Written for the Rogue One kink meme.
Lugging all that heavy equipment around all day can’t be good for Baze’s poor back. Luckily his husband gives the best massages.
Basically any scenario (pre-Rogue One, everyone lives AU, doesn’t matter) where Baze gets pampered a bit because he’s old and tired and deserves love and comfort.
Set post-Scarif, as always sadder than planned, because hey it’s me.
Baze leans his blaster canon against the wall, then strips off the coolant tank with a tired sigh. The tank hits the stone floor with a loud thud that disturbs Chirrut who are meditating on the bed. Baze feels him studying him as he moves to the small portable stove they keep in their room and starts making tea. He trusts the rebel’s canteen with many things, but not with tea making.
“You don’t have to carry that thing around anymore you know?” Chirrut says.“Not while we’re on the base.”
“I know,” Baze replies.
And he does know. He knows that they are safe – as safe as anyone staying at an insurgent HQ in the middle of a civil war can be – that any threat to them that would require him to wield a weapon would be warned in ample time for him to fetch said weapon. Baze knows all of this, but twenty years of ingrained habit and the paranoia born of the harsh rules of survival are hard to shake. So he still carries his assault canon with him around on the base despite the stares it earns him and the fact that it makes his back and shoulder hurt like fire.
He’s not as young as he once was.