Archive of Our Own ^beta

They reach the rendezvous point. They fly to Home One. And the moment they land, Haya instantly starts screeching from her little compartment on their fighter, demanding to be let out. Which would be unideal from any daemon, but is particularly unideal from a Corellian banshee bird. Everyone within earshot is looking at their fighter with increasing levels of concern.

Ridiculous. One would think Wedge had forcibly confined her there from the way she carries on. “All right,” he hisses, to her and himself, and flips a switch to unlatch her hiding spot.

She bursts out immediately, her wingspan, so compact against her body, now spreading half a body length as she instantly begins to gain altitude. He knows instinctually that she’s searching for the highest vantage point with which to perch herself. She finds it in a strut affixed near the ceiling, eyes already pointed back towards the hangar entrance through which yet more fighters and shuttles seek shelter.

There are many things that Wedge doesn’t understand about his daemon. But he understands this. They need to know their friends are safe.

First, though, Wedge has to speak with someone about his fighter and log his arrival, which is harder said than done when Haya’s rapt focus keeps tugging his thoughts elsewhere. He asks the tech if there’s a list yet of those who’ve already arrived, and the woman just shrugs and says everything’s still in disarray.

Fine. But Wedge’s duty is done now, at least, so he can pace about the hangar and keep his mind with Haya’s. If her heart soars every time she sees a distant speck, then he always moves quickly to check their occupants once they land. Plenty of vaguely familiar faces and daemons, but no one he knows well.

Maybe there won’t be many in the end. The Rogues took such heavy losses on Hoth. Wes and Hobbie and Tycho he thought were all right, but the more he’s forced to wait here without any sight of them, the more he’s starting to doubt that.

And there’s one person above all others that Wedge knows Haya has eyes for, that has her perched and waiting against all distraction. It’s Luke she wants to see—Luke and that wild daemon of his called Amidala, who still hasn’t settled yet, and who might be a keedee or a Ralltiir tiger or even a miniature bantha depending upon her mood. Together, they have the entire Rebellion in their thrall and seem capable at almost anything.

So why hasn’t Wedge and his daemon seen nor heard anything of them since they’ve arrived?

Most daemons can’t stray as far away from their counterparts as his can. He gets a few odd looks from the others as he waits, their daemons blinking at him wide-eyed in near fear. He ignores them. Another tech comes up, a bit more chipper than the last, asking Wedge how he does it, how can he possibly bear the awful tugging sensation that must come from such a distance between him and his daemon, and Wedge just shrugs in response.

Eventually, the shuttles and fighters trickle down and then drip to a stop. And Wedge knows, with a certain dull finality, that no one else is coming.

If only Haya could be so decisive. Long after his realization, she still sits there perched up on the strut to watch the stars intently. Wedge glares at her, willing her to obey him for once. It’s not as if he can whistle at her like she’s a pet. If only she was a pet.

Finally, an eternity later, she spreads her wings to come back down and land on Wedge’s shoulder. “Luke and Ami,” she whispers breathlessly, her fear evident in her voice. “You didn’t see them anywhere?”

“No,” Wedge replies. He makes his tone reasonable and calm. Always his daemon is intent on making a bigger deal out of everything than it actually is, fraying at his emotions without care. He refuses to play along. “But you know that could mean anything. I was speaking with a tech, and she said they haven’t even made a list yet of who’s arrived because everything’s so busy.”

Haya, predictably, refuses to swallow this common sense. “I know that,” she says dismissively. “Just as I also know that Luke and Ami have a tendency to be reckless and play the hero when it suits them, regardless of the danger.”

“Luke’s survived worse than this,” he reminds her and himself. He’s walking quickly. He wants out of this wretched hangar.

“Luke,” Haya says passionately, practically seething, practically hating the man she so eagerly looks for, “nearly froze to death on Hoth. The only reason he survived that was luck. He nearly died at Yavin, and would have, if you hadn’t taken the shot which saved his life. One of these days he’s going to make the leap that even he and Ami can’t recover from. And that day may very well be today.”

Wedge grinds his teeth. As if he doesn’t know all of this perfectly well himself. But this is what Haya excels at: winding him up and watching him fall for no reason he can ever discern. He’s almost in the mind to tell her so, when a voice abruptly calls out his name. He exhales, feeling one of the knots that has been choking him since Hoth start to loosen.

He turns to see Wes Janson, that ridiculous rogue of a pilot, grinning at him from the other end of the hallway. He strides over, his hound daemon loping at his side. A charhound, Wedge once heard Wes say she was. He isn’t entirely familiar with the animal, but from daemon representation alone the creature looks ferocious with her spiky teeth to her black coat to her gruesome looking striations showing molten red and yellow underneath. And yet, her temperament is nothing if not sociable, wagging her tail in almost constant motion at anyone and everyone’s appearance, hardly ever barking or growling. She’s always doing ridiculous things like lying on her back with her legs up in the air, and a certain mischievous cock of her head has warned Wedge on more than one occasion to be wary about a prank Wes has up his sleeve. Her name, even, is adorable: Mina. Like Wes himself, Wedge has no idea if this is part of a longer name or not.

Now, Mina bounds forward towards Wedge, stopping just a finger’s width from his taboo touch. Wes, however, reaches onwards to wrap an arm around Wedge’s shoulder. Haya flutters away to perch on a panel near Wes, her inquisitive eyes entirely on him.

“Wedge! What happened? Where’ve you been?” His words come out in a rush. Mina sits, then stands to wag her tail, then sits again. “I’ve been waiting for you for you hours!” His eyes narrow. “Wait, were you in the hangar this whole time?”

“Yes,” Wedge admits, feeling a bit silly now. “I suppose you must have arrived here first.”

“Me and Tycho and Hobbie. You were one of the last to leave Hoth, remember?”

True. Wedge feels a few more knots loosen. If Wes weren’t here, he’d smile smugly at Haya. “Sorry if I worried you,” he offers. Certainly he was worrying. Or Haya was, at any rate.

Wes grins again, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Mina stands once again to wag her tail. “What, me? Being a little worried about the unkillable Wedge Antilles? Nah. I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d show up again.”

Wedge smiles. Wes’s good nature and enduring optimism are always so infectious. His and Haya’s vigil in the hangar now seems ridiculous in the extreme. “Have you seen Luke yet?”

Wes’s eyes flicker. Mina flattens her ears against her head.

“I’m sorry, Wedge,” he finally says, all the warmth gone from his voice, “I haven’t. Last time I saw him was when he was talking with you on Hoth.”

“I see.” Their vigil was not ridiculous, then, just hopeless. Wedge can sense Haya looking at him, but he ignores her. He tries to recapture some of Wes’s previous optimism. “I’m sure he’ll be coming along soon enough. He must have left later than I did, after all. He just needs a little more time.”

“Of course,” Wes agrees, but he sounds insincere and Mina’s ears are still flattened against her head. They finally perk up when Wes adds, “Well, I do have some other good news. At least, from a certain point of view.”

Wedge appreciates the change of topic, but also wary. “From a certain point of view?”

“Yeah. See, packing an entire base worth of people onto this ship is going to make everything so damn crowded that it’s already clear we’re going to have to share everything. So, I have made the executive and glorious decision to ensure that you and I will only have to share our quarters with each other. Please feel free to thank me at any time.”

Wedge blinks, not assuaged in the least. “Do I have a choice?”

Haya makes a chittering sound that Wedge is pretty sure Wes knows means she’s mocking him.

Wes places a hand over his heart and throws back his head. “Ingratitude. Cruelty. When I have been so kind in my generosity to spare you from the perils of strangers.”

“Oh, well, thank you for deciding to give yourself unrestricted access to me for pranks.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Wes says, very seriously, but Mina cocks her head. And Wedge can’t help it, he laughs. Leave it to Wes to make him laugh while the universe crumbles to dust.

Wes has on that wide-mouthed smile that could almost pass for one of Mina’s feral grins. “Well, can I at least give you the grand tour before you change your mind?”

Wedge nods at this dubious offer, and lets Wes and Mina lead the way. As they turn the corner, Haya comes back to rest on his shoulder. “I like Wes,” she tells him quietly, no more than a whisper.

Wedge thinks that’s an absurd statement. Everyone likes Wes. Who wouldn’t like Wes?

“Me too,” he says. Better she think about this, at least, than Luke.

Wedge may protest for show, but he is indeed very grateful that it’s Wes and not a stranger he’ll be trapped with on this cramped vessel. The room looks tiny but adequate. The tour is a total of sixty seconds before they run out of things to look at and before Wedge accepts.

Also, sitting on a bunk has reminded Wedge very suddenly how exhausted he is from this never ending day. He’s probably been up for more than a standard rotation at this point.

Wes yawns. “We should get some sleep before the Empire finds us again.”

Good idea. Haya, always fussy, perches herself inside a vent while Wedge flops onto the bed without even undressing. Wes, ever ridiculous, is already on the other bunk with Mina sprawled across his chest.

Weary as Wedge is, sleep comes fast. And once again, he dreams of Skystrike.

He’s in the corridor again, featureless and cold and unending. He needs to find the hangar, he knows, but there’s no hatches or doors, just this long corridor that goes on forever. And that’s when he hears the footsteps thudding after him, then shouting, and no matter how fast he runs, hands already have him, grabbing him and yanking him back roughly until he’s pinned to the floor. It’s only a moment before Rake is dragged down the same, shouting and fighting until the bitter end. And Wedge knows what happens here. He knows, and doesn’t want to see it again. Not when Rake—

A buzzing sound jolts Wedge awake. It’s his comlink, because of course that fucking thing managed to survive Hoth. He fumbles for it and hears a voice that sounds like General Rieekan requesting his presence in command.

He doesn’t want to go, but that doesn’t matter. Wes is still asleep with Mina pressed to his side when Wedge gets on his feet. For a moment, he almost swears he can see Mina’s alert orange eyes blinking at him through the dark, but then he looks again and they’re closed. Haya plants herself on his shoulder just as his hand presses the button for the door.

Outside, the corridor is desolate and the lights dimmed for the night shift. Everything’s silent and still except for the sound of his footfalls. This ship isn’t the Empire—it’s far too white and messy and clunky—but this quiet moment still reminds him eerily of his nightmare.

“I don’t like remembering Skystrike,” Haya murmurs, because of course she does. She eagerly pounces on any shred of emotion he feels, ready to dissect it.

“It’s over with now,” Wedge reminds her. “We’re never going back there.”

“But we still dream of it. We’re still afraid of it.”

Wedge presses his lips into a firm line. He is not still afraid of Skystrike, but he refuses to argue the point. Not when he still has Rieekan to deal with.

The command centre has a few sparse people at separate monitors, but Rieekan is all alone at the holoprojector, his imposing daemon curled at his feet. “Sir,” Wedge says, placing his hands behind his back. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Rieekan looks up, but Wedge doesn’t know this man well enough to judge his expressions. “Yes, I did. Wedge Antilles, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Rieekan’s daemon, a manka cat, stretches and stands, plodding a step towards Wedge. Haya stays firmly on his shoulder. Barring special circumstances, Wedge rarely likes her interacting with anyone’s daemon.

Rieekan’s gaze flickers over him, then Haya, and then back again. “I realize, as a pilot, you are not usually in my immediate chain of command, but circumstances have changed that.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Most senior members of our fleet have been killed, as I’m sure you know. And Admiral Ackbar is…well, let’s call him busy for the moment.”

That’s somewhat intriguing, though none of Wedge’s business. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, my expertise is usually more ground-based, but even I know what it takes to rebuild a fleet. And seeing as how you’re the highest-ranking member of Rogue Squadron that we still have, I’ve decided to put you in charge of it.”

Haya’s grip on his shoulder tightens. Wedge feels a heady mix of emotions at this order, most of them unpleasant. “Thank you, sir,” he says first, because he has to, because this isn’t a choice, and in some ways it’s even supposed to be an honour. But on its heels another, greater, concern bubbles to the surface immediately: “Sir…should I take this to mean that Commander Skywalker is…is elsewhere?”

The manka cat’s tail flicks. Rieekan says, “As far I’m aware, no one has had contact with Skywalker since Hoth.”

Haya’s grip becomes even tighter, her talons squeezing his shoulder until it starts to pulse in time with his heartbeat. But Wedge keeps himself calm. “I see, sir.”

“We don’t know what that means yet. But it’s also worth noting that no one has seen Princess Organa nor Solo either since Hoth. Knowing those three…” Rieekan scoffs. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine much better than I.”

Yes, Wedge probably can. All three of them are always going off and ending up in wild adventures. And that’s probably what’s happened here. They’ll return soon enough with their unbelievable tales, and Wedge’s fear will simply slip through his fingers like dust.

But Haya’s talons dig in so deep.

He’s worried what he’ll say if he speaks any further on the subject. “Is there any objective Rogue Squadron is to be working towards in particular?” he asks instead, eager to steer this back to military matters.

If Rieekan finds this odd, he doesn’t let on. “There is,” he agrees, pressing a button on the holoprojector to bring up a recording of some sort of skirmish involving one of their smaller capital vessels. “I don’t think they know who we are, but there’s a group of pirates nearby who seem to at least know we have supplies, and they’re getting bold enough to start picking on the weaker vessels. The moment Rogue Squadron is back to being flight ready, I want you to deal with this threat. You can request any pilot or personnel not currently in a squadron that you wish to requisition. You can also have your pick of executive officer.”

“I’d like Wes Janson as my executive officer,” Wedge says instantly. He has no idea why he’s so sure, but he is. Haya’s grip lessens slightly.

Rieekan inclines his head. “Very well.”

The easiest request Wedge has ever made during his time in the Rebellion. Somehow he thinks the rest of Rogue Squadron won’t be. “How many slots will Janson and I have to fill, sir?”

Rieekan shuts off the holoprojector. “All of them.”

Wedge registers that. Rogue Squadron near obliterated once more. Haya’s talons bear back down. “Sir,” Wedge blurts out quickly, “isn’t there something we could do about finding Skywalker? I’m willing to volunteer to search for him, or, or, or go on any mission needed to find him.”

The manka cat lets out a near quizzical sound. Rieekan shakes his head. “I need you more at the head of Rogue Squadron than I need you in a search party.”

“But, sir—

“I’m sorry, Commander. I realize Skywalker was probably a close friend of yours, but I can’t risk you on a rescue mission that has no probability of success. My decision is final.”

So it is. Wedge closes his mouth, his military background demanding obedience regardless of his own feelings.

But his daemon has no such qualms. “No!” Haya suddenly cries out, a plaintive tone carrying her voice. “We need him!”

Wedge is rooted to the spot, wordless after such a mortifying display from his daemon. Everyone knows daemons interact with each other and their respective humans, but they’re rare to interrupt human conversations. And Haya, for all her faults and idiosyncrasies, has rarely crossed the line as far as this.

Wedge can feel that manka cat watching him and Haya with some unreadable expression. Rieekan says, voice softer, “Antilles, if you think you cannot handle—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Wedge cuts in, finding his voice at last. “I can.”

He almost half-expects Haya to say something horrifying to disprove this, but she remains silent.

Rieekan’s daemon starts flicking her tail again. Rieekan says, all warmth gone from his voice, “Good. But if I catch you doing something unauthorized with Rogue Squadron, I will be reporting it to Ackbar.” A fraction of a glance at Haya. “And possibly to medical as well.”

Wedge recognizes a sufficiently terrifying warning when he hears one. “I understand, sir.”

“Haya,” Wedge hisses to his daemon the moment they’re back in the empty corridor. “Would you care to explain to me what in the hells you were thinking back there?” He can’t look at her, not with her perched on his shoulder like this. And maybe he doesn’t want to.

“I couldn’t stand it!” she cries out, not far removed from the voice she used with Rieekan. Her talons kneed into his wounded shoulder. “You were just standing there, pretending as if Luke and Ami don’t matter to us when they do! I had to say something!”

“Well, I hope you’re happy with your moment of rebellion,” Wedge snaps viciously. “Because not only are we not any closer to finding Luke, now Rieekan’s breathing down my neck for the first sign of trouble. Does ending up in medbay sound acceptable to you?”

“Better to end up in medbay than spend a moment more pretending as if we feel nothing like you do, because you’re so afraid of what might happen if we did!”

Wedge is beyond furious now. He roughly shrugs his shoulders so that Haya is forced to fly off and hop to the floor. “I’m not discussing this,” he says coldly. “And if all you’re going to do is ruin my work for the Rebellion and claw up my shoulder, then I don’t want you near me.”

He steps away from her, briskly retracing his steps back to their quarters. He hears her make a noise, like one of her hunting cries but higher-pitched and softer. He keeps walking, not even turning to look back. But he feels his fingers tremble a little. He knows that if she says his name, he probably won’t be able to resist running back to her.

But she doesn’t. Instead he hears her wings give a flap, and then a moment later she’s winging past him down the corridor, probably to return to the hangar and resume her vigil for Luke. Wedge feels some of his furious satisfaction fade, but he still thinks this is for the best. They both need some time to themselves. He resumes his walk back to his quarters as the corridors start to fill with people. The Rebellion waking up and readying itself for another day of survival.

Wes is awake by the time he returns, Mina wagging her tail at Wedge’s appearance. Thankfully, Wes doesn’t ask where his daemon is or why Wedge has such freakish capabilities in regards to her. Instead, Wedge fills him in on what Rieekan’s planned out for Rogue Squadron, only casually mentioning that Wes is to be his executive officer and not the whys of how it came about. It’s not important, he thinks. And mentioning it feels like something Haya would do when all he wants to do is forget about Haya.

“Makes sense,” Wes says once he’s finished. He’s restless, fiddling with his comlink while Mina’s lying still, her amber eyes caught on Wedge. “We lost a lot of good people on Hoth. Alliance has to utilize those of us who are left however they can.” One of Mina’s ears flickers. “I suppose this means…Luke isn’t here?”

A twinge of pain goes through Wedge’s shoulder, some sort of sympathetic response to the matter at hand. “Yeah,” he murmurs. It’s easier, at least, without Haya and her talons. This physically far away from his daemon, he stops feeling her thoughts so intensely and starts feeling more numbed out, more able to compartmentalize emotions he doesn’t care to have coursing through him. “I don’t think anyone knows where he is.”

“I see.” Wes puts the comlink back into his pocket. He finally looks up at Wedge, something somehow both mischievous and intently serious blended into his gaze. “Then I guess it’s up to you and me to find him.”

Wes’s remark comes off more endearing than it should. “We really shouldn’t,” Wedge tries to remind him. “I already tried asking Rieekan and he said no. He’ll pitch a fit if I disobey.”

“Then he’ll pitch a fit! Luke’s a Rogue, and that means something to both of us. We’re not just going to leave him behind.”

Wedge doesn’t know what to say, feeling soothed by this in a way he didn’t know he needed. It’s strange because it’s not as if he’s lost to the similarities between this and Haya’s plaintive declarations. But her thoughts on Luke only ever serve to put Wedge in a frenzy. Wes sets him at ease.

Well, mostly. With Haya gone, and his emotions severed, there is almost an objective quality to this moment, as if looking on it from a far off distance, knowing it would feel good only if… “Thank you. I—can I think on this?”

“Course. Think on a Rieekan foolproof plan for both of us.” Wes winks before standing and stretching his arms above his head. “I’m starving,” he announces to no one. He looks down at his daemon. “Maybe even starved enough to try Rebel rations again.”

Mina seems less than thrilled with idea, even though she’s not the one who’s going to be eating it.

“Save me a seat,” Wedge calls as he heads for the door.

“Will do. And, Wedge?”

Something in his tone suddenly seems fragile. Wedge looks up.

Wes smiles in the washed out glow of the ship’s lights. “Rieekan was right to put you in charge of Rogue Squadron,” he says softly. “I know you’ll make a great commander, Chief.”

It’s the sort of remark that would have Haya hopping around with happiness. But Haya isn’t here. So Wedge just mumbles his gratitude and looks back down and waits for Wes to leave.

Wedge returns to the hangar. Predictably, Haya is roosted on the same strut as yesterday, eyes latched to the stars.

Wedge knows it’s ridiculous that he’s only here so that he doesn’t have to bear the questioning stares of coming into the mess hall daemonless, but he doesn’t care. He’s tired of questions. He’s allowed to want to be comfortable some of his life.

He was grumbling yesterday about Haya not being a pet, but today he isn’t picky. He whistles at her to come down.

She obeys, to her credit, flying off her perch to land on his proffered forearm. She steps from one foot to the other, ruffling her feathers and looking huffily at him.

Fine. He probably deserves that. But he tries to shove down the old pain and stay in the warm glow Wes brought over him momentarily. He tries to think of everything good he’s ever thought about his daemon.

Her full name is Turhaya, which is a word in the old Corellian tongue that means “bright star”. And from the very beginning, both he and his daemon have indeed been enraptured by the stars. One of his very first memories is setting her on the end of his bed in Gus Treta so that she could try to fly off. Being a chick with mostly down and hardly any feathers hadn’t exactly made her able to manage it, but he’d been there with waiting hands to catch her fuzzy little body when she fell, only to set her back on the bed and watch with vivid interest as she tried again.

He remembers how proud he’d been when he was all of twelve and she’d already settled into a Corellian banshee bird. It was true that most of her forms before that had been birds or flying insects or once even a lizard with a leathery pair of wings, but it still felt like confirmation of what they had both hoped would be true. Everyone knew the greatest pilots always had daemons that were winged, and Wedge couldn’t imagine a winged creature better than the majestic banshee bird. That day, when Wedge had looked on her settled form for the first time, he’d felt for certain that she was the greatest daemon in the entire galaxy.

He attempts to recapture some of that feeling now as he strokes her red feathered throat. Some people spend practically half their lives cuddling their daemons, but Wedge has always been more withdrawn. He tries now. “We’ll find Luke and Ami,” he promises her. He might as well promise this when Wes has already promised him the same. “We’re not going to leave them behind.”

Haya shifts on his arm, her sharp eyes piercing his. “You talked to Wes, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps. That’s not important.”

Haya shivers her tail feathers. “I don’t like it when you talk to Wes without me,” she grumbles.

Well, he would be perfectly willing to let her if she would learn to behave. But Wedge reminds himself once again of how pretty and perfect she is. Or how much he wants her to be, at any rate. “Well, you’re in luck,” he says, keeping his tone light. “We’re joining him in the mess hall in a few minutes. Unless you’d like to just stay here?”

Haya’s response is to hop onto his shoulder, the one that isn’t so bruised by her talons. That settles it. Wedge touches the tip of her talon and murmurs, “I’m glad you chose this.”

It’s about the closest he’s going to get to apologizing for what happened earlier. Haya doesn’t speak, but he can feel her preening the edges of his hair, and he knows that means she forgives him.

The mess hall is a cacophony of noise, humans and aliens scattered everywhere and daemons of all kinds and sizes sprawled underfoot. It takes Wedge a moment to locate Wes in this tangle, but he smiles when he does. Because it isn’t just Wes sitting there.

In the entire galaxy, there’s roughly only ten people that Wedge feels comfortable with Haya getting close to. These are three. And Haya doesn’t disagree. Even before he’s halfway across the room, she’s already launched from his shoulder to skitter herself down into the middle of the table, peering intently at the three pilots. Wes turns around and grins. “Wedge! Took you long enough!” He jerks his head back to the table. “I ran into some old friends.”

He certainly has. Wedge smiles at them, these pilots who’ve survived so much with him.

Tycho places his hands on the table and stands to greet Wedge, as if this is some sort of formal Alderaanian banquet and he’s the aristocratic host. But that’s just a fantasy. Once he smiles, he seems as friendly and ordinary as any of them. “About time you showed up.”

“Too busy flying to come by until now,” Wedge replies, and then on impulse wraps an arm around Tycho’s shoulder. There are times when he’s allowed like Haya.

He catches sight of Tycho’s daemon—an Alderaanian furry moth named Tessef—as she flutters forward to land on the table next to Haya. With every twitch, her iridescent colouring glimmers in the ship’s weak light, and Wedge thinks she is one of the most beautiful daemons he has ever seen. But fragile, so utterly fragile, in a way that he wants to forget, that almost makes him flinch every time he sees her. And Tycho might not have that fear of her, but Wedge sometimes wonders if there’s other reasons Tycho might be dismayed at the form his daemon’s taken. Because she’s replicated from a creature that no longer exists, from a planet that has now been turned to dust. And Tycho must see that every time he looks at her.

“Good enough for me,” Tycho replies good-naturedly, no trace of this tragedy in his voice. “We’ll just have to make sure Luke does likewise.”

Wedge releases his grip, trying to suppress a frown. Tycho is adept at picking up on his moods, but this is a little too specific. It makes Wedge wonder exactly what Wes has been telling him in his absence.

He shoves it down. He doesn’t Haya pecking at it. He moves past Tycho, taking the seat next to where Hobbie has planted himself in the further corner. Hobbie merely nods at his appearance, but the daemon in his lap sits up intently and flaps its wings in ecstatic greeting. Doesn’t take flight, though. As long as Wedge has known them, he has never seen Hobbie’s bird daemon fly. Which seems strange, especially when Hobbie’s daemon already seems strange. Justinian is the rare kind of daemon that is the same sex as his human.

Wedge is deeply curious about all of this, but he’s never asked and he never will. It isn’t any of his business. And he knows exactly what it’s like for people to have questions about your daemon.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” Wes says, drawing their attentions back to him, “let’s talk.”

Their daemons scatter as they settle in, clustering together beneath their feet. Wedge breathes, feeling the intensity of Haya once again interacting with other daemons.

Daemon interaction brings depth to human interaction. Without it, it’s like walking through snowdrift upon snowdrift on Hoth, everything muffled and distant and numb. With it, it’s like standing inside the base, the ice melting from his hood, the heat warming his frozen fingers, everything becoming red and raw and real. With all the good and all the bad that implies.

But in this case, with his friends, it’s good. All he feels here is the glow of heat after the cold as their daemons come together and excitedly greet one another. Like this, it’s almost hard for him to remember why he’s so wary on letting Haya near anyone in the first place.

He’ll never admit this to anyone, not even Haya, but the truth is that maybe he sought out his daemon in the hangar for more than just show. Maybe even he can’t always handle the numbness their separation creates. Maybe, just maybe, he’s willing to risk feeling dangerous things.

Well, he’s enamoured right now, he reminds himself. But there’s a reason he gets nightmares like the one he had last night. For every person who will treat his daemon nicely, there’s another that will rip Haya to shreds.

“So, as I was saying,” Wes announces as he snatches a stale looking ration bar from Hobbie’s tray, returning Wedge’s attention to the matter at hand, “our new—allegedly benevolent—overlord Rieekan has assigned charge of Rogue Squadron to me and Wedge.”

“And as I was saying,” Hobbie cuts in, snatching the ration bar right back, “Rieekan has just assigned Tycho and me to head Gold. Now,” he adds pointedly, flicking cynical eyes to Wes, “I wonder why they’d separate us like that.”

“No idea,” Wes says, perfectly innocent.

Their daemons chatter with amusement over this exchange. Wedge can sense that Haya, feeling pleased and proud, wanting to share the tidbit that Rieekan actually wasn’t the one who chose Wes as a Rogue.

“Well, it does make a lot of sense,” Wedge says quickly, redirecting everyone’s attention. “After Hoth, we’re all spread pretty thin.”

“As if we weren’t before,” Hobbie mutters. Justinian squawks in agreement.

“At least you and I aren’t the ones in charge,” Wes adds helpfully. “Wedge and Tycho get that honour. You and I, for whatever reason, are only XO material.”

“Now I wonder why they thought that,” Hobbie snarks.

“No idea,” Wes says, once again innocent.

“Well, regardless,” Tycho says in a more serious tone, before Wedge can get too worried at Haya once again trying to pipe in, “that means that the four of us are now in charge of Rogue and Gold. It’s our responsibility to make sure the new pilots coming into these squadrons are able to successfully strike against the Empire and stay alive.”

Tycho has a way of putting things into perspective. So far, Wedge has thought of the weight of being a leader and what it means to put his own selfish considerations aside, but this is the first time he thinks of all the leaders of Rogue Squadron who’ve come before him, and the fact that all except Luke are now confirmed to be dead. Wes said he’d make a good commander, but will he? Is Wedge honestly capable of making the ruthless decisions a commander needs to make?

And herein lies the problem of bringing his daemon with him. Because when he thinks like this, Haya always becomes needy for affection, and she always looks for another daemon who will give it to her.

“We’ll be fine,” Wes says confidently, eyes resting on Wedge just for a moment. It’s Mina that Haya has run to, then, to curl against her paws and bleed all her insecurities into. “We’re Rogues, remember? And Wedge could lead anyone to victory.”

His words, coupled with Haya’s presence near Mina, sends an intense warmth through Wedge. It feels good, but Wedge doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with it. He drops his eyes to the scuffed floor, sinking into the back of his seat.

“Well, I’m not a Rouge anymore, remember?” he hears Hobbie snark, and his three friends banter over that for a bit. Wedge doesn’t participate, keeping himself still and quiet and disconnected.

This is one of the most effective ways he knows to stop Haya’s behaviour, barring physically leaving her presence. Sure, sometimes she has a mind of her own (see: Rieekan), but that’s usually when he’s in a conversation he’s not able to disengage from. When he can disengage, for the most part she disengages too. So now, while the others chatter on, he stays quiet and Haya retreats back to his side.

Well, until something happens to perk them both out of their muffled existence. “So I take it Luke’s still MIA?” Hobbie asks, glancing in Wedge’s direction.

Hobbie knows this as well, then. Something unpleasant sparks down Wedge’s spine. “And Leia and Han,” he replies, hoping he doesn’t sound defensive. He can feel Haya hopping away from his side, eager to be able to interact with the other daemons again.

“Ah, we’ll find them,” Wes says, sounding near arrogant. Wedge tightens his crossed arms.

Too much volatile emotion. He hears Haya whisper to the other daemons: “I have a plan.”

All right, that’s enough interaction for one day. Wedge stands. “I have work to do.”

His friends had to have heard, or at least felt, Haya’s pronouncement, but they don’t try to stop him. Good lucks and may be the Force be with yous abound. He’ll speak with them later, when Haya is better behaved. Which she’d better start doing if she doesn’t want to end up inside a metal cage.

“Wes,” he says in a curt tone once he’s finished speaking with the others, “come along. We need to work out the roster for Rogue Squadron.”

Wes glances at him in near bewilderment before he clatters to his feet, Mina already at his side. Haya takes her sweet time saying her goodbyes, but eventually she too comes back to land on Wedge’s shoulder, talons digging in deep.

They’re in their quarters, sitting on their respective bunks, as they wrangle out who will be Rogue Squadron’s next victims. They each have a datapad with prospective candidates, but Wedge still prefers to go by memory. His recollections on pilots and their attributes are something that no datapad can be swapped out for.

Haya, able to at least make the basic deduction that Wedge is annoyed with her behaviour, stays still and quiet and staunchly by his side while he does this. For the moment, at least.

“Ix Ixstra,” Wes suggests.

It’s not a hard decision. “No,” Wedge replies, sharp and to the point. As he’s been for most of this discussion.

“Look, I know she’s got issues. She can be insubordinate as hell. But at least she’s got a fighting spirit.”

“She wouldn’t survive the first mission.”

“That’s true for most of them, Wedge.”

As if Wedge doesn’t already know that. As if he hasn’t been aware this entire past hour that they’re scraping the dregs of some shit lomin ale barrel and he’s entirely likely to watch all these pilots die. As if he needs Wes throwing it back in his face. “No,” he repeats, very cold. “My decision is final.”

Haya—rare to express negative emotions towards their friends even when he does—scratches a sharp talon against the floor and lets out a hiss.

Mina unsettles herself, moving up from where she’s been sitting next to Wes and pawing closer to Haya, nose bent to the ground. When Haya doesn’t move reciprocally closer, she turns to look back at Wes.

“You’re angry with me,” Wes says, and it’s not a question.

Wedge doesn’t respond. He isn’t fully certain how to respond. “Yes!” Haya says bitingly, hopping forward. Which Wedge oddly doesn’t mind for once. Somehow this outburst feels less like a transgression when it’s a reaction out of anger.

Wes looks down at her and then back to Wedge. “Why?” he asks quietly.

Wedge says nothing, still uncertain how to articulate his pent up frustration. Haya also goes quiet, apparently briefly leashed by her knowledge that Wedge would be displeased.

Mina crouches down, looking towards Haya again. “Haya,” she murmurs. Unlike Wes, she’s quiet, rare to speak her thoughts, and so everything she says seems to carry a certain profound weight. “Wes and I don’t know what’s wrong if you don’t tell us.”

Haya hesitates, Wedge can sense. But still she remains silent.

Wes makes a frustrated noise. “Maybe we should ask for a transfer from Rieekan.”

“No!” Haya bursts out immediately. “You can’t do that! Because even if we’re angry with you, we were the ones who picked you for Rogue Squadron, and, and, and you can’t just leave!”

“Oh,” Wes says. Which is kinder than what Wedge wants to say. But then Mina reaches forward and brushes her nose against Haya’s beak, and Wes comes over to sit next to him, and Wedge’s chest unthaws a little. This has a vulnerability to it too, just like in the mess hall, but after all his anger, it somehow doesn’t feel so bad.

“You wanted me as your XO?” Wes asks, sounding almost a little confused. As if he didn’t expect Wedge to choose him.

“Well, why not?” Wedge says. He doesn’t need Haya and all her emotion to respond to this. It’s the simple truth. “You’re a good pilot. You’ll put our new squadron members at ease. And…” Wedge wonders if he shouldn’t speak it aloud, but the warmth in his chest spills into words of their own volition: “You make me happy when no one else can.”

Wes doesn’t respond for a moment, and Wedge wonders if he’s said too much, but then he begins to smile. “Oh, Wedge,” he murmurs, as Mina rests her head atop of Haya’s. “I promise I won’t complain ever again about being your XO—I’ll be the best fucking executive officer you’ve ever seen in your life—just…okay, please just tell me why you’re pissed. I can’t handle this. Whatever it is, I’m so sorry.”

There’s a spark of anger at the reminder, but Wes’s smile and Mina’s closeness melts Wedge into speech. “Just…you told Tycho and Hobbie about Luke. I thought I told you that in confidence.”

Mina lets out a small whine. “Oh,” Wes says in a breath. “Wedge, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…I thought I was helping! Because if we do try to find Luke, we’ll need their help. You know I’m right.”

He is right, but that doesn’t mean Wedge gets to be happy about this. “You tell them everything I tell you?”

“No. And I promise I won’t tell them anything else if you don’t want me to.”

“Okay, good,” Wedge agrees, feeling his anger drain away. “Because I don’t want you telling them about this, either.”

Which is true for all the obvious reasons. He doesn’t need Hobbie and Tycho knowing that he was angry, and he wants Wes to prove that he can be trusted. But also…something about this moment feels special. Like it should only be between him and Wes.

Wes doesn’t reply, but something starts shifting in his gaze, something that seems intense yet tender. Mina and Haya are now pressed tightly together. Everything feels warm and sweet and expectant.

Maybe too much expectation. And maybe, once again, his dislike for the vulnerability that comes with this becomes unbearable. “Um,” Wedge says, glancing back down at his datapad, “so, we still do need to figure out who the last person in the squadron is going to be.”

He can sense Haya retreating, and perhaps Mina as well. Wes pauses, seeming to catch his bearings. “Well, I don’t know,” he finally says in his detached squadron tone. “I wasn’t joking when I suggested Ix Ixstra. I can’t think of anyone else.”

They’re running low on their already threadbare candidates. So Wedge finally brings up the very short list of names the datapad has to offer. Plenty are people they’ve already picked, but then Wedge sees a name that he hasn’t. He laughs.

“What is it?” Wes asks, sounding halfway worried.

“This,” Wedge says, holding up the datapad and tapping on the name. “I think I know at least one reason why Rieekan told me Ackbar was busy.”

Wes leans over and snorts. “His niece! I didn’t even know he had a niece.”

“Me either. But clearly she wants to fly. And clearly she’s smart enough to request being part of the Rogues.”

“Yeah, because she knows that no one else is likely to pick General Ackbar’s niece to be slaughtered by Imps. For example, me, Wes Janson, the man who doesn’t want to be chewed out by Ackbar.”

Wedge pulls the datapad back to his lap. He looks at Wes, who looks back at him with amusement and almost genuine concern. Mina is back at his side, watching this exchange intently. Haya has hopped back to Wedge’s side, nipping at his foot. In this, he and Haya agree. “I’m going to pick her.”

“Of course you are,” Wes grumbles. “Would you at least care to tell me why?”

“Because no niece of Ackbar will crash on her first mission,” Wedge says. His chest lightens with something that’s not hope, but it’s a damned good enough facsimile.

That night, Wedge lies awake in his bunk running along two parallel tracks of thought. Rogue Squadron—his squadron—is as complete as it ever will be and is awaiting the approval of Rieekan. For better or worse, soon there will be people under his command who are young and eager and ready to take this fight into their own hands.

But even as he thinks on this future, his thoughts are invariably tangled in the past, stagnated in that last time he saw Luke in the biting cold of Hoth, when they both promised to see each other soon. That reckless kid, always going off to do whatever he pleases.

Wedge thinks back further, winding himself up to the first time he ever saw Luke. A golden-haired boy alighting from the Falcon with a tooka cat prowling at his heels, stepping into the frenzy of what was Base One reckoning with the knowledge that they were soon about to start the fight of their lives. Princess Organa had been immediately swept up into military matters, the two stranger pilots keeping company with each other, and the boy had been left alone. He’d pressed in on himself, picking up his tooka daemon and hugging it to his chest as it shifted into from a tooka into a lizard with a shy ability to become transparent.

Haya had decided to take the initiative before Wedge could even suggest it—winging off his shoulder to land in front of this newcomer and look up at him inquisitively. The boy smiled tentatively.

“Sorry,” Wedge said as he rushed over. But he wasn’t really sorry. For once, he felt Haya had the right idea. “She’s always doing this, I swear.”

“It’s okay,” the boy said, his smile growing wider. “She’s pretty. Are you a pilot?”

A question many newcomers asked from the form of his daemon. That was fine. Wedge liked the answer. “Red Squadron,” he replied, as Haya resumed her place on his shoulder.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Me too!” he said excitedly. Then he tempered himself. “Well, I mean, I want to. I’d like to. If the Rebellion would let me.”

His daemon transformed itself into an imitation of Haya, scrambling up to be on Luke’s shoulder as if in a mirror. Wedge smiled, feeling equal parts protective and awed by this boy. “They might. And if they do, I’ll vouch for you.”

He beamed. “I’m Luke, by the way. And this,” he nodded to his little daemon mimic, “is Amidala.”

There was no doubt then that he and Luke were going to be friends. Wedge had taken him through the base, given him the grand tour, before they’d been hustled into a meeting that would end up being the only briefing they’d ever get on the Death Star. How naïve Luke had seemed when he’d insisted that destroying this planet-killer would be easy. But he’d refused to back down, had confidently rejected any dismal backtalk. He and Ami had risen up and inspired hope in every single Rebel listening. Somehow it was enough to even make Wedge believe they could do it.

It was Wedge’s first inkling of what Luke was truly capable of.

And when it was over, when the Death Star was nothing more than shattered pieces across the Yavin sky, and Luke stepped down into the hangar for the second time that day, Wedge knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect this golden boy. He watched Luke be pressed into the cheering crowd, Ami now wreathing his head as a majestic starbird, and he knew with fatalistic certainty that he’d die before he saw this boy hurt.

“Wedge,” he hears Haya whisper now in their dark quarters. She’s drifted from her perch to land on his chest, “we need to sleep.”

Wedge almost smiles. It’s supposed to be him admonishing her, not the other way around. “I can’t seem to stop,” he admits. No point in hiding it now.

“I know, but try. We can’t lead Rogue Squadron like this. I promise we’ll work on finding Luke tomorrow.”

She’s right for once. He nods. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

She ruffles her feathers and Wedge does smile now. Sometimes, rare times, she reminds him of himself. In a strange fit of affection, he reaches up to stroke her chest feathers. When he was a child he used to sleep with Haya pressed tight to his chest, just like Wes. But that was a long time ago now.

Haya leans over and briefly preens his hair. Then she returns to the vent, and Wedge rolls over and actually does try to rest.

The next day, Rieekan approves his roster for Rogue Squadron. So the day after that, Wedge stands in the hangar with Haya perched on his shoulder and surveys this ragtag group that he’ll have to make into the finest flying unit in the Alliance.

They all look so young. And they all gaze up at him with some mixture of awe and horror and desperation. As if his continued survival makes him an object of fascination. As if he personally holds the key to their own survival.

Pacing down their ranks, a strange overlap occurs as he remembers the first time he did this—not in the Rebellion, but in the Empire. How still and silent and truly loyal he needed to be back then. Haya, still perched on his shoulder, had made herself as quiet and small as possible. Together they’d held their breath, hoping to never receive the attention of their commander.

The Empire had strict rules about daemons. A daemon had to learn to be completely obedient and subservient to humans, not showing overt emotion or whispering to their respective human during any instruction. Misbehavour usually resulted in the pair being separated on opposite ends of the room, far enough away that most cadets would squirm uncomfortably for the rest of the lesson while their daemon whimpered. Humans controlled their daemons, they always liked to say during these punishments, not the other way around.

Even the kinds of daemons one could have within the Empire were strictly regulated. To be a fighter pilot, you either had to have a bird or else a critter small enough to perch on your shoulder. Anything bigger tossed you out. Large daemons were for Imperial officers and others in leadership, people who supposedly better deserved a show of power.

But that’s not true here, he reminds himself, as he comes out of those gloomy memories. All of his new squadron members stand at respectful attention, it’s true, but their daemons aren’t forced to contort themselves into the same. Instead, they perch or curl or sit against their humans in a myriad of ways, showing expressions ranging from nervousness to excitement to pure curiosity. They aren’t small or compact or regulated, but rather every size imaginable from a buzzing little insect all the way up to a prowling panther.

And rounding out the squadron numbers (and something the Empire never would have condoned), are a scattering of non-humans who don’t have any sort of visible daemon at all.

Including Jesmin Ackbar.

It’s inclusive and good, but admittedly inclusivity runs into its own set of issues. After giving a short speech welcoming them to Rogue Squadron and laying out his expectations for the sim runs of the day, more than a few come up to Wedge and ask how exactly they’re going to fit their daemons into their fighters.

“It’ll be a tight fit,” Wes replies, certainly having had more experience with a big daemon than Wedge. “But I promise it won’t bother you in the heat of battle.” He looks down at Mina sitting intent by his side and tail once again starting to thump. “Mina’s curled around my feet during every fight keeping me warm, and she’s quite good at giving suggestions as needed.”

Will Scotian looks less than convinced, but to be fair, he is the one with the panther. Wedge promises they can make adjustments to his fighter if they need to, and satisfied, Will hops into the recently vacated sim.

“What about mine?” Sila Kott asks, coming forward and gesturing to the small bird perched on her shoulder.

Wedge smiles. This is something he can speak on. “Well, he can easily fit in the cockpit with you. Or, like mine, he can fly beside you when you’re planetside and shelter inside his own compartment when you’re in space.”

Sila looks at the daemon flitting about on her shoulder. “Won’t that make him a target?” she asks with worry.

“Of course. But you were already a target. And flying with your daemon usually sharpens your focus.”

Her expression turns to a mixture of nervousness and curiosity. “How?”

Because a battlefield is no place to put your soul within earshot, Wedge thinks. And when he feels Haya take to the skies, ready for a fight…it’s like nothing he’s ever felt on the ground. He and Haya claw and fight each other every second of every day, but not in this. Never in this. In the sky, they move like they are the one being they’re actually supposed to be. Wedge can feel it deep in his chest, as if he’s in the air beside her. He knows what she’s going to do before she even thinks it, before she even lets out her warning cry. He loves her in that moment in a way he never will anywhere else.

But that’s something he doesn’t know how to explain, and that Sila doesn’t need to hear. “That’s something you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”

By the end of their preliminary training, Wedge comes to the quick conclusion that despite their rough edges, his new Rogues can indeed be formed into something fightable. And that’s about the best he can hope for on the first day post-Hoth. He dismisses them.

Most are quick to take his reprieve, chattering together with relief and shaky boasts as they drift out of the hangar with their daemons underfoot. Wes heads off too, muttering something about Hobbie and a bet and Gold Squadron sucks. The hangar goes quiet, and Wedge is so focused on his datapad and analyzing the results of the sims that for a moment he doesn’t recognize that someone has stayed behind. But when he does, he feels a shot of satisfaction.

It’s Jesmin Ackbar.

“Sir?” she asks quietly, but with a poised demeanor that has something of her uncle in it. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me a chance in Rogue Squadron. Not every commander would have done that.”

“No need,” he replies easily. “It would have been their loss. I knew that even before I saw you fly today.”

He still doesn’t entirely understand Mon Calamarian expressions, but she seems pleased by this. “Thank you, sir. I promise to do Rogue Squadron proud.”

“I’m sure you will.” He glances back towards the monitor for the sims, where Haya has been checking the raw intel assiduously. But now Haya’s attention is elsewhere, tilting her head towards Jesmin.

Jesmin seems to be watching her back with an expression Wedge cannot determine. “This is my daemon,” he says, inviting an interiority he rarely ever does. But he picked Jesmin for a reason.

Haya clearly likes her as well. She hops down from the monitor right to Jesmin’s feet. Jesmin takes a step back, as if frightened. But then she says in a soft voice, “Sir, if I may ask…what’s it like to have a daemon?”

Complicated. Difficult. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to live without one.”

“You always have a companion, at least,” she adds, almost wistful, still staring at Haya. “It seems nice.”

No it’s not, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t want your soul on display for everyone to comment on and pick at. Though honestly, he can’t say whether his situation or Jesmin’s is the more difficult. Having Haya is infuriating sometimes, but what would it be like if she were integrated within him, as Jesmin’s daemon must be? Having Haya’s little voice always with him, always piping up in his head, doesn’t sound all that appealing.

“Sometimes,” is his simple reply. His moment of camaraderie is over. Haya flies back up to the monitor. “If that was all, cadet?”

Wedge continues his work on the Rogues with increasing intensity over the next few days. Rieekan keeps pressing him for a timeline on when they can fly their first mission, and Wedge keeps telling him to wait, that there will be losses they cannot afford if they go now. Which is true, but it’s also true that Wedge is purposefully delaying the inevitable.

In his defense, he’s also unreasonably distracted. Haya seems to be constantly flitting about while he’s working these days, leaving the hangar completely at times before he gets a sudden tug in his thoughts towards Hobbie or Tycho or Luke. It’s a miracle he gets any kind of work done in these conditions.

His suspicions on what Haya is doing during these escapades are confirmed when she flies back to the hangar late one day and immediately hops over to speak with Mina. Wes’s gaze shifts in Wedge’s direction, but Wedge keeps himself bent over the sims monitor, pretending to be enthralled with his work.

“Haya,” Wedge says firmly, once the squadron is dismissed for the day, “would you care to explain to me why you were talking with Mina?”

Haya fluffs her feathers from where she’s perched on the monitor, far too pleased with herself. “It’s not just Mina. I’ve also been speaking with Tessef and Jus,” she says importantly, as if Wedge doesn’t already damn well know this. “And I’ve managed to arrange for our search of Luke. We’ll go tomorrow night, when everyone else is asleep, and retrace his steps at Hoth.”

Even though Wedge knew this was likely to be the end result, he’s still staggered by the audacity of his daemon. “And you didn’t think to consult with me first on this plan?”

“Well, you did promise we’d try to find him,” she says in an indignant tone. “And you’re understandably very busy with Rogue Squadron right now. So I decided to help. The others have already agreed,” she adds, clearly satisfied.

He should tell her no. This is a ridiculously bad plan with ridiculously bad consequences if the Empire or the Rebellion found out.

And yet. Wasn’t it him, not Haya, who couldn’t sleep in fear for Luke just a week ago? Wasn’t he the one who felt relief at Wes’s promise?

And wasn’t it Wedge who’s vowed to protect Luke at all costs?

“Fine,” he mutters, defeated. “We go tomorrow and we search. But that’s it, Haya.” He points a finger directly in front of her beady eyes. “This squadron needs us. The Rebellion needs us.”

“As does Luke,” Haya replies, sounding more anxious than scolding.

The next day, as promised, Wedge returns to the darkened hangar as the night shift descends. There, six figures already await him. And even if this is the dumbest idea Wedge and his daemon have ever had, he feels a sudden stab of affection for these three men who are entirely willing to follow him anywhere.

Haya flies off his shoulder as he draws near, to huddle with Mina and Justinian and Tessef once again (and probably to congratulate herself on her enterprise). Wedge bashfully turns to his friends. “Look, I know this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, but thanks for coming anyway.”

“Wedge,” Hobbie says, utterly serious, “the worst idea you ever had was joining the Empire with me. This really ranks as somewhere between your third or fourth worst idea.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” Tycho says with a small teasing smile. “Though I can’t really judge that, considering my own unfortunate inclinations.”

Wedge really doesn’t deserve these two. He turns to Wes, who’s been uncharacteristically silent during this exchange, and smiles. “You ready?”

He expects a joke or at least a return of his smile. Instead, Wes just hefts his helmet onto his head. “Yeah.”

Wedge suppresses a frown. He tries to think on what could have possibly turned Wes so taciturn. But Wedge can’t think of anything, except that Wes has been unusually quiet today. And that Mina, usually so eager to interact with the others, has kept a circumspect distance. None of that’s an answer, though.

But it’s not as if Wedge can bluntly ask him, especially not when Tycho and Hobbie are standing right here, so he shoves it aside for now. “Okay, listen up,” he says in his newly minted commander voice. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to do three, very short, waypoints to get to Hoth. I’ll send you the coordinates from my fighter. When we get there, we keep our snubs on the bare minimum level of power and stay on the fringes of the Hoth system. We spend exactly one hour there looking for clues. Then we turn around and use those same waypoints to find our way back to Home One. Understood?”

Nodding. No questions. No concerns. Just his friends who will follow him anywhere. “Let’s get to it, then,” he says in conclusion, and they obey.

Wedge readies his fighter, but on the ladder he stops, watching as Wes clambers into his own with still no smile or sense of his usual amusement. What’s wrong with him?

Haya flutters to the top of the ladder. “Wedge,” she murmurs, “I know you’re upset about Wes, but we need to focus on the mission. You can’t fly if you’re upset.”

The oldest rule in the book. “I know,” he says, forcing himself to look away. He calms his mind, reminding himself of the bare mechanics and waypoints that they’ll need to hit in the next few minutes. Flying always consumes him, and for that he’s grateful.

“We can worry about Wes later,” Haya reminds him. “But we don’t even know why he’s upset. And it might not even be because of us.”

True. Maybe Wedge is getting worked up over nothing.

But then he spares one last glance at Wes’s cockpit. And Wes still doesn’t look at him.

For this mission, Wedge has decided that Haya will stay with him in the cockpit. No point in keeping her in her compartment if they aren’t going planetside, after all, and considering that this is, quite literally, a rogue search and rescue, she might have something to offer here that she wouldn’t usually.

Even so, this trip is a fine reminder of why he usually doesn’t like having her in the cockpit. She’s so ridiculously excitable, cooing at the brilliant light of hyperspace or else constantly hopping up and down to look at the instruments. Which yes, hyperspace is beautiful and yes, the instruments are important, but not everything needs a running commentary. She was the one who was telling him not too long ago that he needed to focus on the mission.

But these frustrations are forgotten when Hoth appears through the viewport, pale and pretty and as if no desperate battle has taken place in its vicinity. No hint of the Empire, even. Absolutely nothing seems out of the ordinary.

“So far I’m not overwhelmed with evidence,” Hobbie notes dryly over the comm.

“Keep looking,” Wedge says, but inside he’s starting to sink. Seeing Hoth look so pristine has thrown into his face how absurd his and Haya’s idea really is. As if by simply coming back here they could ever find out anything about Luke.

Haya blinks at him from her perch on the scope. “You’re spiralling, Wedge. Stop it. We’re here now. Let’s just see what we can find out about Luke.”

Wedge scoffs. “You heard Hobbie, Haya. There’s nothing out here.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t even looked.”

Wedge laughs, but there’s no malice to it. Only exhaustion. “Just because you want something to be true doesn’t mean it is, Haya.” He rubs his face, his vision blurring into a field of white. “There might not be anything out here. And even if there is, it’s possible that it leads nowhere good.” He lets out a ragged breath and murmurs, “Luke might have been captured by the Empire.”

This. This is what Wedge has been fearing the most, that he hasn’t dared to speak aloud until now.

Haya hops from the scope to his lap. “Wedge, don’t be ridiculous. If the Empire had Luke, we’d all know it by now. The Empire would never stop bragging from one corner of the galaxy to the other that they finally have Luke Skywalker. The fact that they’re silent shows that they’re just as in the dark about where he is as we are.”

It’s a more persuasive argument than he expected from his daemon. “It’s possible,” Wedge concedes. “Even likely. But…that still doesn’t mean we’ll be able to figure out where in the hells he actually is.”

Haya pecks his forefinger. “Just because it isn’t obvious doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Luke has to have come through this atmosphere in order to get to wherever he eventually ended up. We just need to find the trace he’s left behind.”

Wedge chews on that, looking through the viewport with critical new eyes. “Luke had to have been the last X-wing to leave this system,” he realizes. “That means any sort of residual signature his fighter left is probably the strongest—that is, if we could find a way to track it.” He looks down at his daemon and smiles. “You just might be onto something, Haya.”

Haya fluffs her feathers at this gratitude and then goes back to the scope to peer out at the multitude of stars through the canopy.

Wedge flips on his comm again to tell the others about this new possibility. Hobbie grumbles something indistinct about tracking flight signatures being above his paygrade. Tycho replies in a more positive tone, “We actually might be able to track something like that. Back on Hoth, one of the techs told me something interesting. He said that if you recalibrated your hyperdrive while in flight, it would show recent imprints of previous runs of the same fighter model in the same area. I suppose it’s meant to be a survival mechanism, since the only reason a hyperdrive would really recalibrate in flight is if it had taken some sort of damage. But I think maybe I could replicate it?”

“This could work!” Haya murmurs excitedly. Wedge says over the comm, slightly more worried, “Couldn’t that be dangerous?”

“Oh, come now, Wedge. You know danger is the Rogues’ middle name.”

“You’re thinking of impossible, Tycho,” Hobbie says tartly. “And you’re not even a Rogue anymore, remember?”

“Once a Rogue, always a Rogue. And danger technically falls under the umbrella of impossible.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Exactly!”

Wes is silent, not joining in with any of this bantering, nor when Wedge gives his tentative go ahead to Tycho in trying his hackneyed plan.

What follows is a near thirty minutes worth of Tycho moving is fighter in alarming patterns and muttering indecipherable things at Tessef. At one point, he even suggests that Hobbie try shooting at him (which Hobbie says he’ll “think about”) before finally cutting in with, “No, wait, I think I’ve got it. Just give me a moment to send over the data.”

Wedge breathes a sigh of relief first before twisting with a mixture of excitement and nervousness second. His scope flickers and then data starts crawling across.

Lots of fainter signatures moving towards heavily tracked exit vectors. So many that it gets difficult to tell them all apart.

All, that is, except for one.

“This,” Haya says, tapping the signature with her beak. “This one has to be Luke.”

It’s hard to explain otherwise. It’s the brightest one, for starters, when the others are only dull streaks. It’s also the only one that doesn’t mirror at least two dozen other signatures towards a waypoint. Instead, it moves on a lone path towards the final edges of the Outer Rim and, depending on how long it continued on this trajectory, possibly even reached Wild Space.

“What the hell were you up to, Luke?” Wedge hears Hobbie mutter over the comm, and he can see why. It’s as if Luke decided to travel to the most remote part of the galaxy he could think of.

“Better question,” Tycho cuts in, “how do we narrow down Luke’s location from this?”

That’s the billion credit question. All they have here is a trajectory, not a destination. Theoretically, he could have stopped anywhere along this path.

If he stopped on this path. It’s also possible he used this strange vector as his own homemade waypoint. Which would mean they’d be back at square one.

“Look, wherever he is,” Wes adds abruptly, “we’ll have to figure that out on Home One. Our hour here is almost up, and we need to start heading back.”

Tycho and Hobbie grumble over the comm, but then duly start turning their fighters back towards the waypoint. “No!” Haya pipes up, hopping back into Wedge’s lap. “We’re so close! We can’t just leave now!”

“We have to,” Wedge replies. It’s not as if he’s thrilled they have to stop here either, and he’s growing increasingly resentful at Wes’s surly behaviour, but Wes is right. They set a deadline for a reason. “We’ve gotten all we can from here. And we can analyze the data better back on Home One.”

She seems vaguely mollified by this common sense, or else sees the futility in protesting when she’s trapped in a cockpit with him. The four of them peel off, leaving this strange frozen planet for a final time.

Watching the frenetic light of hyperspace, Wedge thinks that perhaps there is one other reason why Haya agreed to return. Because as frustrating as it is to end their search so soon, they both feel an intense amount of hope at holding this small scrap of evidence. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s certainly more than they had a day ago. And it’s a reminder that Luke is still out there. Somehow. Somewhere.

They land back on Home One, the hangar as still as they left it. It seems as if no one’s missed them, no one has recognized anything amiss, and they’ll get away with their moment of disobedience.

Well, or so Wedge thinks. Right until a technician suddenly appears with wide eyes and murmurs, “General Rieekan wanted to see the four of you as soon as you returned. Where have you been?”

“I’d ask where you’ve been,” Rieekan says dryly, “but I think I can imagine.”

They’re standing in the middle of the command centre for their dressing down, that manka cat of Rieekan’s looking at them with disdain. The four of them remain silent, their daemons beside them so still and quiet that it would make the Empire proud.

Not that Wedge thinks it will help much.

“So let me ask you about something that I’m a little more unclear about,” Rieekan adds, leaning a hand on the holoprojector. “Whose idea was this?”

Wedge can sense Haya’s defiance from his shoulder, her lack of remorse for what they’ve done. But Wedge feels a little more guilt. He presses his lips together, steadying himself to speak, when Wes steps forward. “It was mine, sir.”

That’s not true!

Wes snaps his head in Wedge’s direction, as if sensing his thoughts. Wedge hesitates. He doesn’t want Wes to take the blame, but somehow he thinks Wes won’t forgive him if he steps forward now.

“Ah, Janson,” Rieekan drawls, gaze focusing on him. “Well, since you’re so keen on making everyone fly, you can help the tech crew with that for the next two weeks.”

It’s no Imperial punishment, but it’s certainly not a fate that Wedge would enjoy. “Yes, sir,” Wes agrees, no hint of mockery or disappointment in his tone.

Rieekan’s glance broadens to include all of them. “I don’t want to hear of this happening again,” he says in a stern tone. “If I do, I promise you, there will be worse consequences than this.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus dutifully.

“Good. Dismissed.” And before Wedge can feel relief, Rieekan turns his rapt attention on him. “Except for you, Antilles.”

Not good. But Wedge shakes his head at the questioning looks of his friends and directs them to go before anything worse happens.

Just the two of them, Rieekan straightens, half of his mouth curling into a smile, his daemon sitting perfectly still beside him. “This was your idea,” he says, not sounding smug or triumphant, just exhausted.

Wedge hadn’t anticipated this. Haya’s talons squeeze a little at their sudden entrapment. “It was, sir. I’m not sure why Janson decided to take the blame.”

“Because he’s your friend. Because that’s what people do in the Alliance. They sacrifice.” Rieekan sighs, and the manka cat lies down on her paws. “I need you to understand how bad this could have been, Antilles,” he adds quietly. “You four very well could have been captured by the Empire. And it says something that I cannot trust the leadership of two of the most important flight squadrons in the Alliance.”

His quiet words cut deep, but Wedge knows he deserves it. “I understand, sir. And I apologize for my reckless behaviour.”

Rieekan shakes his head, his gaze falling away from Wedge. “For what it’s worth, Commander, you are not the only one who’s worried about our missing.”

Wedge knows little about this man, except that he’s Alderaanian, and that he’s seen Leia sometimes draw to his side during moments of panic in the Rebellion, but even so, it’s not hard to imagine who he’s referring to here.

Wedge takes a step forward, willing to offer his small shred of comfort, pitiful as it is. “Sir, I know what we obtained on this mission was unauthorized, but we found a signature of an X-wing that might be worth looking into.”

Rieekan’s eyes comes back to rest on him. He smiles. “Send it to me, and I promise we’ll look into it. I don’t approve of how you’ve done it, but the Alliance will always take into consideration any sort of intel.”

“Thank you, sir.” It’s more than Wedge expected he would get. Which means he needs to pay for it. “I will also accept any punishment you see fit for my insubordination.”

Even Haya, still unrepentant, does not let out a murmur against this offering.

The exhaustion in Rieekan’s eyes deepens. “You’re not being punished.”

“But, but, but, sir,” Wedge splutters, “last time I was here, you said—”

“A bluff, nothing more. A bluff that clearly didn’t work because you still ended up disobeying me.” Rieekan laughs, but there’s no malice behind it. Just that damned exhaustion. “But the truth is that I need you flying more than I need you on a work detail or grounded by medics. The sole reason I’ve punished Janson is because I think severing him as a distraction might keep you on target with Rogue Squadron.”

“I understand, sir.” This chastens Wedge far more than any actual punishment would. And perhaps Rieekan knows it, too. “Tell me what I need to do to help Janson.”

A corner of Rieekan’s mouth twitches and the manka cat flicks her tail again. “Get rid of those pirates. You do that, and I’ll see about having Janson’s punishment curtailed.”

“Wedge,” Haya murmurs a few minutes later, once they’ve stumbled out of command.

“Don’t,” Wedge hisses. He is very close to grabbing her and tossing her from his shoulder. “I think you’ve done enough for today, Haya.”

“Oh, so you’re blaming me for this?” she retorts. Always she fights back. Always she has to say what she’s thinking. “As I recall, you were just as eager to look for Luke as me.”

“You’re the one who made the plan, Haya! You’re the one who keeps doing things we shouldn’t be!” He barely manages to suppress a scream. The Empire’s wrong about so many things, but he thinks they’re right in this. Daemons, they told him often, are an entire gateway to impulses and desires that no human would ever think of otherwise. He shrugs his shoulders so that she’s forced to fly to the ground. “Well, it’s over,” he bites out. “And I’m not interested in hearing anything else you have to say.”

He turns on heel and starts a brisk pace down the corridor. She follows. Which is ridiculous. She could fly to any part of the ship she wants to. And he could just turn around right now and tell her to leave him alone. But she stays and he doesn’t tell her otherwise.

He wants to find Wes. He’s not really sure why except that they have unfinished business. But maybe that’s not entirely true. Wes has a way of making him happy. And right now, more than anything, he wants to be happy.

Wes isn’t in their quarters or the hangar. Most of the hallways are still empty, the main shift not set to begin for several hours yet.

Finally, Wedge tries one of the cramped storage rooms that’s been converted into a sort of rec space. It’s humid and dark and the only thing anyone has to sit on are overturned crates, but it’s better than nothing. This early, there’s not many people here—just two pathfinders having a loud conversation about the shittiness of command and, in the back corner, barely visible, Wes with a bottle. Mina sits at his heels, looking at Wedge with those glowing eyes.

Haya comes over first, perching herself on a nearby crate, and Wes startles up. But his eyes are glazed and hard, and they don’t seem to lighten in recognition of Wedge. “So,” he says, tilting the bottle idly, “I take it Rieekan’s finished with you.” Wedge nods, taking the seat nearest him. “And what terrible secret did he have to tell you?”

“That he knew you lied for me,” Wedge admits. He really wishes those two loud pathfinders complaining about everything weren’t here. “Which I still don’t understand why you did it.”

Wes raises the bottle and drinks deep. “If you’re asking me that,” he says roughly, when he comes up for air, “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand.”

Wedge feels this brittle response like a blaster bolt. “Wes, you don’t know that. Just—”

“I’m not in a mood to talk to you right now.”

His voice is entirely cold, no familiarity, no warmth. Haya hops down from her perch, away from this man who clearly loathes their presence and back to Wedge’s side. “All right,” Wedge murmurs. “I’ll leave you alone then.”

He gets to his feet, stumbling back through the dark room. He needs to leave. He needs to get out of here before he does something that he’s going to regret. He pushes past the pathfinders just in time to hear one of them mutter, “And at least that Skywalker boy is gone. He was a damned nuisance.”

Haya lets out a hiss, and the sound reverberates in Wedge’s sternum. He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing until he whirls around to face the pathfinder. “You shut your fucking mouth about Skywalker,” he growls.

“A friend of yours, pilot?” the pathfinder scoffs. His companion looks more concerned at this confrontation, but the man shakes him off. “Well, not everyone in the Rebellion is so wide-eyed about that kid and his ability to wreak havoc for the Alliance.”

Wedge stiffens. “Skywalker is worth more than all you pathfinders put together,” he hisses.

“Shut your mouth,” the pathfinder snarls. His daemon, a Loth-cat, scratches one of her long claws against the crate she’s perched on. “I’ll say worse than that,” he sneers. “If he ever does return, we should have Skywalker shot for desertion.”

Wedge listens to this, bristling with all the anger and hatred and grief and affection he’s felt for Luke since this began. But he doesn’t respond.

Instead, Haya responds for him.

She dives, quick as a blaster shot, bringing her wings inwards to increase her speed, and raising her talons in preparation to dig into the Loth-cat’s fur. The man flinches backwards when they slam together and then tumble off the crate in a clash of fur and feathers and claws and talons. Haya scratches in deep, and Wedge feels a vibration of anger and heat and deep satisfaction within him. But then the pathfinder lets out a strangled cry, and it hits Wedge like a shock of cold water what his daemon is doing.

“Stop, Haya!” But Haya seems uninterested in his plea. And her Loth-cat combatant doesn’t seem inclined to simply bend down in submission. Tearing itself out of Haya’s talons, it rears back and slashes Haya’s chest with a claw. Wedge hisses, feeling the wound burn through his own chest. “Haya!”

He needs to stop this before either daemon is seriously hurt. But Haya, as ever, seems heedless to his concerns. She shrieks at her wound and then furiously goes in to attack the Loth-cat’s face, as if she wants to tear out its eyes.

“Stop hurting her, you brat!” the pathfinder cries, reaching forward as if he wants to pull them apart.

He seems almost uncaring of the taboo barrier. Wedge is rooted with terror, reliving when this happened before, remembering the pain that was worse than any burn across his chest or ache he’s endured from Luke’s absence. Every raw instinct of survival surges within him. “Don’t touch her!”

Another daemon suddenly snaps into the fray, black and big and snarling furiously. It picks up the Loth-cat before its human can, tossing it to the opposite wall and then racing over to pin it with a paw.

So different from the happy, sweet-natured daemon he usually knows, so bunched with anger and violence, it takes Wedge a moment to place this familiar creature as Mina.

It takes a little less time to place Wes striding forward, though he, too, seems remarkably different. His eyes have a wild ferocity to them, an almost feral enjoyment casting his mouth as he regards the pathfinder before him hissing in pain at the sensation of his pinned daemon.

“You either didn’t know who you were brawling with, or else you’re incredibly stupid,” Wes says in a cold tone. “But Antilles is a pilot, and we protect our own. I see you messing with him again, and I’ll do worse than this. Clear?”

The man nods quickly, his partner looking antsy and fearful and not likely to intervene in any sizable way.

“Good.” Mina releases her paw. The Loth-cat jolts up. “Now, get out of here. Both of you.”

They don’t need to be told twice. The pathfinder scoops up his daemon and then they’re both gone.

Threat dissipated, Wedge instantly looks for Haya and finds her weakly hopping towards him. It’s instinct to pick her up, cradle her against his chest as he sinks to floor, all anger at her reckless actions melted away. He touches the rough scratch marks on her upper body and senses her trembling and feels furious at that wretched pathfinder all over again.

“You okay?” He looks up to see Wes draw near, concern etched in his eyes. Mina is by his side again, snarling expression gone and crouched to the floor as if to make herself smaller. Haya wriggles out of his grasp before he can respond and hops over to Mina who leans over and starts licking the nasty scratches. Wedge relaxes at this kind gesture from a daemon after he and Haya have just experienced the opposite. Wes sits next to him, shoulder pressed to his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Wedge finally replies. He thinks Wes will know it’s a lie, but he doesn’t care. “Anyway, I thought you wanted to be alone.” It’s probably petty of him to bring up, but he still feels a little hurt.

“I changed my mind,” Wes says, as if this is an answer. But Wedge is grateful enough for the change not to poke at it. Wes hands over his liquor and Wedge takes a gulp large enough to make his eyes burn. Haya lets out a hiccup and Wes laughs enough that Wedge ends up laughing too.

They spend some time like that, passing the bottle back and forth and insulating their senses. Mina keeps assiduously licking Haya’s fur until she becomes an overly fluffed puddle on the floor. Wedge leans against Wes, enjoying his closeness and warmth.

Finally Wes murmurs, “He was trying to get at your daemon, wasn’t he.”

Wedge tightens his grip on the bottle, taking another drink for good measure. “I thought so. I might have been wrong.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have been putting his hand in there like that,” Wes growls, eyes flashing with that unnatural light again. Something Wedge somehow finds both comforting and terrifying. “If I ever see him again—”

“Wes,” Mina says quietly, briefly moving away from Haya to press against his side, “we need to focus on Wedge and Haya right now.”

The light drains from his eyes. “You’re right,” he agrees, briefly stroking Mina’s head. Then he looks back at Wedge. “Let’s get you back to our quarters.”

That’s a bit more arduous of a process than first glance may suggest. Both he and Wes have imbibed enough to be unsteady on their feet, and Wedge and Haya are still shaken by what’s happened. In the end, Haya flutters her trembling wings up so that Mina can carry her on her back, and Wedge leans his weight on Wes as they make their slow trek back.

There’s no great reward waiting once they get there. Wedge looks at this tiny, half-lit room aboard this humid, cramped ship and thinks about how much he doesn’t want to be here. He collapses on his bunk, Haya skittering around his heels.

“It was Luke that pathfinder was talking about, wasn’t it.”

Wedge looks up. Wes still stands near the doorway, face impassive. Mina is crouched nearby.

“Yes,” Wedge agrees. There’s no point in denying what Wes already likely overheard. But he doesn’t like the expression on Wes’s face. Nor Mina’s, for that matter. Those amber eyes that seem to know all.

“There’s something I don’t get,” Wes continues relentlessly. “Don’t get me wrong, we all care about Luke, but you…you seem far more attached to him than the rest of us. You seem near obsessed with finding him.”

Wedge releases a part-sigh, part-hiss, his chest still stinging a little. This hits far too close to the truth. “No,” he says, but he knows his voice sounds weak. He can sense Haya watching this conversation intently. “That’s not true. You’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” Wes asks, voice soft. “There’s nothing wrong with…”

With. That dangerous word that will lead to nowhere good. “I have to find him,” Wedge admits, voice breaking. Haya lets out a whimper. “Because…”

But even here, on the edge of revelation, he’s capable of silence.

Not Haya, though. That damned daemon of his who can never hold her tongue hops forward and wails, “Because we didn’t get the chance to tell him we loved him when he was still here!”

“Shut up,” Wedge growls, instantly on his feet. “Just shut up!” He reaches for his datapad and flings it in her direction. It smashes against the wall harmlessly as she flutters up to her vent, watching him intently.

He’s furious enough to try again, but Wes gets a grip on his arm before he can. “Wedge, it’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly. As if anything about this could be soothing. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay that you’re upset.”

“No, it’s not,” he argues, but bereft of any anger. Haya has tumbled loose all his words. “Nothing about this is okay.”

Wes watches him, no reaction of judgement or pity. “Why?”

The truth that Wedge hates. “Because…because I can’t go through it again…caring about someone and losing them…not after…especially after…”

“Skystrike,” Haya says from her perch, and Wedge is past any sort of anger. He just looks at Wes and nods with the weight of the galaxy.

Mina takes a step forward and then halts. “You’ve never spoken much about Skystrike,” Wes says slowly. “And that doesn’t have to change if you don’t want it to.”

Wedge appreciates the line of escape, but he thinks it’s a little more complicated than that. Because right now he’s got liquor in his blood, and he’s failed Luke in his secret promise, and he’s so sick of Haya being the first to blurt out anything at the most inopportune time. Maybe for once he wants to be the one who gets to feel these things.

He slumps back down on the bunk. “You have no idea how awful it was there,” he says wearily. “It wasn’t even until after I left that I realized the extent of it all.”

“I’m sorry,” Wes offers, sitting next to him. Not a comfort, perhaps, but he’s also not prompting Wedge with questions or trying to dissuade him from this line of thought. For now he seems willing to be quiet and listen.

“We had a plan,” Wedge continues, gripping his arms tightly to his chest in protection. “We sent a message out to the Rebellion, and a young woman named Sabine came to try to get us out.” He lets out a breath, feeling a hysterical urge to laugh. “But everything went wrong. Skystrike figured out someone had sent a message, and they confined all cadets to quarters so they could interrogate us one by one. I didn’t know what the others were going to do, but I knew me and Rake at least needed to try to make a break for it.” He hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned Rake before.”

“No,” Wes agrees softly.

“I wouldn’t have. Because…” And this is the part that Wedge doesn’t know if he has the words for. This is the part that always chokes his nightmares. “Because…he died when we tried to run. A couple of Imps caught us in a corridor, and…they killed him.”

It’s burned into his memory, to echo around in his head until his death. Rake’s body, like a puppet with cut strings, falling to the floor as the remnant of his moth daemon had turned to dust in an Imperial’s cruel hands.

“Oh, Wedge,” Wes murmurs, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. Another time Wedge might push away this vulnerability, but here he craves its warmth even as it breaks down the last of his reserves.

“And then they went after me,” Wedge continues, teeth chattering. “And…they touched Haya.”

He relives it again. The long hallway that seemed to stretch on forever. The rough hands that grabbed him only a heartbeat after Rake had fallen. And him screaming at Haya to run, to fly to anywhere that was safer than here, even as her increasing separation cut through his chest like a serrated knife.

The corridors were low, perhaps for such a purpose as this. It was incredibly easy for one of the Imperials to reach up and snatch her flying figure into his grasp. Wedge had felt those fingers and the malevolence lying within intensely. He’d felt consumed by their power.

Haya hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. She was always ferocious when threatened. She’d shrieked at the man, biting and clawing and scratching at every part of him to get free. But he hadn’t cared. He’d simply grasped her wing until it snapped, a terrible noise that had reverberated through every part of Wedge’s body. After that, he’d fallen limp in his captors’ hands, hardly cognizant of anything. Not then, at least.

“I don’t remember everything after that,” Wedge admits now. “But…I remember them talking. Saying something about how I could still be useful to the Empire, that there was a way they could stop my rebellious thoughts by…by separating me and Haya.” He looks over at Wes, face stricken with horror. “We’d heard rumours of such things as cadets, but…that’s when I later realized they were true.”

“But they didn’t do it,” Wes says gently, sounding almost as if he’s soothing himself as much as Wedge. “You escaped.”

So Wedge had. But that’s hardly a comfort to him now, as he watches Haya curled up in her vent listening to this conversation with her usual intensity. “I wish they’d done it,” he mutters.

“Wedge,” Wes whispers in that same vein of horror. Which is of course how he’d feel. He’s never had a negative thought towards his daemon in his life. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t mean—”

“I do!” Wedge means to sound furious, but tears are dripping down his face whether he wants them or not. “I do,” he echoes. “I wish now they’d cut Haya from me. At least then I’d be free from this.”

“Oh, Wedge…” Wes says softly, wrapping him up so tightly as Wedge sobs in his arms. Wedge watches with blurred eyes as Haya flies down from her perch to land in front of him. For all her talkativeness she is quiet here, in the aftermath of his declaration to be parted from her forever.

“I know it’s hard for you to see right now,” Wes murmurs, “but Haya is a part of you.”

Wedge shudders. “She makes me weak.”

“And so what if she does? What’s so wrong with being weak every once and a while? But, Wedge…what if she doesn’t? The Empire was frightened of your connection to her for a reason.”

Wedge considers that. It’s true that it was Haya who voiced the initial thought between the two of them that the Empire was wrong, that they weren’t meant to fly like this, long before he ever dared to.

“I wish you could see Haya the way I see her,” Wes continues quietly. “Because the way she protects you, the way you two fly…oh Wedge, I’ve never seen a human and daemon fly as perfectly as you two do. She’s beautiful.” He lets out a breath. “Just like you.”

Wedge pulls back. Something in Wes’s voice, his eyes, reverberates and strikes an inkling into the back of Wedge’s head. “You said I wouldn’t understand why you took the blame for me in front of Rieekan,” he realizes. “And before that you were angry with me.”

Wes’s features contort. “No, not at you.” He sighs, sounding resigned. “The truth is…I sort of already figured out why you were so upset at Luke’s disappearance. But I wasn’t mad at you.” He lets out a derisive laugh. “I was mad at myself. Because it was so bloody obvious when Haya was talking to Mina that you both wanted Luke so badly.” His gaze drops to the floor. “And it made me realize that you’re never going to look at me like that.”

Wedge feels stunned to his core. Wes Janson, the man who’s been cheerfully by his side for years, wants him.

Wes Janson, the man who could have anyone in the entire galaxy, wants him.

“Not true, you know,” Wedge finally manages to say. And when Wes looks back at him, he adds, “You should have asked me first. You might have found that I would have said yes.”

And then he leans forward and kisses him.

They’re both still half-drunk, and probably not thinking any of this through, but Wedge doesn’t care, and apparently neither does Wes. Wes responds instantly by tugging him closer, and Wedge eagerly moves into his lap, craving their closeness like nothing else.

“Wedge,” Wes breathes out after a moment, pupils blown. “Is this…are you sure…?”

Wedge nods in the affirmative, keeping a tight grip on Wes’s shoulders. “Luke isn’t here. Luke might not ever be here. But you are. You’re real. And tonight, I want you.”

It seems to be exactly what Wes needs to hear. He kisses Wedge again, tender and sweet and gentle and everything that Wedge is desperate for after Hoth, after Skystrike. He’s ravenous for every touch, every honey dripped word Wes will give him. It teases out all his thoughts so that soon enough Wedge isn’t thinking about anything except Wes’s body pressed against his.

“This is a lot warmer than Hoth,” Wes whispers in his ear a few hours later. “You know, except for your feet, that is.”

Wedge laughs. They’re both in his bunk, a tight enough fit that Wedge is more in Wes’s lap than not, but he thinks in this instance he doesn’t mind. With Wes, he feels secure and safe. “Stop giving me ideas, Janson,” he replies in mock seriousness.

“Oh, Commander Antilles!” Wes raises his hands in surrender. “I beg your mercy!”

Wedge considers his options. “Granted. If you can behave yourself.”

“Ha. You know I make no promises.”

Well, he’s honest at least. Wedge lies back on his chest, mind humming with contentment, until it trips over his tasks for the day. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I just realized that we were probably supposed to meet with Rogue Squadron hours ago.”

“Eh, let them be stood up,” Wes says lazily, stretching his hands behind his head. “It’s good for them to learn to anticipate the unexpected.”

Wedge pops his head back up. “Wes! We’ve already gotten chewed out by Rieekan! And I got into a fight last night! I do not need any new areas of concern!”

Wes snorts. “Oh, don’t worry. Our squadron mates are still too green to rat us out to Rieekan. Now, as for that man.” Spoken with such venom. “He’s the one who should be afraid you’re going to report on him. He’s the one who tried to touch your daemon, remember?”

Perhaps. Haya’s mention makes Wedge instinctually search her out, aware he hasn’t thought of her in a while. He finds her nestled nearby, cuddled into Mina’s thick coat and looking utterly content.

Truth is, most of the time Wedge has ended up in someone’s bed, Haya’s instinct has been to maintain her distance from other daemons, sometimes choosing not to even be in the same room. Which Wedge is not entirely disagreeable with. But he should have known Haya would keep no such distance from Mina. No wonder he feels so good.

“I’m sorry,” Wes says quietly. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s all right,” Wedge says, turning back to face him. Having given Wes so many secrets already, he doesn’t particularly mind revealing this one. “I wasn’t upset. I was just thinking that I don’t usually do this. With Haya here, I mean.”

“Oh. Is it too much?” Wes’s voice is threaded with concern.

“No.” Wedge is starting to feel self-conscious, so he lies back against Wes’s chest. “No, I like it.”

“Good,” Wes says firmly. “Er, I mean, it would be okay if you didn’t want to do it, though,” he adds more diplomatically. “I’ve always marvelled at how Haya can fly away from you so easily.”

Marvelled. As if this is a good thing, rather than the freakish horror everyone else sees it as. “Ever since what happened at Skystrike,” Wedge replies softly, still not wanting to look at him, “Haya’s been able to do that. I don’t know why exactly. If it was the fact they touched her, or because she was pulling away from me before that.”

It doesn’t hurt so much to speak about Skystrike anymore. Not with Wes pressed against him, stroking his hair. Not with Haya and Mina snuggled together. “It makes me so angry that they did that,” Wes murmurs, sparks of fury edging his tone. “Especially when—well, I’ve heard there’s pretty strict rules about daemon touching in the Core Worlds.”

“There are,” Wedge agrees. He’s forgotten that outside of the Core, rules about daemons can be very different. “Your daemon isn’t supposed to touched by anyone except you. The only exception is if your daemon is hurt or in extreme danger.” He still remembers his mother snatching him and Haya to safety once when they’d trapped themselves in part of the fueling station on Gus Treta. And he also remembers after he escaped Skystrike when Hera put pins in Haya’s wing so that it would heal properly. That had felt odd since, as a Twi’lek, she had her daemon integrated within her, and it somehow had felt both invasive and not when she’d touched his daemon.

“No other reason?”

“Well…” Wedge feels himself flush. “Sometimes lovers touch the daemons of their partner.”

There’s an inevitable question to be asked here, but Wes doesn’t reach for it. “Sometimes I have trouble with all these Core World daemon rules,” he replies instead. “Because, on Taanab, we didn’t really have any of them.”

“You didn’t?” Wedge asks, innately curious. “What did you have, then?”

Wes smiles and starts to tell him all about it as they both get up and get dressed for the day. How it’s common for family members and sometimes even close friends on Taanab to interact with the daemon of a person they care about. How Wes’s chaotic family life on a farm was about rough housing and helping each other out and plucking up a sibling’s daemon into their arms if they were feeling down. And how, when Wes was very little, his mother’s daemon—a hound, just like Wes—would watch over him while she was busy running the household, licking his tears when he cried, and curling next to him when he slept.

Wedge listens to all of this with wonder and a slight edge of fear. Haya hops back beside him, and Wedge thinks again on lovers touching the daemons of another. Strait-laced Core World thinking decrees it a sacred act. More sacred than sex.

“Ask him,” Haya says, pecking at his foot. “Ask him, ask him!”

“Ask me what?” Wes inquires, bringing a leg back out of the refresher.

Nothing, Wedge would have said yesterday. “Haya’s heard enough of your tales on Taanab,” he says today. “She wants you to touch her.”

Wes stares at him open-mouthed, and Wedge thinks for a moment he’s made a mistake. “You have no idea how much I’d like that,” Wes says huskily. “But…you really want this? Both of you?”

“Yes!” Haya says instantly, hopping forward.

“Yes,” Wedge confirms. It’s true, there is a part of him that’s hesitant and afraid to show off any vulnerable side of him that could be ripped to shreds. But there’s a much bigger part of him that wants the man who called Haya beautiful to touch her. “It’s not just Haya. I want it.”

Wes’s face glows. “Then I would be honoured.” He takes a slow step into the room, stretching out his arm for Haya to perch on. And Haya doesn’t hesitate, immediately flying upwards to land on it.  Wedge lets out a shaky sigh.

“There we go, pretty girl,” Wes murmurs softly, looking her over. He hesitates, just for a moment, before stroking underneath her throat.

As intense as it is when daemons interact with each other, Wes interacting with Haya is something else. The deep vulnerability is still there, but Wedge knows now there’s nothing to be afraid of. In Wes’s hands, there’s only warmth and care and love.

Haya knows this as well, reveling in his touch and making a noise that sounds strangely close to a purr. Eventually she climbs up his arm to his shoulder, butting her head against Wes’s chin. Watching the two of them together, seeing Haya on Wes’s shoulder the way she usually is on his, feels deeply satisfying in a way Wedge doesn’t even know how to describe.

Mina, head bent, tentatively treads from Wes’s side closer to Wedge. “Mina,” Wes says in a warning tone, “Wedge might not want to.”

So this is what she’s after. She’s always coming so near him, as if yearning to feel his touch. “I didn’t say that,” Wedge replies, perhaps a little too eager. “That is, if you do want me to?”

“Yes!” Wes and Mina say in the same excited tone. That settles it.

Wedge does feel slightly nervous, though. He’s never touched anyone’s daemon before and isn’t quite sure where to start. He carefully reaches out a hand, and that’s all he needs to do before Mina eagerly presses herself in. Her fearsome coat is soft and velvety, and she has an inner warmth that makes her cozy to touch. Wes said that Haya was beautiful, but Wedge thinks Mina must be just as lovely and tells her so.

Mina, tail now wagging furiously, presses even more into his touch, but there’s hardly anywhere else for her to go. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have a daemon this big. Even when she could change forms, Haya was usually something compact…but Wedge remembers one time when she wasn’t. A time when they were both very young, and Syal had left for good. He’d felt achingly lonely then, and Haya had transformed into a Corellian slice hound to lick his face. He’d hugged her big body to his chest and pressed his head into the nape of her neck and sobbed his heart out. It wasn’t Syal, but it was still comforting.

On impulse, he sits himself on the floor. Mina doesn’t hesitate, immediately coming to lie in his lap. He wraps his arms around this perfect creature, feeling her body heat his, and tries to think of a moment when he’s felt as happy as this.

Wes comes down to sit beside him, Haya still perched on his shoulder. “You two look so good together,” he murmurs.

Wedge grins, scratching behind one of Mina’s ears. “Me? You should see you. Haya isn’t digging her talons in at all?”

“Oh, so that’s what that is!”

Wedge laughs. They spend a little more time like this—far too short in his estimation—sitting together and holding each other’s daemon and laughing. But it can’t continue indefinitely. “I really do have to check in with Rogue Squadron soon,” Wedge notes with reluctance.

“Yeah,” Wes says with a sigh. “And I suppose I should be checking in with my temporary family of techs.”

Right. Wes is still on punishment detail. Wedge hems over revealing his deal with Rieekan, but thinks better of it. Better to speak with Wes when he actually has something tangible to offer.

And he knows just what to do to get it.

When Wes and Mina are gone with another see you around, Chief, Haya hops back onto Wedge’s shoulder and preens his hair assiduously, the greatest sign of her happiness. Wedge hesitates, before stroking her chest, her wings, and, eventually, her head. She pauses her preening to butt into Wedge’s hand in mimicry of her response to Wes. He knows she preens him rather than initiate a more overt gesture of affection. Since Skystrike, he’s rarely enjoyed affection.

Finished, he shrugs his shoulders, but gently this time, and then stretches out his hand so that she can move down his arm and look at him as he speaks. “Haya, I know we don’t always get along.”

She blinks at him, tilting her head. “You never listen to what I have to say,” she says briskly, and he hears in her voice a reflection of his own hurt and stubbornness.

“I know,” Wedge admits. “Because I see you as impulsive and emotional and filled with things that I don’t always want to listen to.”

“Because you’re afraid of what might happen if you do. You’re afraid of being hurt as badly as we’ve been before.”

Wedge winces. “I don’t always understand you.”

“Well, I don’t always understand you, either.”

“But,” he cuts in before she can get out any more of her pithy remarks, “I’m going to stop wishing you and I were separated. We’re a part of each other, and even if I don’t always see it, Wes sees something in us together that we wouldn’t have apart. We’re one being, and from now on, I’m going to try to think of us in that light.”

Haya looks at him with longing. “I’ve only ever wanted to stay with you,” she whispers.

“I know,” Wedge says, stroking her head. “And you’re going to, Haya. I promise.”

She lets out a soft sound. “Good,” she murmurs. Then she clambers back up to cling tightly to his shoulder, squeezing just enough not to be parted from him rather than to hurt him. “Now,” she says, in their shared business-like manner, “let’s go find our Rogues.”

They do. Wedge gathers the Rogues back together, gives them one final training session, and then the next day he flies them out against the pirates in the midst of another raid. His squadron isn’t ready, but he’s not sure they were ever going to be.

When they return they’re down three pilots and the mission is technically a success. Wedge lets his pilots ramble around the hangar for the rest of the day, high off what they’ve accomplished and grieving their comrades and eager to get back out there and fight. Once most of the others have exhausted themselves and left, Jesmin tentatively comes over to him and asks if every fight will be like this. Wedge says some of the time, and Haya says yes, and Wedge feels less irritated by her outburst than he would have in the past. If Jesmin leaves not completely at peace, she’s at least not so bent over.

The last of his pilots gone, Wedge submits his report to Rieekan, and the next day Wes is miraculously released from his work detail, joining Wedge once more with the Rogues and cheekily asking them if they’ve missed him.

He and Wedge don’t end up in bed again, nor do they have such an intimate moment with their daemons as they did that first day, but they’re closer than they were before, more in tune in the way they work together or fly together or when Hobbie says something morose and Wes immediately blinks ridicule in Wedge’s direction. And every once and a while, Mina will briefly nose Wedge’s hand, or Haya will hop next to Wes and peck at his foot until he strokes the top of her head exactly the way she likes.

Life starts to resume a measure of normality. Wedge wakes once, in the middle of a night shift, and realizes he hasn’t thought on Luke in days. He feels guilt, but he also wonders if this isn’t a good thing. If Luke really is gone, then maybe it’s time for him to move on.

The next day, when Wedge is joking in the mess with Wes, Hobbie abruptly appears, even more ashen-faced than usual. “Luke’s here,” he says quietly, looking at Wedge with all too knowing eyes.

Wedge’s heart thuds oddly. Then he stands and races for the hangar.

Halfway there, Haya—who usually sticks close to his side these days—suddenly takes wing and darts for the hangar. Wedge can sense her desperation and doesn’t begrudge her. He also appreciates her ability to find another vantage point, especially when he gets there himself and sees a crowd has already formed.

It isn’t just Luke who’s returned, he realizes. Leia and Chewie, already off the Falcon, are surrounded by Rebel personnel and appear disheveled and weary and anxious. Another man quickly follows whom Wedge has never seen and who’s wearing a cape and who has a mouse daemon perched on his shoulder wearing the exact same cape.

No Han.

It’s Luke, of course, that Wedge wants to see, but medics instantly rush forward the moment he stumbles out, hustling him away before any of them can get near. Wedge only catches a brief glimpse of Luke looking pale-faced and clutching his arm before he’s gone.

Haya reappears, landing back on Wedge’s shoulder. “Ami’s finally settled,” she says, the concern evident in her voice.

“She has?” Wedge strains to look above the crowds for Luke’s sweet-natured daemon.

Then he realizes he doesn’t have to. Trotting in Luke’s wake is Ami, but not any Ami that Wedge can remember. Here, she’s a lumbering large-winged dragon that seems to be missing the tip of her tail. She’s smaller than a real dragon, but a huge daemon nonetheless. Even with all the exemptions and inclusivity that the Rebellion has tried to make for its pilots, there’s no way that Luke will be able to pilot an X-wing again with a daemon like this.

Wedge cannot recall Ami ever shifting into a dragon before.

“It was Vader.”

He turns. Leia looks back at him, exhaustion edging lines around her mouth. Her daemon—named Sun Dragon, though ironically enough not a dragon, but a pretty snake currently slithering around her wrist—presses his fork-tongue out at Wedge in greeting.

“What?” Wedge murmurs, feeling dizzy. “Is that where he’s been all this time?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not quite sure where he’s been, but it wasn’t with Vader. They only met because he was trying to rescue me.” Sun Dragon squeezes around her wrist. Her eyes flicker. “And suffered for it.”

Wedge looks back to the place where Luke was hustled towards medbay. “He hurt his arm?”

“He lost his hand.”

Bile rises up within Wedge. He remembers Ami’s tail. “Will he be all right?”

Leia glances away. “I hope so.”

That’s the end of their conversation. Others clamour for Leia’s attention and Wedge stumbles away, hardly believing what he’s heard and seen.

“We have to visit him,” Haya says from his shoulder, preening his hair. These days, she mostly prods him through affection rather than pain, but he can sense the tips of her talons wanting to dig in. “He needs us.”

Wedge agrees. He whirls around, ready to head for medbay and Luke, when he catches sight of Wes near the entrance of the hangar, eyes only for him.

There’s something just underneath the surface of his expression, something like reproach or hurt or confusion, before Wes abruptly turns and leaves.

That night, after he and Haya have gone to visit Luke and Ami, Wedge returns to his quarters. He still wants to speak to Wes about what’s happened, wants him to understand how they knew this would change everything. But Wes is already in bed, face turned towards the wall, Mina pressed against him with those glowing eyes.

Wedge wonders if he’s really asleep. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter. Wes doesn’t want to talk to him.

So Wedge retreats to his bunk and Haya to her perch. And in the suffocating silence, they both try to find some way to sleep.