Baze has been back in Jedha a week before he sees him again.
Assassins don’t usually need that much time to locate a target they know, but he hasn’t been looking.
There was too much competition to be rid of first.
The target’s in some sort of fight and that’s no surprise.
What comes as a shock to him is how quickly he gets to his feet, makes his way through the crowded street and enters the fray.
There always seems to be fray whenever Chirrut’s around, a neverending supply of it.
Chirrut moves, Baze blasts, and soon they’re the only ones standing, back to back, like there were never light-years and angry words creating a distance between them, like Baze had never left in a cloud of bitterness and raw disappointment.
Slender calloused fingers wrap around his wrist and Chirrut has no right, but Baze melts into the touch anyway.
“My head’s worth a hundred thousand credits!” Chirrut announces, in place of a greeting.
“Not worth the effort by half,” Baze grumbles.
“I don’t know,” Chirrut says, shrugging, “How much would you value my head? Feedback’s been positive so far.”
Baze curses to hide a laugh. He’s missed this more than believing in something.