He wakes to a pounding headache and the dual cacophony of blaster fire and very familiar muttered cursing. Behind it, a low, drawn-out sound, like something heavy’s being dragged over rough terrain. Oh wait, he thinks, as his ear catches against the grit: that’s him.
He turns his head, opens his eyes. The sight of Shara Bey’s breasts and belly straining against her green flight suit is as welcome as ever, though slightly out of context here.
“Babe?” he ventures, and is immediately met with a relieved sigh.
“Oh, thank fuck you’re awake,” she says, and gently lets him drop to the ground behind a not-that-stable-looking stony outcropping which is nonetheless the best cover he can see from his admittedly not stellar vantage point of on the ground, in the middle of a mild sandstorm.
“Because you’re so glad to see me, or because you’re tired of draggin’ me?"
Shara gives him an unconcerned shrug and a quick grin. “Oh, bit from column A, bit from column B, you know.” She’s breathless (from having to drag his fat ass, probably), her curls are coming free, and her eyes are shining brighter than the stars he can’t even see right now. He wants to kiss her more than he wants anything in the universe, up to and including everlasting intergalactic peace and serenity. “Can you walk?"
“Yes,” he says, automatically; she gives him the classic Kes Dameron, You Are A Fool look, but follows it with the (But You’re My Fool) smile, so it’s not so bad. “Maybe,” he corrects.
“Okay, we’re about five—“
The bright beam of cannon fire arcs over their head, and Shara ducks over him, covering his chest with her body; her stomach rests on his hip, and he reaches over to press his hand against her side. Not sure what he’s searching for, but feels it, a swift, steady jolting kick.
“They’re fine,” Shara says into his ear, softly, or as softly as can be done over the sound of approaching war machines. “Kicking away, as usual."
“Oh yeah?” he says, grimacing as sharp bursts of pain begin radiating from his left leg. He hopes it’s rising awareness of a previously existing injury and not something new, not something that’ll make him even more useless to Shara right now. “Our little limmie player’s ready to take the field, huh?"
“They better not be, our little limmie player’s got three weeks before they’re ready to take to field,” she says, rising to peak over their make-shift shelter. She must not like what she sees. “Gonna need to borrow your blaster, babe."
“What’s mine’s yours, Shara Bey,” he says, handing it over. “Gotta be careful, it pulls a little to left."
“Wouldn’t be yours if it didn’t pull a little to the left, Kes,” she says, and winks down at him.
“Not in front of the kid, Lieutenant!" He says, mock-scandalized; she snorts and takes aim.
He leaves her to it, forcing himself into a basically seated position against the outcropping, listening to her fire shot after shot as the ground shakes with the approach.
"Damn it," she hisses, ducking back behind the outcropping. "Can't breach the shield at this distance. What else've you got?"
He's already taken a mental inventory and the answer is, not much: he'd used his grenades back at the start of this clusterfuck and the rocket launcher's back on the ship. This'd been strictly a recon mission, more to get Shara, who'd been going nuts on Hoth, off base than anything. They weren't actually supposed to find anything on this piece of shit planet in the ass-end of space.
"Kes?"
"Yeah," he says, giving himself a quick patdown and wincing as his hand grazes a thus-unnoticed wound to his side. Over the radiating fire coming from right above his left knee, it's not much to worry about. "Got a knife in my boot, if you wanna try to stab them to death—"
"Let's make that Plan C."
"Then I got nothing, 'xcept a spare blaster cartridge—“
She turns to him; their eyes meet, that quick, flashing current of understanding crackling between them. He hands the cartridge over to her.
“You ever build one of those before?"
“I understand the theory,” she says, which means she hasn't, but he’s not about to call her out on it. Not like he has, either, and she's always been better with tech.
Still: “Don't forget to strip the—"
“Less passenger-bay piloting, sweetheart," she says, tightly, and he shuts up. “Need something to bind this thing together, you got any—"
“Turn around,” he says, and she does, keeps fiddling with the exposed wires on the charger. He plucks out the band keeping her hair up, and hands it to her. “Perfect,” she says, over her shoulder, and gets to tying the newly unstable cartridge to the blaster. Kes, meanwhile, does his best to pull her hair back, weaving it into the simplest Alderiaan braid he knows; he used to help some of the kids at the orphanage with their hair in the mornings, and manages to shepherd Shara’s curls into a dark, tidy line down the back of neck almost on muscle memory alone.
He and Shara finish at about the same time. He expects her to rise, lob the make-shift explosive at the rapidly approaching Imperial Walker immediately, but she turns to him instead, grabs him by the collar, and kisses him.
“For luck,” she says, and leaps up, winding her arm back to get as much distance on the throw as possible. She stays standing, apparently watching their last chance of survival arc through the air, until Kes, who's seen the blast radius of one of those things, tugs her down.
Not a second too soon, because there's a dull metallic clang, somewhat muffled by the distance and the sand-choked air, followed almost instantly by a short, echoing boom, and then the air above them bursts into flames.
And then, silence.
The air around them has cleared, leaving the sight of a slowly setting sun. Shara's breaths are sharp but steady against his neck, for a moment, before she eases her way off. Clutching her side, and panic, perhaps slightly overdue, rises in Kes like bile in the back of his throat.
"You okay, Shara Bey?" he manages, voice catching on her name; Shara's peering over their shelter, and doesn't even seem to notice.
"Must've pulled something, I—"
The low, agonized groan of creaking durasteel cuts through the air, and she stumbles back.
He lunges without thought for his useless leg, and finds it crumpling beneath him. Manages to grab at the crumbling stone lip of their shelter, and through the throbbing agony, gets a decent enough view of the scorched Walker slowly tipping forward like some sort of wounded animal, before crashing ignominiously to the earth all at once.
He looks over at Shara; Shara looks over at him.
“Fuck,” they say, in unison, and then Shara grins, and he breaks into hoarse, almost hysterical laughter.
FILL: bad-ass pregnant Shara: "bleed and fight for you (make it right for you)"
He turns his head, opens his eyes. The sight of Shara Bey’s breasts and belly straining against her green flight suit is as welcome as ever, though slightly out of context here.
“Babe?” he ventures, and is immediately met with a relieved sigh.
“Oh, thank fuck you’re awake,” she says, and gently lets him drop to the ground behind a not-that-stable-looking stony outcropping which is nonetheless the best cover he can see from his admittedly not stellar vantage point of on the ground, in the middle of a mild sandstorm.
“Because you’re so glad to see me, or because you’re tired of draggin’ me?"
Shara gives him an unconcerned shrug and a quick grin. “Oh, bit from column A, bit from column B, you know.” She’s breathless (from having to drag his fat ass, probably), her curls are coming free, and her eyes are shining brighter than the stars he can’t even see right now. He wants to kiss her more than he wants anything in the universe, up to and including everlasting intergalactic peace and serenity. “Can you walk?"
“Yes,” he says, automatically; she gives him the classic Kes Dameron, You Are A Fool look, but follows it with the (But You’re My Fool) smile, so it’s not so bad. “Maybe,” he corrects.
“Okay, we’re about five—“
The bright beam of cannon fire arcs over their head, and Shara ducks over him, covering his chest with her body; her stomach rests on his hip, and he reaches over to press his hand against her side. Not sure what he’s searching for, but feels it, a swift, steady jolting kick.
“They’re fine,” Shara says into his ear, softly, or as softly as can be done over the sound of approaching war machines. “Kicking away, as usual."
“Oh yeah?” he says, grimacing as sharp bursts of pain begin radiating from his left leg. He hopes it’s rising awareness of a previously existing injury and not something new, not something that’ll make him even more useless to Shara right now. “Our little limmie player’s ready to take the field, huh?"
“They better not be, our little limmie player’s got three weeks before they’re ready to take to field,” she says, rising to peak over their make-shift shelter. She must not like what she sees. “Gonna need to borrow your blaster, babe."
“What’s mine’s yours, Shara Bey,” he says, handing it over. “Gotta be careful, it pulls a little to left."
“Wouldn’t be yours if it didn’t pull a little to the left, Kes,” she says, and winks down at him.
“Not in front of the kid, Lieutenant!" He says, mock-scandalized; she snorts and takes aim.
He leaves her to it, forcing himself into a basically seated position against the outcropping, listening to her fire shot after shot as the ground shakes with the approach.
"Damn it," she hisses, ducking back behind the outcropping. "Can't breach the shield at this distance. What else've you got?"
He's already taken a mental inventory and the answer is, not much: he'd used his grenades back at the start of this clusterfuck and the rocket launcher's back on the ship. This'd been strictly a recon mission, more to get Shara, who'd been going nuts on Hoth, off base than anything. They weren't actually supposed to find anything on this piece of shit planet in the ass-end of space.
"Kes?"
"Yeah," he says, giving himself a quick patdown and wincing as his hand grazes a thus-unnoticed wound to his side. Over the radiating fire coming from right above his left knee, it's not much to worry about. "Got a knife in my boot, if you wanna try to stab them to death—"
"Let's make that Plan C."
"Then I got nothing, 'xcept a spare blaster cartridge—“
She turns to him; their eyes meet, that quick, flashing current of understanding crackling between them. He hands the cartridge over to her.
“You ever build one of those before?"
“I understand the theory,” she says, which means she hasn't, but he’s not about to call her out on it. Not like he has, either, and she's always been better with tech.
Still: “Don't forget to strip the—"
“Less passenger-bay piloting, sweetheart," she says, tightly, and he shuts up. “Need something to bind this thing together, you got any—"
“Turn around,” he says, and she does, keeps fiddling with the exposed wires on the charger. He plucks out the band keeping her hair up, and hands it to her. “Perfect,” she says, over her shoulder, and gets to tying the newly unstable cartridge to the blaster. Kes, meanwhile, does his best to pull her hair back, weaving it into the simplest Alderiaan braid he knows; he used to help some of the kids at the orphanage with their hair in the mornings, and manages to shepherd Shara’s curls into a dark, tidy line down the back of neck almost on muscle memory alone.
He and Shara finish at about the same time. He expects her to rise, lob the make-shift explosive at the rapidly approaching Imperial Walker immediately, but she turns to him instead, grabs him by the collar, and kisses him.
“For luck,” she says, and leaps up, winding her arm back to get as much distance on the throw as possible. She stays standing, apparently watching their last chance of survival arc through the air, until Kes, who's seen the blast radius of one of those things, tugs her down.
Not a second too soon, because there's a dull metallic clang, somewhat muffled by the distance and the sand-choked air, followed almost instantly by a short, echoing boom, and then the air above them bursts into flames.
And then, silence.
The air around them has cleared, leaving the sight of a slowly setting sun. Shara's breaths are sharp but steady against his neck, for a moment, before she eases her way off. Clutching her side, and panic, perhaps slightly overdue, rises in Kes like bile in the back of his throat.
"You okay, Shara Bey?" he manages, voice catching on her name; Shara's peering over their shelter, and doesn't even seem to notice.
"Must've pulled something, I—"
The low, agonized groan of creaking durasteel cuts through the air, and she stumbles back.
He lunges without thought for his useless leg, and finds it crumpling beneath him. Manages to grab at the crumbling stone lip of their shelter, and through the throbbing agony, gets a decent enough view of the scorched Walker slowly tipping forward like some sort of wounded animal, before crashing ignominiously to the earth all at once.
He looks over at Shara; Shara looks over at him.
“Fuck,” they say, in unison, and then Shara grins, and he breaks into hoarse, almost hysterical laughter.