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chrysalispen · 3 years

Text

a dream in flight (cid/wol)

for @smitten-miqitten. thank you so much <3 i hope you enjoy!

AO3 HERE

fic under the cut, as always.

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The morning was a rare one, having dawned clear and cloudless - albeit every ilm as cold and bracing as the one that preceded it. The overbright sparkle of a sun with no warmth bit as strongly as any blizzard, but the crystal and stained glass windows of the great cathedral seemed to filter the merciless glare of eternal winter into something gentle and cheerful.

Although a bone-deep chill lingered without the doors as ever, it was stiflingly warm in the nave. Folk large and small had gathered beneath the roof of Saint Reymanaud’s, brought together by the common threads that bound them to the Warrior of Light -- she who had ended the Dragonsong War alongside Ishgard’s greatest knights and heroes. The union was an occasion to celebrate as much as any feast-day, and to that end all present had turned out in their finest: city-state leaders in ceremonial dress, various personages of the High Houses using the occasion as an opportunity to display themselves and their sons and daughters to advantage, Brume folk in their best attire.

Cid Garlond had long since grown weary of observing the still-gathering crowd and now contented himself with staring through a small pane of glass into the body of the sanctuary. Light streamed through the massive arches like golden prayer-ribbons, weaving their way along marble walls and ancient buttresses. The floral wreaths that bookended the hefty spruce pews were a donation from the Gridanian Botanists’ Guild, sprays of color and scent and life (some alterations had been made; he doubted the artichoke flowers lining the steps to the altar dais had been Era’s notion, or Fufucha’s for that matter).

“Hells, you even let them deck the pews,” the sardonic drawl echoed slightly from old stones. “I suppose you really are serious about this.”

That was a voice he knew, and normally one that was wont to cause his hackles to rise- but in this instance the unsettled flutter in his gut left him more inclined to look favorably upon its owner, if for naught else other than long familiarity.

He let his shoulders roll back as he glanced up at the taller Garlean out of the corner of his eyes, then shook his head. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression I would do anything like this on a lark. Goodness knows there were other venues. More discreet, at the very least.”

“Well, I daresay there’s still some time before the festivities commence.” Nero Scaeva’s shameless grin was all teeth and no small amount of mirth; Cid thought to himself with a sort of sour amusement that his colleague and erstwhile rival was quite enjoying his predicament. “You could always abscond with your lady as soon as she arrives. Make for the Dravanian hills. Biggs and Wedge would cover your escape, no doubt.”

“While you simply sit back and watch, I suppose? Or would you help them?”

Nero offered only a lazy shrug of his shoulders, a lift and a drop and spread hands.

“Perhaps, Garlond. Perhaps. I find myself feeling oddly magnanimous this morning, as it happens.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to curtail these passing generous impulses of yours, Nero.” Cid’s lips tilted in a wry half-smile of his own. “I suspect Era would be cross if I let you assault the guests.”

“Spoilsport,” he said. Cid scoffed, though it was without rancor. “In that case, I suppose you are determined to endure, come what may. Stand still, your collar’s gone askew.”

As the other man cast a critical eye on his neckwear Cid fought not to fidget in place. His eyes strayed frequently to the doors of the cathedral, and in the back of his mind he could feel Marques fluttering about like a trapped bird buffeting its wings against an invisible cage. Strange, how the most significant sennight of his life had begun much like any other, and even stranger that he felt so anxious, knowing how long he had felt ready for this very day. He supposed it was public speaking jitters- there were quite a lot of people here, after all: many of them faces he knew as well as Era did.

But then, he told himself, that was the point, wasn’t it? The other ceremony - the real ceremony, as far as Cid was concerned - was somewhere else. This was a sort of… test run, one might say.

Just a test run, he repeated to himself, and he couldn’t say why it was that which served to ground him, but it did. Some of the tension in his muscles seemed to flow out of his limbs, like icemelt into a mountain stream. It hadn’t entirely fled him, and he was sure the second the doors opened and all eyes were upon him it would return. But the fluttering in his head had subsided, and that was what mattered.

He exhaled softly as Nero stepped back to give him space. A frown knitted the other Garlean’s brow: an emotion that looked almost like concern.

“Jests aside, you’re looking a bit pale, old friend. Are you quite sure you’ve not changed your mind?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll be fine,” Cid assured him. He glanced towards the entrance to the vestibule. “Once she’s arrived, I’ll be better than fine.”

He didn’t have to wait very long. Three turns about the space later there was a flurry of activity at the doors and a vision in white stepped across the threshold, the long and lacy train of her dress draping the floor at her back like spun frost.

Era looked as stunning as she always did to his eyes, of course, regardless of what she wore. But as lovely and intricate as it was, Cid took little more than cursory notice of her dress. His attention caught itself upon other, smaller details: the shine of her eyes - just slightly too bright - and the tight curve of her smile, and the white-knuckled way she clutched the bouquet of white lilies in her hands. She was as outwardly composed as ever but he knew her tells well enough by now to see that in truth, she was no less unsettled about the prospect of a very public display than Cid himself.

So, he thought, it appears I won’t be alone in this either.

He nudged his companion in the ribs with one elbow. “You see?” he said. “Better than fine.”

“Well then, Garlond, let me be the first to offer my congratulations-”

“Jumping the gun rather, aren’t you? The ceremony hasn’t started yet.”

“-upon your miraculous recovery from stage fright,” the engineer finished. His lips tilted in something that was either a sneer or a smirk, and knowing Nero as he did, it could well have been both. “As amusing as it is to entertain the notion of watching you faint away upon your approach to the altar like some dewy-eyed Coerthan virgin afflicted with the vapors, I suspect the timely arrival of your fellow aspirant to matrimony has just saved me a good deal of trouble.”

“You would actually give up the opportunity to watch me embarrass myself in front of what must be half the realm sitting in those pews? Seven hells, Nero, you are getting soft.”

A derisive snort. “Spoken as if your lovely and more than somewhat terrifying bride wouldn’t simply pluck you from the floor and princess-carry you to the altar herself should it come to that. He'll not escape you that easily, eh, Era?”

The neutral set of her soft lips barely twitched, but the flash of good humor in her eyes was all the answer Cid needed. Her smile took a genuine turn at last - a soft and slight thing that would have been imperceptible to anyone else - and the cloud-like softness of her tail twitched, nearly hidden in the layers of snowy lace and satin. At the same moment, he watched the tilt of her shoulders relax. Just the barest hint, really, but he suspected it to be a reflection of his own selfsame thought process.

“He'll be fine, and so will I,” she said at last. She was responding to Nero but her eyes, luminous and wide, were fixed upon Cid's. "We go together."

“Right. Well. Upon that note, I believe I’ll be finding my seat. Away from the aisles, if it please you,” the tall blond shrugged, making a show of turning his back as he strode towards the exit to the sanctuary. “Do make an attempt to remain vertical for the duration, Garlond.”

Cid managed to suppress a mirthful grin of his own until Nero had quit their presence before turning it upon a lily and lace-bedecked Era.

“He suggested we take the opportunity to elope, but I think that would be a touch impolite- tempting as it might be.”

“Besides which, everyone is already here and waiting,” she said. “It would be a bit rude to elope now. We might as well get on with it.”

He laughed and it would have gone unnoticed were she not looking at him; the sound was swallowed in the ringing swell of a tolling cathedral bell. The sound crashed against stone like an invisible wave, once, twice: the final call for their gathering to take seats.

Era’s ears swiveled forward at the sudden sound before relaxing back into the wreath of flowers woven into her hair, and lifted one hand midair while juggling her bouquet into her right. He tucked her elbow about his much girthier forearm so that her hand rested just above the back of his wrist. The small ring she wore caught the light with a tiny, delicate sparkle -- a mote of light with a deep blue center.

“I suppose that’s our cue. You will catch me if I fall, won’t you, love?”

“Always. Even if I tear my dress doing it.” Smile steady, her soft eyes flickered towards the nave entrance. The slight weight of her hand resting upon his was warm and secure, a silent comfort. “Shall we?”

Cid took the hint for what it was.

“Let’s,” he said, and reached for the heavy wooden doors.

~*~

“Era? Sweetheart?”

By ilms the ache began to subside and with it, the Echo vision faded and passed. Her fingertips fell away from the spot where they had lain pressed to her temple.

The sight that awaited her when she opened her eyes was of quite a different venue indeed: no massive flying buttresses or walls of cold and heavy granite to be found here. The tiny chapel of Saint Adama Landama sat on a high point as did the Holy See’s grand cathedral, but that was where the similarities between the two locations ended. The view afforded here was not that of majestic snow-capped mountains, but a small and dusty lichyard. Beyond the box canyon that housed the old Sunroad waystation of Camp Drybone lay malms of flat scrublands and shallow watering holes, populated only by tuco-tucos and herds of wild aldgoats that had taken advantage of cooler hours to graze and water.

At last the day had dawned upon what she considered the real ceremony.

Today she would in truth marry the man she had loved for so long, in this place which meant so much to the both of them. Of course she had wanted their friends to share in their happiness, and Cid had in turn agreed for her sake. But here, the difference was as stark as night and day. Looking upon the well-worn pews strewn with laurel and desert saffron, the anxiety that had so plagued her in the great cathedral was… well, not what she could call ‘nonexistent,’ not exactly, but there was far more of excitement in it than aught else.

How long had it been, in truth, since they had met? The first time it had been wholly incidental. They had been little more than ships passing in the night -- albeit those ships were ghost-ships, left unanchored and unmoored and empty to drift slow and wide upon deep currents. Newly recruited to the Scions and looking for information, she had instead found him, half-concealed in a solitary corner of the lichyard draped in his borrowed robes and weeding an aged plot. He had been too shy to even look her full in the face while he stammered out a frightened response to her question.

Then, he had only known himself as Marques. Sometimes she wondered about the part of him that they both knew was still Marques, looking upon the world as it was now: the world that Cid Garlond had helped to shape. Be it for weal or woe.

She had forgotten for a moment that he was still watching her. When she glanced at him after the sound of his clearing throat caught her attention she saw his brow knotted with concern, eyes cast in brief shadow.

“Era, is aught amiss?”

“Hmm? No, I’m fine.” Era punctuated her words with a faint smile, hoping it would reassure him. The small bouquet of baby’s breath she clutched in one hand was warm, the simple ribbon that bound it ever so slightly damp where moisture from her palm had started to sink into the fibers. “I was just thinking about the day we met.”

“Mmm.” The furrowed crease that had extended nearly down to the bridge of his nose relaxed. “Good old Marques. I’ll wager he never would have dreamed of a day like this.”

(Sometimes she wondered if he wished he could still be Marques. She would hardly blame him.)

“On a day like this, where would he have been?” she wanted to know.

“Well away from the churchyard.” Cid reached for her, his broad, rough mechanic’s fingers lacing through hers. It was already hot and his hand was as warm as hers, but it was a gentle warmth- one that enfolded her hand much like his steadfast presence had enfolded her heart. His grin seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “Tending some of those newer plots on the high road, methinks.”

Before she could think about it she had voiced the question.

“You don’t miss it overmuch, do you?”

“What? Being ‘Marques’?” At her nod, that grin turned somewhat wry. “Aye, well... were I to be completely honest, I think I do miss that daft old bugger on occasion. He was a tabula rasa, after all, and that sort of existence does have a certain appeal. Fewer responsibilities, for one.”

“But?” Era squeezed his hand, and his focus caught upon their laced fingers.

“But all other matters aside, I know full well what I would have missed. There are times… well, I have my bad days, and sometimes being Cid Garlond feels a terrible beast of a burden. I’ll not deny it. But days like this? I can’t say I would wish to be anyone else." He paused. "Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Cid's eyes were the precise grey-blue of cornflower blossoms, as guileless and open to the sun as the Thanalan sky. She had always loved his eyes: windows which afforded her a glimpse into a soul that was both noble and incessantly kind, even in those early days when he had not known himself. The worry she had glimpsed was gone, passed across their surface and moved on like a cloud drifting away from the sun. It left them as lovely as ever, and brighter to her own loving gaze than any crystal would ever be.

Like a crystal, he reflected the light she bore in truth.

Her throat felt suddenly tight, as though there were a lump she couldn’t swallow past, and she blinked furiously to clear the uncomfortable burning sensation that pricked her eyes.

“Come now, darling,” Cid chided her with a soft laugh. “Save your tears for the ceremony, eh? The good Father’s waiting on us, and so are the crew.”

She almost held out through the entire ceremony. Almost.

Motes of dust billowed in the shafts of sunlight that slanted through the windows of the chapel - in truth, little more than a meeting-house - as if in benediction upon the small gathering. Small as it was, Era clutched her bouquet until her knuckles turned white as she tried to ignore the small handful of people in the pews. Her free hand, held in his- it all felt so seen, and fame or no, she had never liked to put herself on display.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the movement of Cid’s lips, though there was no sound. She blinked at him, wondering if he had said something and she had merely missed it, until they moved again:

Relax. Look at me.

That message was unmistakable, followed as it was by a very slow and deliberate wink and the mischievous tilt of a half-smile. She felt her own lips stretch in response and her grip on his hand relaxed ever so slightly - and she caught his faint grimace and felt the flex of tendon and muscle, and realized she must have been squeezing his fingers more tightly than she had intended.

If old Father Iliud had noticed any of that silent exchange, he gave no outward sign, bless him. He merely looked from the bride to her groom, both in their modest attire, Era in her lace, then out upon the few witnesses sitting upon the weathered and somewhat rickety benches that passed for pews. The smile he bestowed upon them all was very much like the sunlight slanting through the dusty windows, gentle and ever-present.

“My dear friends,” he said, his voice quiet and warm and intimate, as if he addressed only the two of them in the comfort of a private parlor, “words cannot well express what a wonder it is, to see all of you who have gathered here today. To share in a day like this, to celebrate love, is to celebrate joy itself.

“We have all weathered many a storm these past five summers. Yet those who endure hardship and emerge wiser and kinder for the experience are the strongest of us- and the secret to their strength so very often lies in the company they keep on their journey.”

As she listened, she remembered.

There had been another time he had clasped her hand like this. The rift, beautiful chaos, an endless sea of stars and a cold to numb the very soul as they were cast adrift in the vast and unfolding eternity of interdimensional space: her only anchor the softness of chocobo down and the warmth of Cid’s hand, fingers intertwined and grasping like tapestry threads. Era had forgotten many things, some more important than others. It was a circumstance she had accepted long ago; for better or worse, a not-insignificant part of her time had been spent trying to assemble the disparate pieces of her life before and after the shipwreck.

But that she would hold in her heart until she cast away her mortal coil, for the memory of that warmth was also the moment Era had realized she was in love with him. It had been exhilarating and wonderful, that quiet awareness of something that had waited with such patience for her to see it, like the petals of a morning glory unfolding to bask in the full brilliance of the sun.

The company we keep--

Such a long and strange journey it had been, all of it. And Cid had been there with her from the first step.

“Era,” a voice murmured. “The rings.”

She’d been lost in so much reflection she had nearly missed her own ceremony, she thought with a sort of rueful embarrassment. Cheeks coloring slightly, she set the bouquet aside just in time for Iliud to take her emptied hand and fold her fingers into those of her groom.

Iliud stretched his other hand first towards Cid, his palm open and facing upward as the engineer reached for the bauble that lay in his hand and lifted Era’s hand with a reverent touch. They faced each other now; the pews were visible from the corner of her eye if she chose to perceive them, but she barely noticed. Her focus lay upon the delicate white gold ring and the tiny jewel settings, blue as his eyes, as he slid it onto her finger with painstaking care.

“Let this be my promise to you,” Cid murmured. He held her hand high, close to his mouth, and she could feel the damp warmth of each soft exhale as he bent over his work. “Be they clear skies or the darkest storms, I would navigate them all with you at my side.”

He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, grave and earnest, a pilgrim paying homage.

“And Era.”

Thus prompted, she reached for the remaining band. It was a simple piece: the metal brushed and polished to a precise sheen, pleasing to the eye but sturdy enough to withstand much of its owner’s heavy manual labor. Her hands felt clammy with sweat. There was a sort of… no, lightheadedness wasn’t the right word. Giddy, she amended. Reality was asserting itself bit by bit, wondrous and overwhelming-- it wasn’t a fever dream or an Echo vision.

She could blink once, twice, a hundred times, and this day - the fact of her marriage - it would all still be real.

He held his own hand aloft, awaiting her next move in patient silence and an unwavering smile. Era’s fingers trembled slightly, albeit not from any particular apprehension, as she positioned the ring to slide into place. It caught on the wide point of his finger for the space of a heartbeat before moving downward once more.

The chapel seemed terribly hot, or perhaps that heat in her cheeks was self-consciousness-- Era had never been one for grandiose speeches or noble vows. Nevertheless, she bowed her head studiously over the much larger hand she cradled, his fingers curled with delicate care about hers, to seal her words with a kiss of her own.

“Let this be my promise to you,” her words echoed his, a statement bold and simple in equal measure. “No matter the adventure or the quest that leads my steps, you will always be at my side, in word and in deed. We go together.”

The ring shone with the reflected light of the afternoon sun, and she shut her eyes against it just long enough to brush her lips against roughened knuckles. She lowered his hand, still held securely in her own, to see her emotions mirrored in his face. He was still smiling, but his eyes were suspiciously bright and by the knowing tilt to his lips, Era rather suspected she was in the same state.

Iliud’s hands cast small shadows over theirs as he raised each palm to place upon the crowns of their hands, then their backs, in light and careful benediction. Just as Cid had received foreknowledge of this part of the ceremony so had she; her ears flickered back and then forward again in a small, tight swivel. Still, her fingers tightened their grip ever so briefly, and with silent determination she kept her gaze firmly set even as her vision went dim and she blinked furiously.

“What the fates have seen fit to join,” he intoned, “neither man nor nature may cast asunder. By those powers granted to me and the immeasurable privilege to preside over this union, I bid you take your first steps in life across the threshold of this holy house.”

Heedless in truth of the emotion between them - or mayhap perfectly aware of it - the old priest’s hands raised aloft as the pair turned at last to face the pews.

“Era and Cid Garlond, I pronounce you husband and wife, and alongside my fellow celebrants in your shared joy wish long life and happiness upon you both. May you go forth in peace-- and may the Twelve smile upon you now and forevermore.”

Her joyful laugh, thin and shaking and half-tearful, was muffled beneath her husband’s kiss. She tasted salt, but almost as soon as the impression was there it was gone and he was grinning at her, the Cid she knew and loved. Sunlight glittered in bright blue, the tears in them fading like a receding rainfall to be replaced once more with eternally fair skies.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cid whispered, taking her elbow in his. They took their first step down the aisle in tandem. “The airship’s waiting.”

“Airship? I thought we weren't-"

“Aye, you heard right. It's all been arranged. We’ve the whole of the next sennight to ourselves and an open sky ahead.” His wink was all boyish mischief, ceremonial solemnity fled in the wake of what Era saw now was suppressed excitement. “So you just tell me where to go, and I’ll take us there. Just like always, Missus Garlond.”

“But the Ironworks-”

“There’s no less than a dozen folk who have offered to take up projects in our stead,” he kissed her cheek, and she squirmed at the tickling scratch of his beard, “on both ends. This will be just the two of us.” “Not even Biggs and Wedge?”

“Not even Biggs and Wedge.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, then: “...Oh dear. That... wasn’t quite how I meant that to sound.”

Unfazed, Cid tossed his head and laughed. His hair, that beautiful silver-streaked white-blond, shimmered like his wedding ring band in the filtered sunlight and with that single peal of sound she fancied she could nearly see his soul. He was happier than she had ever seen him, and it had made of itself something tangible and incandescent. Radiant.

And reflected light or not, she couldn’t help but find him the most beautiful man she had ever seen. My husband. She thought her way around those two words, testing them.

“I’m sure they’d understand,” he said, smiling. “Right! Well then, my fellow navigator, I believe we’ve a course to chart. Let’s be about it. To the Excelsior?”

Era beamed at him. This, too, was the happiest day she could remember, and it would end with a shared dream, borne aloft and bound for adventure.

“To the Excelsior.”

The chapel doors flew open on their weathered hinges, and with hearts and hands joined, Era and Cid Garlond set forth into the light of a new day.

#cid x wol #era hess #cid garlond #chrysalispen writes

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egregiousderp · 7 years

Text

When you see this post an excerpt from a WIP!

Fuck. Okay. I saw this through @unicornsandbutane . Uh. So. Remember that Spiritassassin past life dreaming AU I was talking about? It. Uh. Goes something like this.

(Sorry this is huge. This was going to be a chapter. They didn’t say how long the excerpt had to be and I don’t know when I’ll next get to this because I’m…well…me.)

Context: force sensitive people in one life dream about their past lives. Baze and Chirrut dream about one another. Baze denies this. Heavily. That some new age shit.

He meets Chirrut for the first time after dreaming about him dying in his arms.

Chirrut has retinitis pigmentosa. He can still see but is in the process of becoming fully blind. Baze doesn’t know.

Okay. I- Uhm…

/VAGUE PRESENTING GESTURES ——– ——–

The client can smile as much as he wants as long as he pays is a personal rule.

Baze is starting to question that rule.

He is hours in and halfway through being swallowed by the innards of a sink that probably hasn’t been replaced or altered in more than fifty years, and still can’t make head or tail out of what the client actually wants him to do.

“If,” the man says, still smiling like the sun, “if I wanted to make the house safe for a blind person, how would it be modified?”

Baze grunts something about the stairs and keeping a clear floor. None of which particularly requires an interior contractor. He sees no reason to lie about the difficulty of his work when the man is probably just looking to sell a house.

“If I wished to install disabled ramping what would I do?“

Baze grunts again.

Not enough space for ramping. Install a chair lift like everyone else.

“If I-”

“Pipes and wiring,” Baze interrupts, his patience narrowing.

“Come again?”

The tilt of the other man’s head is birdlike, cheerful. The nightmare from the night before has unsettled Baze too much to be easily shaken. He rubs his forehead to clear it, feeling the start of a headache.

“Old house, old wiring,” Baze grunts.

“And…what does that mean?”

Baze sighs through his nose, and pulls his glasses back on. He dislikes doing so. Dislikes the looks of amusement he gets while holding documents at arms-length and studying layouts even more.

He hates old manses. The owners are either stingy or gullible, and rarely know what needs to be done.

If this guy wants a pretty interior job he should have called Jyn first, gutted all the beautiful wood paneling, the antique tiling of the floors and remade with a modern interior, calling him up when they were done. Baze chews on the end of his pen in distaste.

“Means the house came first. Electricity came later.” He thinks of the trio of children he saw giggling together on the trolley, barely six years old, watching a video on their parent’s phone. “And usage has gone up. You want that done first."

The owner just gazes at him, eyebrows lifted.

He has no idea what he is talking about, obviously.

Baze taps the sink in the kitchen on the print.

“Is this an original?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” the other man laughs.

He comes uncomfortably close to see the print, then turns his head to look at Baze. He is grinning at the beaded chain for his glasses. Librarian comments incoming, no doubt.

Baze’s mother would have knocked his knees out from under him with a volume of the Britannica, and she was barely five feet tall, with a limited grasp of English–-a textbook example on why quiet wasn’t the same as peaceful and neither were librarians.

Baze foregoes the commentary by folding the print back under his arm.

Might as well take a look.

Judging by the sink fixtures, the kitchen had a rehaul during the sixties. He wrinkles his nose as he opens the cabinet, pulling out bottles.

He half-expects to find a bag of weed somewhere under the sink. Keeps his nose out for the stink of it.

The client’s perpetual smile makes him seem the type.

He half-expects protests, the defensiveness of a dealer.

The stillness and the slight creeping sensation down his spine makes him crane his head back to find said client instead matter-of-fairly checking out his ass.

Baze snorts.

Well. That’s this city for you.

Nobody has much to look at in steel-toed work boots and tan coveralls. And Baze has even less to look at these days. He’d once been a trim man. Now he’s just a sad forty-year-old nearsighted divorcee checking the nuts of an S-pipe as a favor to a brilliant young architect who’d found him at random by looking up welders in the phone book.

Jyn Erso is twenty-two, driven, and all business. Something more than a client. A grudging friend. He’d done all-night work with her in near-silence together for her grad display. You don’t pull rush jobs like that for just anyone.

They meet once a week for drinks. They aren’t what he’d think of as particularly close friends because Jyn has a guardedness to her that tells you it isn’t a date, and if you try anything she’d crack your nose and leave you in the hospital. Not that Baze would try anything. But there is something particularly depressing about meeting up with an attractive and intelligent young woman who talks shop, having a nice evening, and then going home alone to your own unfinished house.

When Jyn had said her best friend needed to have his house looked at for renovations, Baze had had the sinking feeling that that was it, that he was being couched into approving of some future boyfriend, herded headlong into some sort of fatherly role.

He did not expect Chirrut Îmwe, answering the door before he could knock.

“You’re the inside man?“

Baze had blinked.

“Something like that.”

“Chirrut. Chirrut Îmwe.”

His handshake had been firm, vigorous, his hands as calloused as Baze’s.

“You’re…Blaze Malbus?”

“Baze,” Baze corrected with the long patience of a lifetime with an unusual name.

He’d kept clean-shaven and his hair close-cropped for years to try to cut down on the drug dealer jokes. He’d been a child during the Haight-Ashbury days, and still had never taken a hit. Straight A student. Good future.

Then his father had died when he was seventeen, and someone needed to bring in money for the house.

He knows all about how being good at something doesn’t cancel out bad luck, how the unexpected normally goes hand-in-hand with ‘unpleasant’.

In fact, Chirrut is unexpected in a lot of ways.

Trim black turtleneck. Woven bag. Loose pants and sandals. A red wrap around his waist that’s got an interesting and subtle woven texture to it. Clean-shaven. Close-haired. Chinese, like him, which had been another surprise. And definitely older than fresh-faced Jyn, though he has the peculiar agelessness to him that comes with a heavy fitness lifestyle. Probably another fucking righteous vegan, Baze thinks.

He thinks again of his dream, the details all blurred together, just a lingering sense of unease, of loss. Something that makes him want to wipe his fingernails on his coverall and expect to be talked down to by another idiot who doesn’t know which way a screw turns but makes more money than him and believes that’s because he’s lazy. Unintelligent.

The bad dream seems to be leaking into his sense of the man. He’s seen plenty of people like Chirrut. Has been checked out by far more intimidating-looking ones.

Baze wonders with a snort if he’s being set up, if Jyn has made some assumptions. Unlikely. Jyn usually keeps her head down when it comes to the affairs of others.

“I’m not that kind of plumber,” Baze says, too tired to keep any real heat in his voice.

Chirrut gives a bark of laughter that’s completely unselfconscious, a smile that’s much too even not to have been set that way as a child, with plenty of complicated orthodonture. Money, Baze thinks a little bitterly. Something he doesn’t have much of even before the ex-wife remarried, stopped demanding alimony in advance, and filed a totally unnecessary restraining order.

“Aah, well, you never know,” Chirrut breezes.

He is so blithe even Baze has to snort.

“Try turning the water on,” Baze mutters.

Chirrut steps over to the sink and Baze listens to the pipes, squints with his little penlight tucked behind his ear, the red beads of the chain clinking on pipe.

“Pour a glass for me. I want to check the clarity. Something transparent.”

Chirrut shuffles slightly above him.

“Don’t worry. There’s beer in the refrigerator if you get thirsty.”

“Beer,” Baze repeats.

Chirrut gives a noncommittal noise.

The only thing that’s thirsty here is you, Baze thinks a little uncharitably, making his way gingerly out from under the sink and unbending slowly, and with a wince.

“You don’t seem the type.”

Chirrut’s face shifts into comic dismay.

“My feelings are grievously injured and I rescind the offer of my specialty homebrew. You can drink out of the sink.”

Baze laughs, despite himself.

“That your business?”

“A hobby.”

Something odd has passed into the man’s face, the smile sagging at the corners.

Baze doesn’t ask.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Jyn befriended a microbrewer.

“It was once women’s work, you know, the making of beer,” Chirrut calls.

His voice is a little too loud and bright in the low space.

Baze considers this tidbit, and how he’s probably supposed to react to it. What might be hinted and what might not be.

“Don’t tell that to Jyn,” he decides on.

Chirrut rips out another laugh, this one with a wicked edge.

He has a great laugh, Baze thinks absently. He must have caused plenty of trouble in his time. This too doesn’t surprise him in terms of Jyn’s choice of friends.

Against his better instincts he finds himself oddly okay with being watched by this hovering fellow. Always asking questions about what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. It should be annoying. Somehow it isn’t, comforting to talk about tangible things with that lingering dream hanging over top of him. The sense of incoming, inevitable failure and loss.

Baze often dreams of failure.

“How did you meet?“ Chirrut asks out of the blue, after hip-checking a table by accident.

Clumsy, Baze notes. Like anything that isn’t directly in front of him isn’t there.

"Hm?”

“You and Jyn.”

Baze is surprised at the heavy, intent look on the other man’s face. Blinks as he realizes.

Oh.

“Phone book.” Baze grunts, “Under ‘Welders’.”

Nothing weird, he wants to add. Doesn’t, since he’s sure somehow that would make it worse.

…Is he actually going to be given the shovel talk by a Five-foot-Eight beatnik?

Baze doesn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Jyn is a very pretty girl, with a good head on her shoulders. Nice tits, too, if he’s completely honest. She could do a lot better than him for sure. He hopes, in a blaze of worry, that she knows it. Good God does he hope it.

He blinks.

The rising, tight tilt of the other man’s chin is very much like Jyn’s.

“You?” Baze asks, trying to keep the uneasy frown off his face.

“Destiny,” the other says.

Baze laughs before considering whether he’s supposed to. A dry noise.

“Really.”

The corners of Chirrut’s mouth go mercifully up. He leans back against the counter.

“I wandered into the grad installations by accident and she almost murdered me with a power sander.”

He makes it sound like the most casual and reasonable thing in the world. Baze swallows down another laugh.

“Get out.”

“That’s what she said,” Chirrut deadpans back, dislodging Baze’s laugh from his throat despite himself. Despite how utterly cheesy it is. Chirrut, he notices, turns his whole face like a cat when he peers at him. A flicker of surprise.

“…Have we met before?” Chirrut asks faintly, something uncertain in his features.

Baze snorts, shaking his head.

“Definitely not.“

Chirrut frowns but goes on with a shrug.

"Anyway, my Tai Chi was completely ruined, I offered her free self-defense lessons to compensate her for the fright, and we’ve gotten along famously ever since.”

Baze makes a listening noise.

The thought of anyone weaponizing Jyn Erso’s anger is completely terrifying. He’s half-convinced Jyn’s lambent rage is its own renewable energy source.

“You give her your beers?”

Chirrut gives him a look of practiced disdain his mother would have been impressed by.

“Forget I asked.” Baze mutters, shrugging.

“Have you met Galen Erso?”

Chirrut’s dark eyes are narrow, intent. Without the easy smile his whole face is narrow and long, proud-looking somehow. Something in the combination of lips and chin and brow.

Baze searches his memory for the name. Finds nothing with a slow shake of his head.

“Who?”

“The father,” Chirrut’s chin tilts up again, a slow fury in his dark eyes.

Baze frowns, guessing.

“…Alcoholic?”

“Mm,” Chirrut agrees, his chin set and stubborn like a little fist, “The quiet kind.”

Baze considers this more carefully, a slow frown settling. Next Thursday he’ll relocate them to a cafe, he thinks. Cut down on the girl’s intake. Someone has to take care of her.

“You try talking to her?”

Chirrut gives a sharp laugh again.

“Have you tried stopping Jyn from doing something before?”

Baze thinks. Chirrut’s already grinning, shaking his head, utterly fond.

“When Jyn Erso rebels, the whole world follows,” the man says.

Baze frowns. He’s starting to realize why a thirty-something-looking bohemian fitness freak of a man in a Bill Gates turtleneck is Jyn’s best friend.

“I have Thursdays,” Baze says stubbornly.

“Are you serious?” Chirrut laughs.

“Your day must be either Tuesday or Wednesday–”

“It’s Friday, actually,” Chirrut cuts him off, the laughter still in his eyes. He looks utterly unintimidated. Amused, even, arms folded across his stomach.

“Then if she matters to you–”

“Good God, you’re like an old woman,” Chirrut interrupts, laughing.

Baze’s fingers tighten. He’s a big man, and he knows it.

Chirrut is not, and still meets his look without an ounce of fear, a blasé arrogance. Baze notes suddenly the outline of his shoulders. The trimness of his waist, remembers he’d said self defense classes.

“Jyn’s an adult. She does her work and does it well. Life doesn’t end because of a bit of Black Porter on a Friday Night,” Chirrut says, shaking his head slightly.

Baze’s disapproval sits heavy in his belly, welling up in frustration. A great weight of words he can’t say to a stranger, a friend of a friend.

“I can see why you and Jyn are friends,” he settles for, leadening it with the full force of his disapproval.

Chirrut shrugs, a manic glitter in his eye.

“I like a straightman with me when I cause my trouble,” he pauses, inclines his head with a smile, “Or woman.”

Baze lets out a breath in disgust.

He bets it’s the same bar on Friday. He has half a mind to make the time to fish them both out. A growing protectiveness.

“Don’t drag Jyn down with you in whatever trouble you get into.”

Chirrut makes a rude noise, his dark brows knitting irritably, ”Yes, mother hen. Will that be all?”

It comes so sharply, so abruptly Baze just stands there for a moment, realizing how far he’s overstepped.

He almost wants to apologize. Feels the sting instead of the comparison. Dismissal.

Baze bits down his words.

“…I’ll send you an estimate.”

“Well, good. You stay right there and estimate,” Chirrut drawls, bumping the same table, catching the same vase, “while I get you a crate.”

Baze blinks.

“A…what?”

“You need a drink!” Chirrut hollers down the hall, “You need about five drinks!”

“I don’t need anything!” Baze yells back.

He winces at the sound of his own voice.

Chirrut Îmwe has apparently gone selectively deaf.

“I don’t accept drinks from strange men,” Baze mutters, a little hot around the ears when he realizes the other man is indeed bringing up a loose crate filled with dark bottles.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a painfully ordinary man cursed with spectacular beauty,” Chirrut replies back, making a face, “and not at all strange.”

Baze doesn’t laugh. Can’t. Caught by a strange sense of panic.

Chirrut taps a finger against the little barrel, something challenging in his dark eyes.

“Stardust Ale. Last year’s vintage. It’ll give you something to talk about with my friend.”

“I…can’t accept this,” Baze says quietly.

Chirrut is waving him off with a noise of irritation, shoving the thing into his hands.

“Go on. Get lost. Make your estimates. Come back when this,” he taps the crate, “is gone. Get drunk with some friends. This is my number,” he’s scrawling something large and loose on the side of the wood.

Baze gives him one last, exasperated look as he does so, as he’s manhandled to the door by prodding and pushing hands.

“And wear something different next time,” Chirrut adds, calling after him down the steps to the tilted street, “You look like a Ghostbuster!“

#skuun does memes #spiritassassin #spiritassassin AU #long post #I liked how this turned out but I write out of order so you know....#tw: alcohol #sorry. Galen is a quiet drunk with a weird home situation I promise #I'm sorry to make him sound like that #I swear Chirrut is just hella judgmental about some things #also I know nothing about beer brewing #And very little about San Francisco.#I know it's sourdough country. can you even beer there?

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