Disclaimer: Star Wars Belongs to George. (resounding "duh")

Filthy Little Secret

Deathly, frosted rays fall onto a bone-pale, equally lifeless face. Darkness around the eyes, lacerations fading to scars. In time they will grow faint. But they won't go away. He's no longer what he was.

I watch him sleep. I don't know what compelled me to stay with him, sitting there, next to his bunk with the light on, when I should have been, like any (in)sane person, getting what little sleep I can get…Call it an irrational impulse. Call it a protective instinct. Call it clinging to whoever you have left. I don't think I care.

Things haven't been the same since Hoth. Something has been ripped from all of us. Our hearts sink. Our spirits drop.

It has been…what, two days? Three days? A thousand? Two, I think, since he deserted, got himself into yet another mess and went through hell. We all did – I suppose it all struck quite close to home. It jolted us awake, it pried our eyes open. Suddenly we could see the frightening reality of our lives. We could see our impending doom. Any of us could die on any given day.

But at the moment, he knows nothing of my presence, of the world around him, of the creeping fear and cold and despair.

Doubts are stirred at the second glance. He's always looked free when he slept. Not now…He doesn't look unburdened as so many of us do. Least of all, innocent. He was at one point. We all were.

His face is tight and grey with pain and weariness. I don't want to know what happened. But it scares me that he no longer seems to care whether he lives or dies. I can't stand the sight of that grim, hopeless face.

He's tense as a wire – he's never safe…Eyes shut so tightly – to blind him from a painful truth? To keep the tears from escaping, burying everything deep within, where no one can see? An arm – his good arm – thrown over his face – to shield him from a burning sun?

The room is four blank, stark white walls. It is drafty. Although it makes me shiver, it does nothing for his feverish, burning skin. The room is silent save for his shallow, tortured breathing and my own – level, but starting to tremble – and the endless buzzing of the silence, and the sterile, almost blue-tinted light.

I watch his fitful slumber, and my heart wants to break for him. I search for it and find only a tattered, gaping wound. Blood trickling in tiny rivers, oozing, clotting. Soon I won't feel anymore.

"Why must you always suffer?"

A rhetorical question whispered over the deafening quiet. Faint, vulnerable even to my own ears. Who am I speaking to?

The lights flicker and, barely audibly, he moans. I reach out to touch him, gingerly…He's so fragile he's untouchable. Entirely on their own accord, my fingers slowly, gently slide down his cheek.

Then I pull away, burned. I look down at my seared flesh. But there's no mark. Nothing. Am I dreaming?

I refocus my eyes. No, he's not engulfed in flames. Pale lashes flutter, revealing bright, bright eyes, glistening with fever. They're beautiful.

"Wedge..?" So far away…

"Stay?" He's never sounded younger.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, putting on a brave face. It's a wonder that it doesn't fall apart.

"He said…he's…he's not…" They are but strings of words punctuated by sharp, painful breaths. They make no sense, but they might as well.

"It's alright. Don't speak," I whisper, stroking fiery skin. Don't speak. Don't die.

"N-not...not my fa-ther…" Ending with a horrid, shivering sob that wracks his whole body.

Then it clicks. Then the awful meaning hits me. Then I know. I don't know how I know, but I know. I lose my breath. Time freezes.

I remember how we first met in the briefing room just before the battle of Yavin. For all I knew and cared, he was just some green kid (though not much younger than me) who was going to die with me.

I have a vague memory of our first dogfight together. It's very hazy, probably because the last thing on my mind was to burn the details into my mind – no, I had other things to concern myself with, such as all those fighters trying to do me in.

I do remember not being able to take a shot at the monstrous thing. And Biggs Darklighter. I remember losing him. He was one of the rebellion's best. No one expected him to be killed – then again, we expected everyone to die – why should he be an exception?

I didn't find out until later that he had been Luke's best friend since they were kids. I thought I had it bad, losing most of red squadron. But we did not form many attachments. The average life expectancy of a fighter pilot in a dogfight is measured in seconds. Needless to say, I felt terrible. But I never said anything.

We had a new Red Squadron, which eventually turned into Rogue Squadron. It was different. We were the best of the best, so we didn't die that often. Inevitably, we became friends. There's something about war that binds people together. Now I'm not so sure if that's a good thing.

He's a great leader – better than me, at any rate. Maybe it's because he doesn't elevate himself above everyone else. Maybe because he had a way of lifting our spirits. He was one person we knew we could trust.

I don't know what has changed. Something has. Superimposed on his memory is that ominous face we all know, that steel death mask that prophesizes our collective doom. I can't stand to look at his face. I can't stand to fuse the two images together, to see the despair in his eyes. Even the memories are fading, worn away by the darkness in him.

I find the strength not to look away again, and I see what he's become. He is as cold, grey and hollow as I am. He's as dead as any of us. I want to cry. But I can't cry. And the tiny human part of me mourns.

I'll keep his filthy little secret. I'll let him live his double life. I'll leave him to his lies and deceptions. But things will never be the same.

I want to hate him. I want to put him out of his misery. I want to stab him in the back like he's done to all of us. I know I'm better than this. But that doesn't stop the vile thoughts from floating in my mind.

It's your fault. You did this, son of Vader.

Because I need to blame someone. I need to hate someone. Or the world will consume me.

"You are nothing to me." The words slip out. Softly, yet never with so much fire.

Impossibly clear blue eyes wander, then turn to look directly into mine. I can see the tear run down his cheek. I hear it fall and shatter.