He watches it all in cinema snapshots: the slow-motion ripple of a crack down the ice, the spider-web chain reaction that spreads across the pond, that first dip of Rick's heel before the ground caves in and he's lost in a splash of frigid water.
"Rick!"
A puff of powdery snow flies around his feet as he drops his pack, shedding his coat as he darts for the jagged cut in the ice. It's a damn wonder he doesn't fall right in after his friend, slipping and sliding as he drops to his knees, pawing at the ice with desperate fingers. Shane's heart is in his throat, hammering so hard he might just throw it up. Hands red with cold, he tears up chunks of ice and frost until he can see Rick gasping and struggling underneath—and then he stops. His friend goes still and Shane feels that damn beating organ plummet right down to his stomach.
It doesn't take much thought. A string of swears and a broken-record muttering of no proceed Shane's torso plunging into the water. Goosebumps prick his skin and his fingers throb until they're numb, clawing through the bubbles, seeking purchase on Rick. He loses his grip once, twice, until he's finally able to haul his partner up.
Shane is trembling all over, adrenaline and chill coursing through him as he lugs Rick towards the shore. Snow and mud smear Rick's back as he's dragged off ice that's still chipping and cracking and flaking away beneath Shane's boots.
"Alright, c'mon man, it's okay. You're okay." But Rick is stone-still, a deadweight in Shane's warms, head lolling against Shane's broad chest. Shane sets him down, presses his hands together and pushes hard against Rick's chest. "C'mon, Rick," he pleads, leaning all his weight over his friend's body as he drives the heel of his palms down against Rick's ribs. "C'mon, you can do it."
Hot sweat beads across his brow with every compression, a stark contrast to the freezing water still drying on his skin. His breath trails like ghosts from his mouth as he keeps murmuring all those small encouragements. Every compression makes him wince; the groan of Rick's bones beneath his hands is not easy to stomach. He thinks he hears a crack, maybe even two, but his worry evaporates when Rick finally draws in a panicked, sputtering breath.
"That's it, man, that's it." Shane is quick to roll Rick onto his side, hand gently rubbing his soaking-wet, mud-streaked back as he coughs up water. It feels like ages before Rick finally spits the last of it on the ground and once again falls limp beneath Shane's worried hands. "Rick? Man, c'mon, you gotta stay awake. You with me? Rick?"
He only gets a low groan in response and that's enough to jolt him right back into action. Shane reaches for his discarded things, throwing both coat and knapsack over his shoulder before pulling Rick to his feet. His friend staggers, stumbles, and falls against him. "Hey, s'alright. C'mere, I got you." Rick's arm is situated across Shane's shoulders, Shane's free hand grasping him hard below the ribs, and for a moment they're both still. Shane's hand squeezes where it holds Shane's wrist, a quiet reassurance as he glances around for a place to go. He spots a small cave mere yards away, lying like an open invitation across the bank. "Alright, Rick, just stay with me."
Getting the cave is one thing, but clearing it is another. Shane hates leaving his friend, but there's no other way. He props Rick carefully against the caves cold stone wall, then tugs his glock from his belt and creeps inside. It smells of mildew and something rotten. Two lazy walkers, all leathery skin and yellowed bones strewn across the floor in tattered rags, perk up at his steps. Their jaws snap and gnarled fingers reach and Shane scowls as he pops a round into each of their heads.
He leaves the bodies by the river; the ring of the shots, it seems, has Rick more alert. His eyes snap up to Shane, wild and confused, as Shane kneels before him. "Sh-Shane? What's- ?"
"Shh," Shane whispers, once again taking up his things and gently taking Rick's hand. "Just come with me. We're gonna get you warm, okay?"
Again, Shane slips Rick arm over his shoulders and hauls him up. Rick tries to take a step, but his knees buckle and a little whine escapes as he falls heavily against Shane's sturdy frame. Shane's grip tightens and he has to fight the urge to just scoop Rick up bridal-style. "Hey, hey, go easy," he says, and instead carefully guides his partner into the cave.
Rick's eyes are fluttering; he keeps murmuring unfinished questions punctuated with pained whines and groans and, when Shane sets him down on the floor, he clutches at Shane's shirt. "I ain't goin' anywhere," Shane promises, squeezing Rick's hand. "I gotta get your clothes off, alright?"
Rick gives a slight nod, though his eyes seem dazed and unfocused and Shane's not sure if he really understands what he's saying. Eyelids flutter shut and Rick's head lolls to the side. Worried, Shane lets his hand hover briefly over Rick's mouth and nose until he feels the soft tickle of his breath. "Okay. S'gonna be okay."
He peels Rick's jacket off first, then takes Rick's own knife from his belt and uses it to nick the fabric at the hem of his shirt—there's no use wasting time fumbling with buttons. He tears away Rick's flannel and cuts off the white shirt underneath, apologizing once when the shaking blade nicks Rick's skin. Rick's fleck is pin-pricked with goosebumps and splotched red and purple and blue.
Shane is quick to undo Rick's fly, shove away damp boots and socks before tugging damp jeans of ghostly pale legs. The whole sight sends a shiver up his spine; Rick, helpless and hurt, still and motionless beneath him.
Shane remembers, once upon a time, a lifetime ago, sitting around a campfire with Rick at his side. Scouts had been Rick's idea, always eager to drink up whatever knowledge anyone might be willing to bestow upon him. He wanted to know about fishing, about hiking, about camping—and where Rick went, Shane always followed. It was just on the edge of fall, cold enough for their breath to trail like ghosts before them, and they were on one of their first camping trips. It was in the scout leader's backyard (so much for your wilderness training), a sort of dry run before the real deal that summer. They were going over safety tips, and Shane drawing patterns in the dirt with a twig he'd found. He was listening; maybe not as intently as Rick, but he was listening, and now he sends up a silent prayer that he had been.
Hypothermia: a drop in core body temperature. You have to get the person warm, and sometimes the best way to remind their body to warm up was to press your own against it. "Don't get any funny ideas, now," Shane murmurs dryly as he tugs his own shirt over his head. He quickly sheds layers, clothes falling in a small heap on the ground, until he's clad only in his underwear. He even tugs off his necklace, the little 22 jingling against the chain, irrationally afraid of the cool metal chilling Rick any more.
Shane gently lays himself on top of Rick, pressing their chests together. He reaches for his jacket, shaking it open and laying it over them both, wrapping it as tight as he can. Quietly, he studies Rick's face, listening to seconds tick on his watch, his own frantic heart relaxing as their breathing slowly synchronizes. Rick flinches; it's just a slight twitch, and he stirs beneath Shane's weight.
"Shane?" he asks, voice breathy and small.
"I'm here, man," Shane says. He holds Rick flush against him, lets his warmth seep into his friend's chilled bones. His thumb brushes Rick's damp curls off his forehead, then sweeps carefully across his forehead and trails down his cheek. "I'm here. I've got you."