Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alderaan was gone.

The thought echoed in John’s mind, harshly discordant among all the jumble in his head. Alderaan was gone and he couldn’t find Gail. Striding past the smallish huddles of personnel along the walls, still in his own flight suit after a days long patrol, ignoring the looks he got as he strode past.

After all, he was the one who was known to be best friends with the only Alderaanian in their contingent. Hell, with so few Alderaanian’s in the Imperial Forces in general, since they were traditionally pacifist, was it was any wonder that lines had already been drawn? But all these thoughts were lost in favor of his main goal.

Find Gail. And make sure she was alright. 

Of course the last place he looked was where he found her. With little privacy in their pilots barracks, and knowing how much of a zealot for the Imperial Cause that Gail’s roommate was, it stood to reason that she wouldn’t be in her barracks. Instead, she was in one of the highest parts of the ship, at a small viewport that was rarely utilized except for occasional stargazing. 

The sight of the waves of her golden hair, like starlight, flowing down to her hips, so blond against the black of her uniform, brought John to a halt.

Because, now that he was here, what was he going to say?

It’s not like “I’m sorry you lost your planet,” was in any way helpful. 

Catching the minute twitch of her head as she registered his presence. Moving forward in the silence until he knelt just behind her and to the side, both of them watching the stars, the old gas giants still burning despite the galaxies most recent tragedy.

Watching her like she was his Drinking Gourd in the Nabooian sky, gaze flickering down to her hands, concern lancing through him at the knife he saw clutched in those slender fingers.

The silence lingered between them, taut with sorrow and grief.

“I joined to get away from Alderaan,” Gail said, repeating something she’d once told him during the depths of the night as they waited for their debriefing to start after what they’d both known was a massacre of reprisal on the Empire’s part. “I have almost no ties left there, fewer family . . .” John didn’t point out the slip of the tongue. “Then why do I feel so sad?”

Reaching out slowly, he placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the fine trembles ground through her form. “Because it was your home.” Pausing. “Because everyone always needs a place to go back to, Gail.”

It is her name which breaks her and she whirls to him, burying her head in his shoulder, shoulders now shaking with silent tears. Though she still holds the knife, uselessly pinned between them. As he holds her close, he knows better then to ask, knowing that Gail would reveal what she wanted to reveal. 

“There are so many customs,” She whispered into his chest. “On the ways to mourn. But if I cut my hair —” Cutting herself off so harshly that her throat clicked with the effort.

John realized her dilemma. If she cut off her hair it would be seen as disagreeing with their leaders. She could be demoted — or worse. Like many in the empire, he’d realized the double standards of their policies at a fairly young age. He’d seen the way non-humans could not advance in rank, and were shuffled to the worst posts. Hell, he was from the Emperor’s home planet, and any Nabooian worth their salt knew that their Queen was but a figurehead under Palpatine’s thumb. 

As the silence lingered between them, John let her cry silently, trying to figure out what to say, anything to say. And the thought comes to him.

“When my father died,” He rasped, affected by her emotion. Clearing his throat to continue. Coming at a different angle. “Naboo has its own rituals, same as — same as your planet. When my father died, I helped my mother with my sisters memorial braids.” Daring to cradle the back of her head to pull her still closer even as her shudders lessened, clearly listening. 

“Would you allow me to braid your hair in the custom of my people?”

Knowing that in any other situation, such a request would be highly inappropriate. Hell, he knew the struggles she’d gone through to keep her hair from being chopped off when the joint Imperial Forces. Some of their regs were just stupid like that. Being from Naboo, he knew how important a woman’s hair could be.

“. . . please.”

Hugging her, he pulled back, cupping her face to wipe a lingering tear off with his thumb.

“It would be my honor, my lady.”

And so she sat facing the viewport as he went through the motions, half remembered rituals coming to the fore as he finally got it right after a few false starts. Glad to see that the braids would be able to fit under her flight suit and helmet, as long as they pinned up the longer bits later. 

Later, as he escorted her back to her barracks, his larger bulk a protection against any lingering gawkers, the half formed thoughts he’d been harboring for the last several years became more prominent in his mind. Solidifying as he lay in his own bunk, unable to sleep. Thoughts going a mile a minute. Thinking up and rejecting the logistical difficulties of this plan and that. 

Perhaps it was time for him to defect.

But if he did, he was going to take Gail with him.

Chapter Text

He’s vibrating with anger even as Gail is a glacier beside him.

A demotion. And for what!?!

John has been the leader of their squadron for the last two cycles, the last CO promoted to Vader’s personal squadron. Now he was undoubtedly particles of space dust along with the rest of the Death Star and its personnel. While he answered to the head of the Navy in charge of their Star Destroyer, he had certain duties when it came to the logistics of his own squadron.

So to have Gail demoted without any input from him? To be practically ordered to make the sniveling, third rate pilot who’d just graduated from the pilot into his second made his blood boil. Because they all knew why it had happened. His new ‘Second’ was from Coruscant, some type of old money, John was sure. And Gaił . . . they’d had it in for Gail ever since the repercussions of the destruction of Alderaan had become evident.

The number of small uprisings and corresponding crackdowns wasn’t something easily hidden, no matter how much the ISB monitored the holo net. 

But what could he do? He still wasn’t ready to get him and Gail out of there. They would have to weather this indignity. So he goes through the motions. 

Gail is no longer his Wingman among the stars, her replacement always at his right hand in deference to the rank changes. And John hates it. He hates so much.

And it makes him damn proud, how stoically she takes the obvious slight. Not that she should have to be dealing with this, but he wishes he had her level of control, because when the orders came down he’d almost decked the smarmy prick who’d benefited from the injustice. Just another useless bureaucratic cog in the wheel of the Empire. 

Though it’s also a sign of the things to come. Because if they’re going to start an internal crack down, pressing deeper into the motivations and loyalty of their troops and pilots after the Destruction of Alderaan, then they would dig something up on John sooner rather then later. While he’s taken care to erase any records of some of his more ‘questionable’ searches and comm lines, he knows that he’s not that good. Someone will be onto him, eventually.

And if he went down, who would be a buffer between Gail and said bureaucratic machine? 

John has been waiting his chance, with barely anything said to Gail of his plans, trusting that she would follow his lead when the time came to act. They were Wingman for a reason, after all.

Soon enough, the day comes. 

When the Rebel pilot exited his X-Wing, hands high in the air, John recognized him instantly. Because, while he’d been a semester or two behind Wedge Antilles, there was no way he wouldn’t recognize him. Antilles defection with several other cadets had thrown Skystrike into chaos for months afterwards. 

And if he recognizes Wedge, it’ll only take minutes for the holding officers to identify him with the Bounty Pucks. 

As he stays still among the murmurs of his squadron as they watch the Rebel being roughly cuffed, the plans he’d been contemplating finally solidify.

Now was the time. Before Wedge was delivered to the ISB, they would have to break him out. Seeing the ranking badges on the Rebel flight suit as Antilles was dragged from the hanger to the jeers the soldiers present. Antilles was their key to finding the rebellion.

Because John knew that if he and Gail deserted without a clear grasp on where to go, their capture was inevitable. And he wouldn’t do that to Gail. 

After the debriefing, he would tell Gail everything.

Maybe he just had bad luck, Wedge thought sourly as he struggled to find a comfortable position on the ledge bed of his Imperial holding cell. Bad luck that his hyperdrive had malfunctioned before he could get any with the rest of Rogue Squadron.

Though it was good luck that it was him and not Luke.

They all knew how big the bounty was for the pilot who’d destroyed the Death Star. And even though the Empire didn’t have a description yet, it probably wouldn’t take them long to figure out who they had in custody.

As it stands, Wedge knew he was going to be a feather in someone's cap; one of the Skystrike Academy defectors, finally caught. And high up enough in the Rebel command chain to warrant extensive interrogation followed by public execution. Swallowing down a sudden rush of hot emotion. Speaking sternly to himself.

He’d made his decision years ago. And that was the end of it. 

Karking get it together, Antilles!

It’s not like he’s surprised by the men who show up later to give him the beat down they feel he deserves. He doesn’t bother trying to protest or to preach about his cause. He’s in for pain and he’ll get through this. 

Better him than any of the others.

How can he face the rest of his squadron if this is what breaks him?

What he isn’t expecting, a couple of hours after his beating, is the appearance of another, clearly unauthorized visitor.

It’s the mustache that throws him off at first. Blinking as he recognized the man who crouched by his side. One of the few second years who had been able to match the upperclassmen’s scores.

“Egan?” 

“Antilles,” the man says, lips pursing as he takes in the damage. “They’d said they worked you over.” Giving him a once over even as he pulled a electronic lock pick from his pocket. “Can you walk?”

“I’m gonna have to, aren’t I?” Wedge has an inkling of what’s happening but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up either. “. . . you busting me out?”

“Only if you can get us to the Rebellion,” Egan tells him.

“Us?” Wedge grunts as he has to turn over for the other man to access his cuffs. 

“My Wingman,” Egan says, voice distracted as he works on the locks. “. . . she’s from Alderaan.”

Ah. Well, there’s not much that can be said to that, is there?

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yeah,” Egan tells him as the cuffs finally give. Accepting the help to get to his feet, swaying a little as the blood rushes back to his head. “We’ve got a plan.”

Wiping blood from his split lip, Wedge isn’t about to say no.

“Lead the way.”

And Hope flares to life in his chest.

John should’ve known that their escape wouldn’t be smooth. Because, as he’s helping Antilles down the back halls and maintenance corridors, he knows that it’s a dangerous game that they’re playing.

With the shuttle in sight, lights already on and the engine idling, he gets careless. A rookie mistake. 

Halting abruptly at the familiar whine of a blaster charging up, Antilles stiffening in his hold. Watching as Lisk, the Core Nepo Baby who they’d replaced Gail with, comes into view from the shadows of the smaller hanger that they were in.

“I knew it!” Lisk’s face was lit by the shine of his blaster, weasel satisfaction leaking from every pore. “Traitor!”

Behind Wedge’s body, out of Lisk’s line of sight, Bucky reaches for his own blaster, snug in his belt.

“I told them!” Lisk continues monologuing with glee. “I told them that you had rebel sympathies! The way you always protected that Alderaanian bitch.” John snarling at the insult to his Wingman.

Gail was braver than this man would ever be. “She’d a better pilot blindfolded then you’ll ever be, Lisk.”

Who has the audacity to smirk. “Like that’s what counts, traitor.”

And then —

There’s a vibroblade through Lisk’s neck. With no time to get off a shot, the man’s blaster slips from nerveless fingers, hands reaching up automatically to swipe clumsily at the handle on one side of his neck, missing by a mile.

Blinking down at the body as it falls to the deck, Lisk’s eyes not tracking as breath gurgles around blood, dripping to the deck beneath him. 

“Sith hells,” Antilles muttered, staring at the body with wide eyes. Neither of them expecting the save.

And Gail emerges from the darkness of the transporter, stalking to the body with predatory grace, bending down to retrieve her knife, the gurgling cutting off abruptly. Wiping the blood on Lisk’s uniform and then making it disappear somewhere on her person.

“Flight path is programmed,” She tells John, who’s still look at her with his mouth hanging open. “I’ll take care of him.” Already reaching for Antilles, whose watching her with blatant admiration. 

Force, he loves this woman.

And like she says, he gets to work, tension still coiling in his stomach since they still have to get out of range and go to hyperspace. 

This isn’t over yet.