Part 3

"Hey."

"Hey." Wes shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Can I come in?"

Wedge stepped back, nodding, concern in his eyes. "You all right?"

"Just didn't feel like being alone. "Do you mind?"

"Not if you'll have a drink; I was starting to feel like an alcoholic anyway. I hate drinking alone."

"So does—" Wes's words died in his throat. "So did Hobbie." He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall as he walked into the sitting room and draped his jacket over the back of the nearest chair. "Yeah, I'll have a drink."

He watched Wedge pour two water glasses full of Whyren's Reserve, taking one gratefully. Sipping it, he closed his eyes as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "Did you watch it? The whole thing?"

"Couldn't take my eyes off it."

"Me either." Wes sat down, holding the glass in front of him, staring down into it. "You think he knew? He didn't look really…"

"Conscious?" Wedge shook his head. "No. I don't. He was pretty far gone. He was alive, but I don't think he was aware anymore."

"What… what do you think they did to him? I mean…"

"I don't know." Wedge took a long drink and set his glass down. "And I'd rather not think about it. It won't do any good."

"I shouldn't have watched that." Wes put his own drink on the table. "I can't get it out of my head."

Wedge came to sit next to him. "Me either. But if you hadn't, you wouldn't believe it, and you'd kick yourself until you saw it with your own eyes."

"I know. I still don't believe it."

"I know."

"There had to be something they could have done, Wedge. But they didn't do anything. They just let him die and didn't try to stop it."

Wedge took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Wes, at the level they're dealing with, it's all about acceptable losses. Hobbie… comparing losing him to the number of people they would have lost if they tried to save him, that was acceptable. It makes me sick, but Cracken and Ackbar and the others – they have to make these decisions every day. As much as it hurts, I can't tell them they were wrong. If Cracken had sent people to try to get him out, and they'd been killed – which they probably would have – I wouldn't be able to go to their families and say that their deaths were worth it."

"He's crashed so many times," Wes murmured. "I never expected his luck to last forever." It felt strange to say this, to admit that out of all of them, he'd secretly thought Hobbie would be the first of them to go. "But I didn't think it would happen like this."

"It shouldn't have happened like this. Your squad shouldn't have been there."

"The shot that hit him – I never even saw where it came from. I still don't know. And then he went down… Wedge, I had to get them out of there. I didn't know what happened, and I couldn't get a squadron of green pilots get killed."

"You did the only thing you could," Wedge said softly. "His death isn't your fault."

"Then why does it feel that way?"

"Because you always try to figure out what you could have done differently, what little thing might have changed the outcome entirely."

"You do that?" Wes asked.

"All the time. Every single pilot I've lost, when I have to inform their families, I spend a long time sitting in front of a datapad trying to figure out if they really had to die. And I can usually find five things I could have done. But nothing I should have done."

Wes was silent for a moment, mulling that over. "I don't know if I could do it."

"You could. If you had to."

"I don't want to have to." Wes set his glass down once more and stood up. "Wedge, I don't want to instruct anymore. I want to fly again."

"I don't know if Command will agree to that."

"I don't care, Wedge!" He turned away, staring through the window at the lights of Coruscant. "I don't give a kriff what Command wants, Wedge. My best friend is dead because of Command!" He spat out the last words, not bothering to try to veil his disdain.

Wes felt Wedge slip an arm around his shoulders, but didn't turn to face him. "I'll do what I can," the other man told him gently.

Feeling a few tears slide down his cheeks, Wes just nodded, watching as speeder headlights danced through the night.

-------------------------

Tycho downed the glass of whiskey in his hand with one swallow. The look on Winter's face… it made him sick every time he thought about it. He'd hit women before – only a couple of times, but he had. But it was always self-defense, never in anger.

And never, ever a woman he'd loved.

He stared out at the dark night. Over the low howl of wind outside, he could occasionally hear his wife moving about their bedroom. He'd only seen her twice since… since she'd run out of the kitchen. Once when she'd come out of the refresher and headed into the bedroom, and the other when she'd come out to get a drink of water. She wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him except to glance away when he looked toward her.

And she wouldn't let him apologize.

Not that he knew exactly what to say. He shouldn't have hit her; that was inexcusable. But there was still just a small part of him that was convinced Winter deserved it. Her, and Cracken, and whoever else whose decision it had been to leave Hobbie to die.

Ever since he'd joined the Alliance, he'd watched people die because of bad Intelligence and ridiculous decisions about who was worth saving and who they could afford to lose. It sickened him that she was a part of that now.

He wondered how Cracken would deal with sitting in a room somewhere with a blaster to his head, while the New Republic government decided it would cost them less to let him die than to try to save him. He wondered if Winter would have said the same if it had been Cracken instead of Hobbie, if she'd have fought more for her boss's life.

Maybe Starfighter Command just didn't matter that much to Command, to Cracken… to Winter. They were the expendable ones, after all, the ones that got sent on these crazy missions. No one ever expected them to come back.

Tycho was willing to bet that there were a few in the New Republic who were just a little bit disappointed each time the Rogues made it back. He wondered if Winter was one of them.

Walking out onto the balcony, he set his glass down on the railing. Time to stop drinking.

He wanted to apologize to her, but knew that if he tried, his words would shift away from "I'm sorry I hit you" and toward "I'm sorry you work for such a nerfherder as Cracken." Nah, 'nerfherder' was too mild a word for the general.

Leaning over the railing, he looked down to the walkways and stores ten, fifteen levels below. "Long way to fall," he mumbled, stepping up onto the lower bar of the railing.

"Get down." He didn't know how long he'd been up there when Winter's voice – and her hand on his shoulder – dragged him out of his thoughts. He did as she told him, allowing her to push him toward the door. Dropping into a chair, he watched as she closed and locked it before picking up the whiskey bottle and the glass she'd brought in from outside and taking them to the kitchen.

She returned a moment later. "Why don't you come to bed? You're tired… and drunk." He didn't miss the dismayed look that crossed her face. "Everything will be better in the morning."

He was on his feet almost instantly, and within seconds had her backed up against the wall. Gripping her arm tightly, he hissed at her, "Sith it will! One of my best friends is dead. That doesn't go away overnight." He glared at her, feeling sick at the fact that being with NRI had changed her so much that she could even say something like that. Better in the morning.

"You're hurting my arm."

Her words snapped him out of his angry stupor and he let go quickly, stepping back as she rubbed her arm where a bruise was already starting to show. It was only then that he looked, really looked, at her face and saw the damage he'd done earlier.

"Force," he whispered, reaching out to touch her. "I'm… I'm sorry, Winter. I didn't—"

She cut him off, shaking her head, and pushed his hand away. "You were upset, and angry, and you had every right to be. Let's just forget it, and get some rest."