Sometimes he wonders, with all the silly books and movies and plays that Jessie swoons over, if there's something... less about his feelings for Cloud. They always talk about love at first sight, a sort of inherent undeniable magnetism. Some way that you should just... know. Immediately.

And he didn't.

What he did know was that the blond was trying so hard to project a certain appearance. That he wanted to know what was underneath the aloof merc facade. Something he caught glimpses of in those first days but didn't feel like he actually saw. What he remembers, the moment that he really understood how much Cloud was putting on a facade...

He was sitting at a table, tense and anxious, wondering what had happened to the blond, if he was okay. His heart hammering in his throat in time with Biggs' pacing. Surely someone as skilled and powerful would be fine but with the news following the explosions it was impossible not to be an anxious mess. Anxious enough that he was too busy picking at his cuticles to even appreciate the celebratory fries Tifa had made up for him.

He felt horrible, letting her hard work go to waste. Something he never did. Ever. No one could afford for food to go to waste.

But then the doors opened and Cloud strolls in, collected as ever, grumpy and acting like he couldn't give a damn about any of them. Tifa teased him. A quiet exchange that had Wedge's curiosity piqued. But it was that moment, looking around to see they'd all been worried about him, to see Tifa's relieved smile and the playfulness it gave her the opportunity for... and watching that almost imperceptible panic creep into that vibrant mako gaze that really sealed the deal for Wedge. He could feel his own heart clench in sympathy, knowing that feeling all to well. Suddenly on the spot and needing to support so many expectations and the gnawing desperation to escape, to flee, to bury oneself away somewhere that no one need ever look to you again.

It's an agony he knows all too well and even if it is only for a fleeting moment he sees it. Maybe because it is something he understands so well, has watched others perform under in similar circumstances, that he recognizes the parallels between them so clearly.

And in that moment, with his mask slipping, all the careful walls he's built around himself trembling under the weight of so many gazes... he doesn't flee. He doesn't let himself panic or hide. Cloud takes that beautiful flower between fingers that Wedge knows all too well have committed a dozen acts of violence this night... and he bends down to offer it to a shy little girl whose spent the evening terrified her Daddy might not come home.

All the ways he could channel those feelings and uncertainties, a hundred ways that would further that image he struggles to maintain, and he chooses kindness first and foremost.

Wedge's chest is suddenly tight with emotion he doesn't quite understand, a bone deep longing setting in as he watches that simple exchange between Cloud and Marlene, watches this man they've turned to for strength and violence reach first for compassion and feels as though his heart might just break. He doesn't want to ask Cloud to work with them again. Doesn't want to see him forced to weild that massive sword once more. He wants to take the fleeting, fragile smile that is meant, in that moment, only for Marlene and help it to blossom into something far more lovely than any flower.

And he wants that smile all for himself.

It's foolish, really. That he'd even thought he could get away with moving about town without consequences. Still... he'd needed to check in on Biggs. Desperate in his own way to verify the man's safety once more. Again. and again.

It's inevitable, then, that he gets jumped by one of the little beasts. Wedge isn't one for hand to hand or any other kind of more archaic weaponry. His specialty is demolitions, not guns. Grenades over blades. Which also means it's not surprising that Cloud comes looking for him when the trip back from Biggs' cottage takes longer than it has any right to. He's not.... hurt exactly. A couple of scratches on his back where the little monster had clambered up onto his shoulders but the armored pauldrons protected him from most of the damage.

His red bandanna lays abandoned in the snow a few feet away, torn and bloody, a nasty wound on his temple but nothing that can't be fixed with a little bit of antiseptic and some bandages. The headache leaves him curled up with an arm over his head, though, blocking out the brilliant winter sun and the way it glares off the pristine snow on the rooftops and makes his vision swim.

Thankfully, he's not far from their home.