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[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

Desperate dogfights are horrible, in their own, addictive way.

Writing letters home to the families of dead pilots is just horrible.

Staff meetings with higher-ranking officers, those are bad.

But the worst?

Sifting through piles and piles of applications to fill the hole in your squadron. One more self-serving, utterly unreal letter of recommendation, and he's going to shoot someone, just for some relief.

Wedge Antilles, a much put-upon man, storms into the bar, plunks himself down on a stool, and orders up a decent drink. He really needs it.

Comments

[creator_raven]

Someone plunks down on a stool next to him.






Apparently it is a tall, skinny man in a dusty, threadbare coat.

Sometimes there is truth in advertising.

And sometimes, of course, there isn't.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

Years and years of having most of those in power actively trying to reduce you to constituent atoms, that drills the need for situational awareness into your head.

Of course, even the best intel can be flawed. Especially when not all the cards are being shown. Wedge gives his new neighbor a cursory glance, decides he might be something of a scrapper with those long legs and arms but definitely not a bruiser and almost assuredly not a pilot, and goes back to his drink.

[creator_raven]

Raven tilts his head at the other man, black eyes very bright.

It might be mischief.

It might just be habit.

"Possibly you are hungry, as well?"

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

Wedge looks up from his much-deserved drink.

"Depends. You buying?" He asks, giving the lanky man another appraising look. He certainly doesn't look like someone who enjoys his food.

[creator_raven]

Raven considers this question, then fishes around in his pocket.






There we go.

Grinning very brightly, he hands over a gigantic chocolate chip cookie to Wedge.

Sometimes, perhaps, it is better not to ask.

"Possibly it is almost the same thing, yes?"

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"Possibly." Wedge agrees, studying the strange biscuit he's been given. It's almost like the flatbread some soldiers stow away in their packs - dense and chewy, with things mixed in for some flavor. It's also like ryshcake that hasn't risen.

Tentatively he takes a bite, and makes a face. It's not... like anything he's ever had.

[creator_raven]

Raven blinks at him, head tilting even more.

It looks a little uncomfortable, perhaps.

"It is the chocolate?"

Wedge is obviously entirely strange.

Obviously.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"Is that what that brown stuff is? It's a bit sweet." He points out, being very diplomatic... for him. It has often been said that it's a very good thing the fate of the New Republic does not have anything to do with Wedge's ability to be diplomatic.

[creator_raven]

Raven makes a face at him.

"You are not so fond of sugar, then?"

Definitely a strange man.

And quite possibly mad.

This makes Raven very unhappy.

Though it is difficult to tell, looking at him.

Huh.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"Well, there's sugar, and then there's solidified syrup. I'm sure some of my pilots would love this." He clarifies, setting the odd sweetbread down. Chocolate chip cookies do not taste good with Whyrens.

[creator_raven]

Raven looks forlornly at the discarded cookie.

"It is not so bad for sharing, I do not think."

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"Hey, you provided it buddy - if you're hungry, you can have it. It's just not to my taste." Wedge shrugs. He's probably breaking all sorts of cultural rules, with his luck, but honestly?

He just doesn't like the odd sweetbread.

[creator_raven]

Next time there will be bear fat.

Surely Wedge will like that better.

Raven, meanwhile, wrinkles his nose.

"Mostly I was not meaning me. So."

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"Mostly?" Wedge echoes, curiously. "So you do want it?" Seriously, this guy is worse than most of the Bothans he's dealt with.

[creator_raven]

Raven flicks another cookie at Wedge's forehead.

It is a small cookie, this time.

Maybe it's even only half a cookie.

Pockets are hard on baked goods, on occasion.

Oops?

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

Wedge ducks, which really doesn't work well on a stool, ending with him in an awkward crouch on the ground, his drink spilled, and the stool tipped over.
"Hey, what's the big idea?" He demands, no longer amused.

[creator_raven]

"You," Raven says solemnly, "are very twitchy."

This seems to be an important fact.

To someone who is not Raven, that is.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"I'm not fond of having things thrown at me, no." Wedge replies tersely, righting his stool and ordering another drink.

[creator_raven]

Raven snorts.

"Possibly that, I think, is because you have no taste."

Obviously.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"You are one weird fella." Wedge points out in return, savoring his new drink.

[mandercommander.livejournal.com]

Bruck is in the Bar. He's drinking...something, but whatever it is, it doesn't have much taste or any alcohol in it. Probably a watered-down soda left over from dinner.

He doesn't have any idea who plopped down near him in the Bar, but...whomever it is would seem to need a drink more than him. "Hey." Pause. "You alright?"

And that would be an overly curious teenager.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

Wedge shoots him an appraising look over the rim of his glass, but otherwise says nothing. He isn't much given to talking to kids. Especially since the last one he did talk to saw fit to throw alcohol on him in a fit of snotty jedi-child pique.

[mandercommander.livejournal.com]

Bruck glances over the silent man, split between letting it lie and...well, not. He settles on the latter, and offers a handshake. "My name's Bruck."

Bruck's body may say sixteen or thereabouts...but there's something a little bit more mature in the way he's presenting himself that even he can't explain.

[rogue-wraith.livejournal.com]

"That's nice." Says Wedge, brusquely, without offering his hand. He doesn't care how straight the boy can stand, he's still a boy who feels the need to nose in on a frustrated pilot. He doesn't deal with children who weren't born with any common sense.

[mandercommander.livejournal.com]

And with that, Bruck takes the hint of bad timing and returns to his drink.