Thaw

Despite the snow flurries thickening the air and interfering with visibility, Shoot thinks they're making good time. Has to hope so, if nothing else. He knows that he's not lost, thanks to meticulously studied maps and well-traveled paths they've made during their visit – a weeks' long thing that Shoot thinks they ought to cut short even though he knows Knuckle will argue despite his near death –

Shit. Shoot's eyes are stinging. He swallows a lump in his throat. Bites hard at his lip and barely feels it.

The headlight helps illuminate the way. Adrenaline pumping through Shoot's veins hasn't started to wear off yet. Keeping him alert and reactive. Left hand conjured to steady their ride.

They're close. Halfway there.

They'll make it.

This path takes them through another copse of trees. A sparse gathering of evergreens that thin the snowfall, but enough has blown through to cover the ground, so Shoot keeps driving, going even faster now, thanks to better visibility. Pretty soon the trees will thin out that much more, and then it'll be just a little further to the cabin. Mere meters.

At Shoot's back, Knuckle has gone still. It took a handful of minutes for Shoot to notice, maybe. Because he himself hasn't stopped shivering, fingers trembling on the snowmobile handle, body shaking in a desperate bid to warm him back up. So he didn't notice that Knuckle had stopped, at first.

But Knuckle is definitely not moving, back there. Not now. He's slumped against Shoot. Breath audible as he gasps for it close to Shoot's ear. Hands twisting into thick sweatshirt fabric where they're still clasped together in the front pocket. Holding on tight as promised.

It's a bad sign, the stillness. Thickens the lump in Shoot's throat and sets his heart beating frantic and churns his stomach something awful. It means Knuckle is getting worse, but Shoot can't spare a moment to pull over. Couldn't do anything for him, out here. Knuckle's only chance is making it to the cabin. Shoot has to keep moving.

No matter how numb his face gets. No matter how the chill bites his bones. Eyes hot but the rest of him frozen.

He won't stop.

If he stops, then Knuckle will d–

Shoot swallows hard. That persistent lump in his throat is as hard to banish as ever, but he does his absolute best. Because his absolute best is what Knuckle needs. It's all that'll save him, right about now, so Shoot speaks up with a hoarse, "Knuckle."

No response. Maybe the wind swallowed it. (That doesn't make sense. Knuckle's mouth is right close.)

Shoot tries again. Clears his throat and speaks louder, this time. "Knuckle!" It's nearly a shout, but it has to be, in this wind, over the buzz of the snowmobile engine.

He doesn't care what kind of response he gets, he just needs something. Anything.

Silence is all there is, for a long, heavy moment – and then:

"Mm?"

It's only a grunt. The tiniest smidgeon of noise between the building storm and the drone of the engine, but it floods Shoot's stomach with something close to warmth. Knuckle is alive. And he's conscious. Even if not in the best state – he isn't gone.

"Are you with me?" Shoot double-checks. Partly for his own sake. He needs to hear Knuckle say it. Anxieties roiling inside of him that won't settle without being soothed that much more.

There's another grunt from the icy shape of Knuckle, and then he – he moves. Squirms in place. Mumbles to himself.

For a moment Shoot can't make anything out, heart in his throat because if Knuckle keeps wiggling like that, he will fall off – and he's already got that head injury that Shoot hasn't been able to check or bandage or anything yet – but Knuckle keeps hold of Shoot. So Shoot drives on, faster than he dares, listening hard to Knuckle's muttering. It does nothing to settle his mind.

"I'm…" That single word is slurred together, coming out like a hum. "M'getting hot…s'hot, yeah?"

Shit. Shoot conjures another left hand. Grips hard at Knuckle's forearm. "No," he says, firm. Hopes it'll help.

It doesn't. Knuckle yanks at the arm Shoot's got hold of, an obvious attempt to reclaim it while he continues his squirming. Free arm fumbling with his scarf, near as Shoot can figure. "Nn," Knuckle says. Incomprehensible. "I gotta…"

"You're fine," Shoot snaps, with more fire than he intended to. A delirious Knuckle on the back of a snowmobile. It figures. This is one of the worst possibilities he dreamt up, right alongside –

Knuckle's body swoops backward, and only the two extra left hands not used for driving save him from falling off the seat entirely. As it is, Shoot swerves hard in surprise. Nearly rams them into a tree and spends a moment frantically twisting at the handlebars until he gets the snowmobile back on track – all the while Knuckle wriggles behind him, writhing and trying to get at his clothes. To take them off. To throw himself into the snow by extension. Dammit. Dammit.

He needs to sit still so Shoot can get him home and warmed up. Shouldn't even be in this mess, so cold that his body doesn't know what to do other than cross wires in his brain. Shoot's heard of this. Knuckle will pass out soon and then it'll be the end and there'll be nothing that Shoot can do.

Why did he drag Knuckle onto the snowmobile? He should've called for help instead – should've –

Fuck. Shoot's vision is blurring. He pours on the speed. Wind and snow bite at his face.

Knuckle struggles behind him – and then Shoot has to swerve again because Knuckle is tugging at him saying something about hands – and –

Shit –

Shoot turns tight to narrowly avoid another tree. Some underbrush with thorns. Branches whip at his cheeks and he squeezes his eyes shut. The snowmobile squeals in protest at being forced into maneuvers it wasn't built for, and Shoot can relate, as he mercifully punches the kill engine button at the first sign of safety.

Parking the snowmobile is – he doesn't know what he means to accomplish, doing this. Maybe he can sit Knuckle in front of himself. Trap him in close like that. But if he squirms against the steering, then it could be –

Just as Shoot is twisting around in his seat, ready to grab at Knuckle and try to steady him – he goes limp. Topples to the ground.

"Knuckle!"

Shoot scrambles off of the snowmobile. Falls to his knees to where Knuckle's prone form lies in the snow. Not shaking. Not twitching. It doesn't move a single millimeter. Face lax and body cold to the touch, when Shoot presses his newly-bared palm to Knuckle's cheek. Then slips fingers down his neck (he succeeded in taking off that scarf, tossed it who-knows-where). Waits the few tense moments for his fingers to adjust and is beyond relieved when he finds a weak pulse.

Further investigation finds that Knuckle is also breathing. But he won't have breath or a pulse for long, if he stays out here, and now that he's passed out…what the hell is Shoot supposed to do?

His hand finds its way back to Knuckle's icy cheek. He cups the too-white curve of it. Hates the way he's still shivering against that stillness.

"Knuckle," he says, even though he's afraid it'll be useless. There's no waking Knuckle up until he warms up, but Shoot's stomach and heart have switched places in his torso and are pounding in tandem, thudding in terror. "Knuckle, honey, please – can you hear me?"

Thick-hot tears are on Shoot's cheeks again. He barely feels them, he's so numb, but they're steaming in the air. Warmer than his breath.

There's no response from Knuckle. Shoot is sick over it.

His mouth keeps moving on its own, forming words that Knuckle can't hear but Shoot can't help.

"I know it's cold," he's saying, fingertips tracing a dark eyebrow. Unusually lax. "But you have to hang on for me, okay? I'll have you warmed up soon. You'll be safe. We'll get home, and you'll be…safe."

Because Knuckle has to be safe.

Problem is, to get him safe, Shoot first has to get him to the cabin. He could keep hold of him with his conjured left hands, but the windchill did Knuckle no favors, and Shoot is downright terrified that exposing him to it again might prove fatal, with him in this state. That leaves only one option, but Shoot…isn't sure about it.

Too bad he has to be sure. Has to have his mind made up to inflict harm – but that's the absolute last thing he ever wants to do to Knuckle – though, maybe, if he rationalizes it as hurting him for the sake of helping him –

Oh, damn it all!

Shoot will do it. He has to.

He'll lift his right arm with a different sort of intent, and lay his palm flat atop Knuckle's head. Trace his way down. Watching as Knuckle is replaced by dark static. Every centimeter of his body consumed by it. Swallowed by the power that oozes from Shoot's hand.

Via the quickest version of that tried-and-true strategy he's ever used, Shoot transfers Knuckle into Hotel Rafflesia. Shrunken down, but safe. Could be warmer, even. Who knows. Not Shoot.

All he knows is that he's grabbing the intricate cage in a spare left hand, and throwing himself back astride the snowmobile.

He has to get Knuckle home.

x

Snowmobile parked haphazard outside, Shoot hurries up onto the cabin's porch, Hotel Rafflesia floating along at his side. The second the door closes behind him, Shoot leans against it. His body is heavy and he can't stop shivering – but indoors it's blessedly warm.

Tiny and two-room (the main living area and a cramped bathroom) as this place might be, at least it stays cozy through even the coldest, windiest nights. Something that Shoot's never been as grateful for as he is right this moment, as he peels away from the door and hurries deeper inside. Aiming for their bed, with its wooden frame that melts into the surrounding walls and its full size mattress that takes up a healthy chunk of the living space.

Hotel Rafflesia hovers waiting as he peels back the covers, and it sets itself down on the sheets when he's done. He wastes no time in opening it, the little door sliding upward.

Seeing as Knuckle can't walk out himself, Shoot reaches in to grab him. It's surreal, holding this tiny curled-up shape of Knuckle in his palm – and for a moment, Shoot contemplates how easy it would be to warm him up at this size – but Shoot's power doesn't work that way, and within moments Knuckle is growing. Returning to his original size, so Shoot places him with care on the bed. Dismisses the cage.

Knuckle looks no worse for wear, which is a blessing. He's still so cold to the touch, breathing quick, pulse fluttering weak. Still alive.

To keep him that way, Shoot has to get moving.

Dragging himself to the nearby dresser where he'd unpacked their clothes days ago, Shoot is undecided in just how many clothes he should put Knuckle in. His mind scrolls through survival training, first aid, lessons that Morel hammered into their heads. Remembers skin contact and heating packs and blankets as he tugs his glove off with his teeth.

More layers would be better. But Shoot has to be careful about moving Knuckle too much, too. What he's already done could be bad enough, so just underwear it is. Accompanied by every extra blanket in their cabin, especially that toasty wool one that Knuckle claims is too hot to sleep under.

Then it's back to Knuckle's side. Armload of fabric tossed aside so Shoot can get him out of that coat, those pants, the hat. Socks and boot, too. He works quickly and gently as he can.

Finagling boxer briefs up Knuckle's unusually pale legs, skin that's chilled even against Shoot's flushed-red fingers that sting as warmth returns to them slowly. He has to make a concentrated effort to stop shivering; every time he puts his focus elsewhere his body resumes shaking – but that's the least of his worries, at the moment.

Near their front door is a stash of heat packs, Shoot snatches up a handful, starts tearing them open with his teeth, working them between his fingers to warm them. These he tucks beneath Knuckle's armpits, around his neck, chest, groin. Areas that Shoot is pretty sure he remembers –

Shit, he should've brushed up on cold weather survival better before he came here. What was he thinking? Under ideal circumstances he'd double-check with Morel – but there's no time for phone calls.

All he can spare time for now is wrapping Knuckle in as many blankets as possible.

Layers of fabric that Shoot tucks around Knuckle's feet, the rest of his body, intent on covering every centimeter of exposed skin save for his face. He's thoroughly swaddled, now, and Shoot pauses. Heart in his throat. Beating erratic between all of his shivering.

Now what?

…If Knuckle doesn't revive –

Oh, this feels like the worst case of anxiety that Shoot's ever had. His stomach is trying to eat itself.

He should – he has to keep moving. Keep doing something, or he'll start fraying even more at the edges, until he unravels entirely. Collapsed on the floor in so many shuddering pieces. Sobbing into a puddle. In that state he'll be of no help to Knuckle.

(Should've been faster at helping in the first place, then maybe things wouldn't have gotten so bad.)

Fuck he can't stand here like this, mind scrabbling for purchase. Fingers reflexively tangling in the wet strands of Knuckle's hair…

Dark curls have flopped out of their signature style, and Shoot brushes them away from the cut on Knuckle's forehead. It's bruised at the edges, and not too deep. Frozen trickle of blood starting to thaw in the warmth of their cabin. It should probably be cleaned, this cut. And Knuckle's hair should be dried, too. Precious body heat is escaping, siphoned too-quick thanks to the water soaking into the pillow.

These are things that Shoot can do. Ways to care for Knuckle. Something to get him moving.

Towels live on a shelf in that tiny bathroom, and the first aid kit is in one of the sparse kitchen cupboards. While on the kitchen half of the cabin, Shoot fills the tea kettle. Figures he had better start heating water now. Give it time to cool some before Knuckle wakes up enough to drink it.

If Knuckle wakes up enough to –

He will wake up. He'll be fine.

Shoot can't consider any other outcome, hurrying back to the bedside.

Careful of that head wound, Shoot squeezes handfuls of dark curls in the towel. He's running out of energy to summon additional hands, but it's fine. The one he has is enough, for this. For ruffling Knuckle's hair until it fluffs up damp instead of sticking down drenched. Gentle as ever, Shoot works. As an afterthought – once Knuckle's hair is as dry as he can get it – Shoot twists the towel into his own hair, so it'll stop dripping icy down his back. It soaked through the sweatshirt…

He'll change after he's attended to Knuckle the rest of the way. All that's left is this cut on his forehead, something easily dealt with. Blood wiped away, a gentle pass with an alcohol wipe –

During which Knuckle twitches.

His eyelids scrunch minutely and a tiny shiver courses through him and Shoot's stomach plummets.

"Knuckle," Shoot gasps out. Has to swallow a few times to convince his throat to let more words loose. His knees are weak and his hands shake from more than just shivers. That alcohol wipe is paused on the cut so he gives it one last rub before tossing it away, paying zero attention to where it lands.

Again, Knuckle shudders. Makes the softest grunt Shoot's ever heard out of him.

"Knuckle." That's all Shoot can say. All he can focus on, palm on Knuckle's cheek. "Are you with me?"

Eyelids flutter but don't lift, and there's another barely-there noise from Knuckle – but he's trembling in earnest now. A gentle, weak sort of thing that's no less reassuring for how faint it is.

Shoot's whole body goes lax, as he curls over Knuckle. He presses his forehead to that chilled one and just breathes, for as long a moment as he can spare. Takes time to savor the soft puffs of air that escape Knuckle's quivering mouth and breeze over Shoot's cheek. The comfort of his existence. The fact that he's alive. Body fighting now that it can.

A kiss pressed to the corner of Knuckle's eye, and then Shoot straightens back up. He should bandage that cut before he forgets. Heart swept up high in his chest. Some antiseptic cream and a small square of gauze taped over Knuckle's wound does the trick.

Now Shoot –

Shit – now Shoot jumps out of his skin, because the teapot is whistling and he forgot all about that damn thing. Heartrate spiking as he runs for the stove, turning off the burner.

His hand barely cooperates, still shaking as he grabs Knuckle's mug. Caffeine is bad, he recalls dully, in the background of apprehension-joy-startle. Thank goodness for his anxiety, because it's one of the only reasons they check twice that any tea they buy is decaf. He plucks out a teabag from the box, letting the string dangle over the side, and pouring boiling water into the mug. Honey, too…

There's…nothing to do with this cup of tea, until Knuckle wakes up further. It has to cool some first, anyway. Before it's safe.

In the meanwhile Shoot should – all he wants to do is stand vigil over Knuckle, but his own shivering reminds him that the back of his sweatshirt is still soaked through with icy water from his hair. Changing clothes would be a good idea. Something dry. Get out of these boots.

This calls for a return to the dresser, Shoot shedding his cold clothes as he goes. The boots prove to be the most difficult, with his feet still all swollen red, but he gets them off and swaps them for socks. Takes his hair down from the towel, deeming it dry enough.

He's not sure how…dressed he should get. For now, he settles on boxers and a tank top. Because he intends on climbing in with Knuckle the minute doing so becomes plausible. As soon as he's prepared.

Shoot is still shivering. He should pour himself a cup of tea, too, while he's at it.

They'll also need something to –

"Shoot…"

It's a voice so soft that Shoot almost thinks he imagined it. But then there's some rustling from the bed, and he's setting the kettle down heavy on the stovetop, spinning in place and crossing the span of their cabin in three steps.

Grey eyes are open, showing the tiniest sliver of color as Knuckle shakes, mouth trembling open like he's trying to talk more.

Heart in his throat, Shoot sinks to his knees, letting out a soft, "Shh," on automatic. "Knuckle, are you with me?"

Blue-tinted lips part again, then seal shut. They make a couple more tries at words before Knuckle swallows. Nods his head. His trembling intensifies and – Shoot should really go and check the tea – grab some easy food, see if Knuckle is up for eating, to try and get back some of the energy his body has almost completely burned off in its attempt to stay warm, but –

But Knuckle is pushing at the boundaries of his blanket cocoon, one too-pale hand popping free of its confines to reach for Shoot, who grips it.

"Stop moving," he admonishes, voice gentle. He's crying, he knows. Tears building hot in his eyes. "You have to hold still and warm up." Because if you don't, Shoot doesn't know what he's going to do.

Knuckle shakes. His fingers twitch around Shoot's hand, their grip is barely-there, alarmingly weak. "I…"

"Shh…" Shoot uses his own grip on Knuckle's hand to try and guide it back into its blanket sanctuary. It goes easy enough, given how weak Knuckle is. "Just rest. I'll get you something warm to –" That hand escapes its confines all over again, grabbing flimsy at Shoot's shoulder, now, and he jolts at its touch. Gently takes hold of Knuckle's wrist. "You have to rest, Knuckle. Please stop moving."

True to stubborn form, that hand doesn't go with Shoot's urging so easily, this time. It pushes forward. Tries to slip out of Shoot's grip and grab onto Shoot in turn; tugging at him, as if Knuckle has any strength to spare for that sort of thing.

As it is, he's already woken up way too fast. Has to be confused, his eyes muddled beneath brows that furrow, aimed at Shoot.

"Honey, you need to relax."

Knuckle ignores Shoot. Tries to talk over him, even, but doesn't get out much more than, "C…co–"

Shoot's heart drops fast toward his stomach. This time, he succeeds in rewrapping Knuckle's arm against the rest of him, then runs his fingertips along that sharp jaw. "I know you're cold, but if you stay still here, and rest, you'll get better. I'll…" Shoot swallows. "I'll take care of you."

It's always been his job to look after Knuckle, after all. To keep him from making risky decisions that'll get him into positions like this.

That horrible misbehaving hand squeezes out from its blankets yet again, chilled fingers brushing Shoot's wrist, and Knuckle is trying to talk again. Giving his head the tiniest shake that might as well be an aftereffect of his shivering, he opens his mouth, mutters something unintelligible.

Shoot sighs. He should've expected difficulties with getting Knuckle to cooperate. "Knuckle…"

"Pl – ease," Knuckle says, the word stuttered out choppy, and surprisingly coherent. His fingers curl around Shoot's wrist, more of that weakened tugging – and, now he's sniffling, eyes imploring –

"I have to get you something to drink," Shoot says, organs twisting tight inside of him. "You're burning too much energy, and –" Trying to stand up earns him a sharp gasp from Knuckle, those fingers twitching weak around his wrist – and, ah, it seems like Knuckle wants Shoot to stay close just as much as Shoot himself wants to stay close.

He can't, though, he has to –

"Sh…pl's…"

Ah, shit. Shoot's chest goes too-light and sore. He's cold and Knuckle is freezing and the only reason Shoot is so underdressed is for both of their benefits and Knuckle is asking despite being barely conscious of what's going on.

Shoot can't refuse. "Okay," he acquiesces. "Okay, just let me get a few things first, alright?"

Knuckle doesn't respond, but his eyes fall shut on an eased expression. He retracts his hand into the blankets, still shivering but otherwise still.

Leaving Knuckle for any length of time now that he's coming back to himself is an unappealing concept, but Shoot wants supplies close at hand. Knows he won't want to move once they're cozied up in bed. So crossing the cabin yet again is a necessary evil. Two mugs of tea and an almost-full box of protein bars ferried to their tiny bedside table.

Now it's just a matter of…finding the best way to enter that blanket cocoon with Knuckle.

There's no way around unwrapping him a bit. Exposing him for a few seconds as Shoot carefully finagles an opening into the blankets. He slips under the covers, wrapping them back around himself as he settles in, body aligned with Knuckle's. Grey eyes fluttering open before falling closed.

Knuckle is chilled. The only warmth in here comes from the heat packs, and Shoot inches his way closer. Slips his arm between Knuckle's shoulders and the bed as he curls into him. Tugs them flush together.

He nearly startles when Knuckle turns, rolling onto his side and pressing into Shoot's chest. Dislodging a couple heat packs that Shoot scrambles to resettle somewhere useful, even as he gives in to that urging – from Knuckle and his own mind alike – to meld his body along Knuckle's.

Their fronts align, and Shoot lets out a sigh. Feels Knuckle settling in against his chest. Snuggling against him. Closer and closer.

Barely any warmth between them but they might as well share what they have. Just like when they were on the snowmobile. Heat packs are sandwiched between them. Shoot slips a thigh into the apex of Knuckle's legs to better entwine the two of them. He presses his mouth to Knuckle's cheek, then the icy tip of his nose. Tugs the blankets up higher around them.

Shoot shivers as he relaxes. Anxiety is trying to melt away – he wants to calm down – but Knuckle is just so cold. He's shivering out of control, now, at least. Something that Shoot forces himself to recognize as a good sign.

"Sh…"

Oh. That's a truncated syllable that Shoot recognizes as the start of his name. Thanks to the intonation. He utters more shushing noises in response, and tangles his thawing fingers into the drying curls at the back of Knuckle's head. "Just rest, please. You're okay. I've got you."

And he'll never let go. Will cherish this proximity that he almost lost. The way that Knuckle's stomach rises and falls to meet his own. Those trembling limbs that drape around him with weakened vigor. This entire limp shape of Knuckle – Shoot will hold it close through the height of that shivering, watching as the blue fades from those lips. Keep Knuckle here until his strength returns.

"Shoot," Knuckle grunts. Sounds like it takes everything he has just to get that single word out.

Shoot squeezes Knuckle. Can't do it as tightly as he usually does – and definitely can't manage a hug as tight as Knuckle ordinarily gives him, enough to nearly crack Shoot's ribs – because he's exhausted. But. It'll have to do. "Please just rest," he whispers. "You need to…"

Head twitching beneath Shoot's fingers, Knuckle squirms closer. Presses his icy nose to Shoot's throat. "Than – thank you," he breathes. The words ghost across Shoot's collarbone. Make him shiver.

"It's nothing," he mumbles in return. It barely makes it past the lump in his throat. "I'll always…" Shoot swallows. Eyes hot. "I'll always look after you. You know that."

There's a sound from Knuckle that could almost pass for a laugh, albeit weak and breezy. His lips are pressed to Shoot's skin as he says, "Th' best. Love you."

Legs and arm tightening around Knuckle, Shoot hides his face in damp curls. "I love you, too." He drops a kiss to Knuckle's scalp. Noses through dark hair, trailing backward until he can press his mouth featherlight to that bandage on Knuckle's forehead. "Now rest."

"Mm," is all Knuckle has to say.

He does, at least, settle. Doesn't try to speak again, through his shivering.

And Shoot is more than content to hold him for as long as he needs.

A/N: Kindly ignore/disregard any and all medical inaccuracies. I tried my best, definitely took some liberties - and hey, this is a work of fiction meant solely to entertain, after all. :P

Thanks for reading! :D