With the way he's staring into his drink, Tycho should be able to see the bar through the nearly-clear liquid, but there's something crusted on the bottom of the glass. That's not altogether surprising since he didn't exactly chose this cantina for its cleanliness. No, he came here because it was far enough away from Squadron Headquarters that it didn't seem likely he'd run into anyone he knew but still high enough up in the city to seem relatively safe.

Tycho drains his glass and gestures at the bartender for a refill. She indulges him, then wanders off toward the other end of the bar again. That's another plus about this place: the bartender isn't the talkative sort. She keeps the drinks coming but otherwise leaves him alone.

Because Tycho didn't come here to talk either. He came for a distraction, for something to take him out of his head, and, yes, to drink. He's not usually the type to go out and get drunk, even when he's this upset, but he needs a little fuzziness right now.

He hasn't gotten there yet, though, because he still can't stop thinking about Carida. Even now, a shiver runs through him. A sun detonated, the entire planet and everyone on it destroyed. Alderaan all over again, but almost worse this time, because this disaster was perpetrated by a boy, a Jedi, who claimed to be doing the New Republic's work.

Tycho's stomach roils. The Empire had always called them terrorists, and the description has never felt accurate. Durron had launched his missiles and announced to the planet at large that they had two hours to evacuate before the irreversible cataclysm. Warning Alderaan never had, and Tycho can only image the panic and desperation every soul who heard the news must have felt. He knows so few of them were actually able to get away.

He thinks of the Academy there, how many of its members were child conscripts who would never have chosen that life. Durron should have known that; rumor has it his own brother was one of them. Tycho thinks of all the other innocents, because even if the planet was under Imperial control, there's no way every single one of those millions of people were on their side. He thinks of the survivors, scattered through the galaxy, a Caridan diaspora to join the Alderaanian one, so many who can never go home or see their friends and loved ones again. So many more like him.

Tycho empties his glass and slams it back on the bar, hand shaking around it. The bartender eyes him as she approaches again but doesn't say anything before moving away.

This was never supposed to happen again. The destruction of an entire planet, such a huge loss of life – it's an abomination. And though Tycho knows there's nothing he could have done personally to prevent it, the facts sit in his gut like a stone. A man who should have been an ally, who thought he was doing right. The Empire is on the decline. They're supposed to be so much better than this.

Tycho rubs bleary eyes, trying to figure out what he's doing here. He knows getting drunk isn't going to help anyone. Not that there's anything he can do to help. He could have stayed back at Headquarters, buried himself in work, but he doesn't think his concentration would hold in this state. What he wishes more than anything is that Wedge or Winter were here, someone who understands him almost better than himself at times, who could talk him through this.

The bartender appears in front of him. “Kitchen's closing soon if you want somethin' to eat, hon,” she says.

“No, thank you.” He hasn't eaten since he heard the news earlier that day, but it seems to have entirely killed his appetite.

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and moves on to another patron.

Tycho toys with his glass, supposes he should think about leaving. Might be a good idea to head back to base while he still has his wits mostly about him. And he can always pick up something on the way, continue this in his quarters.

He hasn't quite decided yet when a pair of people enter the bar and take seats on either side of him. Tycho shifts uneasily, preparing for trouble; he knows when he's being flanked.

“Easy, big guy,” comes a mild voice, and Tycho breathes out, half relieved.

“How did you find me?” he asks, turning to see Wes, who had spoken.

“Inyri tracked your comlink,” Hobbie says from his other side.

Tycho curses under his breath, pressing a hand over where the device is tucked into his pocket. “I should've turned it off.”

Wes scoffs. “And be out of touch if duty called? Hardly something you would do.”

Tycho can't argue with that. “Can I get you guys a drink?” he says instead.

“Only polite, I suppose, since we're here,” Wes says as Tycho gestures to the bartender for two more of the same.

Hobbie takes a sip of his and makes a face. “What even is this?”

“Alderaanian-style ale.”

Wes takes a drink and shrugs. “Does the job as well as anything, I suppose.”

Tycho nods, pulling his glass closer but not picking it up yet. “I'm guessing you're not here because of some kind of emergency or you would have mentioned it already.”

“Not this time,” Hobbie confirms.

“Just checking on a friend,” Wes adds lightly.

Tycho sighs and takes a swallow of his ale. “I suspected as much.”

“You disappeared after word came in about Carida,” Hobbie says. “The squadron is worried.”

“We're worried,” Wes clarifies, giving Tycho a close look. “I know what you have to be thinking, Tycho.”

Tycho looks away, the sympathy on his face too much, but that just means he's now facing Hobbie, who wears the same expression. “I'd tell you I'm fine, but you wouldn't believe me.”

“You're a good liar, but you're also sitting in a seedy cantina with a few in you, so you're pretty easy to read right now,” Hobbie tells him.

“I'll be okay,” Tycho says and starts, nearly upsetting his drink, when Wes's hand lands on his arm.

“But you're not okay now. You don't have to be alone for that. And you don't have to deal with it like this.” Wes waves a hand to indicate the cantina, the drinks, but even in his current state, Tycho knows he's not being judgmental, only advising. Who among them hasn't been here at some point?

“Right.” Tycho empties his glass, decides even with his friends here it's probably best if it's his last one. “I don't want to talk about it though.”

“That's fine.” Hobbie stands. “Let's head back to base, find something else to distract ourselves. I bet it's not too late to get a sabacc game going. You can fleece Gavin for all he's worth.”

“You can get your revenge on Inyri,” Wes chimes in, then adds conspiratorially, “and if you do want to keep drinking yourself to death, we can do it better. I happen to know where Wedge stashed a bottle of Whyren's last time he visited and forgot to take with him when he left.”

“Yeah, that all sounds good.” Tycho holds a credit chip out to the bartender, waits while she settles his tab. He can see Wes and Hobbie watching him out the corner of his eye, expressions dripping with friendly concern and sympathy. It might just be the alcohol, but it makes emotion shiver up the back of his throat that he quickly chokes down. He knows he can be an emotional drunk, but he's certainly not going to blubber in public because he friends showed up to drag him home.

He says a quick thank you the the bartender as she returns his chip, gets a nod, and follows Wes and Hobbie out the door. He stumbles on the threshold and is quickly right when Hobbie grabs his arm.

“Careful,” his friend says. “Winter would be angry with us if we let you break your pretty face.”

Tycho laughs loudly and uncontrollably for several long moments, the statement seeming somehow outrageously funny in his clouded brain.

Wes shoots Hobbie a look then wraps an arm around Tycho's waist. “All right, buddy, you're definitely done for tonight. Let's get you home, hmm?”

Tycho leans on him heavily, suddenly not trusting his own balance. “Yeah.” His mind wanders, and he blinks, adds after a moment, “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” Wes tells him.

Together, the three of them stumble back to base. When Tycho wakes in the morning with a pounding headache, he won't remember much, but there will be a glass of water, a couple of painkillers, and an overly cheerful note sitting on his bedside table. Carida will still be gone, and he'll still be hurting, but his friends will be there waiting for him.