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Luke was possibly his closest friend now, the majority of them lost during the Battle of Yavin. Those hours when no one knew where the Rogue Squadron commander had gone were tense ones. For Leia, it was excusable for her to pace, to snap orders at people, to flit to and fro while she worried over not only Luke, but Han as well. She was a princess, and her behavior was always acceptable. For a lowly fly boy like himself, however, all Wedge could do was to while the hours away cleaning his gear, joining some of the others over tankards of Lomin Ale, or to brood.
His path rarely crossed with Solo's, even if Luke and Wedge flew together, and Luke and Han were as thick as thieves. They simply ran in different circles and that never really bothered him very much. When Han returned to base with a near dead Luke in his arms, Wedge hurried to sick bay. The sight of Luke in a Bacta tank was sobering. Solo was tense as he watched their friend float there while an Em-Dee droid fussed over him, the worry in his face clear. Wedge could relate clear down to his marrow; losing Luke would be like losing a part of himself.
He stepped up to Solo and squeezed his shoulder. "Thanks ... Han." The answering nod was curt, but in that moment when the other man looked at him, they shared a wealth of unspoken words. Wedge knew that his life was just as dear to Solo now, as his was for him. Friendship, especially in their world, was the only guarantee any of them had.