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Wedge shivered as he let himself into the quarters he shared with Luke after a late-evening patrol. Even their blasted room was cold. They’d been on Hoth for a grand total of two standard days, and already he was hoping for a mission offworld.
Not that he wasn’t usually hoping for a mission offworld. Wedge’s first home was Corellia and his second home was his X-wing. Echo Base, like every other base the Rebels had established, was just a place to refuel.
But Hoth was so bad, he almost hoped the Empire would track them here. Then again, maybe the Imps would just leave them alone once they did. Leaving them stuck on Hoth was about as bad as throwing them all in prison cells.
Grumbling to himself, he flicked on the lights and started peeling out of his flight suit. The sooner he changed into thermals, the sooner he might be able to feel his toes again.
The thermals did the trick. So did the overly fluffy socks he’d brought from Corellia. Finally hopeful that he might feel something like warm within an hour, Wedge grabbed his datapad, flopped into his bunk, pulled the blankets up, and unrolled a simple item that was becoming his new favorite possession: a thick, handmade quilt he’d retrieved from his Nan as soon as he learned the temperature of the planet where their new base was gonna be. It was orange, the same orange as their flightsuits, ’cause Nan thought that was what a Rebel pilot doomed to hide on an unknown snowy planet needed: a quilt that matched his flightsuit.
Anyway, thus bundled, Wedge resumed his favorite hobby: finding the stupidest rumors in space about either the Rebellion or the Empire.
He was in a competition with Dak. So far Dak was winning, having found message board speculation that Darth Vader was actually a Gungan. Some people were weirdly invested in that theory. Wes voted it slightly stupider than the messages Wedge had found claiming that the mysterious pilot who’d blown up the Death Star was actually Vader’s jilted lover.
Wedge was still annoyed Wes decided Dak’s Gungan theory was stupider than the idea that Luke had been romantically spurned by Darth Vader, but oh well.
Wedge found a highly questionable chatroom in a particularly sketchy corner of the Holonet and was scouring it for something good when the door to their quarters slid open and Luke tumbled in, tripping over his own boots.
Sitting up, Wedge tossed his datapad aside. “You all right?”
“Huh?” Luke dropped onto his bunk, shivering. His face was red from the freezing temps outside. He must’ve been one of the last ones into base for the night.
“Toes numb?” Wedge guessed.
“Who chose Hoth for our base,” Luke muttered through chattering teeth, “and why are they trying to kill me?”
“You might be on to something there. All it takes is one well-placed Imperial spy…”
Luke made no move to take off his flight suit, boots, or anything; he just sat there and kept shivering, looking miserable even while he tried to keep up his end of their banter. “We should report this security breach to Leia immediately.”
“You should change into something warmer. And something that isn’t sweaty. Don’t you remember anything from survival?”
Luke scrunched up his face. “I think I blacked out for most of that training. Something about frostbite causing necrosis…”
“Yeah, that was gross.” Wedge could’ve lived his whole life without seeing those holos and he was pretty sure the lieutenant in charge of the training could’ve made her point without anything that graphic. Besides, he’d known most of that stuff anyway. Corellia had plenty of snow, depending on the season and where you were. “Anyway,” he said, “you can’t sit around in clothes you’ve been sweating in, or you’ll just stay cold.”
“Right. Thanks.” Luke used his teeth to pull off his gloves but his fingers struggled to manage the ties on his boots. He swore quietly under his breath. “Just wait. Next time we make our base in a desert somewhere, I’ll be the one with all the survival tricks.”
Yawning, Wedge retrieved his datapad. “You think the Imp spy could convince anyone to set up a base on Tatooine?”
“I mean, if they convinced High Command to set up on Hoth…” Luke finally managed to get his boots off. He began a new struggle with the zipper of his flight suit.
“Hey, did you hear Dak found a theory that Darth Vader is secretly a Gungan?”
Luke paused, head tilted curiously. “What’s a Gungan?”
Wedge opened his mouth, tried to imagine explaining it, and gave up before he started. “You know what, forget I said anything.”
Luke finally got the zipper down. His teeth started chattering again as he rushed to change into thermals, pull on standard Alliance-issued socks, and get under the covers in his own bunk. Wedge watched out of the corner of his eye as his commander tried to curl up in as tight a ball as possible while also propping up his datapad so he could read without exposing his hands to the cold. Despite all that, the occasional rustle of blankets told Wedge Luke was still shivering.
Wedge imagined seeing his Nan again. She’d ask what those Rogues got up to when they weren’t being reckless and he’d have to admit how he and his commanding officer spent their free time reading.
Blasted Hoth. It was just too cold for getting into any good trouble.
“Reading anything interesting?” Wedge asked.
“Specs on the TIE Interceptor.”
Wedge blinked in surprise. “Rebel specs or Imp specs?”
“Rebel, obviously.”
“Still, isn’t all that classified?” Maybe Luke was getting into a little trouble.
“Artoo,” Luke answered. “My Artoo, I mean.”
And really, no further answer was necessary. Wedge was just pleased Luke trusted him so easily with the fact that he was using Artoo Deetoo to access classified reports. Not that Wedge hadn’t tried to get his own astromech to slice data sometimes, but Gate just wasn’t as good as Deetoo at slicing in where he didn’t belong.
“Well,” Wedge said loftily, “I’m reading about your torrid love triangle with Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin, may he rest in misery.”
“My what?” Luke squawked.
“Your motivation for blowing up the Death Star,” Wedge explained in his most longsuffering tone. “It was the reason Vader always paid more attention to Tarkin than to you.”
Luke was familiar with Wedge’s game with Dak. “Isn’t that the same theory you already submitted? And it lost?”
“No, no, that was about how you blew up the Death Star in an act of petty vengeance. This is about how you blew up the Death Star in pursuit of unrequited love.”
“…Sure,” Luke said doubtfully.
Luke had no vision.
They returned to their datapads. Time passed.
Luke was still shivering, the blankets still rustling across the room.
“Hey,” Wedge said. “You still cold?”
“Isn’t everyone?” Luke asked, a bit defensively. Unlike him.
Yeah, he was definitely miserable. Cold and probably short on sleep too. Wedge couldn’t prove it, but he suspected Luke hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few hours since landing on Hoth.
In that moment, Wedge accepted a new self-assigned mission. Setting his datapad down, he pushed his blankets back, and got up to dig in his personal crate without a word.
Luke watched curiously over his datapad. “What’re you—”
“Here we go.” Wedge emerged with a fresh pair of thick socks of nerf wool. He tossed the pair at Luke. “Try these. Alliance socks are no good out here.”
Datapad forgotten, Luke dug his fingers into the heavy wool. “Where’d you get these?”
“Home,” Wedge said simply.
Luke gave him a quick look, just a glint of blue eyes that shifted immediately away, like he always did when Wedge or one of the other Rogues talked about that not-so-common possession, home. But he said nothing (he never said anything) and just concentrated on pulling on the socks.
“Better?” Wedge asked.
“I never knew socks could make such a difference,” Luke said wonderingly.
Wedge kept digging through his crate. “Your body loses most of its heat through your extremities and your head. Here.” Finding what he was looking for, he pulled out a knitted yellow hat. It was utterly hideous, a gift from his sister that he was privately sure was meant to insult him.
But Luke caught it when he threw it across the room and looked absolutely thrilled as he jammed it down onto his head, screwing up his eyes in delight at the warmth.
To think this man blew up the Death Star.
Aw, hells. Wedge couldn’t help himself. He hefted his quilt off his bed.
Luke’s eyes widened. “Wait, Wedge, you don’t have to—”
“Call it self-preservation.” Wedge dumped the quilt on top of him, totally burying his commanding officer. “This way, at least your teeth chattering won’t keep me up all night.”
Luke’s muffled “Sorry” floated up from the blankets. He squirmed around and finally managed to arrange himself with the quilt pulled up over his nose and the hat pulled down his forehead. All Wedge could see now when he looked down at him were two huge blue eyes.
Wedge cracked up.
Luke’s eyes squinted, the only visible sign that he was smiling. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”
“Not at all,” Wedge lied cheerfully, wondering how stealthily he could retrieve a cam and preserve this image as a holo. That was a better idea for a competition with Dak: seeing who could get the stupidest holo of Rogue Leader. He already knew he’d win.
But even if he didn’t, he already had a better prize than anything Wes could come up with. Luke’s teeth weren’t chattering anymore and he wasn’t even shivering. And he no longer seemed interested in reading TIE specs, maybe because sleep finally seemed possible. Wedge quietly dimmed the lights.
He resettled into his own bunk. Definitely not as cozy without his quilt, but he’d live. Figured he’d stay up reading a bit.
Glancing across the room, he saw Luke had already tucked his face under the quilt for warmth. Now all Wedge could see above the orange was the yellow hat. And soon enough, all he could hear were soft snores.
In the darkness, Wedge smiled to himself. Mission accomplished.