Collisions Written in Fire Rating: NC-17, Slash

When Wedge's eyes fell on Tycho, his stomach twisted into a knot, and the back of his throat burned.

Tycho looked like hell. His hair was mussed, circles under his eyes, and he was thin, so thin. His hands clasped together, rubbing over each other, in a restless, nervous, jerk of a gesture. He looked more alone, huddled on the cot in the medical observation room, then anyone Wedge had ever seen. As alone as Wedge had felt, the night when it had first hit him that his parents were dead forever.

Wedge touched the mirrored glass that lay between them, just with his bare fingertips.

"He says he escaped from Lusankya," said the officer beside Wedge.

Lusankya. Wedge inhaled and exhaled, slowly.

"He asked to see you," said the officer. "Do you want to—"

"Yes," said Wedge, probably too quickly. He ducked his head, and looked up again. "I'd like to see him," Wedge corrected, less hurriedly.

The officer nodded. "I'm going to opaque the window," he said. "You have fifteen minutes."

Wedge waited until the officer left before he touched the keypad.

At the noise of the sliding door, Tycho visibly startled, jerking against the back wall of the room, but at the sight of Wedge, his frame loosened. He still didn't smile. "Wedge," he greeted, in a release of air, like he'd been holding his breath for ages and hadn't noticed.

Wedge sat next to him, on the cot, and drew him into a hug, holding him close, so very close. Tycho — Tycho was here, he was alive.

"I missed you," Wedge heard, murmured in his ear.

"What happened to you?" Wedge asked, moving back out of Tycho's grasp.

Tycho examined Wedge's face for a moment, and his jaw set. "Sithspawn," he said. His gaze turns bitter, hurt, and Wedge feels awful, like someone has carved away part of his chest. "You don't believe me," Tycho accused.

"Lusankya is supposed to be the inescapable prison," Wedge returned lowly. "How likely is it that—"

Tycho got to his feet, in a convulsive movement. "I'm not brainwashed!" he snapped, and for an instant he looked crazy, genuinely crazy.

Wedge squashed that impression as fast as possible, because this was Tycho, of course it was Tycho. He didn't have doubts. He shouldn't have doubts.

"I'm sorry," Tycho murmured. "I'm sorry."

"Tycho," Wedge began, because Tycho didn't have to apologize at all, but Tycho ducked to his knees, in front of Wedge, his hand on the inside of Wedge's thigh, and Wedge's spine stiffened.

"It's me," Tycho said, softly. "Wedge, it's me." His hand gripped a little harder, spasmodically, and Wedge couldn't help but slide his hand over Tycho's. "Please," said Tycho, "please don't make me go through this alone."

Wedge pulled Tycho up, into his arms. "I won't," he whispered into Tycho's ear, and Tycho held him so tight.

But Wedge didn't kiss him; he didn't kiss Tycho, and he told himself that it was because it was too soon, because Tycho had just returned and he shouldn't push him, shouldn't stress him. Tycho had obviously been through enough, and Wedge didn't need to add to the pressure that would be on him soon, from the intelligence people and from the doctors and from his commanding officers.

Wedge wanted nothing more than to burn his doubts into ash, to bury his hands in Tycho's hair and lick into Tycho's mouth. He wanted that, so much, but he didn't; it was for Tycho. Yes, for Tycho.

* * * * *

Tycho was released from the medical bay and put under guard into one of the pilot's rooms. Most of the pilots slept two to a room — but they emptied out a room, of course, so that Tycho could be by himself. So that they didn't put anyone else at risk.

Wedge understood that, he really did. They couldn't be sure whether Tycho was a double agent or not. It was fair. The Rebel Alliance had tough security protocols.

He went to see Tycho a few days after he was released from medical — Wedge had to fly a mission, the second day, just a short one, but the pilot's after party kept him away the entire night. He had a responsibility to the rest of the squadron.

The visit was awkward, punctuated by long silences and terse phrases.

Wedge wasn't comfortable with the way Tycho looked at him. He didn't like what he saw in Tycho's eyes, a kind of shadow that never was there before.

It's a lot easier to find excuses to stay away, after that.

* * * * *

On a mission, a week later, one of the new members of a parallel squadron, a Y-wing squadron, was killed. Wedge didn't really feel anything; he sat through the funeral ceremony, and he went to his quarters and he turned the lights out and he slept. Soundly, and he didn't dream.

The man had died because his thruster connections were cut by TIE lasers, and because he had tried to avoid the path of a larger ship, tried to avoid a head-on collision when the other ship couldn't move fast enough to get away. He'd avoided it, all right — he'd avoided it and started a chain reaction inside his own fighter.

"The explosion was what killed him," Wedge finished, because there seemed to be nothing to fill the air with, between him and Tycho, these days.

There was a long silence, and Wedge glanced up to see something comprehending in Tycho's eyes.

"What is it?" Wedge asked, bridling inside, because he thinks maybe he doesn't want to know the answer.

"I get it," said Tycho.

"Get what?"

"You act like I'm not really here." Tycho moved to his feet. "You make excuses not to see me, you haven't touched me since I first got back."

"That's not true," Wedge denied.

"It is," Tycho returned. "Wedge, did you hear yourself talking about Lieutenant Beech? You sounded," and Tycho's voice was incredulous, "you sounded like a droid, for Force's sake." He eased down next to Wedge, on the bunk, and Wedge jerked to his feet.

Tycho cocked his head up. "I suppose I should be flattered," he mused. "I'm a symbol for you."

Wedge crossed his arms, feeling the distinctive urge to get out that door, right now, to get away and run — but that was ridiculous, this was just Tycho.

"Because if you have me, then you have friends," continued Tycho. "You have connections, and if you have connections, then it's possible to lose them."

Wedge's pulse quickened.

"If you haven't lost me," Tycho pressed on, "then it means you might have, and that it would have hurt you, a lot."

"I have to go," Wedge blurted, because he did, dignity be damned, he had to be out of there.

"Do you know what you're doing to me?" Tycho asked softly, but his voice was full, too full, of all kinds of things Wedge didn't want to think about at the moment.

Wedge backed one step, two, then he turned and was out the door in an instant.

Tycho didn't say another word, but just watched him go.

* * * * *

There's a certain kind of focus one can attain during a firefight, Wedge found, a kind of concentration where all the worries of the world can disappear, and all that exists is the X-wing, fired up and ready under tensing hands, and the other craft, twisting and dodging. Wedge hits a trance, then, a kind of trance that lets him come out the other side alive.

He was in that trance, swirling after a TIE fighter, when its wingman settled onto Wedge's tail.

Wedge vaped the first TIE, and he checked his board for his wingmate — on the far side of the firefight, caught dogfighting another TIE. Wedge swallowed, and he wished desperately, at that moment, for Tycho to be flying beside him.

And then he remembered where Tycho was, and his hand jerked on the joystick, and his X-wing spasmed.

The R2 unit let out a shriek, and Wedge corrected the spiral immediately, but it wasn't fast enough. Dialing the inertia all the way down to zero, Wedge flung the ship around and hit the thrusters. The TIE was coming at him, head-on, at an incredibly high speed, and the world seemed to slow down.

If Wedge wanted to die he could, right now ... forget about Tycho and about Rogue Squadron and the Rebellion. It might not even hurt that long.

Right now ...

Wedge shocked himself back awake, his hand reflexively stabbing the fire controls.

The shrapnel from the exploded TIE disintegrated on his shields, and later Wedge landed in the hangar bay very, very shaky — shaky and shocked, at what he might have just done.

* * * * *

After a brief stop at his room, he was in Tycho's quarters, striding towards the grounded pilot reclined on his bunk. Tycho dropped his datapad aside, opening his mouth to say something, but Wedge hauled him to his feet before he could start, sliding a hand onto Tycho's neck and smashing their lips together.

Tycho froze for a second, and Wedge dug in between his slightly parted lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him to respond and to kiss back because Wedge needed this, he needed this so badly and he didn't know why he didn't realize that before.

He didn't realize how rough he was, how invasive, until Tycho groaned into his mouth, and Wedge's surroundings rushed back into his mind. He had Tycho pinned to the bed, Wedge securely between his legs, and Tycho was hard, hard and gripping his arm, fingers digging in like Wedge was the only thing anchoring Tycho to this world.

"I want you," Wedge breathed, and Tycho's hands were already there, already unzipping his flight suit and yanking it off his shoulders.

But when Tycho tried to pull off his own shirt, Wedge stopped him, and instead undid the first button himself, kissing lightly in the hollow of Tycho's neck. "Wedge," moaned Tycho, and Wedge undid the second, licking a little further down Tycho's chest. He was careful and slow, because he remembered how much Tycho loved Wedge taking care of him, how much Tycho loved long touches and pleasure that builds more and more until it shook him apart.

Wedge wanted Tycho to fall apart, again and again and again, until Wedge could hold him close again, without the fear.

He finally got to the waistband of Tycho's pants, Tycho shrugging the shirt off. "Please, Wedge," Tycho begged, "please."

Wedge slipped his hand inside, and cupped Tycho's erection, running his fingers along the length. He could feel Tycho getting harder, he marveled, and it was so real. He hadn't remembered the details, the heat that radiated off Tycho's skin, right next to the desire.

Wedge wriggled out of the rest of his clothes, grabbing for the lube in his pocket. He practically attacked Tycho's now-bare skin, licking, touching any place he could get. No way he could get enough of this; he had missed it, and hadn't realized it, hadn't recalled what it was like to have Tycho right here, under his fingertips.

He'd thought Tycho was dead ...

But now he had fingers inside Tycho, digging in to the warmth inside — Tycho was burning up, was burning Wedge up, and Wedge wouldn't trade it for the galaxy. Tycho whined into the pillow, twisted around Wedge's fingers, and he stretched so fast, faster than Wedge would have expected from them being so long apart. Tycho wanted this too, obviously, wanted it just as much as Wedge did.

So Wedge slicked his own erection, holding Tycho's hips steady with fingers tracing lube onto Tycho's skin, and he guided himself to Tycho's entrance, pushing inside slowly but firmly, very firmly.

Tycho's spine arched, and Wedge wished they were face-to-face, briefly, so that he could see Tycho's eyes fluttering closed, could see Tycho biting his lip until it was swollen, going out of his mind.

"No, it's too much," Tycho gasped, as Wedge rocked all the way inside him. He clenched around Wedge, reflexively, and Wedge could feel sweat bead all over his skin. Tycho was so amazing.

But Tycho said it was too much, and Wedge always did what Tycho asked.

Wedge eased Tycho onto his side, the same as Wedge, Wedge's erection still buried deep, so deep inside. Tycho's breathing hitched, and Wedge drew Tycho against his chest, wrapping his arms around Tycho's waist.

"It's okay," Wedge murmured, so softly. "I'm here."

Tycho whimpered, then, helplessly, and Wedge kissed his cheek.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, "I'll never leave you."

There was salt-water trailing down, soaking into the pillow beneath Tycho's cheek, and shame rose in Wedge's spine. What had he done? How could he have denied himself and Tycho this?

Wedge flattened his palm over Tycho's heartbeat, and Tycho's hand clasped his. Forgiveness. Of course Tycho would forgive him; Tycho loved him.

And he loved Tycho.

So Wedge dragged his hips, and he kept it just as deep, just as long and slow as the first penetration, never letting go. It was the spasm that traveled up Tycho's spine, utterly uncontrollable, utterly beautiful, that made Wedge peak so hard he saw white, for an instant.

Another shudder wracked Tycho's frame, then another, and Wedge pulled Tycho into his arms, letting Tycho bury his grief in Wedge's embrace.

Wedge had been so cruel to Tycho, just by fooling himself into believing he was doing what was best. And he'd nearly ... he'd nearly let himself die, just to avoid this. No way, no way he was ever going to let that happen again.

He and Tycho had collided, head-on, and it was perfect; just the way it was meant to be.

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