Chapter Text
It begins with a small boy named Bodhi Rook.
He has crudely stitched patches on his jeans, and an over-sized sweater that hangs over his small frame. He dons sneakers that look worn out, and under a mop of shaggy dark hair are a pair of brown eyes looking straight up at Baze Malbus with a glint of pronounced fear.
Baze’s heart sinks upon looking at the kid, because Jesus, he looks like he’s five or six, and it’s the middle of December, 10 PM Eastern Time, and it’s below freezing, and there’s frozen tear tracks on his face and Jesus...
Baze lets out a half- whispered swear.
“You’re a firefighter, aren’t you?” The boy asks, and despite the quiet decibel of his tone, it seems to carry in the parking lot as Baze crouches down to get at eye-level with the kid.
“Yeah I am.” Baze confirms, taking off his coat and slinging it gently over the boy’s shoulders. He can feel the child shake. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s too cold out here for you.” Offering the boy a hand, he leads Bodhi to the fire station, the boy gripping tightly onto his fingers and sticking close to his side, like the child’s afraid to be taken away.
“Malbus, did you forget…” A firefighter at the front desk currently sorting through paperwork falters mid-speech when his eyes land on little Bodhi, peering from behind Baze’s leg. “Oh…”
“Caldwell, if you could, can you please get a water bottle warmed up?” Baze asks (commands) gruffly as he gently pushes Bodhi forward in the direction towards a group of armchairs. He allows a (rare) encouraging smile when the boy looks back at him with uncertainty.
“I’ll be right on it,” Caldwell says, standing up immediately from behind his stack of papers and disappears behind a wall. Under the bright fluorescent lights, Baze looks over at the kid and studies him hard as he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
The boy in the meantime fiddles nervously with a piece of paper that’s been crumpled in his hand…
Lifting the phone to his ear, Baze waits patiently for the receiver to pick up.
“Baze?” A man on the other end of the phone sleepily asks.
“Chirrut,” He replies briskly. “I’ll be coming home late tonight.”
“Paperwork?” a yawn.
“No…” He pauses, and when he looks up, the boy is watching him with concerned eyes, head tilted slightly to the side, the piece of paper in his hand curling at the edges… he’s curious…and worried…
“Baze?” Chirrut’s tone this time is soft and attentive. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Code Juvenile 6-12,” is all Baze could mechanically sigh into the phone before dragging a hand down his face. How many times over the years he’s had to call in law enforcement because of a child or infant dropped at the station’s doorstep, he has honestly lost count…
“Code—what?” Chirrut asks, momentarily confused (in his defense, he’s just woken up, thank you!) and Baze lets a fond smile spread on his face (it’s a tired, tiny thing), but he can picture his husband now, sitting upright in bed with a furrow between his brows. “Juvenile…that has something to do with a kid, yes?” Chirrut thinks out loud for a moment.
“Yeah,” Baze falters when his co-worker reappears with a mug in hand, making his way towards the boy. As Baze watches from his spot across the small room, Chirrut fills in the pause.
“Abandoned child?” He asks softly, because what else could it be?
“Yeah. Hey listen, I’ve got to sort this out. Incident filing… and stuff. I’ll see you later tonight, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair and watches as the little boy exchanges with Caldwell his slip of paper for the steaming mug of what Baze believes is hot chocolate.
“Okay… I love you.” Chirrut gently says. It’s not their thing to say ‘I love you’ — hell, they don’t do it often, and so when Baze can only make a ‘m-hmm’ sound, Chirrut lets out a huff of laughter before hanging up.
Pocketing his phone, Baze moves to where Caldwell is talking to the boy; making small talk like “what grade are you in?” and “where do you live?” and “where is your mom?”
“Hey kiddo,” Baze kneels in front of Bodhi, the child still clutching onto Baze’s coat like it’s a lifeline. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Bodhi.” He says, and at first the boy doesn’t meet Baze’s gaze, opting to focus his attention on the insignia printed on Baze’s shirt that reads NYC FIRE DEPARTMENT, but then he lifts his face, and Baze can see a little fire in the boy’s eyes… a little boldness. “My name is Bodhi Rook.” And he says it like his surname is important, like he’s squeezing out the little pride he has, and Baze… Baze can’t help but feel drawn to the kid.
“And how old are you Bodhi?”
“Five years old, sir.”
Sir. The word tugs slightly at Baze’s lips.
“You have good manners Mr. Rook.”
“Mama said that manners go a long way.” Bodhi quietly replied, and God, that kills him.
Caldwell clears his throat.
“You should read this,” The man hands Baze the wrinkled piece of paper that Bodhi had been holding onto.
To whomever this reaches,
I’m afraid I cannot bring myself to raise my son anymore. As a mother who loves him dearly, it hurts me to part with my child, but I understand his needs and well-being must come first. It is to my understanding that the fire department can take in infants if need be. The shelters are full. The foster homes are too long of a walk away in this weather. Please, my son has no other family to go to. I only wish him to be in a happy home, where he will be loved and cherished.
And to my son, my sweet boy—know that your mother loves you so much and I hope you understand. Mommy loves you so much…
“Just in time for the holidays, huh?” Caldwell remarks wryly as Baze folds the paper and offers it to Bodhi, who looks at him with hesitation before slowly taking back his mother’s letter, and slipping it into one of the pockets of his jeans.
“Just in time for the holidays,” is all Baze can echo back before he stands up, Caldwell raising from his seat as well. “She left no name.”
“We can only run his name through the system; her name will pop up.”
“So what now?” Baze asks, and Caldwell shoots him a knowing look. A look that says, you perfectly know the routine by now, but you’re starting to like this kid, and you’re stalling.
“I’ll fill out the papers if you’ll call the P.D.? Or the foster care system to pick him up, either or…” Baze looks down at the kid, and Bodhi sits, swinging his dangling legs that are still too short to touch the floor, and he’s staring at his lap, waiting for the adults to tell him his fate.
“I’ll call the nearest foster home.”
Later, when the social worker grabs Bodhi by the hand to lead him away, the little boy looks back at Baze with his brown eyes that look a little lost and Baze can’t help but feel that this is all wrong.
“You’re thinking too hard. Spill the beans.” It’s a blunt statement coming from Chirrut when Baze finally slips into bed later that night.
“And how could you possibly know that?”
“Stiff muscles.” Chirrut jabs at his shoulder. “You’re not relaxed. You’re as rigid as a board.” Another gentle poke.
“What do you think about kids?” Is what Baze awkwardly asks once his husband finishes poking him. Chirrut, who had initially settled for resting his head over his husband’s heart, propped himself up, and Baze doesn’t even need to look over to see that the other man’s expression is of puzzled amusement.
“They’re fine I suppose. I won’t complain having them, and I would definitely be the Cool Dad, with a capital ‘C’ and ‘D’...”
“I’m serious, Chirrut.” Baze groans, but then the fool beside him giggles. “Don’t.” He warned, lifting a finger and poking Chirrut’s bare shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”
“Hi Serious, I’m Dad.” And while Baze tugs his pillow from underneath his head to whimper into it, Chirrut belts out in shameless laughter before prying the pillow away from Baze’s face. “But I mean it,” Chirrut says, lowering his head, just an inch from his husband’s. “I wouldn’t mind being a dad at all. We’ll be…” He kisses Baze’s forehead. “…the best fathers…” He kisses Baze’s nose. “…to have ever fathered kids.” He kisses Baze on the lips. “Now tell me about them.”
“Them?” Baze breaths, and Chirrut dramatically sighs, laying down with a fond smile on his face.
“Yes dear, them. The child at the station—tell me about them. I know they’re the ones you want to adopt. We wouldn’t be talking about this if you weren’t drawn to them in some way.”
“Well,” Baze begins, rolling onto his side so that they’re both face to face. “For starters, his name is Bodhi Rook, and he’s five years old with a sick mother who can’t take care of him anymore.” He pauses, and Chirrut reaches for his face.
“Go on,” Chirrut encourages gently.
“She’s currently checked in at the hospital; has been checked in since last night… they’ve been bouncing around friends’ houses—according to the last friend we had contacted, the mother’s been financially unstable because of her medical bills…and he’s just so small, Chirrut.” Baze rambles and pauses again, like the concept of a small human being is new to him. “But there’s a fire in him, I can tell. He’s quiet, but there’s a strength there… Foster care, they can break a kid, and I know not all of the families are bad, and some can be quite nice, but he’s still so young…”
He thinks of a little boy with patched up jeans and a baggy sweater, with brown eyes and fidgety hands; a boy raised on careful manners, just bouncing from one foster family to the next, holding onto a slip of paper with the words your mother loves you so much…
“And you just want to give him stability.” Chirrut whispers, tracing Baze’s face with his thumb. Baze nods.
“Well then, we ought to start decorating that unused room down the hall, yeah?”
Baze just kisses him.
They visit Bodhi on a Saturday. The little boy has his hair combed back and is wearing better fitting clothes that are in decent condition. When he first sees Baze, his eyes light up with recognition and a shy smile blossoms on his face.
On that day, they learn little Bodhi likes airplanes and one day he’ll be a pilot, so he can fly like a bird and feel free.
He likes space, fascinated by the endless stretch of stars and the unknown.
They learn his favorite color is blue, like the ocean, because they remind him of his mother, and how she used to take him to the beach, back when she was still healthy.
They learn that he loves to hear stories of all kinds, but his utmost favorites are stories from his mother—the Pakistani folklores—the stories told before bed…
Before the couple leaves, Bodhi tugs at their sleeves.
“Will you come back for me?” He asks, with a tone so uncertain it makes both men want to haul him out of the building and take him home. “I don’t think the other kids like me.” While the statement has Chirrut kneeling down to speak soft words of reassurance, Baze becomes intent on shooting warning glances towards a group of nearby boys wearing expressions of unmasked envy...
They visit Bodhi at the foster home as often as they can, bringing him checked out books from the library and spending countless hours with him. The shy smiles of hello and beginning hesitation melts away into eager conversations and bubbling innocent questions like “Are you ever scared of walking in fire?”
Bodhi Rook shines, and as the months pass it makes both men slightly irritated that the domestic adoption process can’t go any faster.
“Patience, Baze,” Chirrut has to tell his husband one night before bed, four months into waiting. They had just come back from visiting Bodhi and had taken him around New York for his sixth birthday. “We’ll have him soon enough.” Chirrut may be blind, but he’s known his husband for many years. He follows Baze’s movement—the agitated pacing back and forth. “You’re doing nothing but wearing the floors thin, my dear.” He calls out, before hearing a shift in movement, change in steps, and then finally feeling Baze slump right next to him.
“It would be easier if we could just break him out,” Baze grumbles, and Chirrut snorts before leaning into his husband.
“And I’m the impulsive one in this relationship?” He quips, before burying his face into the crook of Baze’s neck. “I beg to differ.”
It’s nearing December again when Baze and Chirrut finally get Bodhi as their foster child. It’s not a permanent adoption yet, not when the Termination of Parental Rights from the biological parent can take up to an average of two years before the actual adoption can take place, but Chirrut and Baze decide that the legal portion can go ahead and take its damn time. Bodhi is with them, and for now, that’s all that matters.
When they walk Bodhi to his room, they all hold hands with Bodhi in the middle, whose eyes are wide as he takes in the surroundings of his new home.
“Wanna see your room now?” Baze grins down at the child between him and Chirrut, and Bodhi nods eagerly, loose tendrils swinging from where they frame his face, and Jesus, this kid’s hair is getting long. When Chirrut opens the door to reveal Bodhi’s room, the boy’s mouth literally falls open and there’s an audible gasp. Chirrut leans against the doorway, smiling as Baze gently prods Bodhi forward.
The room’s walls are painted with a smoothe navy and the ceiling displays the galaxy—stars of ivory spotting across hues of black, blue, purple and green. The once wooden flooring had been ripped out, and instead a soft cream carpet sits in its place. A desk is positioned next to the window with curtains and blinds that are drawn, sunlight cascading into the room and spilling onto the nearby bed. There’s a shelf with some books already lined up, and a toy box and… Bodhi stops to look at the picture frames that sit on top of his dresser. There’s a photo with the three of them, taken from his sixth birthday a few months ago, and there’s another photo…
This one, Bodhi picks up, and the tears begin to gather in his eyes before he can stop them. It’s of a woman holding him close, and they’re kneeling behind a sandcastle, and they’re smiling, and there’s sunlight collected in their hair…
Bodhi looks up.
“You gave me a picture of my mom,” He croaks.
“She was important to you, Bodhi. She will always be your mother.” Chirrut simply states as approaches and gets down to eye level with the boy. With his hand, his thumb brushes away the tears that have begun to fall. “We won’t ever let you forget her.” Chirrut feels a move of muscle under the pads of his fingers and he knows the boy is smiling. There’s a tinge of sadness there, but there is happiness too, and he thinks both are just as important to respect. He then feels small arms wrap around him and a repeated whisper of “thank you.”
Baze is the next to be hugged, and when Bodhi lets go, Baze says,
“Your mother’s old photo album is in the left drawer if you ever want to look through it. She gave it to us when we visited her in the hospital, do you remember?” Baze gazes patiently as Bodhi nods and swipes at his nose with his sleeve, sniffling. “She said to give it you when you have finally come to our care. So it’s yours now, and this way she’ll always be with you in some way, but most importantly, never forget that she’s here.” Baze pats a spot in Bodhi’s chest, right where the boy’s heart beats and the child nods. The older man tucks a loose curl behind Bodhi’s hair. “We’ll be okay.”
The moment is ruined when Chirrut’s stomach growls, and it elicits a set of giggles from Bodhi, who turns to look at his other foster-father in amusement.
“My stomach’s not okay!” Chirrut pipes up, and Baze rolls his eyes.
“Want to help me make lunch then?” Baze asks his new son, who eagerly nods. “Good! I could use some help.” Smirking as he stands, he jabs his thumb in Chirrut’s direction. “That old man is banned from the kitchen—”
“I’m not old!”
“I let him boil some noodles once, and it caught on fire!” At this tad-bit of information, Bodhi’s eyes widen with surprise.
“It was one time,” Chirrut pouts, walking over with an exaggerated frown on his lips. Baze snorts.
“Yes, one time too many, and I have since told myself never again will I ever let you near the stove.”
“Target is sighted. Over.” Bodhi whispers into his toy walkie-talkie.
It’s been almost a year since he’s been with his adoptive fathers; now seven years old and in the second grade… and currently wedging himself in-between the spaces of barstools.
“Target status?” Chirrut’s voice is barely audible above the sound of the roaring stove fan set on high and oil popping.
“The cookies are currently on the table. Dad One is busy at the stove. Over.”
“Do you think you can get to the cookies without getting caught? Over.”
“I think so,” Bodhi bites his lips. “Over.” He hastily adds.
“Proceed with target extraction. Use caution.” Chirrut warns. “Don’t trigger any alarms. Over.”
“Roger that.”
Bodhi sets down his walkie-talkie and peers from around the breakfast bar where he’s tucked amidst barstool legs. Baze is swearing to himself, tending to the fish frying on the stove, paying no attention to the chocolate cookies nearby. Taking a deep breath, Bodhi begins to crawl.
Since he had moved in, Baze had established the rule that Bodhi’s not allowed to have sweets before dinner, but Bodhi helped make them, so he deserves to have one, right? Plus, Chirrut had said that one cookie before dinner never hurt anybody…
When he reaches the table, he takes a quick glance over his shoulder to see his Baze now preoccupied with putting vegetables in a separate pan. Popping up to his feet, he swipes a few cookies before…
“Bodhi!” Baze barks. Bodhi freezes at his spot, eyes wide, heart thumping and gosh-darn-it, he’s caught red-handed! Turning around, he sees his father, spatula in hand, looking over at him sternly.
Run? Drop cookies? Apologize? Hide? Eat them on the spot? The possibilities run through his head as they continue the stare down, father and son.
“Dad said dinner smells good.” Is all he can manage to blurt out before speeding off, a kick of adrenaline causing a bubble of giggles to erupt as he makes his escape upstairs, cookies in hand.
“Bodhi! BODHI, GET BACK HERE!” Baze calls after him, unable to chase after the boy, lest he wants the house to burn down. “Young man!” He then returns his attention to his task at hand, grumbling to himself about that unbelievable man-child being a bad influence.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Bodhi shares his acquired prize with Chirrut who praises him on a mission success and offers him a high five.
Baze is thankful for the one (but who’s he kidding, he really has two) children living in his house, who add color to his day-to-day life.
And then one day, Chirrut brings home a little girl named Jyn…