By some miracle—a miracle that was Luke getting into the pilot's seat rather than Biggs, and flying on instincts that Biggs simply didn't have—they made it back to Anchorhead without incident, despite how dazed the both of them were. Luke kept shooting him awkward glances out of the corner of his eye, which made Biggs stiffen and want to curl into a ball before his cheeks ignited like two midnight suns. He didn't; he had more self-control than that. Instead, he smiled that trained, confident smile he was used to sporting, and Luke nearly crashed the speeder.

Biggs looked back down at his lap. But when Luke tentatively reached out a hand to him, he took it and entwined their fingers together. He could feel the pulse in his fingertips and in Luke's wrist; they tangled together like comets in unstable orbits.

He let out a breath.

Practically speaking, there was no use in denying this. He could feel in his gut that his feelings hadn't changed, and although he knew he hadn't always had that buried urge to kiss his best friend, he couldn't really look back and pinpoint when it had appeared. It seemed older than the Battle of Yavin. Older, perhaps, even than Biggs going to the academy. Which complicated things, because if he had recognised it then, rather than requiring such intense, unusual trauma to shake his feelings up enough for these ones to rise to the surface, things would have been a lot simpler.

Might have been a lot simpler. Perhaps, if they'd flown hand-in-hand, rather than just side-by-side, then, he could have convinced Luke to come to the academy with him, damn what his controlling uncle demanded of him, and Luke would have ultimately given his loyalties to the right cause. But perhaps not. Luke had chosen not to apply then, under Owen's pressuring; romance might not have changed it.

Nonetheless, daydreaming that it might have meant Biggs didn't have to confront the further implications of this for now. Lord Vader still wanted the name of the pilot he intended to hunt down and execute. There was no way that Biggs could justify giving it to him now—and, really, had there ever been in the first place? What sort of a friend was he, to need a kiss to confirm that hesitation in him?—but he owed Lord Vader everything. He owed him answers, at the very least.

Luke stopped the speeder outside of Fixer's garage and left it around the back. They'd all already said their goodbyes after the funeral, and clearly even Luke didn't want to have to go through that ritual again. No one really stole anything in Anchorhead—at least, not anything as unreliable and cranky as that speeder. Everyone knew what a pain it was to fly.

So they walked instead, hand in hand, to the blank patch of desert on the outskirts where Captain Solo had dropped them off. The Falcon wasn't there yet: it was ten long minutes before they deigned to show up, in which they let go of each other's hands but still stole glances and smiles from each other. Every millimetre of skin that had touched Luke's itched like it was breaking out in eczema.

When Solo finally showed up, at least he wasn't obnoxious as he usually was. He barely looked at Biggs, instead hovering awkwardly at the top of the ramp and glancing at Luke. "How'd it go?"

Luke swallowed. "Well," he said at last. The buoyancy they'd been enjoying drained away like helium into the atmosphere. "A lot of people showed up."

"Not until suns-down, though," Biggs said bitterly.

Luke squeezed his hand. "They had work," he reasoned. Biggs supposed he had to reason that; the other implications were too painful. Owen and Beru had given their lives to this community. "They did what they could."

"And so did you," Solo said. "Are ya ready to go back now?"

A teasing note entered Luke's voice as he climbed the ramp, leaving the sweltering desert night behind. Biggs scrambled to keep up. "Are you actually gonna take us back to the coordinates Leia sent? I thought you were going on about abandoning us as soon as you had the chance."

Solo shrugged and gestured towards the cockpit. "Chewie won't let me leave you here stranded. Says it's cruel. I say he's a softie, but—"

Luke laughed and shoved him. "Yeah, right."

"—hells only know that you can't take care of yourself!" Solo shouted after Luke. When Biggs reached the top of the ramp, Solo turned back to him. "Well. You can. You could join the Empire again and—"

"Excuse me?" Biggs snapped. Fear hammered in his chest at the knowing look in Solo's eye. "Join the Empire?"

Solo put up his hands. "Hey, just saying! I've got out of a fair few scrapes like that before—I knew enough still about stormtrooper protocol to pretend to be one of them who'd just lost his platoon. They get you in the shuttle, then you take over the shuttle, and off ya go."

"…you were an Imperial?"

Solo wrinkled his nose. "We all get desperate."

"I'm not going to join the Empire again," Biggs said. It was what a diehard Rebel should say. But maybe it was too on-the-nose, because Solo paused and gave him a look.

"Alright," he said. "Are you gonna let me pull up this landing ramp or what?"

The hyperspace trip back to the Rebel base was too short. Biggs spent the whole thing in his bunk—he and Luke were both exhausted—listening to the creaks where Luke shifted above him. Luke was fast asleep, if his breathing was any indication, but Biggs had never known him to be this restless a sleeper before. He was a farm boy: he got up early and went to sleep early, and he dropped off like sand over the canyon walls when he did. Hard work did that to you.

Now, he tossed and turned and tsked in his sleep. Biggs was the opposite: he lay stock still, unmoving, utterly and inexorably awake.

There was nothing he could do but think the same thoughts, over and over and over. Nothing had changed since the Battle of Yavin, except everything. He should have known how much—and exactly what—Luke meant to him, but going home had only consolidated that. Going home reminded him how precious he was.

Tatooine had never been safe. Biggs had once told Luke that he only thought Tatooine was boring because he'd never left—Tuskens, Jabba's men, and now trigger-happy stormtroopers made the desert as hostile to human life as the twin suns and the sandstorms did. There was a reason Huff was so cruel, Owen was so gruff, and Fixer was so bitter: they all had the desert's law written into their DNA and looked out for themselves accordingly.

But perhaps it had been safer. Perhaps Fixer, Camie, Windy, and all the others Biggs had spent his life scorning had it right. Staying at home and never doing anything meaningful with their lives might have been the safer option.

Of course, he didn't actually believe that. He never could have. But delirious ideas were characteristic of the truly desperate.

Princess Leia was there to greet Luke when they landed. Biggs didn't feel the same twinge of jealousy as they embraced that he had before, as Luke ran out to hug her, blatantly, in the middle of the hangar of Home One. That was, he realised, what he'd felt when he was so annoyed at Solo—at least at first.

"How was it?" Princess Leia asked sympathetically. Biggs just caught the tail end of the question as he proceeded down the ramp.

Luke gave her a gentle smile. "It was good," he said. "It helped a lot. How was the Alderaanian vigil?"

Princess Leia tightened her lips. "It helped a lot too," she said quickly. Biggs wouldn't have noticed the lie if he wasn't very well-trained in noticing Luke: he spotted how Luke frowned, zeroed in on it, and put a hand on the princess's shoulder.

"I wish I could've been there," he said.

That seemed to help, if only because Luke's stance relaxed. Biggs couldn't tell if Princess Leia's had. She was as inscrutable as a sculpture of white alabaster, like a princess already long dead and immortalised in halls fallen to ruin. All she said, returning the gentle smile, was, "I wish I could've come with you too."

"You'd hate Tatooine," Luke teased.

"Maybe." She linked arms with him. "But I don't hate you."

"I'm glad to hear it." Luke glanced around the hangar. It was a small, quiet one. Biggs had noticed that the moment he came down the ramp. "What's happening here? How has it been settling onto Home One?"

"Chaotic, of course. We lost so many pilots that we're restructuring the squadrons altogether." Luke nodded solemnly, but the princess led him farther towards the door. "Which is actually something we wanted to talk to you about."

"How can I help?"

Biggs jogged to keep up with them on Luke's other side, a half-step behind so he didn't interrupt, but close enough to listen intently to the conversation. Structure of military systems—that was the sort of information ISB loved.

"Come with me," Princess Leia said. She glanced back at Biggs. Inscrutable though she was, the amused look she gave him pierced him to the core. "Both of you, in fact. I want you there too, Darklighter."

"What about Han?" Luke put in.

She gave the Falcon a dismissive look. "He can decide what he wants to do next on his own."

"Yeah, but how's he supposed to justify his decision to stay without you ordering him to?"

To Biggs's surprise, she laughed. "He'll do his mental gymnastics in some new way, I'm sure."

Where Princess Leia took them turned out to be a briefing room with several pilots already crowded around a holotable, including an older, grizzled human with several scars across his face. Princess Leia took her position near the head of the table, as always, and Luke followed her, so Biggs was left feeling exposed, a little too close to the older man. He didn't recognise him, but they didn't exactly have many senior pilots on Home One who had escaped Yavin IV—he'd probably been working with another Rebel cell.

Wedge and Luke exchanged a glance and a smile, their camaraderie quick but thick, forged from being two of the few survivors of the Death Star trench. The pang that Biggs had thought was protectiveness—Luke couldn't get too attached to the Rebels, or he'd never get him out of here—but realised was jealousy sprang again in his chest. Being able to recognise it meant he could calm down a little easier.

He glanced around the table. There were a few others there he recognised—and, awkwardly, who recognised him—and a few he didn't, who must have been pulled in from smaller Rebel cells. Elyhek Rue was trying to fade into the background as always despite his bright red hair, oblivious to Biggs's presence with his gaze fixed on Narra and the holotable. Wenton Chan, posture straight and helmet under his arm, gave Biggs a brief nod of acknowledgement but didn't speak. Biggs appreciated that. He hadn't been very kind to the other pilots of Red Squadron in the hours leading up to Yavin. He'd been so sure he would never see any of them again, and he'd been so stressed by the hype and Luke's sudden appearance that he'd withdrawn, grown snappish. Some of the pilots with better things to do had clearly brushed it off as pre-battle stress, but others hadn't.

Col Takbright was giving him the side eye under his dark hair, which honestly was to be expected. Biggs had never called him Fake Wedge, the nickname Puck—now dead—had tormented him with for months before. But then Col had started going on about a stupid farm boy talking about womp rats, and Biggs had condescended to him until it just slipped out. Col was an angry person by nature. It was why he'd joined the Rebellion, but it made him dangerous for Biggs, now. Bren Quersey tightened his lip when he saw Biggs as well, but Biggs was less worried about him. Quersey was quick to anger, but quick to cool. Col wasn't.

He was in hot water. He couldn't bring more attention to himself.

He cleared his throat. "While we're all here," he said into the silence. "I'd just like to—uh—apologise. Right before the battle, I said some—uh—cruel things. I shouldn't have. I was tense, about to fly, and—"

"We were all tense," Col said, eyes narrowed.

But Wedge waved him off. "We get it, Biggs." Luke, Wedge, and Biggs were the only ones here who'd actually flown at Yavin; there hadn't been enough ships, and the others had been passed over. They had been given more slack temper-wise than the others, though perhaps sitting and watching everyone die had been worse. Col had seemed to have gone through hell and back.

But he also seemed to have made up with Wedge after that long resentment over the nickname, so at Wedge's comment, he glanced at him and shut his mouth. Instead, the grizzled new commander cut in.

"That's a good sentiment, pilot. Let's clear the air from Yavin before we move forwards. Anyone else got anything to say?"

No one stepped forwards. Luke slipped his hand into Biggs's and squeezed, which just made Biggs's heart pound in a whole new way.

"Good." He glanced sideways at Princess Leia. "Is this everyone?"

Leia pursed her lips. "This is all we could get."

"Then we're damn short."

"We're trying to up recruitment. Imperial defectors have been piling in since the news about Alderaan dropped." Her throat bobbed as she said Alderaan, but otherwise there wasn't anything in her face that betrayed her grief. Biggs wondered how someone could be so heartless as to not react when that happened to their home, but perhaps she was being as iron hearted as the Imperials she despised. He would have called it impressive self-control, if he hadn't known that most Rebels were driven by irrational rage.

The commander grunted. "So long as they fly well, I'll take 'em. Alright." He raised his hands and looked around the table. "You've figured out why you're here. You boys are the only surviving members of Red Squadron. My name's Narra, I've been commanding a squadron with the Calamaris for the last six months, but the princess called me back to reform Red Squadron. Now is the time for the Rebellion to strike the Empire again: it's still reeling from the blow we dealt it."

He looked up and, to Biggs's surprise, nodded directly at Luke. "Skywalker destroyed their toy. He got to do that because the rest of us did our jobs. I'm asking you all now: are you gonna do your jobs when I tell you to? And do them well?"

There was a chorus of yeses. Luke's was the loudest of all. Biggs lagged behind, his Y coming when other Ss were just hissing out.

"Good." Narra leaned forwards and looked around, and Biggs took the chance to examine him in more detail. He was utterly nondescript: short, greying hair, a wrinkled face, and grey eyes that confronted you like a permacrete wall before your speeder rammed into it. "All of you are talented pilots. Some of you"—he nodded at the ones Biggs didn't recognise—"will have been brought in from other cells because of those talents. You'll have a place on Red Squadron—"

"Rogue Squadron," Princess Leia said.

Narra glanced sideways at her. "Apologies, boys, the princess is right. We're changing the name to Rogue Squadron."

"After Rogue One?" Luke asked quietly. Biggs took one look at the starry-eyed look on his face and looked away. Who'd told him about those guys? Rebels rebelling against other Rebels and causing even more damage because of it. But Luke would find the idea romantic, he knew.

"That's right, Skywalker."

"High Command would like to honour their sacrifice," Princess Leia said, "and acknowledge our own mistake. We'll continue the fight they started."

Everyone around that table nodded solemnly. Biggs swallowed.

"Skywalker." Narra looked at Luke. "You'll be my second. I've seen your simulator scores—I'm impressed."

Luke blinked. "Sir, I don't have experience with command." He glanced at the others. "I could do it, but any of these men would execute it just as well as me."

"I know they would. But this is about politics." He looked at Princess Leia again, a little more reluctantly this time.

She folded her arms. "You destroyed the Death Star, Luke. You need to be in a visible position of authority for us to keep the hero narrative going."

"You won't get any special treatment, that's for sure," Narra promised. "You don't have any experience now. You'll learn fast, or I'm abandoning this whole thing."

Luke looked nervous, glancing around the other pilots, but nodded. "Yessir."

"That'll put a target on his back," Biggs said suddenly. "The Empire are already out for his blood, and you're using him in a propaganda campaign? They'll kill him—"

"They kill all of us, Darklighter," Col cut in, watching him. "That's what they do."

"I don't want—"

"Leave it, Biggs," Luke said.

Princess Leia pinched her lips. "Rest assured we don't intend to throw Luke to the wolves, Lieutenant Darklighter."

"Clearly—"

"Leave it." Luke jabbed him with his elbow. "I won't let you down, sir."

Narra looked between Luke and Biggs briefly, eyes narrowed, before looking away. "I'm sure you won't," he said. "The rest of you—stay sharp. If Skywalker falls like Darklighter's so concerned about, it'll be any one of you next."

The joke didn't make anyone except Luke relax.

"The princess's given us enough X-wings for you all. We're heading out now to do some manoeuvres, see how you boys work as a team. Skywalker, take the same wingmen you had during your Death Star run, for familiarity's sake. The rest of you, form up however you want."

They glanced at each other. Chan and Quersey nodded to each other, and Col grimaced at Rue. The newer pilots quickly decided between themselves as well.

One of them was watching Luke. Short hair—military cut—with a thin moustache and sharp cheekbones, he looked familiar, in a way Biggs didn't like.

"Alright. Let's go."

On the way out of the briefing room, Biggs stepped between Luke and the new guy's gaze. Whatever was going on here—new pilots, new squadron, new orders—he didn't like it.

"You can't do this," Biggs hissed to Luke just before they reached the hangar.

"Shut up, Biggs." Luke's voice sounded harder and older now than it had in years. "I'll have to."

"You—"

"Into your X-wings!"

Luke jogged towards the X-wing Narra waved him to, where that blue R2 unit was already waiting and beeping happily to see him. Biggs glanced up at the ship beside him, saw R5, and blanched. He wasn't sure how much more interaction with her he could take.

"Darklighter."

Princess Leia's soft but unyielding voice called him back for a moment. He turned around. She stood in the door to the hangar, watching them all, frowning.

"Your Highness?"

"You're protective of him," she said. "Han told me."

"Solo doesn't know—"

"I also have eyes."

Biggs shut his mouth.

"I care about him too," she said. "Don't let yourself order him about because of it."

Biggs ground his teeth. "You give all of us orders, Your Highness."

"That's my job. You're his wingman. Your job is to protect him, not stop him. And not sabotage his chances."

"It was a valid concern!" He clenched his fists. "If the Empire finds out—if Vader finds out—"

"I am intimately familiar with what happens when Vader gets his hands on you," she said coolly, "and Luke knows more about that specific experience than I'm willing to share with you." Biggs wondered if she was a uniquely distrustful person, or if Solo's dislike of him had rubbed off on her. "He knows the risks. He's already destroyed the Death Star. There's already a target on his back." She softened her tone. "You can't prevent that."

"If they never learn his name—"

"Ships leak everything. Oxygen, cooling fluid, heat." She waved her hand around. "But warships always leak secrets. He'll find out. What are you gonna do when he does?"

That felt like a question too intense and intimate to be a coincidence. There was something about the way Leia was watching him, like he was an open book to her. She reminded him of Luke.

Biggs turned away, clutching his helmet. "Fly at his side."

He almost missed her quiet, "Good."

They were working on manoeuvres for hours. First in space, getting used to being close to each other and using the ships—R5 was still irritatingly uncooperative with Biggs's desires; he really hated flying with her—and then in the simulations. By the end of it, Biggs felt like every one of his internal organs had been bruised by the g-forces and staggered back to the bunkroom he'd been assigned to. He shared with Col Takbright; Luke shared with Wedge. Biggs had been annoyed about that, but one look from Princess Leia told him that was intentional. No one wanted to be in the bunkroom next to a room shared by a couple.

Col was out chatting to Wedge—and Luke, which made Biggs want to stay, since Col had been so dismissive of him and of Tatooine before. But he had clearly changed his opinions since Luke had destroyed the Death Star for him, so Biggs let it go. Col seemed suspicious—or possibly just resentful—towards Biggs, anyway. No need to make it worse.

He shouldn't have burnt his bridges like that.

The moment he returned to the bunkroom, he flopped onto the bunk and stared up at the bottom of Col's bunk. His body still ached, but his head ached more. Stress had, delicately, laced nausea through his gut.

This would be fine. Biggs could defect? He could just never go back to Lord Vader—that, or he could stay here, as a spy, but make sure that Luke kept escaping the Empire's wrath. Luke had already managed to escape the Death Star. Surely—

Halfway through taking off one of his socks, his comlink buzzed. His Imperial comlink.

The bottom dropped out of Biggs's stomach. He scrambled to his feet, almost slipping on his other sock, locked the door, put the comlink on the ground, and knelt. Then, he finally accepted the call.

Immediately, a pressure closed around his throat. The hologram of Lord Vader that sprang from the comlink was hardly a foot tall, but a force yanked Biggs high into the air. His head collided with the ceiling; he was dropped, briefly, then caught again. His nails bit into the soft skin of his neck, as if he could claw Vader's metaphysical grip off of him with his bare fingers.

"You have failed me," Vader thundered.

"My lord," Biggs choked out. His words were limited; there was only so much breath left in his lungs to form them. "How… may… I…?"

Disgusted, Vader threw him back. Biggs wheezed and massaged his throat, scrambling back onto his knees and bowing his head. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of sitting back to gasp for breath; Vader was still there, still waiting.

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," he choked out, throat burning.

Vader spat, "Skywalker."

Biggs stopped trying to breathe. His throat, screaming, went dry and cold. "My lord—"

"Another spy in the Rebellion found his name. You have been useless."

Another spy in the Rebellion. Of course there was—he couldn't have been the only one—but, "I couldn't—"

"You will bring him to me, Darklighter. Within the week, or your life is forfeit."

It crossed Biggs's mind to wonder how Vader intended to carry out that threat. His heart rate skyrocketed: again, if he wanted to, he could defect for real. He was in the Rebellion. He could join.

But his father's face flashed in front of his eyes. He imagined abandoning Lord Vader and the noble order he sought to build, and knew, still, he could not abandon that.

Where did that leave him?

"The other spy—"

"Is a spy of the Emperor's. I was forced to intercept his transmission to keep Skywalker's name from him. Before he can inform the Emperor of this, you must bring Skywalker to me."

The Emperor? The word sent a disc spinning in Biggs's head. Lord Vader had only ever been loyal to the Emperor, his own mentor, before. It was the perfect system: a benevolent leader, with loyal followers who would do what was necessary to make sure everything was done, and the chance to make something of everyone who dedicated themselves to it.

Why would Vader want Luke before the Emperor could find out?

"Do you intend to kill him?" Biggs whispered.

"What?"

"Luke. Are you gonna kill him?" His heart sped up even further. Luke had said that Vader had killed his father. Was this it, then? Vader wanted to kill Luke personally, and Biggs would have to do it, or defy him…

"That is no concern of yours."

Biggs rocketed to his feet, glowering down at the hologram. "It's sure as hell a concern of mine! Luke is— I—" He felt that hand close around his throat and pre-emptive tears pricked his eyes. "Please. My lord, you can't kill Luke."

But Lord Vader's grip on him didn't tighten. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, his cape rippling. "You know Skywalker," he observed. Biggs thought that had already been pretty obvious, but his lord would often state the obvious, as a way of drawing people into traps. "You are attached to him."

He didn't care. He sprang the trap. "We grew up together—near Anchorhead, on Tatooine—I've known him all my life. I thought he was gonna join the Empire but then his aunt and uncle were killed by overzealous stormtroopers, and I found him here, after you sent me here, and he destroyed the Death Star because that's what the Rebels told him was the right thing to do. He's my best friend."

"You are in love with him." Vader's mechanical tone buzzed with disdain.

"I will give you the Rebellion, my lord. I am loyal. But I cannot give you Luke." He fell back to his knees, to make it clear that he was begging. Lord Vader hated people who debased themselves, but perhaps… He had favoured Biggs before… "I won't let you hurt him."

Vader studied him, pathetic at his feet, a little while longer. Biggs could feel his pulse in his head.

At last, Vader said, "I have no intention of killing Skywalker. Bring him to me, and he will not be harmed."

Biggs jerked his head up. "My lord?"

"Force-sensitives as powerful as him are rare. I do not care that he destroyed the Death Star. Emperor Palpatine does, which is why I have no desire for him to find out the pilot's identity. You will bring me Luke Skywalker, and I will train him to use his power to his full potential in service of the Empire."

"You want… you want Luke to join you?" He blinked. "Luke thinks you killed his father. He used to want to join the Empire, but after his family died he's too angry—I've tried to think of ways to change his allegiances, but—"

"Do not discourage his anger. His anger will serve him well. And his loyalties will not be a problem once I explain the truth of the lies Obi-Wan Kenobi told him."

Biggs swallowed. "So—Kenobi lied? Luke's been manipulated by the Jedi?"

"That is what the Jedi do. I have no intention of letting a powerful apprentice be lost to their poison. Bring him to me, and you will both be safe."

"Y—yes!" Biggs actually smiled. "Yes, my lord. I won't let you down."

"I will be waiting. You have one week—any longer, and I will start to doubt your loyalties again."

"Never. My lord, I am loyal."

"Then bring Skywalker to me. And kill Palpatine's spy before he succeeds in transmitting more compromising information." Vader leaned forwards. "For Skywalker's sake, as well as your own."

The tasks swelled in front of him, tailwinds disrupting the previously smooth sailing of consignment to a life in the Rebellion. Biggs decided never to tell Lord Vader how close he had come to betraying him like that—but, he feared, he wouldn't have to. This was Lord Vader. He would know.

How was he to kill a spy, when he didn't know who that was? Except… he might. He thought of the strange new member of Red—now Rogue—Squadron, watching Luke like a hawk. He nodded to himself.

And how was he to kidnap Luke? Luke trusted him. How could he override that?

But he knew he was thinking about it wrong. Luke trusted him. That was exactly how he would manage to kidnap him.

He bowed his head and felt the burdens settle on his shoulders like a cape. "It will be done," he promised, "my lord."