Wedge sat behind his desk, patiently sifting through datafiles of pilot candidates.  Rogue Squadron was still three pilots short after the battle the week before with the forces of General Selr Rozrrom, a self-styled commander of a rag-tag group, called the Inexorables.

The fleet the Rogues and three other squadrons had been staging from in their campaign against Rozrrom was heavily damaged in their last engagement with the pirate and his band of former Imperials and smugglers.  Wedge had received a communication from Fleet Command telling him that it would be broken up and reformed.  A new commander was being chosen to lead it, while Wedge would remain in charge of all fighter squadrons involved.  But that was a concern parsecs away for the moment.

Since the fleet was still in the midst of coming together, and the Rogues were again short handed, they had been rotated back to Coruscant, where his pilots where alternating between sim exercises, short escort missions, and downtime.  While stuck on base, Wedge spent his time going through files of pilots to try and quickly fill the spots that were vacant.  Although Wedge hadn't seen any evidence of it yet, he didn't want the Rogues getting too used to their current cushy assignment, so he wanted to get back to line duty as soon as possible.  That meant finally choosing pilots.

There was no shortage of applicants, of course.  The Rogues were an elite squadron, and requests for transfer to Wedge's unit came in every day.  However, he felt very strongly that only a certain kind of pilot could join the Rogues, become a rogue.  They were an extremely tight group, often thrown into impossible situations, given the hopeless missions, and more often than not completing them successfully.  Even with their eclectic collection of characters, they still worked well together, a delicate balance that Wedge didn't want to upset for obvious reasons.

As he read through the files on his datapad, a static hologram of each pilot floated twenty centimeters above his desk.  He scanned through the information on a Frozian pilot, glanced at the holo, then flicked to the next file.  A human female from Corellia was next.  He browsed the now-familiar information, his gaze quickly rising again to the holo, then moved on to the next file.  He wasn't sure if it was appropriate for a squadron commander to rely mostly on his gut instinct when choosing pilots, but it seemed to have worked for him so far, so he kept at it.

A tone sounded, startling Wedge.  He looked up at the door before shouting "Come!"

The door to reveal Colonel Tycho Celchu.  He stepped just over the threshold, and stood at attention as the door eased closed behind him, holding a salute with only a slight smirk on his face.  Wedge waived his second-in-command to a chair on the other side of his desk, then put his datapad on standby.  The wavering holo-image of a Shistavanen male disappeared.

Wedge looked over at his friend and smiled as he took his seat.  They had been good friends for a long time now; since the Battle of Endor.  To Wedge, Tycho was a study in contrasts.  With his short, light-brown hair, aristocratic features, and cool professionalism, Tycho often seemed distant and aloof.  But Wedge knew that they only hid the passion, loyalty, and dry sense of humor that made Tycho his most trusted friend and comrade.  Wedge felt honored to be counted as a friend that Tycho could be himself with.

"So, how's it going?" Tycho asked, motioning to Wedge's datapad.  "See anything you like?"

Wedge laughed.  "You make it sound like a trip to the market.  'Hmm...I like that pilot.  Wrap him up and I'll take him to go.'" Wedge said, a wide grin on his face.

Tycho smiled as well, creasing thin lines around his eyes.  "Well, it is, in a way.  You run through a menu and pick the ones you like."

Wedge rolled his eyes.  "I don't think I'd like to be thought of as an item on a menu, Tych."  He reactivated his datapad and pulled up a list.  With a deft flick, a holo of the list appeared between him and Tycho.  "I've narrowed it down to ten possible candidates.  All of them have excellent qualifications, abundant knowledge and experience."

"Ah, so it comes down to looks," Tycho said with a chuckle.  "I knew it."

Wedge shook his head, grinning at Tycho.  "If it did, you and I would have been retired long ago.  I think by now you have a pretty good idea of what I look for, but the Force doesn't seem to be on my side."  He tapped some keys on his datapad and the file of one of the candidates opened up.  "This is Baladin Selan.  She's an excellent pilot, but is also a Corellian.  And I think there are enough of us wandering through the hangar as it is.  Not to mention she's had some disciplinary issues in her past."

Tycho snorted, then smiled as Wedge looked at him around the holo.  "Anyone else?"

Wedge continued to look at him for another heartbeat before returning his attention to the files.  "Cater Syngy, from Sulon.  But according to the last update I received, he's just taken a leave of absence."

"You're not having much luck, are you," Tycho said, almost completely serious.

Wedge held up a hand.  "Just wait, it gets better.  Blench Norich had five years experience flying with, and then training, X-wing squadrons."

Tycho raised an eyebrow.  "Buuuuut?"

"He just became 'pregnant' and was discharged."   Wedge closed the list, and the holo winked out of existence.

Tycho shook his head and sighed.  "Seems like everyone is having kids these days."

Wedge looked up at his best friend with raised eyebrows.  "Anything you and Winter want to tell me?"

Tycho reddened perceptively, but shook his head adamantly.  "Oh, no!  I was thinking more about Gavin and his adoption of those two orphans.  Winter and I hardly see enough of one another these days to have that particular problem."

Wedge nodded.  "I hope everything's going well for Gavin, but I'm looking forward to his return to the squadron.  His six-month 'paternity' absence can't be over soon enough to suit me.  Although I think I know what you mean about it seeming like everyone but us is settling down."  Wedge's thoughts drifted to his own love interest, Major Ajene Tuvora from New Republic Special Forces.  She'd been sent off on a mission three weeks before, and he hadn't heard from her since.  He missed her terribly and couldn't help but worry about her.  Sometimes it seemed like everything and anything made him think of her.

Tycho seemed to catch the subtle change in Wedge's mood and moved to change the subject.  "Is there anyone left on your list, Wedge?  Or should I start enquiring on the black market right away about cloning cylinders?"

Wedge's smile returned.  "Well, there are five left on the short list, but more by attrition than anything else.  And why aren't you helping, hmm?  Shouldn't a good second-in-command be helping me with this?  Giving me options, advice, supplying a good cup of caf?"

"Well, I don’t have any caf…"  Tycho pulled a datacard from one of his many pockets and waved it through the air.  "But now that you mention it, I may have an option."

He handed the card to Wedge, who slipped it into a slot in his datapad.  A hologram of a dark haired man in a black flightsuit sprang up between them.  Wedge's eyes widened in disbelief as he recognized the man in the holo.  He had seen various news articles about this particular pilot, and his capture.  Thras Nyl's TIE had been disabled and seized at the tail end of the Thrawn Crisis, and he was taken prisoner by the New Republic.  Wedge knew he'd been interrogated for quite a while, for information about the remnants of the Empire.  There'd been no other news reports about him after that, and Wedge assumed he'd been imprisoned, or possibly even exchanged back to the Empire for New Republic prisoners.  So why was Tycho bringing him up now?  Unless...

"They've got to be kidding!"

Tycho shook his head slowly.  "Nope.  Nawara received the transfer request from Starfighter Command this morning."

"I can't believe that Thras Nyl thinks I would let him transfer to Rogue Squadron!  To any squadron!"

"You've taken in ex-Imperials before, Wedge," Tycho answered with a shrug.  "Me, for example.  Hobbie another.  Even Han Solo attended the Academy."

"Yeah, but..."  Tycho raised an eyebrow and Wedge let that argument end there.  "Okay, so there are a few ex-Imps running around, most notably you and Hobbie.  But this is different.  You both chose to come over to the Alliance.  Han turned smuggler.  Nyl was shot down and captured.  Why isn't he a prisoner of war?!"

"The New Republic must have its reasons, Wedge.  And he's a hot hand on the stick," Tycho added, pointing down at Wedge's datapad.  "You'll see that his scores in sim are well above what we usually consider a minimum, especially when you consider that he had never flown New Republic fighters before a year ago.  I really think you ought to consider him for one of the three open spots."

Wedge's eyes narrowed as he looked closely at Tycho.  He recognized the tone in his voice, the determined look around his eyes, the firm set of his jaw.  He'd heard and seen it countless times before, but still had to put up a fight, at least for show.  "I don't know..."

Tycho shrugged slightly as he leaned back in his chair, never breaking eye contact with his commander.  "You said you needed pilots, first-rate ones, so I'm giving you an option, as any good second should."

Wedge glared as Tycho threw his own words back at him, but then rolled his eyes and gestured in defeat.  "Oh, all right.  I'll add him to the short list and review his file.  But if I don't like what I see, the answer's no.  Understood?"

Tycho grinned.  "That was easier than I thought.  You must be getting soft in your old age."

Wedge pointed at the door.  "Out!"

"My, you are sensitive since you turned thirty," Tycho retorted, getting to his feet.  "I'm not that sensitive."

"Out!" Wedge bellowed again, rising to his feet, fists planted on the surface of his desk.

"I'm going, I'm going," Tycho said as he backpedaled towards the door.

* * * * * * *

Wedge played less than enthusiastically with the Corellian stew on his plate, pushing it around and then into neat little piles.  He had been holed up in his office for the entire morning and a good deal of the afternoon, going over files and lists, with nothing but strong caf to sustain him.  After his fifth cup, it quickly became evident that he required food if he wanted to get through the rest of his work.

He glanced around the mess hall of Sivantlie, one of the many bases on Coruscant, and watched as a handful of military personnel milled around the room.  Since it was mid-afternoon, the hall was practically empty, being between the lunch and dinner rushes.  It suited him fine that way.  He was feeling a bit glum and wanted just a few minutes of peace and quiet, away from his data-work.

"Hey, Boss!"

Wedge closed his eyes briefly.  Well, so much for the peace and quiet.  "Hi, Wes."

"Mind if I join you?"  Wes Janson smiled, the wide, easy grin that sometimes seemed to be permanently affixed to his face.  Like Wedge, he wore the loose-fitting pilot's day uniform, festooned with pockets and baggy in most places.  His hair was wet and Wedge assumed that he'd come from the showers.  He had a cup of steaming caf in one hand, a gooey-looking pastry in the other.

"Sure," Wedge replied, moving himself and his tray aside to make room for him.  "I thought you were running sims with Corran and Hobbie?"

"That was this morning," Wes snorted.  "You really ought to get out of your office more often, Wedge.  Time actually passes out here."

"I suppose."  Wedge stared into his glass of Rakrir fruit juice.

"What's the matter, Wedge?  You miss Ajene?  You haven't been quite yourself this last little while."

He looked up at Wes with a raised eyebrow.  "If I'm not me, then who am I?"

"Hey, you’re the straight man and I’m the comedian around here," Wes retorted.

Wedge sighed, then swallowed the last of his juice.  It was always the same with Wes.  He placed the empty glass on his tray, and turned towards his major, to see him grinning from ear to ear.  "Now what are you smiling about?"

Wes's grin grew wider still.  "I know something you don't know," he practically sang.

"What?"  Wedge followed Wes's gaze across the room to the entrance.  Framed in the doorway was a red-headed woman, wearing a green uniform, with a blaster tied low on her right hip.  She was searching the faces in the room, and when her eyes met his, Wedge felt his heart skip a beat.

"Bye, Wedge," Wes said, but his commander hardly heard his comment, already out of his seat and making his way across the room.

There were no words at first as they rushed into one another's arms.  He kissed her fiercely, then pulled her close for a hug, his hands running up and down her back as he did.  Once upon a time he would have shrunk from such a public display of affection, but in the last few months he had learned that life was unpredictable and precious, and you had to enjoy every moment you could, while you had it.

At that particular moment, he reveled in the feel of her body pressed against his.  He knew that he had missed her, but when he'd come back to Coruscant and she wasn't there, he'd discovered a huge a void in his life.  He was usually the one off on assignment, leaving her alone, and was too busy planning, flying and surviving to dwell on their separation.  When he was sitting around Sivantlie base with nothing to do, on the other hand, it was a different case altogether.  He found he missed her terribly, and was quite miserable without her.

But he didn't have to be miserable anymore.  He pulled back a little and kissed her on the forehead.  "You have no idea how much I missed you," he said, staring into her emerald eyes.

"At least as much as I missed you, I hope," she replied, long fingers tracing down the side of his face, before letting let her hand fall to find his.  She tugged, and he let her lead him out of the cafeteria and down the long corridor, knowing where they were going, and not resisting her in the slightest.  "Been up to anything interesting?" she asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"The fleet went up against Rozrrom again.  We lost a Mon Cal cruiser and thirteen pilots this time."  Wedge paused, clearing his throat.  "I lost three Rogues.  Been trying to find some replacements for them," he added, trying to keep the gloom from his voice.  She caught it anyway, stopping and turning to face him.

"Wedge, I'm sorry.  Who...who did you lose?" she asked hesitantly.

"Shra, Zrrood and Pinkar."

Ajene gasped at the mention of Rekdon Pinkar, Wedge's wingman.  "I'm sorry Wedge...I had no idea."

"It's okay.  How could you know?"  He stared at the floor, avoiding her concerned gaze.  It was always hard on him when he lost pilots, but especially so when it was his own wingman.  He usually didn't get too close to the new pilots for a while when they first joined his group, but Rekdon had been different.  The role of a wingman was one that required trust, so he couldn't help but know him better than some of the other new pilots under his command.  And the whole reason for having a wingman was for him to help protect you, and you him.  For a pilot to lose his wingmate frequently left the survivor feeling somewhat like a guilty failure.

Wedge made a move to change the subject as they entered a lift car for the short ride down four levels.  "And I know better than to ask what you've been up to the last three weeks."

She only smirked at him. They reached the desired floor and headed down another hallway, stopping in front of the door to his quarters.  He keyed in the code, and she pulled him through the door.