Chapter Text
“So I hear you’re the best pilot in the Resistance,” a man says as he slides in across the table from Poe in the cafeteria. At first, Poe is so busy trying to figure out how to deflect a compliment that’s slowly becoming familiar to him that he doesn’t notice who the guy is. But then he looks up from his plate and makes eye contact with the man with the kind, amused smile and the sharp nose and thin face he recognizes from all the posters and news clippings on his childhood bedroom walls, and he chokes on his half-formed words because he’s looked up to this man since before he can remember and oh my God –
Cool. Play it cool, Dameron. “Well, I don’t know about that, General Antilles,” he says. “Seems to me you got that title locked down.”
The silver-haired general grins. “Call me Wedge,” he says, and Poe reaches out to shake his hand. He notices that the inside of Wedge’s thumbs are callused right by the joint, where the yoke in X-Wings tends to rub, just like Poe’s thumbs are – and then Wedge gently tugs his hand back and Poe realizes he might have been holding on to Wedge a little too long. But OK, that’s fine, they’re cool. This is fine. Wedge Antilles just told him to call him by his first name and shook his hand and he is not freaking out internally or anything. “And I don’t know about being the best pilot. You’ve never seen a Force-trained pilot fly, have you?” Poe shakes his head. Wedge looks a little bit fond and a little bit nostalgic as he says, “They’re really something else.”
Wedge Antilles has been Poe’s hero since he was six years old and his mom first strapped him into her old A-Wing, and he isn’t going to stand by and hear anyone claim Wedge is anything other than the best pilot the galaxy has ever seen. Even if the person doing so is Wedge himself. “But there’s no other Resistance pilot with a record anything close to yours, sir – uh, Wedge. Two Death Stars?”
Wedge smiles. “Luke had a bit of a hand in the first one.”
Poe refrains from pointing out that actually sticking around is a pretty important part of being a good rebel pilot, because the fact that Wedge’s husband had disappeared off to Force knew where is probably a sore point for him. Instead, he says, “You’re still the only pilot to have helped blow up both. And the way you took down an AT-AT on Hoth – the time you navigated a megahurricane on Oulanne – and everything you did during the Battle for Coruscant – you’re a legend.” Then he cuts himself off because the corners of Wedge’s eyes are crinkling with what might be suppressed laughter.
“I’ve heard you’re not so bad yourself, Dameron. Even General Organa was talking about how you flew on Sicemon – and it takes a lot to impress a woman married to Han Solo.”
Poe shrugs. “I just love flying, is all.”
“Well, you’re damn good at it.” Wedge leans in and props his elbow against the metal of the cafeteria table. There’s a spark of professional interest in his eyes when he asks, “Tell me, do X-Wing yokes still kick the way they used to any time you try a barrel roll? Used to drive me crazy.”
“Yeah,” Poe says. “You’ve got to push down hard whenever you’re about to tuck under – otherwise the stick will push your ship’s nose up too fast.”
“Hah! I remember that. I’m really just a desk jockey these days –” Poe wants to protest that being one of the Resistance’s chief military strategists is hardly being a desk jockey, but he may have tried to defend Wedge’s honor from the man himself a little too strenuously already in this conversation, so he keeps quiet – “but I do try to sneak some time in with the simulators when I’m free. They never really get that kick back right. It throws me off – I always come out of barrel rolls too low.”
Poe can’t help it: he snorts. “Yeah, I can’t imagine you’re anything other than amazing in a simulator. Too low barrel rolls or not.”
Wedge quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe you’ll get to find out – I’d love to fly against you in a sim someday.” At that, Poe accidentally stabs his plate instead of his meal with his fork, because flying with Wedge Antilles is definitely something his six year-old self daydreamed about. If Wedge notices – and Poe suspects he does, because very little seems to escape the older pilot’s sharp gaze – he kindly says nothing about it.