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“Good luck, little sister.”
Baze sees Chirrut clasp Jyn’s hand before she leaves the shuttle. She smiles back, a small, hopeful thing, and it aches in Baze’s chest to see it. For all his outward gruffness, he’s worried about them—Jyn, Cassian, Bodhi, every Rebel soldier brave enough to be in this shuttle—he knows their chances are slim at best.
Baze always worries. All is as the Force wills it, Chirrut chides him, but Baze always grunts and retorts that he does not always entirely appreciate what it is that the Force wills.
They stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the shuttle, waiting for the all-clear. Nervous energy ripples through the soldiers, their fear and determination palpable as they each set their jaws, fingers white-knuckled on their blasters, ready for whatever comes.
Suddenly Chirrut’s hand is in his, their fingers laced together. He doesn’t turn toward Baze, unseeing eyes instead fixed straight ahead to the beach. Baze’s eyebrows lift and he turns to look askance at Chirrut, who silences him with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. He squeezes Baze’s hand tightly enough to be painful.
The realization of what Chirrut is trying to say knocks the wind out of Baze: this is goodbye.
And if Chirrut is saying goodbye, the Force has shown him this is the end for them. They won’t leave Scarif. Their time is up.
They’d had so much time, though. It wasn’t enough, would never have been enough—a thousand lifetimes together would not have been enough. Baze knows that’s selfish, as he stands surrounded by men and women who aren’t likely to survive today, either. They’d had their years together, and it was more than any of those they died with today would ever see.
Baze thought of Bodhi. His face wasn’t unfamiliar; Baze could swear he’d seen the same brave, terrified eyes in a child on Jedha long ago. Bodhi, just a cargo pilot who listened to his heart, who had perhaps been the bravest of them all. He’d stood up to the Empire, and none of them would have anything to fight for today if he hadn’t. Bodhi was still shaking when they left him on the shuttle, but his eyes were fixed steady, and Baze didn’t doubt him. Bodhi hadn’t faltered yet, and Baze knew he wouldn’t now.
He deserved to rest, Baze thought, anger flaring in his chest against the Force. Bodhi deserved to rest and to be loved, and know he had done well.
The Force was not in the habit of giving people what they deserved.
He thought of Jyn, a shining spark of a girl. She, who had seen so much death, yet still pulled herself up and spat in its face. She had begun to hope, which warmed Baze’s heart, a little, but he feared the same hope that led her to Scarif would be her undoing.
He thought of Cassian, too—this man who fought with the reckless bravery of someone with nothing left to lose, who carried his grief around him like a shield everywhere he went. Cassian pushed through, did whatever was necessary to further the cause he’d had no choice but to devote his life to. For all the pain and the bravado he carried, though, Baze thought his heart was softer than even Cassian realized. Baze had seen the way he looked at Jyn; saw something he knew could have been the beginnings of love, someday. He well remembered looking at Chirrut like that, with the same wide-eyed wonder, when they had first met so long ago.
Children, he thought. They are all still children. They deserved time to discover who they were, away from fighting, away from death, outside of fear. Baze had foolishly dared to hope they would all make it off Scarif and have half a chance, and that he and Chirrut could make a new home together. But he shook the thought away and looked again at Chirrut’s steadfast face. If the Force told Chirrut they weren’t going home, there was no arguing.
The Force was not in the habit of giving people what they deserved.
Baze permitted himself some reminiscence, his mind wandering back through the years he and Chirrut had gotten to spend together. He thought back to the day they’d met—Chirrut had challenged him to a sparring match, his clouded eyes sparkling in that particular way Baze didn’t yet know meant he was about to kick someone’s ass. Baze had been knocked flat on his ass in seconds, the wind knocked out of his chest, and Chirrut had leaned over him, smiling like the sun, to offer his hand.
The years they’d spent apart hurt more to think about. It had been Baze’s stubbornness that parted them, led him to hide away in a faraway corner of the galaxy. But it had been Chirrut’s unflagging devotion that drew them back together. Baze had woken one morning knowing deep in his chest that it was time to go home, gathered his things, and headed back to Jedha. Chirrut had been there, in the doorway, when he rounded the corner of the worn street he knew every inch of from memory. Baze could still feel that embrace—of the many times they had spent in each other’s arms, it would always stand out in his memory.
As he knelt on the beach and held Chirrut for the last time, he thought of that embrace again.
The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force, he breathed like a prayer, meant like a oath. He’d be damned if he would lose Chirrut, this time. He stood, fearing nothing else, feeling Chirrut inexplicably beside him as he made his last stand.
And as he fell, he looked back at Chirrut and silently prayed that he was waiting for him. He thought of the others—Bodhi, Jyn, Cassian—and wondered how far they had made it. He hoped that the Force had been merciful to them.
Baze had many regrets, but he wouldn’t have traded his years with Chirrut for the galaxy. The years they spent growing up together, learning who they were as they learned every inch of each other; countless nights spent reading aloud to Chirrut from his most cherished manuscripts after he lost his sight, and mornings waking up to Chirrut memorizing Baze’s face with gentle fingers; the home they’d built together, even after everything fell apart; all of it was worth even this end.
The Force was not in the habit of giving people what they deserved.
Sometimes, it gave far more.