Chapter Text
When a pilot gets out of bacta their untanking is usually a cheerful, often riotous affair; a relief-filled celebration as the recovered party is welcomed back to the land of the unimmersed by their squadron. But to Wes’ consternation, when he’s pulled from the bacta tank after the mission to Saffalore the only non-medical person in attendance is Face.
The moment he clocks the Wraiths’ absence his heart rate rockets in a way that would set off all sorts of alarms if the various monitors he’d been festooned with in the tank hadn’t already been detached. His stomach lurches into his throat-
the Wraiths are dead, he’s lost another squadron he was responsible for because he keeps failing, he keeps failing and his kids kept getting hurt and killed and-
No. He and Runt had been the worst of the injuries. When they’d finally made it back to the Mon Remonda and he’d allowed himself to slip into blissful unconsciousness, he’d been sure that nobody else needed time in a tank. Everyone had survived. The mission had been a success. Except-
ambush, another ambush-
No. He hasn’t lost another squadron, he can’t have lost another-
but he keeps failing-
He struggles to think past his panicky little loop of agonised guilt to see any other reason why none of the rest of the Wraiths are here. But Face doesn’t look like a man who’s lost an entire squadron in the last few days— and it pains Wes intensely that he knows what that looks like —so he manages to clamp down on his desperate desire to ask what’s up until the medics finish up their medical things and depart.
The moment they’re alone Wes drops his pretense at indifference. “Where is everyone? Is everyone okay?”
Face gives him a rueful smile. “The Wraiths are all fine, sorry. They’ll be along in a bit.”
The Wraiths are fine. That’s good, and a little bit of his terror fades, but it leaves a whole host of alternative horrible possibilities.
“Hobbie?” He asks sharply, but no, if anything had happened to Hobbie it would be Wedge or Tycho here, unless- “Wedge? Tycho?”
“All fine. But things have happened while you were in bacta that I think you should know about before the rest of the squadron piles in.”
That isn’t particularly promising but at least Hobbie’s okay. Part of the knot of tension in his chest eases.
“Well that’s alarming.” He makes an effort for something light to match Face’s unconcern, trying hard to fight down the still-present fear, but he knows that Face, of anyone on the Mon Remonda, will see the tension behind it. “Is this the bit where you ask if I want to sit down?”
“If you want.” Wes crosses his arms and stares flatly at Face instead. Face shrugs slightly and carries on. “Zsinj seems to have developed a way of brainwashing individuals to program them as assassins. We don’t understand how yet, but he’s using non-humans in assassination attempts on high-profile humans. A way of sowing discord between species in the New Republic to cause as much destabilisation as he can and at the same time eliminate some of his high-profile enemies.”
Wes ignores for the moment the fact that everything Face has just said shouldn’t be possible, because that’s not the important point right now. “Who was targeted?”
“Here, Wedge and, we believe, General Solo. Both fine. But Zsinj used Twilek pilots as we were grouping for a battle at Jussafet Four. Tal’dira in Rogue Squadron to go after Wedge, and Tualin in Polearm shot out the Mon Remonda’s bridge trying to get to Solo. Lieutenant Horn shot Tal’dira down and… Tyria had to do the same to Tualin.”
Ice settles in Wes’ stomach as Face speaks. New Republic pilots shooting down New Republic pilots. One of his pilots killing another pilot on their own side. Not their own squadron, but still far too close to home. And Tyria, of all the Wraiths, as kind and empathetic as she is, will be taking it hard, he’ll have to speak with her, do his best to-
Face carries on even as Wes’ mind whirls. “Tyria somehow warned the Mon Remonda— some kind of Force guidance —and saved a lot of lives. In the end they only lost one crewman but all Twileks have been removed from duty by order of the Provisional Council while things get sorted out. Wedge is furious about that, but there’s nothing he can do about it.” He pauses, then adds, carefully neutral, “I thought you should know about Tyria and Horn.”
Wes takes a deep breath and let’s it out slow. Of course Face knows about Tainer’s father. He’s Wraith Leader now, if he hadn’t read all the Wraiths’ personnel files when he was promoted Wes hadn’t trained him properly.
“You’ve done your reading, haven’t you?” It’s inane but he needs a moment to think.
“I did read all the Wraith’s service histories when I got brevetted. But, I knew about Kell’s father before that. Since just after Blood Nest actually.” Face looks uncomfortable. “It, uh, came up. Explained why you and Kell were always so tense around each other. I’m sorry.”
Right, of course. Face, with his unsettling ability to read people, would have been aware of the tension between him and Tainer. And if it had come up at Blood Nest Wes would bet it had been during whatever it was Face and some of the others had done to get Myn functioning again. Which would mean…
“Do the other Wraiths know?”
“I think just Tyria and Myn.”
It's a relief that it's not all of them. Falynn had probably known too. He feels a stab of familiar, sickly guilt at the thought of her. Another young pilot he hadn’t been able to save. Unexpectedly, the familiar pain cuts through the remains of his earlier churning horror for the Wraiths and his thoughts settle.
“Right. I see. Thanks for letting me know, I appreciate the thought. How’s Tyria?”
“Cut up but coping.”
Wes closes his eyes briefly. Had anyone said the same of him after Doran’s death? It would have been barely true, it’s surely an inadequate summary for Tyria too. “I’ll speak with her.”
Face nods solemnly. “Thanks, Wes.”
“And Dia?”
Face lets out a bark of mirthless laughter. “Oh Dia’s pissed. But she isn’t taking it personally which I think she might have done a few weeks ago.”
“Pissed sounds fair.”
“I expect she’d appreciate knowing you’re also on Team Outraged with the Provisional Council.”
“Yeah. I can see why they made that decision though,” then he adds quickly at Face’s frown, “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Face nods again, looking suddenly despondent. “Me too. But it’s playing straight into Zsinj’s hands.”
“So what are we doing about it?” Even if the higher-ups were proceeding with caution, Wedge furious would be making things happen and Wes would bet that if he wasn’t leading some charge or other it would only be because Han was pulling rank to do it himself.
“Wedge ran a planning and strategy session and sent the results off to General Cracken in Intelligence.” Face shrugs restlessly. “Guess we’ll see what comes of that. In the meantime we’ve acquired a fake Millennium Falcon to dangle in front of Zsinj. The refits and primping are nearly done, first mission will be in a couple of days probably.”
“Well, sounds like you’ve all been busy.” Kriff, he’d missed a whole lot while he’d been floating insensible in that tank, hadn’t he? “You said ’here’ earlier. What else happened?”
Face grimaces. “There was an attempt on Mon Mothma. She was hurt pretty bad, we hear, but she survived.”
“Sithspit.” Mon Mothma could be replaced as Chief of State if it came to it but she’s been a shining constant since the early days of the Alliance; a leader everyone looks up to and respects. Her loss would be a major blow to the New Republic’s fragile new government. No wonder the Provisional Council had reacted as they had.
“Right,” Face agrees, then asks curiously. “Did you ever meet her?”
Wes nods. “Couple of times. Rogue Flight was assigned to Alliance High Command after Yavin. Flew escort for her sometimes.” Face’s look of mild awe makes Wes feel old and weary. Those days feel like eons ago, he’s been fighting this war a long time. Trying to shake the feeling off he adds, “Never got invited to sit in her lap like you did with Isard though.” Not that he would have turned the opportunity down if it had ever come up, but that’s a wildly inappropriate thought that he is not going to share with Face.
Face laughs and then changes the topic abruptly. “By the way, I’ve put a commendation for bravery on your file.”
Surprised, Wes asks, “What for?”
“We would have taken heavy losses from the squad escorting Dr Gast but you risked your life to neutralise the threat.”
Wes grimaces. He’d just been doing his job, there’d been no active thought of bravery involved. “I hope you put one in for Shalla, I was just backing her up.”
“Of course.” Face looks vaguely offended by the suggestion he hadn’t. “She’ll be relieved you’re finally out of bacta. She felt terrible you were so badly hurt.”
Uncomfortable, Wes changes the subject. “And speaking of being out of bacta, what exactly are you going to tell the Wraiths to explain why they’re late to my release party?”
Face grins. “We’re having a proper welcome back party for you and Runt this evening, but if anyone asks I’ll say I was saving my XO’s dignity.”
“Right, that sounds exactly like something you’d do.” The sarcastic retort comes more easily than he would have thought possible just minutes ago. He can pretend everything is fine.
Face laughs but is spared from answering as the door opens and the Wraiths pile in. Wes feels another chunk of the weight in his chest lift; despite Face’s assurances he hadn’t quite been able to shake his doubts. Though whole and healthy, Tyria appears subdued and Tainer steals frequent worried looks at her. Dia’s face is set in her usual reserved expression, but that’s happier than Wes would have predicted under the circumstances. And Shalla does indeed look pleased and relieved while the rest of them look varying degrees of cheerful.
“Lieutenant, you’re already out of bacta!” Lara exclaims, managing to sound both delighted and dismayed. “Did they release you early for good behaviour?”
Wes manages to grin at her. Lara’s a good one. Sharp, competent and entertaining, she’s proved a real asset to the squadron. If she wasn’t a subordinate he’d happily flirt with her, maybe even take her to bed if she was interested. Not that she is; his observations during the Saffalore mission suggest there’s something developing between her and Myn. But it’s a moot point anyway because she is a subordinate and sleeping with anyone in his line of command, in either direction, is a line he doesn’t cross whatever his reputation might suggest. “Unfortunately not. Face got the time wrong. See what happens when I’m not around to assign schedules to you all?”
Playing along, Face gives a theatrically self-deprecating shrug. Everyone laughs, and letting the squadron’s enthusiasm wash over him Wes tries to push everything else to the back of his mind.
~~~~~
If there’s one thing Wes got good at after Doran’s death it’s reviewing sensor data; watching for every last nuance that could have changed the outcome. It’s a skill that made him a better pilot but had done little to assuage his guilt.
He starts with the sensor data from Tyria’s fighter, watching it all the way through from her exit from the hangar to Polearm Two’s destruction.
Just before she fires-
[Don’t.]
Tyria’s whispered plea breaks his heart. Was she talking to Tualin or herself? He’d pleaded with Doran too. It hadn’t made any difference.
With grim focus he returns to the start of the recording and dissects it moment by moment. It doesn’t take long, the whole thing had gone down in mere minutes.
When he’s done he knows with absolute certainty there was no other way it could have played out. Nobody else had been in a position to assist and once Tualin had started his faked engine failure the end should have been the death of everyone on the Mon Remonda’s bridge. Whatever odd Force-given premonition had nudged Tyria out of formation was the only thing that had changed that outcome.
He’s so proud of Tyria. She kept her head, did what needed doing and saved Han, the rest of the bridge crew and probably more of the task force too. But mostly he’s heartsick for her. He knows the guilt she’ll be carrying, the feeling of awful failure.
He hesitates before pulling Horn’s data. His clearance as Wraith XO gives him access; Wedge isn’t lax about security but gives his senior officers broader privileges than some group commanders. But Horn isn’t one of Wes’ subordinates and it feels like an invasion in a way that accessing Tyria’s hadn’t. He starts to call up Wedge’s sensor data instead then stops. He’s never seen the sensor data from Doran’s Y-wing; he hadn’t had the clearance to access them himself and the Ace’s CO had flatly refused to allow it. He isn’t sure now that he can take seeing Tal’dira’s ambush from the perspective of the person shot by someone he trusted. He can’t rationalise to himself why he needs to see the events at all.
In the end he pulls up Tycho’s data. Tycho won’t mind.
Years of experience make Tycho and Wedge the most incredibly in synch wingmen in Starfighter Command. In other circumstances it would almost be a pleasure to watch the skill with which Tycho shields Wedge from Tal’dira’s shots, following Wedge through the erratic, half incapacitated maneuvering he pulls off. But not today. Not after a Rogue had tried to kill a Rogue.
[Rogue Five, power down all weapons systems and return to Mon Remonda immediately or we will be forced to regard you as an enemy. And destroy you.]
Tycho couldn’t have known Tal’dira would baulk at destroying him out of hand to get to Wedge, but he’d unhesitatingly kept himself between them. He’d risked himself for Wedge without question, probably without thought.
[Captain, please. It is not in my nature to beseech. I beg you to get clear of my shot before I have to kill you too.]
Wes had begged Doran to stop. He hadn’t thought about pride, he’d just been desperate for a solution that didn’t involve firing on a friend.
[Tal’dira, this isn’t honourable. You shot him in the back.]
Wes’ stomach clenches in queasy, remembered shame at Horn’s words. But he hadn’t shot Doran in the back exactly, even if he had spent years feeling like he had. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same.
Back in the present, the data playback keeps running and just as Tycho’s shields start to fade under a barrage of laser fire, Rogue Nine fires.
Rogue Five disappears from Tycho’s sensors and it’s all over.
It’s an impressive shot, Horn deserves his place in Rogue Squadron. Wes hopes nobody is thoughtless enough to say that to Horn like people had said it to him.
I bet you’ll make True Gunner, kid, that was a hell of a shot.
He feels sick.
Leaning forward he props his elbows on the desk, pushing the heels of shaking hands into his eyes and tries to breathe evenly through the nausea. Distantly he can still hear the recording.
[Rogue Nine, are you fit to fly?
Fit, sir.
Rogue Two, take the group in. You’re in command. I’m going to swap out X-wings and rejoin you.
Yes, sir.
Thanks, Two.
You’re welcome, Leader. Rogues, Novas, form up on me. We’re going in.]
The pain lacing Wedge and Tycho’s voices makes Wes’ chest ache in sympathy. And while he doesn’t know Horn well he can imagine all too clearly what the man’s carefully neutral tone had covered. He’s had practice in it himself.
Swallowing back old grief and current horror, Wes pulls himself together enough to end the data playback. He’s seen enough.
~~~~~
Wes tries to enjoy the welcome back party the Wraiths throw for him and Runt, he really does. But his heart’s not really in it. Face must notice his forced cheer but he doesn’t comment and none of the others seem to find anything amiss in his manner. But there’s alcohol and that helps a little. He has the sense to stay away from the hard spirits so soon after getting out of bacta but he’s... not actually quite sure how many beers down actually, which probably means more than enough, when Tyria approaches him.
“Lieutenant,” she starts, looking awkward. “Could I speak to you? About what happened at Jussafet? About what I- what happened?”
If he’d known she was going to do this tonight he’d have either stuck with juice or hit the brandy. Or maybe stayed in medical. He manages not to frown at her only because he vividly remembers how people looked at him back on Tierfon after Doran’s death. He knows that anything can feel like judgment and she doesn’t need that.
“Did Face suggest you speak to me?” he asks carefully.
Tyria bites her lip. “Kell did.”
That is unexpected and... unwelcome. He should be pleased that Tainer is dealing with his grief and fury enough to put Tyria’s welfare first and is growing into the potential Wes had seen in his records all those months ago. But he isn’t. It’s hard to appreciate Tainer’s personal growth when he can still hear the man’s father dying.
He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, not with too many beers sitting heavy in his stomach. Not when he’s jumpy and on edge and hasn’t had a chance to speak with Hobbie. Sithspit, he needs to see Hobbie, he needs some sense of normality. He needs to tell Hobbie everything he should never have hidden from him. He needs Hobbie not to hate him when he knows.
He just needs Hobbie.
But Tyria, a junior officer who is his actual direct responsibility even on an evening that’s supposed to be fun and frivolous, needs to talk now so what else can he do? It’s his job to look after her as best he can. She deserves that, it doesn’t matter how he feels about the topic.
He takes a breath. “I see. Well, sure. But maybe not in the lounge.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
He sighs. “Just Wes, Tyria. For this, just Wes.”
He leads the way through the corridors to the Wraith’s office, guaranteed to be empty while the squadron is having its party. The unusual atmosphere of cheer pervading the corridors is entirely at odds with the dread that seems to settle heavier in his stomach with every step.
Sitting on opposite sides of the desk would be far too formal for the conversation they’re about to have so he drags a couple of chairs together and sits himself down. Tyria follows suit, biting her lip nervously.
After a moment of awkward silence he asks, “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. Like it happened to someone else. And sometimes it’s this crushing weight and I can hardly breathe.”
“Yeah, it does that.” Tyria seems to hunch in on herself in response. He sighs. “So, what has Kell told you?”
“Not much. He said-” she hesitates looking uncomfortable but then she straightens and finishes, “He said his father was a coward and you killed him for it.”
The brutal simplicity of the statement takes Wes’ breath away. “That’s not… totally accurate,” he manages, voice strained. “He was afraid, yes. But he wasn’t thinking about himself, he was thinking about his family.”
“What did happen?”
Wes takes a breath and tries to marshal the right words. He’d just as soon not have to hash over the details of his first kill again, he was too used to it being his own secret. But Tyria’s experience could never be hidden, it had all been a bit too public for that, and she deserves to properly understand what had happened to him if it's to have any chance of helping her.
“We were ambushing a convoy for supplies but the escort turned out to be much larger than our intelligence had suggested. It was technically a training mission and under most circumstances we would have aborted, but we were desperately short of, well any sort of consumable really, definitely food and fuel. We’d been on short rations for weeks so if we failed the base would have been in real trouble. We had to try. But Doran, Kell’s father, panicked when he realised how badly outnumbered we were and fled. I was the gunner in the Y-wing that was sent after him.”
That assignment hadn’t been chance; the Ace’s squadron leader had sent him and Piggy because they’d known Wes could make the shot if it came to it. In the immediate aftermath Wes had thought it was because he’d had the necessary gunnery skill. It was only later he’d wondered if it was really because their CO had known Wes would do what was necessary. Wondered what it was they’d seen in him.
Wes takes a breath and continues with as little emotion as he can. “We couldn’t let him give the squadron away. We tried everything we could to get him to stop but he wouldn’t respond. We couldn’t risk detection by using our ion canon so eventually we resorted to laser fire to try disabling his Y-wing. I knew when I took the shot that if my aim was off, or he did something unexpected it might kill him and his gunner, but we had to risk it.”
He remembers the momentary jubilant pride he’d felt, mixed in with the relief, when he’d seen his shot had done exactly what he’d hoped, with minimal damage to the fighter; he was good. It had just made the horror when Doran had died anyway all the worse.
He takes another deep breath. “It almost worked. It was a clean shot but his cockpit canopy lost integrity and his flight suit failed and he died of vacuum exposure.”
He can hear the ragged noise of Doran’s dying breaths as he talks. It’s been happening a lot since Folor, he’s got almost used to the intrusion.
Tyria’s eyes are wide in surprise. “But then... you didn’t kill him?”
“That’s just a technicality,” Wes says wearily.
“But you tried to stop him and keep him alive.”
“Yeah. And I failed and caused his death instead.” The words come out too harsh and Tyria winces. He takes a breath and continues more evenly. “But we kept the ambush from being discovered too early, and against the odds we got the supplies we needed to keep the base alive and only lost one other fighter. By most metrics it was a very successful mission.”
“Does Kell know all this?”
“I don’t know. He’s not asked me about it.” He probably doesn’t. If Tainer had ever heard Wes and Piggy’s side of the story their introductions would have gone very differently. “I leave it to your discretion to decide how much you want to share with him.”
Tyria nods. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I think it might help him too. What happened to Doran’s gunner?” And that little speech is Tyria in microcosm, concerned for all involved.
“She survived. Her flight suit maintained integrity and she was picked up before she ran out of air. She died later, at the Battle of Nocto.” He doesn’t know why he adds that little snippet. Tyria’s so damn young the debacle that had been the Airam Campaign is probably just history to her if she knows anything about it at all. Kriff but he feels old sometimes. “I think she was pretty much the only person who never really blamed me for Doran’s death, even though I could have killed her too. Fellow feeling maybe. She always felt she’d failed in not having been able to talk Doran down either.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. And I’m more sorry than I can say that something similar happened to you Tyria. It’s awful, I know, but you’ll get through it.”
“But I’m always going to be the person who shot down one of her own, how do I get past that?”
“No, Tyria. You’re the person who saved dozens and more lives by doing something everyone knows you didn’t want to do. If you’re going to let any part of this define you make it that. That you saved lives by doing the hard thing.”
“Is that what you took from it?”
Wes hesitates. It hadn’t been, for a long time.
“It was a very different situation for me,” he says, picking his words carefully. “It was my first mission and my first kill. I’d just turned nineteen a couple of days before, I had no idea who I was, who I wanted to be. I had only the vaguest idea of what fighting for the Alliance, fighting at all, really meant. So for a while I thought that maybe there wasn’t anything else to me, that I was just a tool for killing until it was my turn to die. That that was all I was or had to offer.” Tyria let’s out a soft, distressed noise he ignores. “But Tyria, you know who you are. Your squadron knows who you are. You’re starting from a very different place.”
“What changed your mind? What made you realise you were more than what you had done?”
“Friends. Hobbie and Wedge. Luke. Tycho a bit later. Friends helped. And you’ve plenty of friends who will help you through.”
He doesn’t add, 'friends who saw me for what I could be and not what I’d done because they didn’t know'. That won’t help Tyria who has no choice but for everyone to know. He feels a little guilty that he’s misleading her but she doesn’t need to know he’s still never told his closest friend. That will change tonight. As soon as he can find Hobbie he’s going to tell him. He should have done years ago.
“I feel like I failed Tualin,” Tyria says. “If I’d been faster, if I’d realised something was wrong sooner I could have given one of Nova’s B-wings time to have disabled his fighter. Maybe we could have treated him as the victim not the enemy, got him medical treatment.”
“None of his squadron who knew him better than you had any idea either, Tyria. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
The look on Tyria’s face says she could and would. Wes knows that expression well from the mirror.
“I just keep thinking there must have been another way,” she says.
Wes nods. “I can’t tell you that will fade much. I’m sorry. I’ve wondered ever since what I could have done differently. How I could have kept Doran alive and still have saved the rest of the squadron. But there wasn’t anything. I did everything I could and I still failed. Knowing that should help, it does help, but I still think sometimes that there must have been something more I could have done.”
What more could he have done for Falynn or the Talons? Could he have stopped Castin throwing his life away? These failures haunt him too, fresher and sharper than Doran’s death with nothing even to show for them except his own continued survival, and some days he can’t help thinking that’s a dubious trade-off at best.
He pauses and then adds, “For what it’s worth, Tyria, I went over your sensor data this afternoon and I can’t see any other way things could have gone down. I’m sorry. You did everything right. It just wasn’t enough to save Tualin because nothing would have been.”
“Thank you,” Tyria says quietly. “I appreciate the thought and I know you’re right, and it should help but...”
Wes nods as she trails off. He totally gets it. “Sometimes it will.”
“Sometimes?”
“That’s all I can promise you. When it doesn’t you have to remember how many people have a future they wouldn’t have if Tualin had succeeded. Not just General Solo but everyone on the bridge and probably more beside. Think of them and their families.”
“What about Tualin’s family?”
Wes’ mouth goes dry.
He’s come to terms with Doran’s death, he’s had years for that. Coming to terms with what it did to Doran’s family is something new he’s still struggling with.
“I’m sorry.” Tyria sounds stricken. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No,” Wes manages. “It’s a valid question. I just...”
He’d known Doran had a family of course, Doran had talked about them often. After his death the Ace’s CO had visited them, but someone had already told them what had happened and the same spiteful grapevine had carried the news of how that meeting had gone back to Wes and Piggy at Tierfon. That twin betrayal by people he’d thought of as friends had almost been harder to bear than his part in Doran’s death, or the knowledge that Doran’s family hated him.
All of it piled together was too much. Then Alderaan had been destroyed and to his continuing shame he’d been relieved by the thought that Doran’s family were dead too. Ashamed and appalled, but relieved that their hatred had died with them. He couldn’t possibly have explained the pit of guilt and shame he’d spiraled into, but anyone who had noticed assumed he was upset by the loss of Alderaan and the casualties at Yavin.
Even now that his role in Doran’s death is no longer a secret he still can’t tell anyone that truth. Because what sort of person could possibly have been relieved by the death of a young family in the middle of the horror of an entire planet’s demise? Found it a comfort even? He’ll take that shameful secret to his own death.
The revelation that Doran’s family had lived and suffered had thrown his whole world out of balance again and he’s still trying to assimilate the knowledge of what his actions had done to them.
He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. “I can’t tell you how Tualin’s family will feel. If it helps, the details of what really happened will be locked down for a long time, they’ll probably never know anything beyond that he died in action.”
“Should that help?”
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. Doran’s family should never have known either but if they hadn’t they’d have died on Alderaan in truth rather than just in Wes’ mind and maybe that would have been harder in the end. He’ll never know. “Tyria, it’s all hard. You did a hard thing but it was the right thing. You saved more lives than we’ll ever know. You’ll get through this.”
Tyria nods silently and then asks in a small voice, “Would you do it again?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. The choice to take the shot had been easy in the end; training and desperation, not logic, had pulled him through. Coming to terms with the understanding that he’d do the same again, that he was the person that would do the job that needed doing regardless of what it cost him, had been harder. But he’d never doubted he would. He’d made a sort of peace with it. Until Folor.
After Tainer had crashed into his life he’d been so busy wondering what sort of a person Tainer was, what stealing his father from him had done to him, that Wes hadn’t stopped to consider what he’d done to himself.
Then at Ession, when Tainer had run, Wes would have shot him down too— with regret but without much of a second thought —and he doesn’t know who that makes him anymore. He’d been willing to pay the cost of killing another squad mate, the son of his first kill, because he’d thought it was right and needed to be done. But now he’s faced every day with the fear that maybe he doesn’t know what right is anymore.
He swallows and asks Tyria in return, “Would you do it again?”
“Yes.” Tyria whispers the word, making the truth that she’d kill a friend again if she had to, even knowing the cost, sound like a confession rather than an acknowledgment that she could make the hard calls to keep her people alive. She’ll never reach a command position if she doesn’t learn to accept that of herself. But it’s still fresh for her, maybe she’ll get there in the end.
But a part of him hopes she won’t, that she won’t have to learn the same lessons he had to, that she’ll stay softer and less cynical than him. And he hopes desperately that he’ll never have to be the one to order her to do it again if it comes to it, that he can somehow protect them both from that.
“Talk to a counsellor, Tyria,” he says as gently as he can manage. “Talking with your friends will help, but speak with a counsellor too if you haven’t already. Do that early, don’t leave it. It’ll help.
What a hypocritical suggestion when he’s been carefully avoiding doing the same since Ession. He knows he should, even means to sometimes, but its easier to put it off.
“Thank you, Wes.” He can tell she finds it odd to use his first name like that and feels suddenly old and world-weary and every inch the veteran she clearly views him as.
“Any time, Tyria,” he responds, somehow keeping it all out of his face and voice. But when she leaves he lets himself slump, resting his head on the desk and wishes desperately he could forget everything even for just a few hours.
He has to find Hobbie. He needs to find Hobbie.
He drags himself upright and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes briefly, unsuccessfully trying to push the images of Doran’s Y-wing away. He takes a moment to return the chairs to their proper places— despite his turmoil he’s had too many years of tidiness drilled into him to leave the office in disarray and he’s the squadron’s XO he’s supposed to set a good example and kriff how is he in charge of anyone, how had that happened? —then goes in search of his best friend.
Two corridors later he runs straight into Corran Horn instead. The other man is heading in the same direction, towards the officers’ cafeteria that seems to be the epicentre of whatever is going on this evening.
“Janson.” The other man gives him a cordial nod. “Good to see you out of bacta.”
“Thanks,” Wes says automatically, returning the nod. “It’s good to be out.”
He nearly leaves it at that and let’s the other man walk away, but after a moment of hesitation he adds, “Horn. A moment?”
He wouldn’t call Horn a friend, he doesn’t know him well enough. But he’s a Rogue and Wes owes him something for that even if he didn’t purely for fellow feeling. And if he’s dredging up his sordid past for all and sundry he might as well get this over with now.
Horn turns back to him looking curious. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard about what happened at Jussafet. I’m sorry.”
Horn looks wary but nods again. “Thanks.”
“Look, I-” Kriff, this was a bad idea but he’s committed now. “I’ve been there. Back in the Alliance. Different circumstances but I had to shoot down a member of my own squadron. I did my best to keep him alive but I failed so... I know you’ve got the rest of the Rogues, but if you need to talk to someone who’s been in your shoes a little....”
Horn regards him, expression thoughtful. “I appreciate the offer. But I think I’m okay. Thanks.”
“Okay.” It’s an intense relief to have his offer turned down but Wes makes himself add, “Offer’s open if you find you need to.”
“Thanks.” Horn pauses and then asks, “Janson, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Wes says automatically.
“If this has all brought stuff up for you-”
“I’m fine,” Wes repeats sharply, then adds belatedly, “Thanks.”
“Okay, but if you need to talk you know where to find me.” Horn makes the offer with a simple sincerity that makes Wes’ skin crawl. Damn the man and his fundamental decency.
He needs to talk to Hobbie but right now a more overriding need is to get out of Horn’s vicinity as fast as he can manage. He changes course and heads away at random, not caring that he’s left a conversation unfinished in his wake.