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Hoth was easily the biggest clusterfuck you've ever had the horror of being a part of, an unfortunately high bar to meet.
And Hoth had just hurdled right over it.
Every plan, every contingency had been destroyed by the Empire the second it was put into motion. Even after escaping the frozen hellhole and the main blockade, the Empire had still managed to station a Star Destroyer in the path of the three transports you and Wes had been tasked with escorting. When the Bright Hope went down, you had no choice but to split and scatter, Wes going with one transport while you went with the other.
It simultaneously feels like long years and only minutes have passed by the time you make it to the rest of the fleet, and you lean back in your seat, a noise somewhere between a laugh of incredulity and a sob of pure relief escaping you. Your transport made it. You made it.
How many others did? How many others didn't? You try not to count the present transport ships. And fail.
Thirteen, including Thon's Orchard, the one you'd just arrived with. Out of thirty.
You hate the number thirty.
Wes and Tycho are waiting for you as you climb down from your cockpit, and you only barely manage to get your helmet off before Wes' arms are around you, clutching you so tight it's painful. But the pain is a reminder that you're alive, so you wrap the arm not holding the helmet around him in return.
"Sithspit," Wes hisses into your hair -- it's plastered to your skull with sweat, but he's not any better off. He pulls back to look at you, still gripping your shoulders, while your hand moves to his elbow. "I spent the whole rest of the way here wondering if you'd gotten out of the way of that Star Destroyer, you asshole."
His voice doesn't match his words; you're honestly not sure you've ever heard him this emotional before. You can't blame him.
"Got out of there only a few minutes after you -- Thon's Orchard took some drive damage and we had to make short jumps to get here." You squeeze his elbow in reassurance before you let your hand drop. "Where's Hobbie? Is he all right?" You remember his cry over the comm when he went down; your heart had clenched, but you didn't have time to think about it at that moment. Or after. Or until just this second.
Tycho nods, hanging just behind Wes. "He's in med bay -- his transport was the first here."
Wes takes your helmet from you and tosses it off to a tech. "They've already got him in his traditional post-mission bacta dip, medtechs say he'll be fine, but his prosthetics will need some work."
You didn't realize just how tense you'd been until you slump in relief, almost wobbling on your feet a little bit. Hobbie survived. Hobbie was going to be fine. Hobbie was safe.
But now it's time to worry about everyone else, so you straighten back up, the moment only lasting long enough for Wes and Tycho to notice. "What's everyone else's status?"
Wes takes a deep breath. "Nine total casualties on planet, and we lost Kesin before his and Hobbie's transport got here."
Ten total. Nearly half of Rogue Group. Your gut churns. "Who made it?"
"Most of the rest." Tycho starts ticking names off on his fingers. "Other than us, Hightower, Makintay, and Tarheel have all reported in; Datch too, now that you and the Orchard are here, and Farr's escape pod was picked up by the Quantum Storm -- her injuries are pretty severe, but she's in bacta right now. No word from Mison or Hetsime and their transports, yet. Rendar made it off planet, but who knows where he might be at."
Nine survivors (two of them in medbay), two MIA, and one irritating mercenary. Out of twenty-three--
Your heart drops somewhere below your stomach when you realize there's one name they haven't mentioned. "...Where's Luke?" You had assumed he wasn't in the hangar because he had been pulled away for some sort of debriefing -- he would have been here, alongside Tycho and Wes, waiting for you if he hadn't been. But Tycho and Wes glance at each other -- Tycho is stone-faced, while Wes looks pained. You know the answer, but you ask again anyway. "Where is Luke?"
Tycho puts a hand on your shoulder. "Just running late, I'm sure. You only just got here, after all."
Sure, you'd only just gotten here -- long after everyone else should have. "There's no word? What about the transport he was escorting? Have they made any contact?" You try to keep the panic out of your voice. The questions are pointless, you're well aware. Tycho and Wes wouldn't be holding back information if they had it, but you can't not ask.
Wes grabs your elbow, but Tycho is the one speaking again, his tone infuriatingly even. "The Dutyfree arrived two hours ago. They said Luke never connected with them."
Your chest tightens. No, no, no, you just got him back from the icy wastes of Hoth, you just dealt with the heart-clenching worry of losing him, it's not fair that you have to immediately go through this again. Luke is the best of all of you, he should have been the first here. He should have been waiting for you, right there by your X-wing as soon as the engines were off, there with his familiar, brilliant smile, wrapping his arms tight around you and giving the two of you a moment to appreciate that you were alive, that you both had made it through hell together once again.
But he's not here, and Tycho and Wes can probably feel you start to shake.
"Captain Antilles." Your head snaps to the ensign approaching you. Tycho's hand drops from your shoulder, but Wes' grip on your elbow tightens. "Sir, the fleet is about to jump to hyperspace. You're wanted in the--"
"Absolutely the fuck not," you snarl, and the ensign steps back. Wes says your name quietly, and you still before brushing off his hand. "We're still waiting on the rest."
"With all due respect, sir, we've waited as long as we can." You shouldn't be satisfied to hear the waver in the ensign's voice -- it's not as though she has any control over fleet movements -- but you are. "All ranking officers are wanted in the main briefing room in ten minutes."
Your gut churns harder, trying to escape out onto the hangar floor. Ranking officer. Without Luke here, that's you. You have duties, responsibilities, ones that should be Luke's, but right now, you're the closest the Alliance has.
The ship thrums under your feet as the stars elongate outside the magcon field.
You swallow hard, and take a deep breath. The ship's gone to hyperspace, there's nothing you can do now except move forward, push down your panic for later. You can worry later, the Alliance needs you now.
You fail to truly calm yourself, but you manage to pull yourself together enough to at least fake it. "Ten minutes," you say with a nod, effectively dismissing the ensign. She hesitates; she probably has orders to escort you there, but thankfully she instead leaves the hangar at a brisk walk.
"Go on," Tycho says, nudging you. "Hobbie should be out of the tank by the time you're done. We'll wait there for you."
You keep your head held high as you head towards the briefing room, locking your emotions behind the wall of military discipline you'd long ago created for yourself as a means of self-preservation. You'll mourn the fallen when there's time.
You'll think about Luke when there's time.
--
Still in your flightsuit, drying sweat causing it to stick to your skin, you somehow manage to keep your voice steady as you report Rogue Group's losses, grateful you're not asked to contribute much else. Instead, you just listen. It's been confirmed that Solo and the Princess made it off planet, but just like Luke, there's no word of the Falcon beyond that. Three of the Alliance's greatest heroes, just… vanished.
You don't think you've ever felt more out of your element than sitting in this briefing room, alongside generals and admirals, listening to them discuss the disaster on Hoth. You're just a pilot, the only one there -- not even any squadron commanders are in attendance.
You remember that it's because you're Luke Skywalker's stand-in, and immediately shove that thought down. At the very least you're dismissed early, alongside the other junior officers, leaving the higher-ups to decide the Alliance's next move. You're exhausted -- the only thing keeping you on your feet is the message from Tycho waiting on your datapad: Hobbie's awake.
You head straight to the medbay.
Tycho hovers by the head of Hobbie's bed, while Wes sits in the chair next to it. Hobbie looks like hell, but that's okay because he's alive, eyes open and smiling weakly as you enter the room. "Hey. How are you holding up?"
A faint, short laugh escapes you. "You're really asking me that right now? You?"
"Yeah, I'm really asking you that right now. Sure, everything hurts, but I'll survive." Hobbie tries to shift himself to sit up a bit, but with only one arm, he doesn't manage until Wes helps. "I heard about Luke."
The words are like a punch to your chest, and you look away. Wes and Tycho already saw you edge near a meltdown in the hangar, you can't afford to let your emotions get the better of you again. "I'm fine."
Tycho's voice is soft, his face sympathetic. "We're all worried about him, Wedge, but Luke is your lover. You're allowed to be extra scared."
Shit. You've never used the word, and it's almost painful to hear it now. "We're not--"
"Come on, Chief." Wes leans back in his seat, kicking his feet up onto Hobbie's bed. "We've all known for ages. Hell, I saw you two just today, in case you forgot." Honestly, you had. It felt like years ago that Luke had stopped you for a kiss before the two of you climbed into your speeders. "We figured it out years ago."
You jolt in confusion. "Wait, years?"
Wes' face screws up in annoyance as he turns to Hobbie, who shrugs. "Told you. You're buying drinks next time."
...Of course they had a bet going; you shouldn't have expected anything else. There were times you had wondered if anyone had figured out that there was a bit more than heat conservation going on in the bunk you shared with Luke -- before Wes had seen him kiss you, anyway. No point in pretending now. Sighing softly, you sit on the foot of Hobbie's bed. "It just started a few months ago."
"How many?" Wes asks.
"Three? Maybe four? Depends on your definition of 'start.'"
Wes swears, and Hobbie holds up two fingers. "That's two rounds. I've known Wedge long enough to recognize his 'just got laid' swagger."
You frown. "I don't have a 'just got laid' swagger."
"You're Corellian, Antilles. You have every kind of swagger. And you really underestimate how easy you are to read."
"Give him some credit," Tycho interjects before you can argue. "He's at least easy to misread. I thought it had been going on since before I joined the Alliance -- right after Yavin was my bet."
"Mine was after we pulled your ass off Kessel." Wes sobers slightly. "When you were captured… I've never seen Luke like that before, that… angry. Honestly, it was pretty damn scary, seeing him like that."
You blink in surprise at that. Angry? You can't imagine Luke angry. And definitely not scary -- to anyone except Imps flying against him, anyway.
Then again, you were probably too distracted by your own relief. As strange as it may sound, sitting there on that train, wondering how long you'd last in the spice mines before someone killed you in an attempt to curry favor with the Empire, had been one of the most terrifying moments in your life. Probably because you don't normally have a chance to think during your standard moments of terror.
Luke had hugged you tight afterwards, happy and relieved that the Rogues had managed to free you, but…
You're not sure what, but your face must be revealing something, because Wes clears his throat. "So yeah, you can't exactly blame us for assumptions."
You'd never really taken the time to examine your feelings for Luke beyond a deep friendship based on mutual trust and respect. You still can't quite identify them other than being apparently intense enough that him going missing has made it feel like your whole world has exploded.
Again.
"So I'll ask again, Wedge." Hobbie's voice is soft, gentle as though he's speaking to a skittish animal. "How are you holding up?" You can feel three sets of eyes on you as you look down at the floor.
You don't really know how to answer that, you don't have the time to examine your feelings now, not if you want to keep moving forward. And High Command, the Alliance, the galaxy needs you to keep moving forward.
So you simply shrug, not looking back at them. "I'll survive."
You always do.
Discomfort is thick in the room, but you can't bring yourself to try and dispel it, a familiar numbness settling in. You're tired -- not even tired, exhausted, mind, body, and spirit. At least the others seem to be picking up on it, dropping the conversation rather than trying to push it further.
Wes taps your knee. "C'mon, Chief, let's go find your quarters. You need a shower, bad."
He's not wrong. You'd kill for a proper hot water shower right now -- you don't remember the last time you had one, sometime before Hoth -- but as usual, sonic will have to do. You take a deep breath to brace yourself, and stand. "Yeah. Sounds good."
You wave vaguely to Tycho and Hobbie, and let Wes lead you towards the barracks. He's uncharacteristically quiet, and you can't decide if that's a relief or not. On one hand, his usual jokes and chatter might be the perfect distraction, a reprieve from the nebulous, but painful thoughts swirling in your head.
On the other, you're pretty sure you'd lose it if you heard so much as Luke's name right now. You love him, that much is obvious even to you by now, but you can't quite unpack just what that means at the moment. You've lost plenty of people you loved, too many, even someone you were in love with before. But all those times, there was no confusion regarding just exactly what you felt about them.
Luke… it had snuck up on you. And now he's missing (missing, not dead) leaving you all alone to figure out just what the hell it all means.
You're only vaguely cognizant as Wes ushers you into your quarters, and further into the en suite refresher. You try not to wonder if these quarters were intended to be assigned to Luke, and of course, fail. Which makes you wonder if you would have been spending your nights here anyway.
You keep your shower short, and emerge back into the room. As tired as you are, you still manage to catch the shorts and undershirt Wes tosses at you. "Bedtime, Chief. They've given us another twelve hours before debrief, which is the minimum amount of sleep you need right now."
You dress without a word, and sit on the edge of the bed. The room is a single -- it had to have been intended for Luke, there's no way you would rate single quarters. "Shit…" The word is a shaky exhale as you lean over, elbows on your knees, and rub your hands over your face. Your mind is too loud for sleep right now, replaying the events of Hoth, thinking about all the casualties, what you could have done, while thoughts of Luke, Luke, Luke play over all of it.
The bed shifts next to you, and you feel Wes' hand on your shoulder. "Look, Chief, I get it--"
"No, Wes." The words might have been sharp, if you had the energy for it. "You really don't." How could he get it when you don't? Too much has gone unspoken, you don't know exactly what your feelings towards Luke mean, not really, so how can you or anyone else understand?
Wes' hand stays, but he's silent, and you force yourself to look up at him, an apology ready on your lips. He knows you as well as almost anyone else, he had seen what was going on with Luke before you had, and even outside of that, he's lost plenty of people too. Maybe he does get it, even if you don't.
But his face is somber, no sign of sympathy or even chastisement as he looks back at you. His brow is furrowed, rather, almost as though he's studying you. A long moment of silence passes between you before he nods. You're not sure what that means, and he doesn't offer.
Instead, he just gives your shoulder a tight squeeze before standing. "Try to get some sleep, Wedge." He leaves, turning the light off before he closes the door.
When you lay down, your bed feels colder than Hoth ever did.