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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2w3m7ve:
He doesn’t hate Skywalker from the second they meet. That particular nasty rumor is Solo’s fault, and Wedge put it down to territorial posing more than anything else.
(For a man who adamantly insisted he wanted nothing to do with the Rebellion, Solo definitely spent a lot of time clinging to the Princess of Alderaan and the Hero of the Death Star. Since Wedge wasn’t interested in trying to break up a happy triad, he left well enough alone, hoping that Solo stop making Wedge’s relationship with Rogue Leader more complicated than it needed to be.)
No, Wedge has always extended to Skywalker the same professional respect he affords all the pilots. Maybe a touch of awe for the Death Star business. Wedge even thinks he’s sort of funny, the kid with a thousand impossible stories about his hellhole planet, a streak of bitter humor and a smile like a blaster shot. Skywalker’s reckless in the extreme, but he’s always first to take any risk. And he’s been much more careful since Wedge had that conversation with him, about how Rogue Leader using the Force to accomplish impossible, stupid maneuvers generally meant a fiery death for the rest of his squadron.
They have an understanding, and an easy camaraderie that Wedge appreciates.
Wedge is just…
It’s difficult, meeting someone and knowing—knowing—from the second you meet them, that they’re about to sideline you in your own life. That when people tell the story of the great and glorious things you did, you’re going to be a supporting actor. And Wedge doesn’t resent Skywalker for it; he made the shot, the impossible shot, and now there’s talk of him being a Jedi. If Wedge’s going to lose out to someone, it might as well be that guy.
(Still.)
Still, it would be easier if Skywalker would stop showing up at Wedge’s quarters at all hours, looking like a lost quarren puppy. It interferes with their amicable professionalism, Skywalker flopping down on Wedge’s bunk and shoving the fringe of his hair out of his eyes, talking about—something. It’s always something. He’s that strange sort of funny, even complaining, or (badly) imitating Solo, the Princess, Mothma, Akbar, and…
The first time, Wedge baldly stared at him until Luke guiltily sat up. “Do you want me to go?” he’d asked, picking at the hole in Wedge’s quilt that Wedge hadn’t thought anyone but him could find. The quilt was one of the things he’d brought with him from the Imperial Academy, a relic of Corellia he’d been allowed to keep because it meant he hadn’t needed an extra blanket issue. (The Empire was like that; economy over everything.)
“No,” Wedge had choked out, which surprised even him. “No, tell me what Commander Rosilev said.”
(Luke lets himself in, now.)
Solo doesn’t bristle the way he used to, not when Luke is the one who drags Wedge to where they’re sitting. It’s like sitting on the edge of a sunspot; hyper-aware that if he just edges forward, even a little, he’ll be enveloped in light he’s not entitled to. The urge to try it, to just dare a little, is heady. For a moment, it’s all Wedge can think about, moving closer to Luke so that their shoulders brush, or taking Luke’s hands as they move—he’s argung with the Princess, and all Wedge can think is taking his hands, trapping them, holding them.
A Jedi’s hands. The hands that grasped the yoke, and made the shot. The hands—
“You know them,” Solo mutters, an aside as Luke and the Princess argue about whatever it is they’re arguing about; impassioned and probably correct. “So I don’t have to apologize, right?”
“Oh, no,” Wedge says. He’s—warm. “No, I’m…good.”
Luke stands there, pacing as Wedge keys in the access code to his own rooms. Luke’s ranting about—something, above Wedge’s paygrade probably. (Not that they have paygrades in the Rebellion, and definitely not like they did in the Empire, but Wedge is an operations droid, a battleplan guy. So long as his squad comes home, as long as they didn’t kill to many civilians, it’s okay. He doesn’t question ethics and morality the way Skywalker does, especially not when a Yavinese beer or two or eight has made him relaxed, loose-limbed.)
“You know?” Skywalker says, his voice breaking with how godsdamned impassioned he is.
“Sure, Skywalker,” Wedge says, fumbling with his keys (he’s been fumbling, but they’re blunt instruments, they’re ineffectual, they don’t need them—)
Luke kisses first, of this Wedge is absolutely sure. Luke smiles at him, indulgent and amused, and then Luke is making a few long strides to cross the corridor, and then Luke is kissing him, and all this happens in less than 120 seconds. Wedge is tasting a Jedi’s mouth, and the Jedi is moaning like he’s never had anything better than the aftertaste of caf and stim, and maybe whatever Wedge had for lunch.
“Don’t humor me,” Luke says. His mouth tastes of Yavinese beer and warmth.
Wedge would tell him to fuck himself and the pathetic veneer of armor he’s built, except then Luke Skywalker might leave, and Wedge doesn’t want that. “I’m not,” Wedge says/breathes/murmurs, a thousand times. “I’m not.”
(Yes, oh, please, more, is all he says, afterwards.)
The next morning, the Princess eyes Wedge over breakfast. He pretends as though he can’t feel the lovebite burning exactly where his collar ends, and she pretends as though she doesn’t have a matching one somewhere he can’t see, but makes her squirm all the same.
He asks her to pass the dehydrated cream. She obliges. They drink their caf in silence.
He doesn’t hate Skywalker from the second they meet. That particular nasty rumor is Solo’s fault, and Wedge put it down to territorial posing more than anything else.
(For a man who adamantly insisted he wanted nothing to do with the Rebellion, Solo definitely spent a lot of time clinging to the Princess of Alderaan and the Hero of the Death Star. Since Wedge wasn’t interested in trying to break up a happy triad, he left well enough alone, hoping that Solo stop making Wedge’s relationship with Rogue Leader more complicated than it needed to be.)
No, Wedge has always extended to Skywalker the same professional respect he affords all the pilots. Maybe a touch of awe for the Death Star business. Wedge even thinks he’s sort of funny, the kid with a thousand impossible stories about his hellhole planet, a streak of bitter humor and a smile like a blaster shot. Skywalker’s reckless in the extreme, but he’s always first to take any risk. And he’s been much more careful since Wedge had that conversation with him, about how Rogue Leader using the Force to accomplish impossible, stupid maneuvers generally meant a fiery death for the rest of his squadron.
They have an understanding, and an easy camaraderie that Wedge appreciates.
Wedge is just…
It’s difficult, meeting someone and knowing—knowing—from the second you meet them, that they’re about to sideline you in your own life. That when people tell the story of the great and glorious things you did, you’re going to be a supporting actor. And Wedge doesn’t resent Skywalker for it; he made the shot, the impossible shot, and now there’s talk of him being a Jedi. If Wedge’s going to lose out to someone, it might as well be that guy.
(Still.)
Still, it would be easier if Skywalker would stop showing up at Wedge’s quarters at all hours, looking like a lost quarren puppy. It interferes with their amicable professionalism, Skywalker flopping down on Wedge’s bunk and shoving the fringe of his hair out of his eyes, talking about—something. It’s always something. He’s that strange sort of funny, even complaining, or (badly) imitating Solo, the Princess, Mothma, Akbar, and…
The first time, Wedge baldly stared at him until Luke guiltily sat up. “Do you want me to go?” he’d asked, picking at the hole in Wedge’s quilt that Wedge hadn’t thought anyone but him could find. The quilt was one of the things he’d brought with him from the Imperial Academy, a relic of Corellia he’d been allowed to keep because it meant he hadn’t needed an extra blanket issue. (The Empire was like that; economy over everything.)
“No,” Wedge had choked out, which surprised even him. “No, tell me what Commander Rosilev said.”
(Luke lets himself in, now.)
Solo doesn’t bristle the way he used to, not when Luke is the one who drags Wedge to where they’re sitting. It’s like sitting on the edge of a sunspot; hyper-aware that if he just edges forward, even a little, he’ll be enveloped in light he’s not entitled to. The urge to try it, to just dare a little, is heady. For a moment, it’s all Wedge can think about, moving closer to Luke so that their shoulders brush, or taking Luke’s hands as they move—he’s argung with the Princess, and all Wedge can think is taking his hands, trapping them, holding them.
A Jedi’s hands. The hands that grasped the yoke, and made the shot. The hands—
“You know them,” Solo mutters, an aside as Luke and the Princess argue about whatever it is they’re arguing about; impassioned and probably correct. “So I don’t have to apologize, right?”
“Oh, no,” Wedge says. He’s—warm. “No, I’m…good.”
Luke stands there, pacing as Wedge keys in the access code to his own rooms. Luke’s ranting about—something, above Wedge’s paygrade probably. (Not that they have paygrades in the Rebellion, and definitely not like they did in the Empire, but Wedge is an operations droid, a battleplan guy. So long as his squad comes home, as long as they didn’t kill to many civilians, it’s okay. He doesn’t question ethics and morality the way Skywalker does, especially not when a Yavinese beer or two or eight has made him relaxed, loose-limbed.)
“You know?” Skywalker says, his voice breaking with how godsdamned impassioned he is.
“Sure, Skywalker,” Wedge says, fumbling with his keys (he’s been fumbling, but they’re blunt instruments, they’re ineffectual, they don’t need them—)
Luke kisses first, of this Wedge is absolutely sure. Luke smiles at him, indulgent and amused, and then Luke is making a few long strides to cross the corridor, and then Luke is kissing him, and all this happens in less than 120 seconds. Wedge is tasting a Jedi’s mouth, and the Jedi is moaning like he’s never had anything better than the aftertaste of caf and stim, and maybe whatever Wedge had for lunch.
“Don’t humor me,” Luke says. His mouth tastes of Yavinese beer and warmth.
Wedge would tell him to fuck himself and the pathetic veneer of armor he’s built, except then Luke Skywalker might leave, and Wedge doesn’t want that. “I’m not,” Wedge says/breathes/murmurs, a thousand times. “I’m not.”
(Yes, oh, please, more, is all he says, afterwards.)
The next morning, the Princess eyes Wedge over breakfast. He pretends as though he can’t feel the lovebite burning exactly where his collar ends, and she pretends as though she doesn’t have a matching one somewhere he can’t see, but makes her squirm all the same.
He asks her to pass the dehydrated cream. She obliges. They drink their caf in silence.
