A/N: For the 'hypothermia' square on my BTH bingo card-

Frosty

Dry clothes are…somewhere down the bank, to their left. Shoot is loath to stop touching Knuckle, but he has to force himself to his feet. Knees creaking in protest, chilled through from spending too much time in the snow. Moving won't be fun, exactly; here's hoping he didn't go farther than he thinks, in his search for Knuckle…

Speaking of Knuckle. Here's hoping Shoot can even get him standing, because he isn't about to leave him lying here. Just waiting to succumb to the cold.

"Knuckle," Shoot says, crouching down. His voice is surprisingly steady. "Can you stand?"

Grey eyes blink open, unfocused for a moment before they zero in on Shoot, who bites back more worry. Dark eyebrows furrow, pulling at the bloody gash on Knuckle's forehead. Another thing to fret over. Even though he doesn't seem bothered by the pain. "Hm?" is the first noise Knuckle makes, followed by, "Wh – yeah, yeah I can. Just…" He takes a quick, deep breath. "A minute."

Shoot chews on his tongue, and gives a reluctant nod. As he watches, Knuckle starts to move. Not much more than wiggling in place, half-frozen, face scrunching in discomfort as he forces his arms to bend, thick wet gloves packing down snow.

Like this, Knuckle pushes himself to sitting – and Shoot's hand darts out, grabbing hold of the soaked-through shoulder of that white snowsuit when Knuckle nearly tips backward.

"Knuckle," falls out of his mouth again before he can help it. They really need to get moving.

"Shoot," Knuckle mutters, trembling lips twitching toward something that tries to be a smile.

It only makes Shoot's heart sore. "Come on," he says, shifting to get a better grip, crouching next to Knuckle with an arm wound around his back, under one armpit and gripping Knuckle's opposite shoulder. "We can't stay here."

"I –" Knuckle's knees bend, and he winces, one booted foot and one socked foot trying for purchase. "I know, I got it." These words are muttered even as he grabs tight to Shoot, gloved hands fisting in Shoot's clothes, arms wrapped around as Shoot helps haul Knuckle to his feet. Bearing most of his weight.

Through clenched teeth, Shoot grunts out something like agreement. Knuckle does not 'got it', but arguing won't help. All that'll help is hefting Knuckle down the shore. Getting him changed, getting him back to the cabin…

Their pace is frustratingly slow. Both of them stumbling on numb feet that only get colder. And Knuckle is absolutely soaked, every piece of him, water seeped into his plush snowsuit and thick winter gloves.

On each step, wet squeezes out of the material. Drenching Shoot's right side anew – as if he dried any in the first place – and trickling icy over his skin – and it must be doing the same to Knuckle – penetrating his layers and rendering them useless – trapping chill instead of heat –

Deep breaths and eyes forward. Don't think about the cold. Only think about Knuckle.

His feet are starting to drag. All four of Shoot's hands work to keep his drooping shape upright.

Only think about saving Knuckle –

"Frosty…" Knuckle whispers, and for a moment Shoot worries he's slipping into delirium already, or is commentating the weather – but then he remembers. The ridiculous name Knuckle gave that giant arctic capybara within moments of finding the creature. Far from home in a hot climate that made it sick. Bought by collectors and set free because it was too much trouble. Knuckle was endeared immediately and even now he's brimming with care. "Is he…we have to find him."

Oh, now Knuckle can use his feet. It just figures. Digging his heels into the snowy ground, and Shoot grinds his teeth so they don't chatter. Can't feel his toes or the soles of his own feet anymore. Urges Knuckle along. "I saw him, he's fine. You're not."

"But –"

"We'll find him later, Knuckle."

Another yank courtesy of Shoot's right arm and left hands working in tandem gets Knuckle moving again, stumbling as they go. "You're right," comes the murmured acquiescence. "He's strong…"

Temperatures are far below zero, and Knuckle's priorities are still turning Shoot's insides into warm mush. Melting strange against frozen fear to leave an odd twisting sensation. He hugs Knuckle closer and forces his feet to move faster. Trudging through snow, squinting against flakes that fall thicker by the minute.

"He kicked me, y'know," Knuckle is saying. He reclaims his right arm, and brushes gloved fingers through the hair that droops over his face. Pushing it up and aside reveals that cut, blood smeared around it. "I pushed him to the surface…herded him out…for his own good."

Hell. Shoot is swallowing another lump as it tries to form in his throat. "You did good," he says. It's all he's got. That, and rapidly depleting energy that he forces out, keeping them both moving.

Knuckle falls quiet, then. One arm wrapped around Shoot's shoulders while the other reaches to fist itself in his shirt, its grip weak. Way too weak for Knuckle. He leans against Shoot, head angled in as if on a nuzzle. Like they're just strolling together in that park near their apartment – or cuddled on the couch in that tiny dwelling they hope to swap for a house and sprawling land someday –

"Dammit," Shoot mutters out loud, this time. He sniffs hard against cold and tears alike, plowing ahead with renewed strength, breath fogging the air. Visibility isn't improving, and neither is Knuckle. Shoot can't stop shivering, either, but he knows it's technically a good sign that they're both still doing so.

…

He thinks, anyway.

"…Where are your clothes?" Knuckle asks, suddenly. A welcome interruption. He's staring at the thin fabric clenched in his gloved hand, eyebrows furrowed and bluish mouth tipped into a frown.

It's some small mercy that Shoot's cheeks are already red from the cold. Not that he has any reason to blush; he's fully dressed, just…not for the weather. That's all Knuckle means. This reaction is – Shoot takes another deep breath, and presses Knuckle close. "Just up ahead." (He hopes.)

Turns out his distance estimate is – fortunately – correct. A familiar pile of dark against the white of the snow is slowly getting buried, the things he left abandoned on shore. Just the sight of it all is enough to spur him onward, another burst of strength propelling him forward, hauling Knuckle along until they're nearly tripping over the discarded winter coat.

He ducks out from beneath Knuckle's arm, and coaxes those icy gloved fingers away from the front of his shirt. Easing Knuckle to stand on his own. Kind of a wobbly affair. Better than toppling right over.

Shoot will take it – he has to hurry. Starting with shaking the snow off of his piled clothes. They aren't too damp from the elements yet, thank goodness. It feels like hours since he jumped in the lake but in reality it had to have been mere minutes ago. Neither of them can last hours…

Especially not Knuckle. He's been cold and wet long enough as it is.

This in mind, Shoot pushes his shivering to the back burner and reaches for Knuckle, aiming for that wet snowsuit.

His fingers find Knuckle's throat, scarf as long gone as his earmuffs, and undo the clasp there. Drag the zipper down and then reach to peel wet fabric away from more wet fabric, down Knuckle's right arm. His conjured hands take care of the other sleeve, then the gloves, and there's no time to be embarrassed about pushing the pants portion of the snowsuit over Knuckle's hips. Freeing his legs and finagling his one remaining boot off.

"Sh-Shoot." Knuckle's voice is either trembling from the cold or from fluster. His hands make choppy movements toward his soaked shirt, starting to tug at it weakly. "I can…"

Shoot just shakes his head. No time to argue right now. If he pauses in his work, he'll never get the gumption needed to continue it, and right now stripping Knuckle bare in the middle of blustery snowfall is more important than anything – jeez, Shoot is blushing again. Helping Knuckle out of his woolen sweater, the shirt beneath that.

Each layer is sopping wet; Knuckle's time underwater did a number on him, waterproof surface of the snowsuit meant for snow, not submersion. How long was he under? Five minutes? Ten? Long enough.

Sweatshirt snatched off the ground, Shoot grabs it by the neck hole, aiming to toss it over Knuckle's head –

But Knuckle grips his wrist, stopping him halfway. Those fingers are cold but firm. Grey eyes clearer than they've been since before this whole ordeal started, and they give Shoot pause. Stop him in his tracks and hold his attention. Knuckle is shaking like a leaf.

"That's yours," he says.

Ah. Shoot can see where this is going, but somehow he doesn't have the heart to reclaim his wrist. "You need it more." Half-dressed in wet clothes, Knuckle is going to freeze if he doesn't let Shoot –

Shaking his head, Knuckle's chilly fingers tighten, and he insists, "What'll you wear?"

There's no winning this argument. Not unless Shoot waits for Knuckle to pass out, and he can't leave this that long. Would rather pass out himself. Hence giving all his dry clothes to Knuckle – but he has to compromise if he wants to get sharp eyes and gentle hands and frustrating (endearing) personality out of here safely.

Deep breath. The frigid air sends an extra strong shiver down Shoot's spine. Their hands are trembling in tandem, where Knuckle has hold of his wrist.

"Fine. We'll share."

Knuckle lets go – only to sway in place as if his hold on Shoot was one of the only things keeping him standing. He stumbles a step forward, hands fumbling at the waist of both sets of drenched-through pants.

Stripping the rest of the way is a feat that Shoot reaches to help with, his cold fingers gliding over skin even more chilled than his own, tacky from residual saltwater. Knuckle is shivering like crazy. Can't stop shaking can't stand still, hisses through his teeth as he's bared to the elements, and Shoot murmurs that it'll only be a minute – just one more moment – they have to move fast –

He grabs for his previously discarded sweatpants, brain moving at lightspeed, running through even more what-ifs than before, divvying clothes between them mentally for optimal coverage.

Hand fisted over the tie at the front of these sweatpants – they're originally Knuckle's, anyway – Shoot holds them in front of Knuckle's ankles. Stares at leg hair on muscled calves and doesn't dare let his gaze go higher.

"Knuckle," he winds up saying, when there's no movement for solid seconds. "Pants."

Jolting as if pulled out of a reverie, Knuckle wavers some. He topples forward, palms landing heavy and cold on Shoot's shoulders, and it takes him a few tries to find his balance well enough to get a foot into the pantleg. Then the other, and he shimmies them up his legs, hopping in place until they're situated on his hips, his fingers fumbling at the tie.

While he fusses with that, Shoot snatches up his winter coat. Long enough that it reaches his knees and bulky enough to engulf layers, it drapes similarly over Knuckle's broad frame. Shoot leaves no room for argument. All hands are on deck to get Knuckle's bare, icy arms into the sleeves. Zipping it and doing up clasps and tucking his scarf around that neck and shoving his hat atop that head. There's ice in Knuckle's hair. Congealed blood on his forehead that has him hissing, when the hat rubs over it.

"Sorry," Shoot whispers, the word so soft it's snatched away by the wind. He spends too long a moment contemplating the glove problem – Knuckle's are soaked through, Shoot only has one –

But Knuckle, in all his freezing glory, takes care of that on his own by way of burrowing into his borrowed coat. Shivering and shoving his hands in the pockets as he curls in on himself, crouched and bent over his knees.

That'll work. Now all that's left to worry about are Knuckle's feet. One was kept dry thanks to his boot (more waterproof than the snowsuit, it turns out) but the other sock is wet.

Between them, they only have three shoes. Not enough socks to layer properly.

Shit, it's cold out here. Shoot folds his arm in over his stomach. His shirt fabric is frosting and that can't be good, but he needs to figure out what to do about Knuckle's feet. Their lack of boots. The distance they'll have to walk between here and the snowmobile. They have to do something to keep warm.

Knuckle hauls him out of swirling thoughts by flopping back onto his bottom. It's kept dry thanks to the overlong coat, but he curls around himself all the tighter. Feet tucked in and arms wrapped around and chin on his knees.

He – just won't stop shaking. Blue-white skin. Eyes wide and dark. "Shoot," he mumbles, the word so trembled-apart it's barely recognizable. "We – I…you should…" He shivers violently. Jaw clattering shut.

Shoot gets it. There's no sense wasting more of their precious little time.

He grabs hold of the left shoulder of his shirt, tugging until it pops over his head, pushing the hem of it to follow and shaking it free of his arm. It falls too-stiff to the ground, and his hair slaps similarly against his back, but he ignores it. Situates the nearby sweatshirt in hand and hauls it over his head, right arm pushed through, left sleeve tucked into the body.

The fabric is thick and wool-lined, but not warm enough to keep the chill out on its own. It's better than nothing, he reasons. Better than something wet.

As he drops his legging-like pants and peels off his socks, Knuckle is staring at him. Shoot doesn't have it in him to blush anymore, which should be worrying – somehow, though, it doesn't feel as pressing a worry as that glazed expression Knuckle is sporting between shivers.

A look that prompts Shoot to speak, as he hurries into his snow pants. "Are you with me, Knuckle?" The words are kept as loud and steady as he can. (Not very, given the circumstances, but this, too, is better than nothing.)

"Y–" Knuckle sucks in short gasps of air, his breath hitching. "Yeah. M'here."

"Good." Shoot doesn't know what he'd do if Knuckle wasn't.

Seeing as he is, though, the need to preserve his presence weighs heavy on Shoot's shoulders. Keeps him moving even though he wants nothing more than to collapse. Burrow into the snow and let the cold consume him.

He can't, with those eyes on him. The only thing he can do is gather their socks and his shoes and kneel in front of Knuckle. His own bare feet feel nothing in the snow, which ought to be terrifying, but he looks at Knuckle. Only at Knuckle. Tugs those wet socks off of his bootless foot and layers both of his woolen ones in their place. Shoves Knuckle's boot back onto his other foot and barely has the dexterity to tie freezing laces.

While Shoot works, Knuckle stutters out something that sounds an awful lot like it's supposed to be a question of what Shoot's going to do about his own feet. A bunch of choppy syllables that Shoot shakes his head at, muttering something low that he hopes comes out soothing.

Knuckle as taken care of as Shoot can manage, he stands up. Positions his boots upright, and shoves his reddened feet into them one at a time.

It takes some doing. Hurts. They feel too-tight, and his numb fingers struggle at the laces. Loosening. Tying. Something like that – shit, it doesn't matter, they don't have to be perfect, he just needs them on his feet so he and Knuckle can get out of here.

"C'mon," he says, giving up on finetuning his shoes. "We have to go." He spares half a moment to clench his glove between his teeth, yanking it onto his hand – and then he's reaching for Knuckle.

Reassuring is the fact that Knuckle reaches back, both frigid sets of fingers securing themselves in the fabric of Shoot's sweatshirt sleeve. Shoot grabs Knuckle around the forearm in return, and helps haul him to his feet, nearly toppling with his weight but standing sturdy. Because Knuckle needs him to.

They have to keep moving. Leave their sodden clothes behind and get the hell away from this lake.

"It's not far to where we parked." Shoot says this to reassure Knuckle just as much as himself. They were right alongside the tree line, if he remembers right. Visibility isn't so bad that he can't make out the shape of the woods, over there. Ten, fifteen meters away. Twenty, tops.

"Hm?"

Well. That's a bit concerning. Shoot glances at Knuckle, but doesn't dare stop walking. "The snowmobile."

"Ah…" Another violent shudder wracks Knuckle's body, and he presses tighter to Shoot's side. Limping. Struggling through the piling snow. "Right…"

The icy wind carries snowflakes, bites into Shoot's face and neck, whipping his frozen hair around – but every time he looks at Knuckle beside him, shivering blue and stumbling so much that Shoot grips tight to his waist again…he's reminded that it could be so much worse. His own chill is nothing.

Their walk is unnervingly quiet, and goes bizarrely fast. Shoot keeps Knuckle nestled tight to his side, and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Boots crunching snow and eyes focused straight ahead. He's happy to leave the lake far behind. Craves warmth and sunshine and swears to himself that the next time it comes up he'll finally let Morel talk them into a visit to his southern beach house – so long as neither of them are obligated to go swimming –

The snowmobile is visible, from here.

As with his clothes, the sight of their vehicle parked among the trees sends renewed endurance flooding into Shoot's legs, and he plows on with vigor. Hauling Knuckle with him.

And, sure, this might be a bad idea. The two of them exposed to windchill with their wet hair, never mind Knuckle being half-frozen. Shoot's phone is morphed into his palm; they could, theoretically, call for help – but he likes the chances of help arriving quick enough even less than he likes the thought of zipping around through icy air.

He can't sit still and wait for death, or a savior. He'll do anything for Knuckle. Won't leave their fate up to chance. With the snowmobile, at least…he's reasonably sure he'll be fine to make it back to their cabin. It's not that far. If he hurries.

Knuckle can hold on until then.

When they reach the side of their snowmobile, nestled against trees and shielded from the worst of the wind, Shoot slowly releases Knuckle. Takes up precious seconds to make extra sure he can stand there.

Letting go of him sends Shoot's heart sinking through his chest – sparks the irrational fear that Knuckle will fall and fade if left like this – but it's only for a moment. Only long enough for Shoot to swing a leg over and straddle the vehicle. Situating himself in place and firing up the controls; the snowmobile sputters to life, a welcome force against the cold. Reassuring in its function.

One step closer to safety, the tiniest bit of Shoot's internal panic dissolves. Melts into the surety that comes with doing, as he turns to beckon Knuckle.

"Get on behind me."

Hopefully, that way, the wind won't chill Knuckle as badly. He needs to preserve all the warmth he can, no matter how little.

With a stiff sort of clumsiness that's downright worrying, Knuckle complies. He falls onto the back of the snowmobile and scoots up so close to Shoot that there may as well not be any space between them. Which is good. They should share any body heat they might have left, dismal though it may be. Knuckle is cold against Shoot's back.

"Put…put your hands in my pocket," Shoot says, fighting the chattering of his teeth, "and hold on tight."

This, too, Knuckle does without comment, arms threading around Shoot's waist and hands meeting in his sweatshirt pocket. This forceful grip is reassuring. The last thing Shoot needs is Knuckle falling off on their way to safety, after everything he's survived this far.

No use waiting around, Shoot revs the engine and the snowmobile lurches forward. Carrying them toward their cabin as fast as he dares.

A/N: Thanks for reading! One chapter to go.