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Wedge has been visited by the most interesting dreams, lately.
Sometimes, as he wakes, he brings with him visions of another life—himself on the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer, the pilots of his own squadron planning a mission, never ending war broken only by snatches of peace.
But throughout it all he dreams of blonde hair and eyes as blue as the oceans, whose absence aches in the hollows of his chest like a physical wound.
***
At first he had thought they were just the product of an overactive imagination, the constant pressure of his role as a leader in the Rebellion pushing his mind to seek new outlets.
He doesn’t have time to see a psychologist, and he isn’t sure what he would say if he did.
Yes, doctor, I’ve been dreaming about someone I’ve never met. No, I have no idea who he could be. Yes, I’m fine.
They would probably take him off of active duty if they determine that the dreams are impacting his performance in the field, which they aren’t. So he says nothing. The Rebellion dearly needs skilled pilots, and besides, the dreams will fade soon enough.
***
“They could be Force visions,” Leia tells him the third time he trails off in the middle of trying to recount to her what he had seen, distracted by nebulous thoughts of the faceless blue eyed blonde who is never far from his mind these days.
“I know you don’t think you have any Force sensitivity, but I didn’t either until, well, you know. You should ask Luke to test you, if you want to be certain.” She levels Wedge with a considering look.
“Thank you, Leia, I might take him up on that,” he says, to be polite.
Deep down though, Wedge knows in his soul that he is about as Force sensitive as the chair he is sitting on.
The harder he tries to latch on to the memories when he wakes, the murkier they become, almost like something or someone is preventing him from being able to remember everything.
Clearly whoever this person was, they were important in his life and he feels their absence keenly.
***
Wedge wakes with a start. In his dream, it was his wedding day and he was so happy, so incandescently happy. He’s never seen the kind of love that shines in his dream figure’s blue eyes directed at him before, but he aches to experience that someday.
When he opens his eyes, it’s to the cold darkness of his room aboard Home One. He sighs and tries to go back to sleep, but old demons rear their heads. With his obligations to the Rebellion, he barely has time to take care of himself, let alone find someone to spend his life with.
It’s something he’s always known he wanted, deep down, but now is certainly not the time for it, and he doesn’t know when it will be.
Once the Empire is defeated, maybe, and the galaxy doesn’t need him to be Wedge Antilles, hotshot pilot, anymore.
As he turns over, adjusting the blankets over himself, he is surprised to find wetness on his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he had been crying.
If only the Imps could see him now. The great Wedge Antilles, brought low by a figment of his imagination.
He now knows what the other man was to him, even if his identity remains unknown: his best friend, brother in arms, lover, soulmate, the one constant in his uncertain life.
***
Wedge has never told anyone except his closest friends about these dreams, and the one time Luke had asked, because he could never hide anything from Luke even if he wanted to, his friend had looked at him with a troubled gaze.
“You really have no idea who he could be?” Luke asks. His tone edges toward skeptical, though his trust and faith in Wedge means it doesn’t quite get there.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Wedge says, blowing out a breath. “I think I would have remembered someone with such distinctive features.”
Luke gives him an appraising look from under his brows. “Distinctive, huh,” he says, and Wedge glances at him sharply.
“It’s not like that,” he says weakly, though of course, it is so exactly like that that he could write a paragraph about it and put it in the dictionary.
“If you say so,” Luke says, and stands to get up. “I’ll keep an eye out if I see anyone with, what was it, ‘light blonde hair and piercing ice blue eyes.’”
Wedge thanks him, and after Luke has left, he turns off the lights, climbs into his bunk, and waits to fall back into his dreams.
***
These days, Luke is often away on Jedi business, which means that the day to day administration work that comes with establishing a new squadron falls squarely in Wedge’s lap.
Wedge misses his friend, and though he could never truly understand the weight that comes from being the last living Jedi, he understands duty and responsibility, and he would never begrudge his friend for what he needs to do as he tries to rebuild the Order.
He is preoccupied by thoughts of Luke, which is why he is taken aback when he walks into his office.
There’s a man standing in the middle of the room when he arrives, wearing A-wing greens with his blonde helmet-flattened hair mussed like he just came off a mission. Wedge startles as they make eye contact— he has only ever seen eyes this blue once before, in his dreams.
“Tycho Celchu,” the man says as he extends a hand. Wedge grasps it, body on autopilot and mind still trying to parse the situation.
“Luke tells me you’re looking for pilots for the new squadron you’re putting together,” the man explains, with a shy smile. His accent is Alderaanian, the soft vowels curling up at the ends.
Wedge nods, mind still working a mile a minute to try to come up with answers to questions he never expected to be considering this early in the morning.
“Wedge Antilles,” he replies, “pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He gestures for the other man to sit, and as he sinks into his own chair behind the desk, he quickly scans Celchu’s file.
From Alderaan. Attended the Imperial Naval Academy with Hobbie and Biggs. Trained under Soontir Fel. Elite TIE pilot. Joined the Rebellion and met Luke on Dantooine.
“Well, if Luke vouches for you then I trust his judgment. Though, we will have to see how you fare in the simulators before we put you in an X-Wing. Standard protocol,” Wedge says with a small quirk to the corners of his lips.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Tycho replies easily. His eyes crinkle up at the corners as he smiles, and Wedge feels his heart thump in his chest.
“Welcome to Rogue Squadron, Tycho Celchu.”
Wedge is aware that he is smiling a little more than he ought to at a man who is still effectively a stranger, and yet. There is no doubt in his mind that this is the man from his dreams.
Don’t screw this up, Antilles.
He gets up, and Tycho quickly follows suit. Wedge leads the way toward the rec room, and as Tycho falls into step beside him it feels like coming home.