Prompt: within the ruins series + hope (FOR ONCE), because I re-read the one where they're fighting with each other and I'm all upset about it and I just really need those two to have a light at the end of the tunnel? find some goodness in your heart and let them have this one thing

A/N: Apparently my stories are "too sad." By request, here's one with happy ending. Please enjoy.

It is pouring down rain when they pull up to the cabin in Huntingdon, and Jane finds this fitting. In another time, another life, another era, she would've said something to Kurt about it. But they don't talk much anymore. They talk so little now that even the weather, somehow, has become an off-limits topic.

The rain is steady, and growing harder, so that even before they open their doors, Kurt takes off his coat and hands it to her. She accepts it without protest, only because she knows he wouldn't take it back if she refused. So she shrugs into it, ensconcing herself in the smell of him, the fabric of his daily life.

It should terrify her, how foreign and precious these things have become to her in recent months: his scent, his clothes, his warmth. She used to spend entire evenings wrapped up in it all; she used to wear his clothes like they were her own; she used to not be able to differentiate the smell of him because everything, including her, smelled like him. But they're more separate now—fully separate, on their worst days—and certain parts of her have learned to become numb to the pain of his absence.

Kurt doesn't ask for his jacket back once they get inside the cabin, and she doesn't give it back. She shivers in it, wet and cold by the door, but it's worth it. While wearing it, with her eyes closed and her imagination stretched, she can almost believe he's holding her.

The sound of metal scraping against stone and a low groan from across the room make her open her eyes. Kurt is kneeling on the floor in front of the fireplace, having pushed the fire screen aside so he can peer into the pit of stone and charred embers. He's got his neck twisted up at the strangest angle, and she's about to ask what he's doing when he's back on his feet.

"Finally," he mutters, attempting to brush the ash off his damp jeans and only succeeding in ruining them further. "Sarah did one thing right; she finally remembered to close the flue before she left."

"Oh." Jane nods absentmindedly, huddled in his damp coat, shivering as the cold seeps in. She hadn't spared a thought for the flue or the fireplace. Stupid of her—a fire is their only source of warmth out here in the middle of the woods, and if Sarah had left the shaft to the chimney open, the fireplace would be completely damp, and they would have no way to warm themselves in this downpour.

Well, that's not entirely true…

Jane closes her eyes as the memories prick at her, twisting her stomach with grief almost to the point of revulsion. There were times—it feels like a lifetime ago now—that she and Kurt had found other ways to warm themselves when Sarah had failed to close the flue, or forgot to leave them dry wood. Sometimes they'd come in the door and wouldn't even bother to check the fireplace for readiness; instead, they'd race to the back bedroom or the couch or whatever surface suited them best at that particular moment. Sometimes, they'd even—

"Now comes the real test," Kurt says, breaking through her thoughts so suddenly she actually jumps. "Time to see if my dear sister thought to leave us any dry wood."

He's across the room before she can say anything, and it's only as he's got his hand on the doorknob that she manages to speak.

"I can help," she offers, stepping forward to follow him, but he shakes his head, already pulling the door shut behind him. "I've got it," he says, closing the door, and then she's alone again.

A half hour later, thanks to the stockpile of wood Sarah and Reade blessedly left behind, they have a roaring fire going, but it has done little to dissipate the chill in the room between them. Once the fire was set, and their bags were unpacked, it quickly became clear that they had little else to occupy their time. With the storm picking up speed outside, they would be foolish to leave the comfort of the cabin, and inside it, there are few distractions. No TV, no Internet, nothing but a chest full of old board games and a shelf full of worn paperbacks. Jane's desperate, but not desperate enough that she'd suggest they start a game of Monopoly simply to pass the time.

It's just after lunchtime when he starts pacing. It is a habit of his she hates, and she never hates it more than in this old cabin with its aged and perpetually creaking wood. She can hear every shift of his weight, and she chews on the inside of her cheek so she won't yell at him to cut it out. She knows it isn't exactly his fault—this cabin was built for outdoor activities, not indoor ones, and she can't fault him for feeling like he's trapped in a cage.

She feels that way too. She's got a book in her hands—some vapid romance it seems Sarah had favored when she'd been a teenager—but Jane hasn't read more than twenty pages in the last two hours. She can't stop watching him out of the corner of her eye, can't stop thinking about how much he is regretting his decision to bring them here. He was expecting a weekend lost in the woods, full of hiking and fishing and probably a good bit of manual labor (the roof is leaking again), but instead he's stuck in here. With her.

As if he can sense her thoughts, he stops abruptly in the middle of his pacing and turns towards her.

"You want to go for a walk?"

At first, Jane isn't certain she's heard him right. A walk? She glances at the windows. The rain is still flinging itself against the panes, so fiercely now that it seems the glass might fracture under the pressure at any second. The pots sitting on the living room floor are nearly full with leaking rainwater; they'll need to be changed out soon. Neither of them have the right gear for hiking in such foul weather. But Jane doesn't move to point out any of these things.

Instead she asks, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. He just stands there at the front of the room, looking out the window, shaking his head helplessly.

"I want to do something," he says finally. And then, softer, like an afterthought, or perhaps a confession, he adds, "Together. I want us to do something together."

His eyes meet hers only briefly before turning away again, but she latches onto that moment of contact. It's the closest she's felt to him a long while.

"Okay," she says, standing up, and moving to meet him by the door. "Let's do something together, then. Let's go for a walk."

He keeps his jacket this time when they go out, and she wraps herself up into one of the old rain jackets they keep here year-round. It's a little too big by itself, so she puts it on over one of her thick winter sweaters, hoping the two will work together to keep the rain off and the warmth in. She doesn't know how long they're going to be out and she isn't about to ask.

He leads the way, across the waterlogged clearing surrounding the cabin and towards one of the paths that branches out into the woods. There are five of them all told, though really only three actually lead anywhere. She smiles a little when she notices which he's chosen: it's the one with all those rock outcroppings, the one that goes up the side of the mountain—Hill, she hears him correct her in her memory, laughing as he does so. It's just a hill, Jane. Don't go talking it up. We're in Pennsylvania, not Colorado, remember?

She smiles reflexively at the memory, lifting her ducked head to look at him through the rain. It had rained then, too, the first time he'd brought her here. A brief spring shower that had caused them to scuttle to the nearest shelter they could find—a shelf of shale beneath one of the outcroppings—where they'd huddled together, watching the rain pour down around them. She can still remember the excitement she'd felt then, hiding out with him under that rock, as if it were the two of them alone in the world.

She misses how good it used to feel, to be alone with him.

They hike up the trail in silence, her following in his muddy wake, for nearly two hours without speaking. It isn't a nice hike. The mud makes the trail almost impossible to walk on, and the downpour around them keeps her head bent low, forcing her to focus on each footstep instead of taking in the wilderness around them. Eventually they make it up the side of the hill. They pass by all the familiar outcroppings, not saying a word, leaving their distant memories in the past. By the time they reach the top, the pouring rain has finally let up to a light drizzle, and they both revel in it a moment, catching their breath as they take in the view.

Even with the rain and the muck and cold, there's nothing Jane loves more than being out here. She loves the forest and all the creatures in it; she loves the privacy of being on land they own; she loves how she is unable to see even a glimpse of civilization, no matter which direction she looks or how hard she strains her eyes. She never realizes quite how much she dislikes living in New York until she comes out here.

All too soon, it's time to head back. The clouds are converging again, and this time the thunder is threatening more than just rain. They both gravitate back towards the trail, stalling a moment at the top as the wind starts to pick up.

"I'm not looking forward to going back," he sighs, and she can't tell if he's thinking about the mud that will hamper their way or the too-small cabin they'll soon be trapped inside together once they reach the bottom.

She doesn't ask. She doesn't wait. Instead she takes the first step, carefully leading the way down.

It's a long, slow slog. It's even harder walking down the hill than it had been walking up; the mud makes them slide and slip in unexpected places, and more than once Jane has to reach out and grab onto a nearby tree to keep herself from falling. Kurt keeps himself a good ten paces behind her, not wanting to slip and end up taking her down with him. There isn't any time for talking, and so for over an hour and a half, they march ahead in silence, heads down, minds focused only on where to put their feet next.

He doesn't see her fall.

He hears her cry out, but by the time he looks up, she's already on the ground, swearing, cradling her ankle.

"I'm fine," she maintains through gritted teeth, forcing herself up as he hurries towards her. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm—"

When she breaks off with a curse, he grips her elbow, steadying her before she can slip again, or put more pressure on her injured ankle.

"Let me look," he says. He helps her to a nearby felled tree where she can sit, before he crouches down next to her leg. Quickly, he pulls at the laces of her left boot, and then slowly pulls it off of her foot. She sucks in a breath at the release of pressure, and he murmurs a quiet apology as he pulls off her sock and then his own gloves, reaching out with careful, probing fingers to assess the damage.

"It's not broken," he says after a moment. He keeps prodding her skin gently, apologizing whenever she hisses in pain. After a minute, he lets go and looks up to meet her eyes. "I think it's just a sprain," he tells her. "You just need to keep your weight off it for now. We can put some ice on it to keep down the swelling once we get back."

"Once we get back," she echoes, staring down the rest of the trail. There is far too much mud and unstable ground between where they are now and the safety and comfort of the cabin.

"It'll be fine," he tells her, ignoring the path her mind is going down, ignoring reality. He busies himself with putting her sock back on, and then her shoe. He takes extra care with the laces, not wanting to add too much pressure in the wrong places.

It doesn't take him very long to accomplish all this, but he stays bent over her foot for minutes more, checking this and checking that. He doesn't look up until he feels her hand beneath his chin, lifting it so they can look at one another.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her voice is strained beneath the sound of the rain. "Thank you for taking care of me."

He nods, and looks away, focusing on her ankle again. She lets her hand fall away. Another moment, wasted. Another effort, for nothing.

But then he reaches out his hand and takes her fallen one. His fingers are slippery with rain against hers. He looks up.

"I haven't been doing a good job of that recently, have I?" he whispers. "I haven't been taking care of you."

"I haven't been letting you."

Her response is immediate—to take the blame—but for the first time in a long time, he shakes his head against that.

"It doesn't matter if you've been letting me or not," he argues. "I should've been here for you. Helped you. Protected you." His voice has turned hard, and she knows where this conversation will lead.

She doesn't want to go there. They can't keep circling the drain like this.

"You couldn't have protected me from what happened, Kurt."

"I could've tried, though. I could've at least tried. Instead I just… I left you. I left you to struggle through all that alone."

She opens her mouth to speak, to tell him to stop, to tell him he's wrong, but her heart won't let her lie. This is the most they've talked about the baby in weeks, and she finds she hasn't built up her defenses since the last time. She feels her eyes start to prick.

"I'm sorry," they whisper at the same time.

She can't look at him, but she finds his other hand, slippery and cold in the rain, and holds on tight. She feels him squeeze back, and her heart surges at the contact.

"Okay," he whispers after a minute, gently prying his hand from hers so he can stand up. "Let's start with getting home, all right?"

She nods, bracing one of her hands against the wet log beneath her as she reaches for him with the other. He helps her up, and she manages okay for a few steps before her ankle gives out beneath her and she starts slipping again. He grabs her instinctively, hooking an arm around her stomach, just narrowly managing to keep her from sliding even further down the path.

"We're not going to make it," she mutters. "Not with my ankle, and not in this weather. We should wait for it to clear—"

"The rain might not let up for hours," he argues. "And even if it does, the ground won't dry out for days. We can go now; we can make it. We just have to be careful."

"You think I'm not trying to be careful? I'm the one who just wrecked her ankle."

"Jane, I know—"

"Look, why don't you just go back? Just get the fire going again, dry out your clothes, and I'll make it down at my own pace."

"I'm not leaving you out here!"

"Oh, it's not dangerous, Kurt!" she snaps. "It's just the woods. I'll be fine. Just go, get the place warmed up, and I'll get there when I get there." At the disapproving look on his face, she sighs. "What other options do we have? What do you think you're going to do, carry me the whole way home?"

"I could," he offers stubbornly, and she snorts, shaking her head. "It'd only be fair," he adds quietly, and something in his voice makes her look over. "I never did carry you over the threshold, did I?"

Caught off-guard, she can't hold in the laugh that bubbles to the surface. "Sorry, but it's a little too late for that, I think."

For the first time in what feels like a very long while, he meets her eyes with a smile.

"Is it?" he wonders quietly.

His voice is so soft and curious that, when they finally do manage to make it back to the clearing an hour later, she lets him pick her up and carry her inside.

He's still holding her as he shuts the door behind them and works at kicking his shoes off. It takes a minute, given that his hands are full, but she doesn't for a second think about telling him to put her down. She likes the feel of his arms around her. She's forgotten how much she's missed it.

He sets her down on the couch, helping her to situate her ankle comfortably before starting work on the fire. She watches in silence as he moves around, gathering wood and matches and crumpling up old newspapers to fuel the fire. Once it's caught, he goes around emptying out the pots and pans and buckets that are scattered throughout the living room, collecting rainwater. He mutters to himself about fixing the roof all the while, and she smiles to herself as she listens. She has always found his handiness comforting. It's such a different skillset than what he does at work, so different than anything she can do, and she likes knowing that if they were ever in some sort of trouble out here, all he would need to fix the problem were his bare hands and a few tools. He makes the world seem so simple, so easily fixable, and she loves him for it.

Hours pass, but still the rain and the wind and the storm rage on. They never did get the lightning that the earlier thunder promised, but neither are complaining. Though the perimeter of the clearing is wide enough that no falling tree could hit the cabin on its way down, they can still prove dangerous obstacles on the way out. The sun sets, and they both privately agree not to worry about storm damage until tomorrow. They're safe inside, and that's all that matters for now.

After he sets some peat on the fire to carry them through the night, Kurt helps her to her feet and back into their bedroom. It's colder in there, without the direct warmth from the fireplace, and Jane shivers a moment, hesitating, one hand on the doorframe.

Kurt misreads her, his eyes falling to her injured ankle.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," she answers. She isn't about to say she wants to sleep in the other room with the fire and then leave him here in the cold. Her ankle might be hurt, but she's not an invalid. "I just need to use the bathroom," she excuses, and she starts hopping towards the little room before he can help her.

She relives herself, sets about washing her hands, and it isn't until she looks up and into the little mirror above the sink that she realizes she has mud all over the right side of her face. She closes her eyes and lets out a loud sigh, telling herself it doesn't matter enough to yell. Of course—of course—it would be just like him not to mention for four hours that she had mud all over half her face. Carefully, using the counter to steady herself, she washes the mud off of her skin and out of her hair.

By the time she comes back out of the bathroom, Kurt's spread out extra blankets over the bed and has begun changing. He has his back to her and she watches him for a moment as she lingers in the doorway, silently appreciative. She's still staring at him when he turns around, bare-chested and shirt in hand.

"What?" he asks, staring back. When she says nothing, merely shrugs, moving to pull his shirt over his head.

"Wait," she calls.

He pauses, staring at her across the room.

"Why?" he asks. Not challenging. Not suggesting. Just wondering. Simply wondering.

She swallows. She doesn't know why. She can't explain it to him any better than she can explain it to herself. All she knows is she hasn't looked at him like this in a long while, hasn't felt like this in a long while, and if anything at all is going to change between them, she can't help but think that today is the day for it.

She makes her way towards him, using the wall for support. He stands and he waits until she's there. He doesn't move to help her. He's still holding his shirt in his hands. She stares at it for few seconds, stares at his hands holding it, stares at the ring on his finger. Then she reaches for her shirt and takes it off too.

He doesn't say word, and neither does she. For a minute she stands there, staring at him, feeling him stare at her. And then she reaches out and touches him. He starts at first—her fingers are cold—but relaxes the more she touches him. He raises a hand to her waist and then lifts it to her side, tracing his fingertips along the contours of her tattoos. She can feel her skin prickle with gooseflesh and she isn't sure anymore, if it's just from the cold. She moves her hand up his chest, to rest flat over his ribcage.

"It's been a while since I've felt your heart," she whispers.

She can almost hear him swallow; he's so nervous.

"Can you feel it now?"

"Mm." She nods. She shifts her hand, pressing her palm closer. "It's going a little fast."

He chuckles, and she closes her eyes at the once-extinct sound. "Well, I guess it's understandable. It's been a while since you were last naked in my arms."

She stiffens at the unavoidable truth. She doesn't want to think about exactly how long it's been. She doesn't want to think about anything that happened before this moment.

"Sorry," he apologizes immediately. "Jane, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like—"

"No, you're right." She pulls her hand away, and looks up at him. She can see his eyes flash with worry, with confusion. But she doesn't step away. Instead she takes his hand and moves it higher, curling his palm around her breast. "It has been a while since we've been naked together," she agrees. "Would you like to remedy that?"

"Jane," he whispers. In the darkness of the room, she can see tears hanging in his eyes.

"Just an idea," she whispers back, holding her breath. She hates what they're turning this moment into—yes or no, forward or backward, right or wrong—and yet she's incapable of relinquishing its power. She doesn't know what to do to convince him; she doesn't know if she even should be convincing him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers when he doesn't speak. "I know this is coming out of nowhere. I know we haven't talked in forever, I know we haven't done—anything—together in months…"

"We did something together today," he points out quietly.

She looks up, not understanding what he's getting at.

He smiles a little, staring down at her. His hand rises from her chest to her neck to her cheek.

"We went on a walk today," he whispers, stroking her cheek. "We went out into the world and we did new things and we got hurt and we're…" He sniffs, forcing another smile. "Baby, we're still okay."

She can feel her chin start to shake, but she ignores it. Ignores everything but him. "Do you really think so?" she whispers. She doesn't care if he lies. She doesn't care if he tells the truth. She just wants to hear him say it.

"I really think so," he whispers, and then he leans down. Just a little. Just a few inches.

She takes the invitation for what it is and she leans up, meeting him partway.

He doesn't taste any different. She doesn't know why he should. So little has changed in the last few months, and yet everything has, and still, he's the same. Tastes the same, feels the same, kisses the same.

The confidence is gone, though. His hands are shaking when he touches her.

"Don't be scared," she whispers.

"I'm not," he whispers back, but it's a lie. They both know it. They both feel it.

But for once, for the first time in months, they don't let fear overtake them. They push past it, push through it, and together they come out the other side.

They're quiet afterwards, save for the sharp sounds of their labored breathing. But as the minutes pass, even that fades. The rain continues overhead, and for a long while they lie there and listen to it, not talking very much, not thinking very much at all. Eventually they both fall asleep, and in the morning when they wake, the rain has stopped.

The word around them comes back to them slowly.

The squirrels are the first things they hear, scuttling across the damp underbrush, clawing their way up wet bark. Then the birds: one chirp, then another. All regular sounds. All sounds—for the most part—that can be heard in Central Park.

But then there's a different sound. A diligent pawing at the ground. A loud, disgruntled huff of breath.

Kurt knows without having to peek out the window that it's a male. And he knows without having to look over that his wife is already on her feet.

She lives for these moments: seeing animals up close, undisturbed, in their wild, natural habitats. It's her favorite part of coming out to the cabin, and always has been, ever since he brought her out here the first time and they stumbled upon a herd of deer in the woods. She stood there for twenty minutes, not moving, just watching, until finally something spooked one of them and they all bolted.

This time, she's at the bedroom door before she remembers him and looks back.

"Go ahead," he whispers with a smile, tipping his chin forward. "I'll be there in a minute."

She turns to the front of the cabin again, but then, just before stepping through the doorway, she looks back. She holds out her hand.

"No," she says. "Come with me."

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews are love. :)