drabblewriter

Title: Heavy
Fandom: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Rating: G
Word Count: 987
Characters/Ships: Wedge Antilles, Luke Skywalker
Summary: Wedge tries to find distraction by making himself useful after the Battle of Yavin. Luke sees through him.
TW: Inferred PTSD/flashbacks
Note: I appear to be stuck in a loop of feelings concerning Wedge post-Yavin, so here, have another thing.

Wedge is too sober. The alcohol had flowed freely last night in the aftermath of the Death Star's destruction, but he'd barely partaken. Too shaky after barely surviving his own trench run, trying to reconcile the loss of nearly his entire squadron – he'd felt like anything but celebrating. So, instead, he'd spent as little time as possible at the festivities, mostly keeping to himself in corner before heading back to the too-empty barracks and going to bed.

Now it's early, the sun barely up outside the Massassi Temple, and Wedge is awake while everyone else sleeps off their hangovers. He rolls out of bed, already restless after a night of tossing and turning, and dresses in the dark. The commissary won't be open yet, so he heads to the only other place he can think to go: the hanger.

The sentry on duty, the only other soul present, barely glances at him as he crosses to his ship, and his breath catches as he takes in the X-wing's condition. He hadn't spend much time checking it over after the battle, merely basking in the feeling of being alive, wanting to be away from it as quickly as possible. But now the damage is clear as he circles around it, running a palm across the hull.

It's bad. The stern hydraulic lines are so much scrap, the single thing that had forced him to pull out, two of the engines damaged badly by shrapnel from the shot that nearly took him down. A spidery crack crawls up the rear of the canopy. The lower half of the starboard S-foil sags toward the ground. And all that doesn't begin to cover the superficial damage – Wedge has never seen a surviving starfighter with so many dents, so much carbon scoring. The painted chevrons that proudly proclaim the ship as Red Two are barely visible anymore.

It makes his head pound anxiously just looking at it. He came so close to death yesterday. Had thought, for several moment moments, he was already gone. He doesn't know why the TIE fighters chasing Luke let Wedge himself get away, doesn't know why he survived when the rest of their squadron perished. It's a weight on his shoulders. He wonders what he'll do in the future to earn the right.

He has the sudden, overwhelming urge to be doing something, to have his hands occupied. He casts his eyes around, finds a pile of buffing cloths in the corner, grabs a handful and some cleansing solution and goes to work, scrubbing hard at a patch of heavy carbon scoring on the lower port engine casing. Though he can identify the real damage, he can't work on that himself. He's not a rated starfighter mechanic, so this is the best he can do.

And do it he does. He scrubs at the spot with more determination than he's done anything non-mission-related in a very long time. He scrubs and scrubs, trying to make the scratch of rough cloth on titanium armor drown out the other sounds in his head: the whining of overtaxed engines, exploding proton torpedoes, the distinctive scream of TIE fighters, laserfire, his squadronmates crying out, dying...

“Wedge, I don't think it's going to come off.”

Wedge starts, snaps back to himself, jerking instinctively away from the person who's suddenly appeared beside him. He finds himself breathing harshly, almost gasping, eyes prickling.

Luke Skywalker picks up the rag he's dropped and looks from the spot he'd been rubbing back to Wedge, concern filling his face. “Are you okay?” He bites his lip. “No, that's a stupid question. I'm sorry.”

Wedge shakes his head. Caught, he doesn't know what to say. He hadn't meant to let things get away from him like this. He'd thought... He doesn't even know what he'd thought. That somehow cleaning up his ship would make him feel better? It's laughable.

Luke looks at him for what feels like a long time, like he doesn't know what to say either. Then he reaches out, slowly, and lays a hand on Wedge's arm. Squeezes gently. “I'm sorry,” he says again.

Wedge blinks rapidly, has to look away. It's not right, Luke trying to comfort him. He's the hero, he saved them all, Wedge should be thanking him.

Except Luke's eyes are glassy too, and he may not have known Garven and Zal and Porkins and the others like Wedge did, but they were his squadron, too. Biggs was his best friend from home; the two of them grew up together. And he's so new to this fight, new to losing people, while Wedge has been here for years – if anyone should be allowed to fall apart now, it's Luke.

“I'm okay,” Wedge says shakily, then amends with a bit more honestly. “I'll be okay.”

“I think we all will, eventually,” Luke says softly. “But it doesn't have to be today, right?”

“Right.” Wedge allows himself to let go, just for a moment, to feel the whole weight of it. The war isn't over; they've won major a battle, but the conflict rages on. This isn't the last time they'll lose people, the last time they'll hurt. It's so heavy, but he has hope. Wedge is still here, Luke is still here, and the Rebellion goes on. Right will win, eventually. He squares his shoulders, makes himself give Luke the best smile he can manage. “We do need to get these ships back in the air, though. Who knows when we'll need them again.”

“Yeah. But maybe we should wait for the techs to wake up and give us a hand? Some of them went pretty hard last night.” The ghost of a smile flits across Luke's face. “Come get breakfast with me in the meantime.”

It isn't quite a question, and part of Wedge is grateful for that. He nods silently and allows Luke to lead him away.