Author's Webpage: http://come.to/prillalar
Category: Preslash, Vignette
Disclaimer: SW belongs to George Lucas, not me. I do not
profit in any way by this story.
Notes: The only canon I accept is what was on the big screen.
This may contradict "official" books, but I haven't read 'em so I can't
say for sure.
Pairing: Lu/Wedge
Rating: PG-13
Series: Antilles Diaries
Spoilers: ANH
Summary: Moving on.
Timeframe: Soon after ANH.
We had to leave, of course. Just because you break the bully's speeder doesn't mean he can't still walk. Or that he's not still bigger than you. It just means you have a head start and you'd better take advantage of it. So we were packing up to run and hide.
First we squared away the high priority items, like ships and weapons. Then food and medical supplies. Then data storage and tools. Then cleaning supplies and safety equipment.
You've got an hour before we go, the commander said.
Then our personal gear, which for most of us consisted of spare underwear and maybe a picture of someone. I stuffed my things into my duffel -- a few shirts, books, a holo of my parents, rest their souls -- and slung the strap over my shoulder. I was on my way out when I noticed how many lockers were left unemptied. Shit.
I felt like some creepy scavenger, but "waste not, want not" is the rebel way. And maybe I could get their keepsakes to their families someday. If I remembered any of them by then.
There should be some sort of ritual, some ceremony to repeat before you rip off your dead buddy's gear. "So sorry that you bought the farm, at least your clothes will keep me warm." Hmm, needed work. But I took it all and spared a thought for each of them as I stowed the goods away.
I was halfway to the transport when I remembered the stash. Along the corridor behind the kitchens, in a space behind in the wall. Someone was there, leaning on the same panel I had to open. Well, there wasn't much need for secrecy now -- it might cost me half the bottle, but I'd just be glad of somebody still alive to drink with.
"Hey, buddy," I said. "I just need to get..."
It was him. Golden Boy. Hotshot. Skywalker. Hero of the big battle and of my very own late night fantasies. Standing alone, by my bottle of rotgut. Coincidence? Yeah, but I believe in taking advantage of coincidences.
"Luke," I said and went to touch him, but he pulled away. He was crying. Well, maybe not crying, but as near crying as you can get and not be crying. He grimaced with the effort and I wasn't sure what I should do. Walk away, probably. But I reached out again and pushed him off the panel. Gently, of course. Taking out the bottle, I uncorked it and took a swig. Ouch. "You flying, Hotshot?" I held it out to him.
Shaking his head, he took it. I should have warned him, but what's life without a few learning experiences? While he choked, I took the bottle back and knocked down another drink. "Me neither. Too many pilots, not enough ships." I slid to the floor, my back against the wall, and after a minute, he joined me.
"You OK, Luke?"
"Yeah. Just..."
Just. Just like me, just like everybody else. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder and I leaned in a fraction, a little extra pressure. "Yeah, me too." What now? "I never heard about how you rescued the princess." Get him talking. And it worked. He told me everything, or so I assume. About Tatooine, his aunt and uncle, about Ben -- Obi-Wan Kenobi, who I always thought was dead. About the rescue, the derring-do and botched plans, the escape. It was helping.
"And when I saw Biggs, I knew everything would be OK. Flying with him -- nothing could touch us. Just like when we were kids." He paused, looked up and around the dim hallway. "I was going to tell him all that...the whole story. After the battle. And then..."
And then he was crying for real and I put my arm around him, rocking him a little and hoping he wouldn't hate me later for being there when he broke down. His back shuddered under my arm and his thigh was warm against my own.
Besides taking the shirts off his dead comrades' backs, a good rebel never misses the chance to eat, sleep, piss, or fuck. And I wanted him. He clung to me and buried his head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through his hair. I could have had him then, so easily, had something. We didn't have much time, but we had enough for a life-affirming hummer in the hallway. But no, I didn't put the moves on him. I'm such an idiot.
Instead, I brushed my cheek across the top of his head, then let him go so I could rummage in my bag. In the last corner, I found it: a little carved pendant, strung on a thong. "It was Biggs'," I said, and held it out.
Blinking, he rubbed his face, then took it from me, sniffing at the wood. "It's from home," he whispered. "Why wasn't he wearing it?"
"I think he made it for someone else." I watched Luke's long fingers trace the grooves and edges. "He spent a lot of time carving it. You keep it for now."
"Thanks, Wedge." Looping the thong over his neck, he tucked it away inside his jacket. Then he smiled at me. Red eyes, red nose, face nearly grey in the shadows, his smile was still brighter than any sun I've ever seen. And I can't believe I think about it that way. I'm not just an idiot, I'm a sentimental idiot.
The moment was perfect for as long as a perfect moment can be, which is really only a few seconds. Then the transport call came, ending things cleanly instead of a ragged trailing into awkwardness. He was the one who jumped and gave me a hand up. We shared another quick drink before I tucked the bottle away.
When the transport left, I was by a viewport. I get jumpy in space when I'm not the pilot. I felt a hand between my shoulder blades. Luke. We stood together and watched the ground fall away.
"Sloppy takeoff," he said.
"You would know, Hotshot." And we laughed.
The stars came out.