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Fara IV is a world of endless white plains and jagged ice shelves — where the wind threads itself through metal seams and bone joints alike. Snow here falls in fine crystalline sheets rather than flakes, shimmering dust that catches and refracts the pale violet sunlight like powdered glass. At night, however, the horizon disappears completely into a blue-black void. Starless.
Suffice it to say, Anakin and Padmé hadn’t meant to land here. Though an anti-air cannon disguised as a Separatist listening post to be investigated certainly did not discriminate as soon as their ship crossed its perimeter.
By the time he managed to steer them into a controlled landing, snow had already buried half their fuselage and forced them out on foot with nothing but salvaged emergency rations. Once a distress beacon was lit, in any case, they hiked against all odds until the silhouette of an abandoned Republic outpost became more than just a mirage — and despite its dilapidated appearance? The structure at least stood with ribs of durasteel. Never mind that further inside, the temperature wasn’t much better.
Most doors were jammed and the ones that did open initially revealed empty supply closets or shattered viewports with snow already drifting through them. It was only after several minutes of coaxing wires along different panels that they stumbled upon a single room at last. One slightly wider than a storage compartment, but also equipped with an old heating unit Anakin could fix up.
Padmé dragged in anything worth using meanwhile, including blankets left inside a footlocker and even a cracked floor mat for cushioning. Everything was muffled into white silence outside by the time night fell. Yet the below freezing temperatures no longer cut through, especially once Anakin got their heater running on a steady line. It should last the night. It had to.
When exactly Padmé dozed off, she isn’t quite sure, but the first thing her brain registers is some familiar material. Thick, coarse and still carrying the faint scent of leather. Her husband’s robe. He’d evidently draped it over her at a certain point last night and as brown eyes slowly readjust to their surroundings? She finds him right beside her.
The only problem is he’s sitting cross-legged in a position that was probably meditative at first but has since collapsed into an exhausted slouch. Thus her fingers instinctively reach out to brush his knee, drawing a sharp inhale from him when he stirs. His voice is rough with sleep when an unfocused gaze drags over from the generator to meet her own “What is it? Are you alright?”
“Get in here,” she murmurs “You’ll freeze.”
“The blankets are for you. I don’t need any.”
“Fine. Then come and keep me from freezing.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat, just long enough to wince at the ice cold against his spine before relenting — an easy decision to make once Padmé lifts the corner for him. As soon as he crawls under and slides into the curve of her body, their temperature difference is startling.
He’s so warm.
Anakin’s heat rolls over her like a tide and the contact sends a rush of sensation through every nerve ending.
Their blankets indeed provide insulation and together, they trap any heat the generator manages to exhale. Its warmth is uneven, however, patches of hot air wavering every now again. This only forces them to burrow further against each other and tighten the cocoon.
So, when he holds her like this, it becomes the perfect position for Padmé to nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. Contours she’s affectionately memorised from their stolen nights and hurried reunions between campaigns.
At the same time, Anakin’s left palm under her shirt is so comforting in a way that feels odd here on Fara IV. She almost wonders if he’s carrying sunlight in his skin. Though as calloused fingers glide higher until they brush the raised, ridged lines — left by the bloodthirsty Nexxu on Geonosis — Padmé stiffens for a breath.
An old instinct… but he touches them with such gentle reverence that she eventually melts when his thumb follows one scar. Then another, mapping them as though reading a story carved into her flesh. He thinks they are beautiful not only because each of them mark her survival. They also speak to her brilliant courage. To the fierce spirit he has always loved in her.
Regardless. When legs inevitably tangle, his thigh shifting between her own, the motion brings them even closer and draws a smile across their faces. It will never cease to amaze him how right this feels. The absolute certainty of knowing they may end up anywhere at all — and that as long as they are together, he shall never be lost — spreads like liquid aurodium throughout his limbs.
Thus he gently tips her chin up and it suddenly aches in him with a physical pressure, how breathtaking she is. The Angels of Iego would be so lucky to even compare with Padmé Naberrie. He caresses the elegant sweep of her jaw; drinks in the exquisite bloom of her lips and when they finally meet his, it is nothing less than divine.
The kiss deepens gradually, dissolving any remnants of cold like frost in sunlight. Her hands slide into his hair meanwhile, intent on drawing out the low noises he tries (and fails) to swallow. They could stay like this forever, entwined with no visible end or beginning, and it will still be more than Anakin ever thought possible for him.
It’s freezing in here, though with every brush of skin against skin, warmth blossoms in small bursts and Padmé chases after that as she might a lifeline.
Her hands, still icy at the fingertips, slide down Anakin’s body to beneath his tunic — palms pressing over taut muscle as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. They push higher then, skimming over his ribs, and the heat travels with her. How comfortingly it spreads before he bows his head toward her shoulder, breathing hard.
The contrast is dizzying, cold air nipping at their exposed skin while every spot they touch becomes molten. Both move as if trying to light each other from the inside out, and when Padmé shifts? Their blankets pull, allowing a chill to rush against her neck — only for Anakin to immediately lean down and press his mouth there.
She gasps at that, body arching into him in search for more. More contact, more heat, more of everything he gives without trying. Thus his lips linger to trace languorous kisses, chasing away every last shard of cold. “Ani…” Padmé moans and he shudders against her.
When their shelter groans under the weight of another gust — serving as reminder that the world outside is nothing but snow and icy winds right now — she shifts closer by instinct, burrowing into the grounding peace of his arms. They gently, almost reluctantly, break to gather oxygen into their lungs then; hearts clenching at the impossibility of loving on borrowed seconds.
Anakin brushes their cold noses together and it makes her smile rend wider. “Is this cozy enough for you, Senator?” I know what you want, essentially says the low and gravelled sussurus of his voice. The tease is all but artifice even as he slides his arm tighter around the curve of Padmé’s waist, a hand splayed at her neck.
“Mm-hm… like lying against a furnace,” she sighs with gratified delight “You’re always so warm. I imagine you ought to thrive in this weather.”
He laughs, eyes drifting to the frost-rimmed window. “I don’t know. My first time stepping off our shuttle to Ilum felt like getting punched in the face.”
The sound of her giggles curl against his throat “What?”
Anakin shifts to tug her even closer, intent on erasing all remaining space between them “Imagine spending your whole life in the desert… and then suddenly—” a whistle accompanies the gesture his hand makes away from them to mimic how swift everything can change “Icy needles straight down your throat each time you take a breath.”
Padmé juts her bottom lip out with sympathy “So, what helped change your perspective?”
He closes his eyes, remembering. “When dawn painted the snow — looked like the whole planet was made of light. Everything went quiet. I was lucky to witness it.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
A smirk nudges at Anakin’s lips, one eye opening to regard her “I suppose anywhere can be bearable when you also have something beautiful to look at.”
Giving him a pointed look, Padmé taps his nose “Well. I’m glad you got over it, because I’d hate to be stranded in the middle of a snowfield with ‘Grumpy Anakin’.”
“Excuse me? Nothing can make me grumpy if it means being alone with my darling wife,” he says just as a mischievous light begins to spark behind those blue eyes “… but I do reserve the right to keep myself entertained.”
Before she can ask what that means, he dips his head and nuzzles into the curve of her neck like a loth-cat — and the nibble that follows makes her squeak “Ani!” Protestations dissolve into helpless laughter, however, as she twists and half-heartedly pushes at his chest if only to have him chase her movements with more kisses.
Padmé squirms, trying for dignity and failing entirely as hysterical giggles bounce off the metallic walls around them. “That tickles!” Clutching her husband’s forearm at last, she manages to whine with an equally as unconvincing frown which draws a grin across his features.
“That’s the point,” he murmurs playfully against her skin “You wiggle like a tooka, milady.”
“Oh, you’re done for now.” The young woman rolls over to straddle him then, blankets falling around their waists in a tangled mess of fabric and laughter as she pins his wrists down with a huff “I think you’re enjoying our emergency situation here just a little too much, General Skywalker.”
“I’m enjoying you.” He corrects whilst staring up at her and, as if to prove it, props himself on both elbows just to deliver a far more tender kiss this time.
Though despite softening when their lips brush, she sighs “You know we have yet to draw up an escape plan. Right?”
“We’re halfway there,” he counters rather seriously “This is the part where we stay warm.”
“By tickling me to death?”
“By keeping you close…” Anakin sits up as soon as her hands slide, slide, slide and find purchase on his broad shoulders instead. He moves with her easily — guiding Padmé until her knees are bracketing his hips in full “Very close.” The words ghost against her throat just as he presses a languid kiss there, slow and savouring. They have time. If not? Rest assured, he will certainly make it.
She tilts her head back to grant him better access as he trails further south. “We should check on our comms…” yet words begin to drift when Anakin finds a particularly tender spot below her collarbone. One which never fails to make her sound utterly distracted in the way that he likes.
“Don’t forget the rations.” The low rumble of his voice sends a pleasant shiver through her.
“Yes.” Padmé breathes, leaning into him “Those too.” Broad hands wander with unhurried intention before they ultimately coax her closer against him — thumbs circling slow, deliberate patterns around her hip bones.
When she shivers, he smiles and draws back. “Later?”
“Later.” His wife agrees without a moment’s hesitation just as their lips crash together once again. Delicate fingers tighten around his tunic and thus anchor them both to this stolen morning they cannot possibly let go of yet.
The galaxy can wait a little while longer.
Outside, the first violet smear of Fara IV’s sunrise spills over its snowfields — cold light stretching across an endless white expanse to mark a brutal night survived.