Hobbie's canopy is open by the time Wes has landed and run over to him, tossing his helmet into the bushes along the way. He doubts it's by choice; Wes can see how damaged the X-wing is from the crash, dented and crumpled and scarred, the canopy most likely jarred lose when the sealing edge was bent out of shape and lost integrity.

“Hobbs?” he yells as he clatters up onto a badly-bent S-foil. “You with me, buddy?” Wes tries not to let fear into his voice; he's seen Hobbie in this sort of state often enough. He's fine; he'll be fine.

There's no answer.

Wes manages to make his way over to the cockpit and peer in. It doesn't look good. Control panels spark and smoke, and with the way they've been mashed together, there's no way he can get Hobbie out without help.

The man himself is battered as well, a splintery crack running up his visor, blood flowing down the right side of his face. He's conscious, though. Wes can see his brown eyes, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Talk to me,” Wes says, kneeling on the remains of the S-foil and peering down at him. “How you doing, Hobbie?”

“Leg's broken,” Hobbie rasps.

“And the flesh and blood one's probably not doing great either,” Wes jokes weakly. At least he's talking.

Hobbie makes a pained sound that might have been a chuckle. “Ribs,” he adds on a sharp gasp. Pain flashes over his face. “Kriff.” His breathing turns ragged and uneven. “Hurts.”

“I know.” Wes tries to get a better look, blanches when he sees the way the crumpled panel cuts into Hobbie's guts, red painting his flight suit. Wes leans in, hands fluttering uncertainly, desperate to lend him comfort but terrified to cause more hurt. Finally, he brushes fingers against the other man's neck, rests his hand there when it doesn't seem to make anything worse. “Stay with me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Hobbie breathes and winces again. He bites his lips, adds in a low rasp, “Glad you're here. Not alone.”

“No, you're not alone.” Wes rubs a thumb across his jaw, so close to where blood is already drying in the humid air. “You're gonna be all right, you hear me, Hobbs? I commed the medics before I landed. They'll get you out.”

Hobbie nods and seems to slump in his seat. “'M tired,” he mumbles. “Dizzy.”

“Probably concussed,” Wes finds himself saying. “And the blood you've lost...hey, no sleeping, okay? You've got a nice nap in a bacta bath coming when we get back, but not yet.”

“Whatever you say,” Hobbie answers, the words tinged with a whimper as he fights to get them out through the pain.

“Try not to talk,” Wes implores, “if it hurts more.”

Hobbie just looks up at him then, pain and fear so clear in his wide eyes. It squeezes Wes's heart in his chest.

“You've been through worse than this, hey?” he forces himself to say. “If you're lucky, you won't even lose another limb.”

Hobbie looks like he's about to say something, then he shifts in his seat, as much as he can while pinned down – and cries out sharply.

“Hey, hey,” Wes says anxiously, hands fluttering again. “What is it?”

“D-dunno,” Hobbie manages, breathing more labored than before, eyes squinting in pain. “Hurts – hard to –” he gasps, “breathe.”

Wes curses under his breath, wishing he had more than basic field medicine training. If Hobbie does have broken ribs, if he's moving around too much, he could have punctured a lung. That would make it hard to breath, and there's nothing Wes can do about it but wait until the medics arrive. Wait, and keep him calm.

“Hey, babe, listen to me, all right?” He leans in, gently, gently, cups Hobbie's face in his hands. “Concentrate on me. Breathe. You got, this okay? Easy. In and out.”

Hobbie tries, and Wes can see that he's struggling, little whimpers escaping past his lips as he trembles.

“The medics will be here soon,” Wes promises again, fervently hoping he's right. They were lucky enough to go down close to base; it shouldn't have taken them that long to get in the air. “You'll be okay.”

“Wes-” Hobbie grinds out.

“Shh,” Wes answers sharply. “Just breathe, all right? Save your strength.”

Hobbie gives the slightest nod, eyes flickering closed for a too-long moment. Wes glances skyward, sees no sign of the rescue team – then he hears it, engines in the distance, and he could cry with relief.

“Hear that?” he murmurs. “I'll have to earn back my knight-in-shining-armor cred after those guys take it from me again.”

Hobbie manages a little huff of air that Wes interprets as a laugh. If he can still laugh, even a little, he's going to fine, Wes convinces himself.

The medevac shuttle finally comes into view, and Wes takes a hand away from Hobbie to wave them in. There's just enough space in the little jungle clearing for it to land next to the two X-wings. Moments later, a quartet of medics are piling out and running over.

Wes knows he has to move away from Hobbie to let them have access, but suddenly letting go is one of the hardest things he's ever done. He looks down into Hobbie's eyes and tells him, “You're gonna be fine now, okay? The med team is here. I'll see you in a minute.”

Hobbie's mouth works silently around rough, shallow breaths.

Wes ducks in to give him the very lightest kiss on the forehead before stepping back. Then there are hands on him, pulling him gently away.

“It's all right,” a familiar voice tells him. “He's in good hands.”

“Tycho?” Wes turns to his friend. “What are you doing here?”

There's concern on Tycho's face, too, as he drags Wes into a hug. “Someone's gotta fly your ship back so you can ride with them.”

Wes buries his face in Tycho's shoulder for a moment and lets out a sound he couldn't describe except that it's full of relief and the abatement of a fear he hadn't yet realized. “Thank you,” he manages.

Tycho squeezes him. “Of course.” When Wes lifts his head again, Tycho looks him in the eye, blue gaze steady. “He's going to be okay, you know. He's tough, our Hobbie.”

“Yeah.” Wes lets out a slow breath, trying to steady himself. He tries not to dwell on the pain in Hobbie's eyes or the way he couldn't breathe properly himself.

He turns, feeling Tycho's steadying hand on his shoulder, and they watch as the medics use their equipment to cut Hobbie from his fighter. More than once, he cries out in pain as the components holding him steady are removed, and Wes winches every time, feels Tycho doing the same beside him even as he squeezes his shoulder, trying to lend him comfort.

Finally, Hobbie is free, and the medics are lowering him onto a hovergurney and steering him toward the shuttle. “Janson?” one of them calls without looking, and Tycho gives him a little push and adds, “Go.”

“Thanks,” Wes tosses over his shoulder as he runs after them. He's directed to an out-of-the-way corner of the shuttle as the medics work over Hobbie. They fit him with a breathing apparatus, then cut away at his flight suit to start in on his more serious injuries.

Wes's hands anxiously twist over one another. There's even more blood than he could see before, and it makes his stomach twist – not because he's squeamish but because it's Hobbie. He wishes more than anything that he could at least hold his hand, but he counts his lucky stars that he's even allowed to be here.

The shuttle lifts off, and Wes just watches, silent and nervous, as the medics continue their work, eerily silent save for the occasional murmur to each other. Then, when they must be nearly ready to set down back at base, one of them turns to him.

“He's stable and sleeping,” she tells Wes. “The concussion is mild enough for the medication we've already administered to take care of it. Bacta will heal his original limbs, though the prosthetics will need repair or possibly replacement. The most serious injuries are the punctured lung, the broken ribs, and the stomach laceration, all of which a few bacta treatments will take care of nicely.” She smiles, eye kind, and beckons Wes forward. “You can see him.”

Wes crosses the shuttle and knees beside the hovergurney as the others make room for him, reaching tentatively for Hobbie's pale flesh hand before cutting his eyes to the medic for permission. She nods, and Wes take Hobbie's hand, folding it between both of his protectively.

“He's going to be fine,” the medic promises. “And you'll be right there beside him when he waves up.”

Wes nods silently and lets his eyes falls closed as relief washes over him, powerful enough to knock him to the ground if Hobbie didn't still need him.