neverjoinyou | lastvoyages IC Inbox

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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