Virgil now hates snow; how it blankets everything under a veneer of perfection. It disguises rabbit holes as flat ground, rocks as harmless lumps and makes it ten times as difficult to stay on his feet as he half supports, half drags John. The breeze gusts; the creaking of overladen branches threatening to dump their loads is deadened by the white carpet, which reflects what little light there is with an otherwordly glow.
Virgil has good knowledge of the area surrounding their cabin and had been fairly sure that it's quicker to travel cross country – head directly back as the crow flies – rather than get back to the path, if he can just stay on his feet. He wastes precious minutes navigating a deep dip in the landscape and getting them safely up the other side, fretting that he's made the wrong decision.
John is muttering under his breath again, despite another shake and half-hearted jab to the ribs. Virgil can't spare the time to get him properly awake so for now he has to be satisfied with the muttering as a sign of consciousness. The wind whips at Virgil's shirt and something damp and cold brushes against his cheek. Then another. And another. It's too dark to see the sky, and the dark gray clouds that are now belching a fresh snow fall at them, but Virgil imagines he can feel the pressure of it descending. Great.
"V'g'l."
That's the most comprehensible thing John's said in the last five minutes. "Yeah, nearly there." Hopefully.
"V'g'l I'm feel'n..."
"You feeling cold? No doubt." Virgil takes a couple of extra steps to move them around a particularly large boulder, and then a fallen log which he knows he walked past yesterday, about half a mile from the cabin. Still going in the right direction at least.
"No. Feel'n. W'rm."
Virgil brings them to a halt, shifting John around awkwardly to get a good look at his brother's face. Eyes closed, face slack, ashen tinge to the skin. He's definitely not recovering, should not be feeling warm. Virgil's own fingers are almost numb but feel burning hot against the cold radiating from John, and he mutters a very bad swear word.
Hypothermia, and nothing more that Virgil can do to prevent it. More layers – even if he had them to give – won't do enough without a heat source to raise John's dangerously low body temperature. Never more has he wished for Two, with it's climate control and thermal blankets, or felt more alone.
If he hadn't been so stupid as to take his comms off to adjust the holo projector. If they hadn't forced John's off him in an effort to 'disconnect' him during their downtime. If they had worn their uniforms. If Virgil hadn't chosen that spot to watch the sunset. If their places had been swapped …. Virgil pushes a rogue lock of hair, crisp with cold, back from John's face. The fire of determination replaces the despair inching into his heart. 'Ifs' were for another time. Right now his brother needed him.
In a smooth move Virgil swings, ducks, and heaves John over one shoulder, fireman style. It's not comfortable for either of them, John least of all if he has any bruising, but it is secure and efficient and very soon John is not going to be able to stay on his feet, even with Virgil taking most of his weight.
Virgil makes a quick adjustment, clasps John's legs firmly and starts moving again at a pace just less than a jog. He's already too tired to go faster, legs and back protesting at the sudden physical work in the cold, and swift feet could make for a swift fall if he doesn't look where he's going.
If he squints hard enough Virgil can almost imagine the lights of the cabin flickering between the trees, beyond the curtain of freshly falling snow.