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Hoth is the coldest planet Cassian’s ever been forced to live on, if you can even call the perpetual shivering and irritability that plague everyone stranded on the lump of space ice living at all. He is, decidedly, not a fan.
Tonight is different. Tonight, they’re celebrating a victory. It’s a small one, just the destruction of an Imperial probe, but all of their victories are small. The rebels are starting miles below the Empire; every inch they can claw their way to the top is worthy of praise.
It’s been a while since anything’s gone right. Tunnels collapse, men get sick, men get lost in the great white expanse of ice and snow, even. So, tonight, the rebels celebrate something finally going their way.
Cassian stands with Baze and Chirrut in the mess, marveling at how it’s been transformed. Someone’s draped dozens of halo lamps that hang on the ceiling and walls in pale orange cloth, nearly like candlelight. They’re heatless, of course, but if he concentrates enough, Cassian almost feels...well, not as cold as normal.
The Corellian whiskey making the rounds probably helps.
“I think it was Captain Solo,” Baze says, nodding in the direction of Han and Leia, speaking at a normal volume for once. “Look how the Princess keeps smiling at him.”
“Yes,” Chirrut agrees, “she looks very pleased.”
Cassian laughs while Baze rolls his eyes.
Someone taps his shoulder through his parka. Then, he hears a soft, “Care for another round, Captain?” It’s Jyn -- Cassian’s so attuned to her voice he’d recognize it if he were deaf.
“Sure,” he answers, accepting the bottle from her gloved hands and taking a swig. Jyn swipes it back and downs a little more than she probably needs.
“Baze?” she asks, holding the bottle out to him.
“Thanks, little sister,” Baze says, taking it from her. He and Chirrut walk towards a grouping of tables, probably so they can finish the bottle without fear of falling over. As it would happen, Guardians of the Whills don’t hold their alcohol particularly well. Jyn giggles, likely remembering the first time Baze got well and properly drunk.
Once the two of them are alone, out of earshot of Baze and Chirrut, Cassian asks, “Enjoying yourself?”
Jyn looks up through her lashes, green eyes dark like the forests where their whiskey hails from. “I am,” she says. “Would be more if you’d dance with me, though.”
She’s clearly buzzed -- nobody’s dancing. The closest thing would be Bodhi and Luke swaying while they talk. Still, he humors her.
“You want to dance?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
“Maybe,” she shoots back, grabbing for his hand. Jyn drags him towards the edge of the mess, near the hallway to the barracks. Cassian feels a few pairs of eyes land on them.
“I thought,” he starts, low so only Jyn can hear, “we were being discrete.”
“What’s not discrete about this?” she asks, leaning up on her toes to press her mouth to the underside of his jaw. Her lips are cold, Cassian notes. The temperature does nothing to stop the spark at the base of his spine, though.
“Are you drunk?” Cassian asks, a little shakier than he’d like.
“No.” She pulls him further away from the warm glow and chatter of the rebels, closer to his (and, functionally, her) bunk. “I just want to dance.”
“Oh,” he says, her meaning becoming clear. Jyn smiles and, for a second, Cassian feels as young as he is: twenty-six and carefree, sneaking off to be with the woman he loves. It’s an illusion, but one that warms the colder parts of his heart, nonetheless. “Well,” he adds, “this is a special night.”
“We ought to be celebrating, too, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t need to think, not with the faint light from the mess reflecting in Jyn’s eyes like that, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold and alcohol. He nods. “We should.”
When they’re both in his room, coats gone, shirts abandoned, and pants almost undone, Cassian doesn’t think about the cold stinging his skin. When, before she pulls him down onto the bed, Jyn presses her head to his chest and wraps her arms around his shoulders, Cassian doesn’t notice his breaths coming out in white puffs.
When they sway together, dancing in a suspended moment of youth, Cassian feels warmer than he’s ever felt before, Hoth be damned.