“I feel as awkward as a Tartanian Narg in a suit,” Wedge complained, tugging at the confining fabric.
“Relax, you look distinguished,” Han chided with a lopsided smirk, one he was particularly famous for wearing.
“Yeah, that's just it isn't it? I don't want to be distinguished.” He wanted to be an architect but the Rebellion had other plans for him. Luke would have said it was his destiny, probably.
“You've earned it, whether you like it or not. Welcome to the world of being respectable.”
Wedge gave a halfhearted grin at the smuggler turned general. “Can you believe it, two Corellians turned respectable by a rebellion of all things.”
“We do our ancestors a great justice, I know. Now quit your fussing, you've got a ceremony to go to.”
“Don't remind me,” Wedge groaned, walking in stride with General Solo. “Couldn't they just pin a medal on me in the hangar bay and let that be that?”
“What? And let you miss out on squirming around all awkwardly in front of a crowd of bleary eyed kids wanting to be you? Fat chance. I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer up there.”
“You're a true friend, Han.”
“Wouldn't have it any other way. Good luck.” With that said the general parted ways to find Leia and sit in the audience.
Wedge took a gulp of the last calm air he'd get. He could fly into the heart of the Death Star, stand his ground against both Ssi-Ruusi and Imperial ships at Bakura, but ask him to stand in front of his peers and be distinguished with a medal and you had the ace pilot shaking in his boots. The Death Star was a walk in the park compared to the few meters of stage he had to traverse when his name was called.
In the realm of piloting every man and woman had to earn their stripes, he just never guessed it'd be in a crowded room where his nerves were truly tested.