebrations) Chirrut & Baze, in their years of separation, start establishing contact with each other again.

#my work #my writing #my fic #spiritassassin #baze x chirrut #chirrut imwe #baze malbus #now i can go back #to aggressively writing more lesbian spiritassassin

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safarikalamari · 7 years

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Translucent

Summary: Life as a vendor is mundane and Baze is no stranger to that

Rating: G

Genre: First Impressions, First Meetings, Pre-Rogue One, maybe a bit of canon divergence idk man

Words: 596

A/N: For Day 1 of Spiritassassin week!!

AO3

Baze knows he’s wasting his time. Since he could walk, he’s been selling and trading as if it’s his life’s blood. Sure, he wouldn’t survive without it, but Baze has never left Jedha, his future a consistency leading nowhere. Even the sands have shifted and here he remains, like another rock in the desert.

He watches the people pass by his stall, the array and colors making him yearn for a world outside this one. He barely has enough to live as is however and Baze has given in to his life of solitude.

Barely glancing up, Baze notes a young man looking at his fabrics for sale. The buyers are all the same and Baze only hopes this transaction will be an easy one.

“How much?” the man points to a bolt of deep red fabric.

“5 credits per yard, unless you have something worth trading for.”

Turning to face him, Baze pauses, studying the man who stares at him. His smile is gentle, his face soft, and Baze’s mind drifts to the temple nearby. Shaking away any stray thoughts, Baze can only watch as the young man digs through his bag.

“I’ve got this pendant. Made out of some moon rock, I can’t remember.”

It takes Baze a moment as he stares at the necklace, the ornament a perfect circle and a single constellation mapped out on it. He plucks it out of the man’s hand, testing its weight.

“Endor,” Baze comments and then calculates the math in his head. “That should get you a few yards.”

The young man’s smile widens, his hand extended out to Baze. “It’s a deal!”

Baze tries to avoid shaking hands as much as possible, but with this man’s eagerness, he can’t help it. He supposes for some buyers, making a quick deal is always a blessing.

“I’ll write a scroll for you at the temple too,” the young man grins as Baze cuts the fabric.

Baze blushes, knowing he’s the last person that deserves such an honor. “You sure you don’t want to save it for something special?”

“Who says you’re not?” the man immediately replies with a curious blink. “Within the Force, everyone has their own place, what makes them important.”

Baze can’t help making a disgruntled noise at this and tries to ignore the young man’s frown.

“Ah, I’ll get you yet,” the young man returns to a smile, pointing a finger at Baze.

“Mm, I’m sure.”

Getting a laugh is the last thing Baze expects, but he finds himself appreciative this gesture. Handing the wrapped up fabric to the young man, Baze takes a second look and his mouth tightens. The man returns the stare, his head tilting just a little and Baze finds a smile forming on his face the same time it does on the man’s.

“Chirrut Imwe,” the man introduces. “Come find me at the temple soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Baze’s response is quiet, but the man - Chirrut - still manages to catch it over the bustle of the market.

Chirrut waves as he leaves and Baze realizes he never introduced himself. “Baze Malbus,” he calls out to Chirrut, his heart leaping at his sudden boldness.

“Baze, a name as strong as kyber,” Chirrut shouts in return, facing Baze and walking backwards into the crowds.

Baze’s eyes never leave Chirrut’s until they can no longer see each other and Baze starts to breath again. He’s grown tired of the dusty streets, the mundane life of a seller, but for the chance to see Chirrut again, Baze will stay on Jedha for a lifetime.

#spiritassassin #spiritassassin week #baze x chirrut #chirrut x baze #safarikalamari does shit #safarikalamari writes

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rainbowstarbird · 7 years

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Spiritassassin Week Day 1: First Impressions

When Chirrut overhears a younger initiate expounding on the virtues of Baze’s features, he reminds his friend that he has never seen his face. Baze corrects this immediately.

Words: 1379, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Chirrut Îmwe, Baze Malbus

Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Pre-Canon, spiritassassin, Spiritassassin Week, 2017, Day One, First Impressions, Friendship, Flirting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Chirrut “Seeing” Baze, Also Teasing Baze Mercilessly, They Don’t Know They’re Flirting Yet

#spiritassassin #spiritassassin week #day 1 #baze x chirrut #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #rogue one #star wars #fanfiction #my fic

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ivory-leigh · 7 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus Summary:

Spiritassassin Week prompt 1: First impressions.

Baze falls a little in love with Chirrut the very first time they meet.

#spiritassassin week #spiritassassin #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #star wars #rogue one #fanfiction #my work

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ao3feed-bazechirrut · 7 years

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Love At First Sight (Doesn't Sound Right)

Read it on the Ao3 at: http://ift.tt/2oq1QiW

by Raehimura

When Chirrut overhears a younger initiate expounding on the virtues of Baze's features, he reminds his friend that he has never seen his face. Baze corrects this immediately.

Spiritassassin Week Day 1: First Impressions

Words: 1379, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Chirrut Îmwe, Baze Malbus

Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Pre-Canon, spiritassassin, Spiritassassin Week, 2017, Day One, First Impressions, Friendship, Flirting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Chirrut "Seeing" Baze, Also Teasing Baze Mercilessly, They Don't Know They're Flirting Yet

#via IFTTT #rogue one #spiritassassin #baze x chirrut #spiritwarrior #baze malbus #chirrut imwe

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logicalbookthief · 8 years

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A Growing Brood

Baze leaves for an off-world job and returns to find his impulsive husband's adopted a child.

He hopes this doesn't become a habit.

(Pure Spiritassassin & Family Fluff. Because this movie needs those. Ao3 link.)

Baze trudged through NiJedha with a heavy gait, weighed down by the weariness of travel. It was abated somewhat by the profit lining his pockets, and the thought of seeing Chirrut after his two-week absence.

Speak of the devil. He had barely crossed the threshold when Chirrut rounded the corner, wielding that uncanny foresight of his. Kriff, it was a crime how the crinkling around his eyes, creased by his disarming smile, dispelled much of the dreary muck clinging to Baze like a second skin.

"Welcome back," Chirrut greeted warmly, as was custom. Less expectedly, he threw his arms around Baze's neck and promptly kissed him with a vigor that an absence of this duration didn't warrant.

Despite his doubt, Baze caved into the affection, responding in kind by cupping the hollow of Chirrut's hips as he reacquainted himself with his husband. He lingered in the embrace for a minute more before pulling away.

"What did you do?" he demanded, scrutinizing his husband's face. Chirrut grinned unabashedly.

"Me?" he rebutted. "Do what?"

"Don't play the fool. Even though you are one." Chirrut laughed, unconcerned, but Baze remained skeptical.

"What's the first thing you do after the welcome wagon, without fail, every time I go off-world?" he reminded. "You ask-"

"Did you get my favorite tea?" he recited in tandem to Chirrut, who's smile broadened.

"Did you?" he pressed.

"That depends on what you did." Chirrut shook with mirth, tilting his head up to pepper his scuff with kisses; and Baze, the sap he was, almost succumbed to the trap. "Stop trying to distract me from whatever you are hiding-!"

Midsentence, Baze heard a soft thump, followed by a curse. On instinct, he reached for his blaster, but Chirrut curled a gentle hand over his wrist, willing his guard down.

"Come out, Bodhi, it's alright," he called, and after a moment's hesitation, the intruder - guest, rather - peeked its head out.

Unruly dark hair framed a boyish face, doe-eyed, and with an expression of permanent excitement. He slouched as though scolded, for all that he'd been eavesdropping. If Baze had to describe him upon that first impression, it would be nervous, but not without nerve.

Chirrut waved him forward, and Bodhi latched onto the fringe of his robe, staring at Baze with a wariness that miffed, considering this was his home.

"Bodhi, this is the man I told you about. Baze, this is Bodhi."

"N-Nice to meet you, sir," Bodhi stuttered, cowing under Baze's intimidating stature. His voice cracked with youth, though he was more than half as tall as Chirrut already.

Huffing, Baze knelt before the boy, who stiffened. "And a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bodhi, sir," he said with the utmost formality, grasping the his hand in a firm shake.

Bodhi giggled while Baze pretended to miss the fond glimmer of Chirrut's gaze.

"Chirrut. A word?"

"Of course," Chirrut demurred. He handed Bodhi the tea leaves snagged from Baze's pocket. "Help yourself to a cup. We won't be long."

Leading Chirrut by the lapel, Baze waited until they were at reasonable distance before rounding on his husband. "Why is there a child in our home?"

"A child?!" Chirrut feigned shock. "Hm... Must have snuck in when I wasn't looking." Massaging the bridge of his nose, where the throb of a burgeoning ache had settled, Baze sighed.

"Fine, you caught me!" Chirrut raised his hands in appeasement. "I found him wandering through the market, lost, searching for sanctuary. He said he's slated to be sent to an Imperial school."

Baze twitched at the mention of the Empire, a spark of fury simmering beneath his incredulity. "So you brought him here?"

"I promised to take him someplace safe." Chirrut shrugged. "If he's going to wander, it may as well be under supervision. Besides-"

Here we go.

"I believe the Force led him to me," Chirrut declared imperiously. "By no accident did we cross paths."

"The Force," Baze repeated with disdain. "And I suppose the Force wants us to shelter this boy, split our measly funds three ways, and raise him as our ward?"

His scoff should've posed this idea as the lunacy it was, yet Chirrut accepted this as an agreement. "You must be chafing for a cup of tea, after a tiring journey," he decided, sweeping past Baze, "I can hear your old bones creaking as we speak."

"Damn you, Chirrut, we're not finished discussin-"

"You brought supper?"

"Not enough for three," Baze sputtered.

"He can eat my portion," Chirrut offered magnanimously.

Baze bristled. "No, you don't eat enough as it is," he muttered crossly. "Bah, I'll figure out the portions.."

Chirrut smirked, this time without mischief, and Baze was loathed to admit how his husband's pleased expression made his stomach flutter, even as he grappled with the distinct feeling of being swindled.

Knowing Chirrut, it was certain that he had.

Once his initial anxiety subsided, Bodhi relaxed into an endearing, if not blustering, presence in their household. Lanky, all knees and elbows as he fitted into his growth spurt, he stumbled after Chirrut like a shadow, sitting with him as he told fortunes and read palms in the street, joining him in prayer.

He took up whispering Chirrut's mantra when frightened, a shuttering verse of "I'm one with the Force, it's with me" that made Baze roll his eyes. But he refrained from commenting with the scorn reserved for bickering with his husband; because for all he disbelieved the Force's value, he wouldn't begrudge the boy his comfort.

Eventually, he realized Bodhi had taken a shine to him, too, and tended to hover nearby as Baze stripped and configured his weapons. "You like machinery? Engineering?" he inquired, wondering why he was the subject of such scrutiny.

"I think it's fascinating," Bodhi replied, brows drawn. "Though I don't know much about it."

Baze gave a noncommittal response, but when he went to scanvenge for parts, he took Bodhi along, showing him what could be repurposed, and taught him to distinguish trash from useful.

Less endearing was the shine he took to gambling. They couldn't complain if he left with his pockets full, but he wasn't always so lucky. You get in enough trouble as it is, Baze griped at Chirrut, who chuckled something about everyone having vices. Nonetheless, Baze thought it prudent to find the kid some honest work - as honest as you could come by, anyway - to keep him busy. Afterwards, Bodhi used at least half of his pay to buy food, bandages, and other necessities, without either of his guardians requesting he do so.

Really, after Baze adjusted their funds to support three, the kid was no bother at all.

The issue was, if Baze let Chirrut know just how much he didn't mind, that would unleash a dangerous precedent...

*"Wise to his ploy, the next time Chirrut met him at the door and reached up to peck his cheek, Baze halted him with a palm flat against his chest.

"Don't even try it," he growled.

Irrepressible as ever, Chirrut beamed.

"Now if I walk into this room," Baze pointed accusingly, "Am I going to find another child?"

Chirrut batted his eyelashes, lips sealed.

Piqued, Baze pushed past him. Lo and behold, there sat Bodhi, sheepish as Chirrut was shameless, aside of a young girl. She sniffled, shoulders hunched under a blanket, eyes prowling about the room as if searching for a threat, and thus, a potential escape.

"I didn't find her," Chirrut disclaimed, nodding to the culprit, "Bodhi did."

Baze redirected his glare at the boy, who flushed, far more susceptible to his ire.

"S-She was running- the Imperial guards were scouring the place!" Bodhi stammered.

"For her?" asked Baze, casting a glance at his husband.

"For Gerrara's comrades," explained Chirrut.

Disbelief colored his tone, and he snorted. "This is a soldier of Saw Gerrera's?"

"Not anymore," she snarled, the scrawny girl with less bulk than his generator. Her voice lit up like a flame. There was anger, overwhelming anger, with abandonment and grief to spare. If Baze could sense it through the sheer cadence of her tone, Chirrut must be rolling in waves of her tumultuous feelings.

"So who do you fight for now?" Baze questioned. It startled her, screwing her face into a look of agonizing indecision before grasping at composure.

"Myself," she asserted at last. Her lip quibbled, but she caught it between her teeth. "S'all that's left."

Bodhi frowned, the heart he wore on his sleeve wounded by her words.

"We can't send her back to the streets, can we?" he pleaded at his guardians. Even Baze's armor, much stronger than his own damnably swayed heart, cracked under the pressure. He grunted his assent, sighing at the smile that spread from Chirrut to Bodhi like a joyous contagion.

"Of course not. She can stay as long as she wishes," Chirrut cluckled, playfully tapping her foot with his staff. "In which case, we'll have to know her name."

After a beat, she answered. "Jyn," she whispered, and it rang as the truth, revealing a chink in her armor as well.

"I can't believe you connived me into this again," Baze groused, days after the affair, as they lay in bed together.

Jyn and Bodhi were already asleep in the other room, huddled against one another on a pile of blankets, where they had drifted off to Chirrut's stories of Jedis, forgotten heroes, and sabers formed of stadust. Baze noticed that in slumber Jyn clutched her Kyber crystal necklace, the only remnant of her mother.

"Actually, that was more Bodhi's doing than mine," Chirrut laughed, warm breath tickling Baze's collarbone.

"Because you're a terrible influence."

"I am not the one who showed him to play cards," said Chirrut archly, "or showed Jyn my blaster not twenty seconds into our conversation."

"She's a decent shot," Baze admitted.

"She's eleven," Chirrut retorted.

"And raised by Gerrera, among his resistance fighters." He chorted, humorless, and pressed a kiss to Chirrut's brow, smoothing the lines of consternation. "In this Empire, try and find a child who hasn't learned to fight to keep what they have."

Chirrut hummed in contemplation. "Her mother was killed by an Imperial officer. Her father, taken."

"Vengeance, I understand. But whereas I'm an old cynic," and here his husband guffawed, poking at his stomach, "She is a child. Children aren't to be soldiers or spies, no matter how noble the cause. The Empire and the Rebels would have them waging battles before they're grown."

"Or not allow them to grow up at all," Chirrut murmured, a ghost of mourning shivering through his voice.

Baze tightened his grip, an instinctive response to hearing that morose croak leave his beloved's throat. He reflected on that night - the night Chirrut had seized awake, thrashing, screaming into the dark. How Baze had been unable to console his tremors, his sobs, helpless to do anything except haul him close and rock him through the worst of the grief, muttering soothing words that couldn't banish the horrifying visions from his mind.

"Gone, gone, gone, all of them, the children," he'd choked, when Baze managed to finally wrench a hoarse answer from him.

Years since Order 66's execution, he would watch him listen as rowdy children frolicked in the market, a fond twist to his lips, and wondered if Chirrut was remembering those lost souls, those lights snuffed out too soon.

Wordlessly, Baze folded pliant muscles into the broad expanse of his chest. Chirrut sighed, grateful, and nuzzled into the heartbeat beneath his ear. As their breaths slowed into sleep under the cover of night, Baze made a vow: Their kids would not suffer the same fate.

Chirrut would tell them tales of yore, teach them about peace, and give them the faith to believe in a world that was free.

And Baze would give them the tools to fight for it.

"Can I go with you?"

"No," Baze replied flatly.

"Why not?" Jyn insisted. "I can help!"

He snorted. "I'm an assassin for hire, not a nanny. I don't need you to worry about on top of my target."

"And what if the target is too much for you to handle?" Jyn demanded, chin jutted defiantly. "What if you don't come back?"

"Then I leave you in charge of Chirrut," he deadpanned. Her nose scrunched in bewilderment. "Somebody in their right mind ought to keep him in line."

"I heard that," Chirrut sniped. "Blind, not deaf."

"Unless it's me, calling for your turn to do the dishes."

Stewing, Jyn spat out a curt, "May the Force be with you!" before stomping off.

Baze sent his husband a withering look, one that Chirrut must've deciphered through sheer intuition. "You can't blame her for not taking your word," he said gently. "She's put faith in others before and they failed her."

"Not everyone's faith is blind as yours," Baze acknowledged dryly, and Chirrut laughed, taking that as a compliment.

As he prepared to leave, Bodhi came to say his goodbye, Jyn at his heels. He assumed that his refusal would earn him the silent treatment; instead, he received a gift.

"Here, take this with you."

Speechless, Baze turned over the Kyber crystal, marveling at its weight in his hand.

"Little sister, I'm honored," he began, awfully humbled. "But this is your most precious possession."

"It is," she said sternly, patting his cheek. "So make sure you bring it back safely."

A clever incentive, Baze admitted while he accepted that proposition (and the tight, double-kid hug that followed).

Feuled by adrenaline and triumph, after what was a grueling but rewarding trip, Baze strode home with a zeal to his step. Nothing could damper his mood, not even Chirrut, who looked ready to deliver news that he didn't care to hear.

Before he could utter a word, Baze grabbed the front of his robes, hauling him into a long, lingering kiss that silenced Chirrut like nothing else in the galaxy. They parted loudly, Baze sitting Chirrut back on his feet, while Chirrut (a tad flushed, he noted smugly) gazed adoringly.

"Dear, there is something I should-"

"No, no," Baze interrupted. "Let me guess."

Seated between Bodhi and Jyn was a teenager clothed in nondescript attire that didn't appear to fit, almost as though stolen. His leg was freshly bandaged, a russet stain bleeding through the fabric.

"You lost the bet," Bodhi muttered, elbowing Jyn. "You explain."

Glaring at her brother, she elected to summarize, realizing that Baze preferred a direct approach to beating around the bush.

"This is Cassian, a member of the Rebel alliance. He's lying low because he's injured, and we convinced him to trust us, because who else is reckless enough to harbor a Rebel spy besides this family?"

Chirrut muffled his snicker with a cough. "Well put."

"I'm right here," Cassian mumbled belligerently. "And thank you, but - if it's too much of a risk, this fugitive can find somewhere else to hide. You've done enough to endanger yourselves already."

All eyes turned to him, awaiting a verdict; it was clear where their hearts lie. And Baze tried to summon his usual frustration - truly, he did. But the fact was, his shoulders ached from the weight of his generator, his eyes twitched with exhaustion, and Chirrut was an inviting presence nudging at his side.

He examined this Rebel spy, hardly older than Bodhi, and ragged around the edges. Baze was satisfied in seeing that he had the face of a friend.

"Any enemy of the Empire's welcome in this house. If you find a place for him to sleep, he's all yours." He waved to Jyn, ignoring Cassian's squawk and Bodhi's cough-covered-laugh, and dragged Chirrut to their increasingly-less-private bedroom.

"We're not keeping this one," Baze warned, half-hearted even to his own ears.

"My poor, long-suffering husband," Chirrut crooned, assisting in stripping off his armor. "You wait. Soon our chicks'll fly the nest, off to fight the Empire or smuggle contraband, and then you'll have only me for company."

"Perish the thought," Baze groaned, flopping back onto the bed, yanking his husband down for a cuddle. After a while of Chirrut stroking fingers through his hair and muscles unwinding, he murmured, "You think they're ready to leave home?"

"I think they're too strong-willed for us to dissuade."

"Where on Jedha did they learn that?" he grumbled.

"Their fathers," Chirrut chortled. Baze kissed him, then, if only to shut him up.

They're so married, I couldn't help myself.

#rogue one #rogue one fic #star wars fic #spiritassassin #baze x chirrut #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #chirrut is a little shit that does what he wants #baze is constantly exasperated with him #bodhi rook #jyn erso #cassian andor #family fluff #team as family #space dads

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egregiousderp · 8 years

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Vee's been motivating me for a modern spiritassassin AU

Based really really loosely on that lovely set of gifs by @rafikecoyote

(Past life!dreaming AUs used to be very popular with my depressing old fandoms back in the day. I don’t know if that’s still a thing or not.)

Basically it’s come to this so far in talks:

• Location is modern San Francisco. (And @krispyscreams has really been helping with that because it’s been twelve years since I even visited that city.)

• Baze is mid-forties, divorced (and not over it) interior repair guy/welder. He’s been called up to check out this dude’s house. The house is not impressing him and neither is the owner because who is this health-conscious righteous vegetarian fuck. Bet he doesn’t know which way a screw turns.

• Chirrut is also mid-forties and secretly going blind from Retinitis Pigmentosa which is in the process of slow-wrecking his life as a martial arts teacher. He can see but has severe tunnel vision and impending total blindness basically hanging on his horizon. He’s trying to renovate his mother’s painted-lady Victorian manse for himself while having no clue what’s going to happen to him.

• Chirrut and Jyn are best friends. They met when he wandered into her graduate program architecture installations and she tried to murder him with a power-sander. He offered to teach her some free self-defense lessons as an apology. They’ve been surprisingly bro ever since. They drink together every Friday. Jyn is one of the very few people Chirrut allows to assist him with his sight-impairment-related stuff. He refuses to get a cane. (Baze thinks he’s terribly clumsy.)

• Jyn looked up Baze in the phone book and they met because she needed work done on her architecture projects you need licensing on. They became friends in a silent introvert way despite the fact Baze mother hens like woah.

•Jyn basically passed Baze off to Chirrut as a dude to change his house around for him because her workload was too heavy.

•Baze has no idea Chirrut’s going blind. Chirrut finds this refreshing and nice. He hasn’t told him and he takes great pleasure in winding him up.

• Both of them complain to Jyn about the other after their first meeting on their respective bro drinking nights. Both of them also attempt to give the other guy the eye and the potential shovel talk thinking maybe Jyn is dating the other dude. Well. Up to the point Chirrut is very plainly checking out Baze’s ass and Baze drily informs him he’s not that kind of plumber. (Chirrut: “Well you never know…”)

• Jyn’s birth name is Stardust Erso because Lyra was a hippie once. She changed it legally when she became an adult.

• Lyra basically dumped Jyn off with Saw as a kid so she could follow Galen in his work. Jyn’s never quite forgiven her.

• Saw is some kind of musician. Lotta moving around. He was perhaps a little over-convinced of Jyn’s independence and it worked out poorly. Among other things it means Jyn had to get a GEDand work hard for every scrap of education she’s gotten. People still see the last name “Erso” though and she hates that.

• Galen tries his best but is really not that good with people and it’s implied he basically got Lyra pregnant and married her while he was maybe still with Krennic.

• Krennic shows up in an impeccable white linen suit and drinks strong wine at the Erso’s table a lot. He’s still bitter as Hell about it and often tries to ramp Galen up for old glory days type things. He’s not over what Galen did AT ALL. Sometimes he flirts with Jyn out of spite. She finds it very creepy.

• Let’s be honest, Krennic is like the mistress but he’s furious Galen ever chose Lyra over him for anything and won’t leave his wife and kid for him since it’s “always been them”. He and Galen supposedly work in something secretive and to do with power. Possibly government possibly not.

• Jyn knows all about the unusual situation with her parents and Krennic because she grew up with it. It has singularly failed to impress her.

• Galen does definitely turn to drink to solve his stresses. He’s a quiet alcoholic. He still very deeply adores his daughter and his family and wants what’s best for him but it’s a lot for him.

• Cassian and Bodhi are grad students in the robots program and Kaytoo (Que tu) is their project. Bodhi in particular is under Galen’s sort of mentorship wing. He loves it.

• Krennic hates Bodhi like he hates anything that distracts Galen from total monopoly of attention on him. Bodhi is quietly terrified of Krennic.

• Cassian probably has a mostly-silent crush on Architect!Jyn. Chirrut finds this both extremely obvious and extremely hilarious. He’s as merciless a gay best friend as you might expect.

• Bodhi Rook is one of those people who either wears a naruto village headband or steampunk goggles at all times. He is extremely hurt when people drag him for this because “it’s just an outfit.”

• Bodhi probably owns at least one anime body pillow. No one can know. (Cassian knows and is merciless.)

• Bodhi and Cassian are running into snags with Kaytoo’s programming because they’re trying to allow an organic learning process. Last week Kaytoo discovered swearing. They had to wipe his banks.

• Another time Jyn walked in on an unholy tussle in Spanish and Urdu only to find Bodhi trapped in Kaytoo’s grip while Kaytoo repeated “Stop hitting yourself” and slapped him repeatedly. Cassian had to try to do reputation damage control. It mostly didn’t work.

• Baze and Chirrut have both been having really unsettling dreams about their “past life” together that seem to flesh out with one another.

• Chirrut is convinced the dream man is real and he must find him before he loses his sight but can’t tell what he looks like. (And it doesn’t help that AU!Baze is short-haired and clean-shaven.)

• Baze thinks dreams are just dreams. He tells no one he dreams of Chirrut dying in his arms. He thinks it’s just his anxieties about failure.

• Baze also thinks he’s straight. He’s in for a really terrible time once he figures it out because he’s at once highly traditional and rule-following but also falls hard when he falls for people.

• Chirrut is one of the single most ruinous experiences of Baze’s entire life because he honestly wanted a wife, 2.5 children, and a dog, with a white picket fence and Chirrut is more a fearless gay adventure companion who starts shit and brews beer in his basement. It works out eventually but it’s mad rough at first and all they do is fight miserably with one another.

• Lyra keeps trying to hint at Jyn that maybe she should be after Chirrut. After all, he’s a nice-looking fellow. Jyn gags. “He’s gay, actually.” “Oh. Well. That doesn’t mean much. So was your father when I met him.” Galen chokes on his cheerios at the table. Krennic says nothing but glares fit to destroy a planet. (Lyra, that’s not how Gay works.)

• Lyra really does think Chirrut is an absolute doll. No one else wants to talk about healing crystals with her. Chirrut is always fantastically charming with her.

• At some point during the spiritassassin angst and misunderstandings, Krennic belts out “Billie Jean”.

• Everything is foggy and eventually nothing hurts. (Except for Krennic but he’s busy drowning his sorrows in partying.)

#rogue one au #I have no idea what to tag this as #It's probably going to just be a self-indulgent mess #long post #/interjects sorry

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anagrammaddict · 7 years

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Help a blind man cross the road

I’m a day late with this but here we go:

For SpiritAssassin Week 2017. Day one. Prompt is: first impressions

There is a blind uncle at the edge of Vatta Street. Not ten paces from where Baze is sitting on the footpath, chewing on melon seeds.

The man is old and hunched, a warped staff in his hand. He’s wearing dark-tinted optic lenses and black robes, his face hidden by a large hood. Either a holy man or a beggar, and there are plenty of both here on Vatta Street.

Baze looks away, disinterested. They all flock to this part of the city: the blind, the deaf, the ones who’ve lost limbs, or the ones afflicted with episodes of holy paroxysms. Nothing to do with him.

“Hey, you!”

Baze’s head snaps up in attention. The blind man hasn’t moved, or turned his head to face him. Nearby, there is a small group of chattering devotees in veils, coming from the nearby Temple, having finished their midday prayers. A protocol droid with the ends of loose wiring peeping out from behind the plates of its external covering. None of them look like they had just addressed him.

“Yes, you! The good-for-nothing taking up the whole footpath! Do they not teach you manners at school?”

It’s definitely the blind man.

“You talking to me, uncle?” Baze says.

“Slow-witted as well as ill-mannered!” The blind man taps his crooked staff on the ground impatiently. His voice is croaky and strained, as though he’s speaking from the depths of his throat. “I asked you, what did they teach you at school?”

Baze curses inwardly. Just his luck to have some grumpy blind condescending uncle strike up convo with him.

“I don’t go to school anymore,” he growls. He lights a clove cigarette, the last of his stash.

The blind man has now turned his head slightly toward him. Most of his face is hidden by the shadowy cowl of his robes, but his optic lenses are round black holes eyeballing Baze. “But you used to. Didn’t you learn any basic Moral Studies at school? Or has the Jedhan education system gone down the drain? That most certainly explains why the youth of today are such a worthless lot.”

The old aphorisms of long-forgotten Moral Studies classes seep back into Baze’s thoughts. Some generic, some ridiculously specific.

Be considerate. Be responsible. Be hardworking. Respect your elders. Plant trees in barren spaces. When you see a blind man, offer him help to cross the street.

“You can cross the street by yourself, uncle,” says Baze. “There’s no traffic.”

“Insolent!” cries the blind man in outrage. He strikes the ground harder with his staff. “You will not help an old man who is in need?”

“Vehicles are not allowed on Vatta Street! It's pedestrian-only!” Baze yells back. “You’re not going to get run over by anything!”

The blind man purses his mouth into a thin angry line. He raises his staff and begins to shout. “Thus I have heard that this world will be ended not because of any cosmic disaster, but from the collapse of modern society. And a most disturbing symptom of this impending collapse is how apathetic and uncharitable and discourteous our youth have grown!”

The uncle has started preaching. Passers-by have begun to stop and listen to the blind man’s street sermon.

“Have none of you heard of the fable of the blind man and the arrogant wealthy son of the bantha farmer?” He lifts an accusing finger at points it straight at Baze.

This is far more attention than Baze likes.

“Okay, okay!” He jumps to his feet, upending his pouch and scattering melon seeds. He grinds his unfinished cigarette with his heel. “I’ll help you cross!”

An old woman hisses at him as he passes. “No shame! Won’t even help that poor blind man.”

“After I help that uncle, I'm going to come back and carry you on my back, grandma,” Baze says threateningly.

He takes the blind uncle’s elbow.

“At last,” says the blind man, and Baze starts.

The blind uncle is not an uncle at all. In fact, he looks younger than Baze. And he’s smiling. It’s a nice smile, dimpled at the edges, and there’s a genuine pleasance to it.

He would appreciate this smile a bit more, if he weren't feeling so aggrieved.

“You--!” Baze splutters.

In response, the other boy raps his instep with his staff and Baze curses in pain. “Come on, come on. I want to get to the other side. What’s the hold-up?”

People are still watching from the footpaths, so Baze takes a deep breath and guides the blind boy across Vatta Street. Which is completely empty of any vehicle, speeder, or cart, by the way.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” says the blind boy. His optic lenses glint enigmatically at Baze.

“Why are you pretending to be some old uncle? Spouting shit about the ‘youth of today?’”

“The soul needs to be constantly nourished by acts of compassion and goodness. I am helping you fulfil your spiritual quota for the sake of your soul.”

“My soul was getting along fine without you,” snaps Baze.

“Then yours is but a pitiful and undernourished soul,” says the blind boy. He straightens the false hunch out of his shoulders and pushes the hood off. Then he thrusts his staff into Baze’s hands. “Hold this.”

The staff is smooth and polished. Heavy. Good for breaking bones, Baze thinks, vaguely.

This stranger is in the garb of the Guardians. Not a beggar after all.

He takes a handkerchief out and blows his nose, loud and trumpeting. Baze winces. He’d always thought of the Guardians as a dignified, intimidating lot with graceful but brutal fighting skills. He’d seen them take out robbers and armed gangs preying on pilgrims with ease.

“I’m allergic to sand,” says the boy. He balls up the handkerchief. Gestures to Baze to move aside.

Perplexed, Baze steps to his left. The blind boy tosses the snotty balled-up handkerchief forwards and it lands in a discarded basket by a rubbish heap, a good distance away.

“How did you do that?” Baze says. His eyes narrow. “Are you even blind?”

He starts forward and pulls off the boy’s optic lenses.

“Oh.”

Pale, milky eyes stare back at him. The blind boy smiles and holds his hand out for his staff.

“So, where’s the nearest cantina?” he says.

“What? Aren't you a Guardian of the Whills?”

He lifts his staff and uses it to point at Baze’s pockets. “You’ve got credits in there. And I’m thirsty.”

Baze is speechless for a moment. Then: “You want me to buy you a drink? I don’t even know who you are!”

The blind boy begins walking away. “Don’t you want to find out, then? Come on, humour a blind person, will you?”

Baze looks around. Vatta Street is quiet, the crowds dispersed, and his melon seeds are all gone, trampled into the dirt by the passers-by. Hell, even his last cigarette is gone. Nothing to do. Oh, well. He runs after the blind boy.

Buy a blind kid a drink. Huh.

He definitely did not learn this at any Moral Studies class.

#spiritassassin #spiritassassin week #spiritassassin week 2017 #baze x chirrut #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #i wrote this in 1 go #sorry for typos #or bad writing #etc #moral studies #huhuhu #my work #my fic #my writing

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