neverjoinyou | lastvoyages IC Inbox

[ Wedge thought the emotional distance he'd put between himself and others would keep him safe. Had kept him safe, since his parents. Since her and the Empire.

Until Luke Skywalker.

Affable mynock was right. With laser-guided precision, Luke chipped away at Wedge's defenses, and Wedge was powerless to stop him, couldn't stop him—it'd kriff up their cohesion as wing mates. Couldn't help forming some measure of closeness with someone meant to keep you alive.

See you at the rendezvous! For months, those words haunted Wedge. The last thing he'd said to Luke. What-ifs and how-comes, a cacophony of endless regrets.

So many regrets. ] I—I'm tired, Luke. [ Consciousness loosens. His body starts to fade. There's warmth, solidity, wrapped around his frame. Wedge settles into it. Closes his eyes. ] I—I'm just s—so fragging tired. [ Falls asleep. ]

[Evidence of a pattern, mounting. But Luke can't mind. He made choices, and they'd hurt others. Even if they hadn't been wrong, he'd failed to take into account all the factors, all the feelings.

He's not used to having anyone to leave behind to care. It's always him who gets left.

But Wedge is sinking into his touch, and so Luke makes himself as comfortable as possible. Maybe Wedge can feel the aura of love Luke's unconsciously projecting, maybe not. But he'll stay--and, eventually, fall asleep himself.]

[ It's an hour or two later when Sinjir eventually walks in, expecting, perhaps, to see Wedge -- given that Wedge has hardly left, doesn't the man have his own cabin, honestly. (What Sinjir won't say: that he's not particularly eager to face his life alone right now, either.)

What he isn't expecting is a small pile of X-wing pilots.

Yes, two constitutes a pile.

He rolls his eyes heavenward. If they'd been awake, he'd've turned right around and left again. This must be the aftermath of some deeply emotional confessions, exhausting and painful. Sounds unpleasant.

He strongly considers drawing on their faces, or waking them up with a splash of water, but, in the end, he sighs and leaves them alone. Something about it... Maybe it's best that he doesn't interfere.

Unfortunately, this doesn't stop his droid, following on his heels, to stop, and let out a squeal. The little MSE makes a beeline for Wedge's face, again, and Sinjir yelps as she treads over his toes. ] Hey -- you little -- get back here! [ He manages to grab her and snag her, lifting her into the air. Her wheels spin furiously, as she beeps about recurrent mess and large! and possible fungal growth.

This makes a lot of noise. ]

[ Wedge dreams that he is loved. It is all-encompassing. It is healing, Luke-shaped, Luke-scented. With a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, Wedge nuzzles Luke's arm, burrowing closer into their embrace.

Nothing good lasts long enough.

Klaxons, that's what cuts through Wedge's dream. He bolts awake, bursting out of Luke's arms then into the habitual pattern of flight suit, life vest, life box, boots, gloves, helmet, impressive in its speed—no more than a solid minute passes for Wedge to be in full uniform.

He presses his gloved palms against the visor of his helmet. ] Who... [ Thinly-veiled annoyance, voice croaky with sleep. ] What... [ The damned mouse droid, Noodle, the bane of Wedge's existence in this room. ] Fungal growth, it's facial hair, I know I have to shave! [ This is an ongoing argument—one that Wedge keeps losing. ] Who's a 'sad little Corellian man'!? [ Yes, he knows it's been over a week, yes, he knows he qualifies as 'detritus' in the droid's programming, but no, he doesn't want to leave the cloud's embrace that is the memory foam. ] Let me sleep!

Edited 2017-01-11 05:39 (UTC)

Luke awakens with a start, reaching for his lightsaber though he doesn't click it on. His left arm is asleep, tingling as he half-rises from the bed.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, not in Sinjir's bed, not holding his wingmate. But the nice thing about his enhanced reflexes is that they come with a bunch of cues about what's going on that he receives quickly. He looks from Sinjir to Wedge to Noodle, the droid protesting the iterruption of its duties.

And all of a sudden, it's the funniest thing he's seen in months, and he's laughing, lightsaber falling back to the mattress and sinking back onto his heels as the absurdity of it all washes over him.

Sinjir finishes fumbling with the droid, and yanks out the power supply, which causes all her appendages to droop suddenly, going dark. He manages to set her down without breaking anything -- he always forgets how heavy she is -- and he points an accusing finger at Wedge. "I told you it was funny!" he insists. "Look, he's laughing," indicating Luke.

If he's going to abruptly wake them up from sleep after what must have been an emotional moment... well, at least it's to the tune of a whole lot of (warranted) laughter.

Heat rises from the back of Wedge's neck to the top of his ears. Settles on his cheeks and, sufficiently mortified, Wedge makes the executive decision not to remove his helmet, to let the orange tint of his visor hide most of it.

Good natured ribbing, that's all it is. And it's the most lighthearted, wholesome thing that's happened to him in days—among friends, maybe even more than that, if the utter fondness he has for these two men leaving Wedge giddy, refreshed, speaks to something he isn't ready to quantify just yet.

So, Wedge too, laughs. The kind of chuckles incongruous to the no-nonsense, ready-to-do-or-die picture worth of a recruitment poster he's always painted in full uniform.

Edited 2017-01-13 22:43 (UTC)

Maybe it's that he's gotten used to waking up with Bull, but any alarm has long passed and Luke is grinning madly at Wedge. After last night--or maybe it's still tonight--he's overjoyed to see his friend laughing.

After a moment, he gets up so he can clasp Wedge's shoulder, and turns to Sinjir. "Good thing you got a bigger room," he says by way of almost apology, not ready yet to specify the bed's advantages.

"You're blushing," Sinjir accuses, "I can tell. Don't think that visor hides anything."

He ambles over to the cabinet, and retrieves a bottle of -- what else? -- alcohol. Splashes a little into a glass for himself, and leaves the bottle and two spare glasses out on the table so that they can get it if they want it.

"Yes, so that I could catch the two of you snuggling?" asks Sinjir, airily. "I can tell you, that's just been my fondest dream, for ever so long." He rummages in a drawer, one-handed, and snags a device. Steps over, and pokes it into Wedge's collarbone. It's an electric razor. "That droid has three chained half-functional motivators, a mess of chips that I found in a junkyard, and no less than thirty-one purely mechanical modifications. Her programming is terrible. I'm not fixing it. Go remove your fungal growth."

There's an implication to Sinjir's comment, a lilt that, beneath the habitual sarcasm, edges into suggestive. Low in Wedge's belly, possessiveness blooms, a sharp stab to his guts, gritted teeth for a second too long—Sinjir is too good at reading emotions, nor has Wedge ever been difficult to read.

Leaving the helmet on really was a stupid idea.

Luke's grip on his shoulder brings him back to land. Anchors him, even; Wedge leans into the touch.

"Give me credit for trying," he says after the fact, having just caught up with the actual conversation at hand. If Sinjir has an electric razor, does that mean his scruffy look is maintained? It strikes Wedge as rather vain, even for someone of Sinjir's caliber, who's more than aware of his striking looks, and has no problems using them against others. "Alright, I got the holo."

Wedge leaves the room, supposedly to shave.

"Thank the stars," Luke mutters, taking the suggestion to go over and get himself a drink, because Sinjir is a bad influence and living with someone who works in a bar isn't helping, either. After a moment, he turns back to the man left in the room, whose room it is.

"We weren't--" he begins, then shakes his head. "Never mind. It's none of my business, I just came because Wedge asked, we worked out some things... I hope." He takes a drink, swallows. It's the sort of swallow that hurts, like he's gulped some air as well. "I didn't mean to..." He waves his free hand vaguely, at a loss. "Intrude."

His scruffy look is meticulously maintained. The boundaries of his beard are set; the hairs never exceed a certain length. And it never spreads down on his throat.

He mostly uses it to trim.

...yes, he is vain.

He gestures Wedge towards the little half-refresher, which should suffice for a brief shave, at the very least.

"You didn't," says Sinjir, to Luke, after Wedge disappears. "I did, actually. I assume the two of you had some sort of deep emotional moment, made some heartfelt confessions, hugged it out, cried it out, and promptly fell unconscious from the shock of acting like adults about it."

He's arch, but it's not unkind. In fact, he feels grateful to Luke.

He lets out a breath. "Come here," he says, and he tugs Luke's arm, pulls him closer, kisses him on the temple. One brief brush of lips. "Thank you," he says. "He's had his heart broken. I think he needs this." Quiet.

Luke's confused by the gesture, but he goes willingly, looking up at Sinjir seriously as he pulls back. He's not sure where to start--with Wedge's broken heart, or Sinjir actually caring.

"He thought I was dead, once," he says, equally soft. "I never got the chance to apologize for that." His brow furrows. "What do you mean, he had his heart broken?"

"Uhmmmmm." Sinjir dithers over the word. He knows the whole story -- honestly, probably more than either Wedge or Norra knows, because neither of them is a particularly insightful person. Not about other people, anyway. Sinjir didn't need to be in on any discussions to know the state of feelings or lack thereof.

He sighs. "There was a woman," he says. "Norra Wexley, actually, figures that you would know her, or know of her. She had a husband, disappeared a long time ago, very tragic. She and Wedge start moving agonizingly slowly towards some kind of flirtation. And then, there you have it, suddenly her husband is found, was in an Imperial mind-prison this whole time, look at that, she can't abandon him now, except that a few months later it turns out he was brainwashed to assassinate Mon Mothma. So now he's vanished again." He pauses, considering if he's left anything out. "Yeah, that's about how it went."

Luke raises an eyebrow. Wedge and Wexley? Huh. Well. That's interesting.

The rest of the story veers away from interesting into just sad, and Luke frowns, still standing quite close to Sinjir and keeping all his senses on alert for Wedge's return--and, frankly, mood.

"Poor Wedge," he breaths, shaking his head. "Poor Norra. I thought I was bad at this."

"Wasn't anyone's fault." Except maybe for the Empire, thinks Sinjir, quietly, privately. It was definitely the Empire's fault. "The two of them were just caught in circumstances."

But Wedge has been more deeply affected by it than Sinjir thought he would be. Norra and Wedge had barely gotten started -- Wedge's disappointment is steep, and painful.

"He deserves something good," Luke says softly, eyes following Wedge, unseen. But he cuts them back to Sinjir. "But you know that."

The top of Wedge's ears throb with heat. They're talking about him, Wedge's sure of it, but Sinjir's electric razor is unfamiliar, the white noise coming from its motor too distracting to separate from the voices outside the 'fresher. Wedge gives up and, instead, focuses on about a week's worth of fur.

He comes out looking a decade younger. "I think your droid shredded one of your towels," he says to Sinjir, stretching out the damaged cloth for everyone to see; the tears look very much like a rotating blade chewed them up.

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