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Din is starting to fear the small cabin he's trying to locate through the thick flurries of the blizzard was never there in the first place. Maybe his mind, his desperate mind was playing tricks on him and he just thinks he saw it because he needs to believe they have a chance to make it.
He's sure it's somewhere around here. He noticed it on their way up the mountain to the abandoned Jedi temple, two days ago, and didn't think much of it, didn't even pay particular attention to its location, because why would he? The weather was sunny and stable, if a bit cold. They couldn't have seen this snowstorm coming—or they could have, if he'd listened to Cara.
Din is glad the kid is safe and warm, tucked into his carrier; unfortunately, the same can't be said about himself and Cara: they've been dragging themselves through the heavy snow for miles, now, and Din can't tell any more which one of them in carrying the other. The cold has crept into their bones and chewed them past numbness; Din is feeling like he'll shatter into pieces if he so much as trips over a root. The snow in almost knee-high, now.
He turns back: Cara is fighting the wind, his cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, cheeks burned red by the cold. Din offers her his hand; she takes it. He holds onto her tight and leads her through the blizzard, the kid's pram floating ahead. He's never been so fond of his visor: without it, they wouldn't have been able to trace their steps back to the path across the forest. They can't be too far from the cabin, now: it wasn't far from the lake they just left behind.
“Din!” Cara calls through the howling wind. He feels a pull at his hand and turns to find her panting, eyelashes encrusted with frost. He doesn't like the look on her face.
“I can't keep up with you,” she rasps. She's already started pulling off his cloak when he grabs her wrists to stop her.
“Of course you can. We're almost there, come on.” He takes her hand again and tugs her to come along, but she doesn't follow.
“Cara,” he almost growls, and not even he knows whether it's a threat or a plea. “Come on. Don't make me carry you,” he insists, because she still isn't moving.
“Like you could,” he reads on her lips. He doesn't have any energy left to argue: she's too stubborn, anyway, and she's a fool if she thinks he could actually leave her behind. He's going to get her to that cabin safe and sound if he has to knock her out and forcibly drag her there himself.
“Cara,” he says again, a bit more softly, tugging at her hand again. “Come on.”
It works: with a grunt, Cara shakes her boots out of the snow and starts walking again. Din can feel how exhausted she is, she won't last much longer. He holds tighter onto her hand; maybe he's hurting her, but perhaps the pain will keep her centred.
Cara collapses a couple of times while they proceed, and both times, trying desperately to pull her up, Din thinks 'This is it, we're not going to make it', but somehow both times Cara seems to muster her final drops of strength when he begs her to get up, promising they're almost there, almost safe, even though his head is starting to swim and he isn't even sure he's still following the right track. All they have is hope, right now, and he's the only one who can lead them there.
He's starting to feel his knees give in when his visor detects a disturbance along the pattern of trees. It's faint, at first, but it gets clearer and clearer as they approach: they've found it—the cabin.
“I can see it,” he groans. The blizzard is getting worse by the moment: another five minutes and they would have been all dead.
“You better, 'cause I'm about to pass out!” Cara yells back.
When they finally reach it, the cabin is already half buried by the snow. Din uses his flamethrower to open a breach to the door; it's not even locked: all it takes is a push and they're in. Din has to fight against the force of the wind to push the door closed again, then rotates the wooden locks, just to make sure. Inside, the temperature is much milder than expected; there must be some kind of insulation in the walls.
“Well,” Cara pants, taking a quick look around, “could've been worse.”
It's just one room with a large fireplace and scarce furniture—just a table and two chairs, a small cupboard, and a worn rug covering the floor almost entirely. It'll do, until they wait for the blizzard to pass.
Cara is leaning against the wall with one hand, trying to catch her breath. There are nasty splotches of frostbite on her face and her lips are a dreadful shade of purple. She needs to warm up as soon as possible.
“Check on the kid. I'll light us a fire,” Din tells her. Cara nods feebly, a hand pressed to her chest, as if it hurt to breathe. Din has to force himself to look away and focus on the fire. If he wants to help her, he has to start from that.
He kneels by the fireplace stacking wood logs upon the shy flame he just ignited. It's good, dry hardwood that will burn well and warm up the whole place quickly, and there is enough of it to last for a few days. He hopes he won't need to stay that long.
“He's asleep, can you believe it?” Cara almost giggles behind him. “This little shit slept through the whole thing. He didn't even notice we were about to die.”
“I'm glad at least one of us is okay,” Din sighs. He stands up with a groan: every single inch in his body feels like it's being pierced with needles of ice. He gestures Cara to get close to the fire. Cara obliges, all too happily. Both she and Din are starting to drip water everywhere. She has discarded his cloak, which is now spread on the back of one of the chairs.
“We need to get rid of these clothes,” he says, like it's not obvious. That's probably why Cara shoots him a half amused glare.
“I tried. I can't feel my fingers.”
“Let me help.”
Din has to use his teeth to pull at his gloves until they come off and fall to the ground, then awkwardly removes Cara's, too.
“Your hands are frozen,” she mutters when she sees the angry red of his ice burnt skin. She tries to pull away and unfasten her vambraces herself.
“So are you,” Din argues. He grabs her arm and gently urges her to leave it to him. “Please, let me.”
Cara is too tired to protest.
“Fine,” she grumbles and, albeit grudgingly, she lets him do all the work.
The heat spreading from the fire is starting to rub some sensitivity back into Din's limbs. He removes the pieces of Cara's armour and lets them fall one by one to the ground; their absence leaves a dark print in the frosted fabric of Cara's shirt and leggings. She's shivering from head to toe. This is all Din's fault: she'd warned him about the abrupt weather changes that could occur so high on a mountain, but he'd been too eager to discover if there was anything worth their time in the ruins of the Jedi temple that he'd just shut all common sense out in favour of his own arrogance. If anything had happened to Cara or the kid, he only would have had himself to blame.
It's weird that Cara still hasn't shoved this into his face. He expected a jab, an 'I told you', at least. She's uncharacteristically quiet, instead, almost pensive. It must be the exertion kicking in. Din has no idea how she's still on her feet.
He steps back to give her room, but when he starts taking care of his own armour, Cara pries his hand away from his vambrace and steps back into his personal space. He doesn't move.
“My turn, now,” she says, grabbing Din's wrist. She looks at him with a question in her eyes; Din's reply is simple surrender: he lets her do for him what he did for her, even if it's obvious her fingers hurt when she struggles to press the buttons that unclasp the fastenings of his armour. He feels the release of the beskar loosening around him and inhales a deep, painful breath as soon as Cara removes his breastplate. The pieces of his armour end up mingling with hers on the floor and as each of them comes off Din feels lighter and lighter in a way that has nothing to do with gravity. Cara's eyes didn't leave his for a second; the shimmering embers of her dark irises somehow burn hotter than the fire on his skin rubbing into him a warmth he can't explain. He's still cold and shuddering but it doesn't bother him anymore.
They stand in front of each other with their trembling bodies and drenched clothes as if they're waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. Take off these wet clothes, this is what they need to do, or the ice in their bones will never melt away.
Hesitantly, Din reaches out to give an eloquent tug to the hem of her shirt. “Do you need—”
He's pretty positive she doesn't, but Cara drops her gaze to where his hand is lingering and her head moves in a slow nod.
“Yes. Please.”
She raises her eyes to his again, and the embers in them are ablaze with something that makes Din's stomach clench in anticipation. Anticipation for what, he doesn't know, but some primeval instinct in him does, and his body reacts accordingly.
There is no need for him to slip his hand underneath Cara's damp shirt and tank top to remove them, but he does, as if guided by a will higher than reason. Cara tenses briefly when his cold fingertips brush over the tender skin on her flank and slide past it to spread across the small of her back. Her breath hitches. Din waits for her to pull away or give him any sign he's crossed a line. She does neither thing. So Din's hand glides higher, following the hollow line of her spine up to the sharp contours of her shoulder blades. Cara's skin is damp and cold from the snow but smooth and silky, scattered with the palpable marks of scars whose shapes Din can merely guess. How many of these marks does her body bear? How many more scars lie deeper than her skin?
Cara's shirt and tank top are rolled halfway up her torso by Din's arm. His other hand, resting on her hip, grabs both hems together and idly starts pulling up; Cara's gaze is still locked into his while she raises her arms to allow him to remove her clothes. She takes care of the rest herself while Din kneels to lay out her shirt and tank top in front of the fire to dry; she kicks off her boots, shimmies out of her leggings and socks and throws them haphazardly toward the fireplace. Din turns to send her a glare and finds himself facing her bare legs with a suddenly dry mouth.
“How about we spread them out nicely when we're both not freezing?” she proposes, holding out a hand to help him stand. It takes him a couple of seconds too long for his brain to process he's supposed to take it.
Standing by her like this now that she's so exposed makes him feel hyper aware of their unnecessary closeness. He doesn't know what is happening: minutes ago they were going to die, now it's like they have forgotten of everything except the fact that they're here, together and sort of alone. The whole cabin seems to be filled with a whole new concern, now: not cold any longer, but a feral, ancestral hunger.
Din clenches his hands into tight fists. He still can feel Cara under his palms: the maddening texture of her muscles and her curves saturates his senses with a dizziness similar to drunkenness. He's ashamed of this raw want pulsating in his veins, hotter and thicker than blood, drawing him to her in a haze of fascination tainted with dangerous lust. Cara's lips are still purple, but a lighter shade of it slightly closer to pink. Her cheeks are red—the tip of her nose, too—and the little shivers shaking her from time to time call to Din's deepest protective instincts, begging him to hold her, to comfort her.
“Can I?” Cara asks as she trails her fingers down the buckles of his leather vest. She waits for his permission even after letting him undress her like it's something they do every day—like they're used to it. He couldn't ask for anything more than getting used to this—not just the tentative touches, the sudden intimacy; he wants to get used to this new boldness that is both sweet and inebriating and the sense of possibility it gives him. Nothing better than a near-death experience to shake two stubborn spirits.
“Yes.” Din is barely aware of his accelerated heartbeat while Cara unbuckles his vest, the belt over it, and the separate sleeves. She pushes them off his shoulders and down his arms, lets them fall at his feet, then, without leaving his eyes, moves her hands to the zip of his pants. She stalls; there's a question in her look, a question Din answers by guiding her movements until his pants pool around his knees, and then they're gone along with his boots and socks. He still has his shirt on, and it's starting to feel too tight for comfort. He wants it off but there is a rather blatant obstacle and Cara appears to be even more aware of it than he is: she's staring at him—at his helmet—and is probably wondering if she should close her eyes, turn around, or even walk away.
There is no need for any of that. Before she can figure out what to do, Din raises his hands to the sides of his helmet and starts pulling. Cara's head turns away, eyes shutting close as if on a natural reflex; Din smiles. He knows her so well...
He inhales a much needed long, deep breath as soon as his face is bared. Cara still has her eyes closed. Din gently takes one of her hands and drops his helmet into it; Cara winces as if it burns but promptly clutches it to herself with both hands. The warmth Din has been feeling inside flares and spreads like wildfire; it feels good to trust someone so blindly and to be rewarded by the same unconditional trust. He guesses this is why Cara followed him in this quest and didn't even try to rub it in his face when things went south: plain, stupid trust. He hasn't seen or felt much of it these last few years. The mere fact that they're not talking about boundaries and decency and just stripping each other naked like it's nothing says all the things they've never spoken out loud—says 'I trust you', says 'I'll let you take care of me', says 'I'll bare myself for you'—and these are all things Din never said to anyone in his entire life. He didn't think he would ever meet someone worth these words.
He's still smiling to himself when he his shirt lands on the floor among the rest of their clothes. He concedes himself a moment to look at Cara with his bare eyes, a luxury he's never granted himself before, and quickly realises he shouldn't have, because he can't look away, now. He knew she's beautiful—a blind person would know, really—but this unadulterated sight of her is taking his breath away. He catches shiny white glimpses of scars on her arms, on her abdomen; some are large enough to make him presume each of them might have been her last wound. He tries to look away and his attention gets stuck on her legs; for a moment his mind is crossed by the fleeting picture of them wrapped around his waist, and he knows it's wrong and disrespectful of him, so he chases it away, ashamed of himself.
He gets his helmet back, doing his best not to stare at her, albeit it's complicated what with how much of her is on display. He thinks she wouldn't have let him see her like this if she hadn't wanted him to see, which makes him feels slightly less guilty. The truth is he wants to look but won't do it as long as she can't be aware of that.
“You can open your eyes, now,” he says. Cara obliges, but her look stays low, avoiding his face even if his helmet is back in place. Her eyes climb up his torso cautiously and stop in the middle of his chest, right where three pink puckered scars stand in memory of the three blaster shots that almost killed him in his early days as a bounty hunter.
Cara touches the spot with a mixture of awe and concern. “What happened?”
“Picked a fight with a guy more experienced than me,” he explains with a hint of mirth. The mishap taught him to be more humble about his skills and to never underestimate an adversary—a lesson he regrettably forgot the day he ran into a certain former dropper in that cantina on Sorgan.
“Baby Din making his first steps in the big scary hunting world,” she muses with a small grin, “you must have been so cute. I can picture this scrawny little boy...”
He lets out a brief laugh, or the closest thing to that his fatigued lungs allow him.
“I was,” he admits, making Cara laugh along.
She traces absent patterns around his scars, studying them intently for a long while. He closes his eyes to savour the feeling of it and a gasp catches in his throat when her hands ghost over his nipples on their way to his shoulders. Cara's confidence makes him bolder: he returns to her hips, thumbs swiping eagerly into the soft flesh, then explores lower, slowly, to make sure Cara can stop him if she's not okay with this. She doesn't. Her legs feel as amazing as he's always pictured, soft and powerful; he follows every line painted by her muscles all up her thighs and back, around the firm roundness of her bottom, then up again all over her back, her ribs, until he skims her breasts. Cara moans appreciatively, her own hands engaged in a fervent discovery across Din's body. It is almost a scientific task: they're learning each other at a whole new depth, building physical intimacy brick by brick upon the safe grounds of their emotional connection.
Cara lets out a content sigh. Her smile is splitting bright red cracks in her chapped lips but she doesn't seem to care; her hair is wet and mussed, dripping on her shoulders, and even her braid is falling apart. It's a temptation Din can't resist: without thinking, he rakes a hand through it, breaking it down as his fingers curl around her scalp and her cheek fills his palm. For some reason, Cara ducks her head almost sheepishly, as if he'd done or said something inappropriate.
He frowns. “What is it?”
“Nothing, just...” Cara bites her lip, shaking her head dismissively. “Never mind.”
It might be an impression, but her whole face seems flushed, which is not something Din has ever seen before. That dust of pink on her cheeks becomes her.
“What kind of thought could make Cara Dune blush?”
Cara rolls her eyes but doesn't answer. Din tips his helmet to one side in a silent solicitation that makes Cara huff out an impatient sigh.
“Okay, fine, you asked for it: on Alderaan, it was customary for the groom to undo the bride's braids before he took her to bed on their wedding night. It represents the loss of the bride's—”
“I get what it represents,” he interjects in a tone that isn't as casual as he was hoping. He's still cupping her cheek and it burns on his skin. Something stirs below his navel at the thought of what he just unwittingly did. He brushes Cara's hair back a couple of times, an absent gesture he's barely aware of, and after a moment of basking contemplation asks, “Why didn't you stop me?”
The coy glance Cara casts him through her lashes somehow manages to be as sinful as it is innocent. Her voice is low and husky when she reaches out for his hips and replies, “What do you think?”
Din freezes. The sudden contact sparks a jolt of heat in his loins. His whole body is screaming for more: he wishes he could pull her close and feel her body with every inch of himself, feel her breathe, feel the beat of her heart against his.
What she just implied is not something he was mentally or physically prepared to deal with. How can a moment be so wrong and so right to be discussing this?
He wraps his arms around her like he wanted to do, tucks her into an embrace that is both a statement and a question. He's having a hard time keeping up with how fast everything is evolving, but he sees no harm in this: there is the same starvation in their touches, in how they keep seeking one another every time they break apart. It's not the cold coming from outside; it's a cold that lies deep in their souls and has been there for so long they had forgotten what it was like to feel the sun upon their hearts. He runs his hand once again into the waves the braid left in Cara's hair, imagining what it must be like to do it on the occasion the tradition commands. It's like Cara can hear his thoughts, because her eyes flutter closed and she leans into his caress with a soft hum.
“There's something I want to do,” he confesses in a breathless whisper.
Cara's hand rises to close upon his. Her gaze is solemn and intense as she whispers back, “Then do it.”
“I can't.”
A knowing smile curls her mouth. “Is it something that would require you to remove your helmet?”
Din's heart jumps. There she is, in his mind again. She's hardly ever left it since he met her.
“Yes.”
She's under his skin and instead of feeling vulnerable he's feeling oddly elated.
Cara presses her lips briefly on the inside of his wrist. “What if I promised to keep my eyes closed?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Shouldn't that be my question?” she smirks. She's beautiful—so crushingly beautiful...
'I love you,' he thinks, right before his voice says, “You shouldn't need to ask.”
“And neither should you.”
He's afraid he might have offended her—he has a talent for ruining good things—but then she closes her eyes and the sun graces his heart again.
He shoves away the doubts and the insecurities. There's been this thing between them right from the very beginning, this unbreakable faith in each other that just bloomed out of nowhere so fast even they were baffled by it, and yet here they are, one year later, still tiptoeing over a thin, brittle line that's finally started to crack. All it takes is one step...
He doesn't allow himself any time to over think this: in a blink his helmet is under his arm and his free hand is curled around her neck to pull her into a kiss that wipes away the entire universe before their lips even touch. And when they do, when he finally meets her lips and tastes the ice and the blood and the sweetness that is all her, he curses himself and his cowardice for not doing this sooner, because this—the softness of Cara's lips, and her moan, and her warmth, and the feeling of her arms around his waist—this is everything he couldn't have dared to dream of... before he met her. She kisses him like she's breathing him, a hand on his cheek, her nails in his back, and he can feel her smile as she does. It makes her lip bleed but he traces his tongue over it and the blood is gone, and something hot and wet falls between his fingers, making him jerk back.
Cara sniffs. She tries to face away, eyes still closed, but Din still catches the two damp trails running down her face.
“Cara,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek tenderly. He doesn't know why she's crying, if it's his fault because he did something wrong, or maybe she's just feeling as overwhelmed as he is. This was just a normal day like so many others until a few minutes ago, and now... so much is happening, and so fast...
“I'm sorry, I—” She sniffs again, lips tight. She seems embarrassed. Din doesn't want to hear any of this. He kisses her tears away inch by inch, kisses her nose, her forehead, then throws his helmet away and draws her into an embrace that feels like a scream. She's still shivering, but she feels so good—she feels wonderful, tucked against his bare chest, into his arms. She feels so good he never wants to let go.
“Great,” she half sniffles, half giggles in his neck, “now you think I'm a sap.”
“You're ridiculous,” he scoffs, amused by her arguable priorities. Her shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he welcomes with a kiss on her temple. If there is a sap, here, that's clearly him.
“Go sit by the fire,” he murmurs in her hair, “I'll see if I can find some blankets.”
She lets him retrieve his helmet and put it back on before she finally opens her eyes again and flashes him a playful chuckle.
“Taking charge, Din? You like being the manly man providing comfort and safety to the needy wench?”
Her arms crossed over her chest highlight the soft roundness of her breasts; Din has a feeling she's doing it on purpose to distract him, and he can't honestly say it isn't working.
“Shut up, Dune,” he snaps. His ears feel unreasonably hot all of a sudden. “Go get warmed up.”
She puts on a shit-eating grin and turns her back to him to head to the fire; the view of her swinging hips if, if possible, is even more distracting than her chest. She knows he's staring because she's still grinning when she turns around and says, “Just so you know, it's kinda hot.”
And then, without another word, she goes to check on the kid before sitting down; she finds him awake, so she lifts him into her arms and carries him the the fireplace with her. The child is ensconced in the hollow of her crossed legs when Din returns minutes later with a couple of coarse blankets and three cans of soup he found in the cabinets. He hangs his and Cara's clothes all around the cabin to make sure they dry evenly but they'll have to sleep in their underwear, tonight. He smiles to himself: he's sure Cara will be as disappointed as he is.
He spreads out the thicker blanket on the floor, then, when all three of them are comfortably settled upon it, wraps the other blanket around his and Cara's shoulders. They huddle close and put the soups to warm by the fire. This is a reasonably decent way to end a day that started out with the worst odds.
Cara is absently stroking the child's head while he starts nodding off again, lulled by the crackling fire and the warm cradle of Cara's legs.
In a way, Din is glad they have this little green chaperone because, without him, he's quite certain neither he nor Cara could be sensible or strong enough to keep on what little clothing they're still wearing.
He must look as meditative as he feels, because at some point Cara nudges him with her shoulder and asks, “What are you thinking?”
Din can't remember how to lie. Maybe he simply doesn't want to. They've comes this far, they might as well go the extra mile and get it all out, at this point. He has no idea what they'll do tomorrow with all this shared emotional baggage they're throwing on the table; all he knows is that he doubts they will regret this.
He puts a hand on her knee, cracks a lopsided smile she can't see. “Of everything that could happen, tonight, if we let it,” he confesses, a bit guiltily. He doesn't want her to think he's trying to take advantage of the situation; if they're getting any sleep at all, tonight, he's going to be a gentleman.
“And if we didn't have a pair of huge brown eyes spying on us,” she adds, just as the kid cracks an eye open. They both laugh at his exceptional timing; Din strokes his fuzzy head and the child coos happily before going back to sleep.
They consume the soup in comfortable silence and leave one can for the kid, in case he wakes up hungry. The warmth of the soup does wonders for their frozen bones but at the same time brings all the day's tiredness onto them.
Din tucks the sleeping child into his carrier and leaves it floating close by in case the little one wakes up and decides he wants company. When he returns to Cara, she's already lying down facing the fire; he slips under the blanket behind her and she immediately wiggles back against him.
“Are you cold?” he inquires. He's not sure if he's allowed to embrace her until Cara decides for him.
“No,” she hums, while she pulls his arm around her, holding it tight to her bosom.
He nudges a knee between her legs and she welcomes his intrusion with a lazy rub of her foot over his shin. Her feet are cold but the rest of her is beautifully warm and the rise and fall of her chest is so soothing his breathing slowly synchronises with hers. Outside, the blizzard is still howling, but the cabin walls are thick and sturdy and will provide shelter for as long as they need.
After a few minutes, Din cannot ignore any longer that Cara's closeness isn't enough: he keeps staring at the light dark hair on the nape of her neck, thinking how good it would feel to nuzzle his face there. He realises he doesn't have to keep his helmet on: Cara is facing the other way and if she moves around in her sleep, he knows she still won't look. He might also be starting to believe he wouldn't particularly mind if she did, which is a fairly shocking thought per se. He really must be exhausted.
He leaves Cara's waist for a moment to remove his helmet; his arms are back around her before she can even ask what he's doing. She stills for a moment, then relaxes, seemingly accepting his decision. All she says is, “Are you sure?”
Din can finally bury his face in her hair, run the tip of his nose behind her ear as he wanted to as his lips brush on that sweet spot behind her neck, earning a sleepy smile from Cara.
“I guess you're sure,” she quips. She lets him rest his head with hers on the piece of blanket she's crumpled up into a makeshift pillow and it's perfect—his chin on her shoulder, her body moulded along his, fitting perfectly in every crook. Din would happily go through that frozen hell all over again to get to this.
“You know,” Cara begins with a little yawn, “I'm glad today got us where it got us but... next time just listen to me when I tell you you're making terrible decisions.”
Din can hardly hold back an indignant laugh. Credit when it's due.
“Next time I will,” he swears. What he doesn't say is, 'I'm glad this time I didn't.'
“I know what you're thinking,” Cara teases in a low whisper. “Who's the sap, now?”
Din lets out a long, helpless sigh that makes Cara giggle.
He smiles.
It's blissfully warm, in here, and it's not because of the flames dancing in the fireplace.