"I give up." Wedge huffed. Wearing his crumpled uniform from yesterday, in desperate need of a cup of java, his black hair an unwashed mess, Wedge was halfway back to his speeder with the gas giant just now rising beyond the horizon when he realized he had already lost the war.

This time, it ended before it began. One night. That was it. He told her up front he wasn't looking for anything serious. He learned a long time ago to always tell them that up front, and say it in clear, no-uncertain terms. And that was usually how he worded it, "not looking for anything serious". Some of them took it at face value. Some of them got all sultry and declared their skills would change his mind. And some of them somehow forgot the warning entirely. Sheila was one of the latter. But never before had it gone from drinks, to sex, to Get The Fuck Out in less than 12 hours. And he still couldn't contemplate what the hell she was mad about.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" Her voice got all sweet and pretty when she asked.

"Oh, I gotta catch up on my laundry." That was true, but the bigger truth was that he needed a good night's sleep. There was a rumor of the Imperials advancing on Yavin 4, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

The woman iced over. "Who are you taking?"

"Taking? To the laundry?"

She slapped his knee. "The Minister of State Reception, moron."

With his head still on the pillow, his eyes looked around the foreign bedroom for a clue. "What gave you the idea that I'm going to the Minister of State Reception?"

She hopped out of bed and rushed to get dressed. "You're a war hero. I know you got invited," she hissed. "Skywalker got invited."

Wedge blinked hard. It was too early for this crap. He rubbed his face with both slow palms. "What the hell are you talking about?"

She threw a shoe at him. The argument continued a minute longer, but it only deteriorated to the point of her threatening bodily harm if she saw him in the Newsnet reports at the reception, with or without a date.

And now Wedge was climbing into his cold speeder in the predawn trying to figure out why he didn't really care. At least he'd be able to catch up on his laundry on Zhellday night.

The sex wasn't even worth the complication anymore. Joining the rebellion as a teenager with hundreds of others, they all suffered a strong dose of immortality back then. All the fresh meat in flight school acted like they would live forever, that the statistics were bullshit. One in five rebel pilots got blown to bits in every altercation with the Empire, yet every pilot declared he or she would be The One to live. Wedge was no different. It didn't sink in until the first time he read The List after a battle that he began to feel the weight of truth.

No one ever talked about it, of course. Yet over poker, at parties, drinking beer in the barracks, he could tell which ones still believed they'd live through this war and which ones had accepted the modus operandi of, "Live it up now because you're going to die soon." With his parents gone and his sister long since missing, Wedge didn't have anything on Corellia to go back to, so he gladly fell into those ranks. "Better to burn out than fade away."

It wasn't until that moment he got shot in his upper starboard engine, destroying his ability to keep the ship steady in that tight space, screaming along that trench so fast that every twitch of his wrist could send him crashing into the side of the Death Star, with that green bishwag farm boy and his stupid womprat story holding it steady in front of him, and more TIEs closing in on their tails from behind. . . .

It wasn't until that moment that Wedge realized he wanted to live.

Reading The List from that day, when the statistics went from One in Five to One in Twelve, Wedge drank himself into a stupor trying to drown out the niggling feeling that leaving his wingman meant he no longer had the right to live.

That's when he slowly settled into the third stage. 'Better to burn out than fade away, sure, but I'm not taking anybody with me when I go.' He'd seen the crying widows. He'd witnessed those who were going to fly 'one last mission' before they went home. The ones full of piss and vinegar as they climbed into a cockpit that would never come back.

"I'm not looking for anything serious," got amended to add, "but that's more for your benefit than for mine."

Having something warm and sweet to distract him every once in a while seemed to soothe the loneliness of it all, but Wedge drove back to the barracks in the pre-dawn that day and found his eyes stretching toward the empty grinder to snag a sight of Luke and Kess running. They weren't there, of course. She was busted up from the Battle of the Y-Wing and he absconded with her on some Jedi thing. Wedge wasn't the only one that hoped they'd just fuck already and it out of their systems. But he dwelled on all those days he returned to the barracks at dawn with freshly fucked hair and spotted Luke doing his morning run alone... alone... alone... That boy was always alone! Wedge thought all those mornings when he rolled his eyes with sympathy at Luke for keeping to himself and not partaking in the pilot bounty that was prevalent on rebel bases.

Now his eyes stretched to the empty grinder to recognize that, even without the sex, Luke was no longer alone.

And even with more than enough of it... Wedge was.

Wedge parked his speeder and stared out that steamy jungle for a moment before getting out. And he found a fourth stage he was only now realizing was an option: cheap sex was no longer worth it.

Thankfully, work distracted him from further lamenting on that topic. When Luke was gone, he was in charge, and that kept him busy enough by itself, especially with new whispers that the Empire was on the way. Wedge put the plan into action to get the birds as ready as they could get them. If Kess returned from their little vacation and got in a twist for him stepping on her Ground Plan toes, Wedge had no problems telling her to kiss his ass. He already planned what he'd say. "If you wanted to stay in charge of the ground plan, you shouldn't've left in the first place." And she'd stick her tongue out at him or something, and he'd come back with something that Luke couldn't hear. "Don't offer unless you're going to follow it through, grease monkey."

All shipmate teasing aside, he knew he had enough tenure to maintain that decision after she got back. Not because of his medal, though that probably helped, but because he was nearly thirty now. Thirty! Compared to the statistical life span of a rebel pilot, Wedge was an antique.

For the first time since he defected for the Rebellion, Wedge began to wonder if he might actually live through this thing. He wasn't stupid enough to try to put any 'retirement' plan into action before the war was over, but he decided it was okay to start daydreaming what that plan might be.

The next day, as if on cue, a call came from the Admiral's office. Wedge reported into the Council Building and gladly stood in front of Admiral Ackbar to receive the orders in Rogue Commander's continued Jedi absence, only to learn that the Jedi had already returned . . . and resigned his commission.

Wedge was hardly surprised, and a little glad of it. Not because he yearned for command so much-although that would be nice-but because it was a pain in the ass to run Rogue Group as a second and have to do it so frequently for so long every time Luke had to run off somewhere. His first reaction was relief and eagerness. He would finally have the formal power to get stuff done. His second reaction was a mild lament because he did enjoy the shit out flying that man's wing. But his third reaction, the one brought on by the momentary wonder why Luke resigned now, was the one that made him chuckle dirty. Man, that grease monkey must be really good in bed.

Not surprising. Most of them are.

Amused, with new landscapes on his horizon, and now the official Rogue Group Commander himself, Wedge took his new orders and reported into the CIC Bunker to get all the datawork transferred over too.

He'd been down here on the rare occasion to know his way around, but not who everyone was. He first checked in with a protocol droid as to his purpose here, and the droid motioned him to pick any of the Red Level data admins to transfer the command codes. Low ceilinged and dark so the admins could have an easier time reading all the screens, mainframes along every wall, glass stat boards cutting the open space with more data to track... dozens of people worked to sort out data into real information they could use. Wedge first looked for one that didn't look busy, but on his way to that one, his feet somehow kept on walking to another, one that looked super busy. . .

She had six screens lit up on the main frame in front of her. Her hands and eyes were moving so fast he could barely tell which screen she was working on. A pale brown ponytail bounced across her back when she turned her head to this or that. And Wedge stopped his feet short before he got to her. You just swore you wouldn't do this anymore.

But she turned-before he could step away to someone safer-she turned. Green-gray eyes looked him up and down and she pulled the headset off her ear. "What do you need, Commander?"

Wedge stepped up and handed her his orders. "Skywalker resigned and I need to transfer his command codes."

Delicate fingers took the card from him, and a fresh smile shined briefly up. "Congratulations on your promotion. Pull up a chair."

Those shiny eyes were already back on her six screens by the time he rolled over the nearest stool to sit by her station.

"One L or two?" Was her first question to him.

Wedge's brain snagged, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the pretty face looking at him or the fact that she was already three steps ahead of him on this project. "What?"

"Your name," she chuckled softly as she plugged in his orders, "Is it spelled with one L or two?"

"Oh. Two." His eyes went to the screens to watch the orders pop up. She knew his name before she looked at them. And now he wished he sat on the other side of her so he could catch a glimpse of her nametag too.

He scolded himself again, you just swore you wouldn't do this shit anymore. Focus, bishwag!

Within a few minutes, Wedge realized he'd seen her before. She was that one he saw avoiding the transport escape during the Battle of Hoth. He remembered seeing her on rare occasion at big events, but only amidst a group of other women. He assumed that meant she was married. Probably had kids already too. (With a stomach that flat, it would have been impressive if she had.)

Still, as pretty and polite as she was, she was all business. "Okay." She swiveled her desk chair to face him and laid out one datacard on top of the other until he had a whole stack. "Your billet assignments. Personnel records of your crew. Base security codes. Fighter security codes. Contact list for your division. Minutes from the last GC meeting. Watch-standing requirements. And... rotation schedule for the maze."

Wedge blinked wide eyes at the stack.

"Any questions?" she asked kindly.

"Um, yeah." He scooted his chair closer to the counter with his little stack. "How do I get billets filled?"

It was the first of many, many questions. Everyone else was rushing to get ready for the Minister of State reception tonight, Teak was already on it to get the birds prepped for a sudden dance, Luke was probably hiding to meditate away some after-sex shock, and Wedge was suddenly no longer in a hurry to get his laundry done.

She operated that six screened terminal like she was flying a fighter. She had the patience of a saint for all his questions, even the really stupid ones he didn't need to ask. She had a deep and wise giggle for his jokes, and those green-gray eyes sparkled at him as though she realized full well he was flirting with her, but she wasn't going to let that get under her skin. She'd dealt with men like him before, and she wasn't falling for it again. Wedge could tell that much just by the way she looked at him, or -to be more accurate- didn't look at him when she found herself reluctantly laughing at something he said.

Wedge thought he detected her blushing at one point, and that's when he would usually go in for the kill. That was the moment to find some sexy way to ask her out, but he stopped himself this time. This time, he reminded himself that 'the kill' was not what he wanted anymore.

And her eyes slid back over as though she expected him to throw out some smooth pick-up line, but she was well armed with plenty of polite ways to say 'no but thanks for asking'.

Wedge realized then that he had no more stupid questions he could think to ask and began collecting his datacards so he could go.

She gestured lightly, "You've been serving as the missing man's second for so long, I'm surprised you didn't know all this stuff already."

Suddenly suffering an overwhelming need to be a gentleman, Wedge decided this one was too good for any of his 'I'm not looking for anything serious' fodder anyway. Wedge cleared his throat as he pushed to his feet and grinned to admit it, even though he wouldn't look her in the eye as he did. "Oh, I did know most of it already." He gave her an honest grin and prepared to walk away without going for the kill at all. "I just wanted an excuse to talk to you some more."

Her sparkling eyes and new grin caught him like a hook to a fish. "So did you have any more questions?"

Was she inviting him to stay and talk longer? . . . Probably not.

But still...

"Just one," his flirtatious smile got away from him, and his instinct tried to take over. "What's your name?"

"Yana."

Not 'Lieutenant'. Not 'none of your business'. Not 'get out of my office'. Not 'I know what you're up to and my answer is still no'.

And yet not another 'spend a lot of money on me and I'll make it worth your while'. Not another 'I'll hang out with you until the day you give me Luke Skywalker's comm number'. Not another 'I know you said you weren't looking for anything serious but I still want you to take me to the Minister of State Reception like were engaged.' Not another 'take me flying and I'll give you a blow job'.

Just...

"Yana," he echoed gently.

He enjoyed the glow of her eyes and the amused smile on her lips, and he listened to the flow and melody of the name as it tumbled out of his mouth. Wedge smiled more, and turned to leave, "Thanks for all the help."

Moments later, as Wedge rode up the lift alone, he stared at a blank spot on the wall. The antique pilot and now official GC of Rogue Group decided his 'retirement' plan was to someday deserve the long-term company of someone like her.