Author's Notes: This is a season 2, being chased by White's cronies, body temperature, colorless, A/M ficcy. Big freaking surprise, I know. And this one does have plot – they're trying to lower that damn 101.9 body temperature without freezing to death in the process. So be a sport and read it anyway, okay? And then you can rant or rave to me in e-mail. Isn't that so much better then just stopping right now? I mean you already went to the trouble of clicking the link and everything!
Story Notes: Let's see, this takes place sometime in season two after White found out about the transgenic body temperature being above normal and trackable. Of course, he's trying to track the two transgenics he wants most, and he's got them pretty locked in.
Summary: "Unrelenting, the sleet pelts them, leaving little splatters of color that bloom and dissipate in seconds… The dark ground and gray skies and brown trees merging into a solid, colorless mass… Punishment from the gods for their creation." M/A, Season 2.
Rated: R
Feedback: Love it? Hate it? Go on, you'll be my best friend! See, all you have to do is click the little link!
Date Started/Finished: July 27th, 2005
By Delenn
Unrelenting, the sleet pelts them, leaving little splatters of color that bloom and dissipate in seconds.
Punishment from the gods for their creation.
Blurring faster, the dark ground and gray skies and brown trees merging into a solid, colorless mass.
They cut jagged patterns through the deadened forest – feet barely touching the ground enough to leave marks before they are in the air again. A path undetectable to the naked eye.
Chased.
Faster they run, hit harder and harder by the rain. So fast that the world is almost still, catching the drops as they are still falling – slamming into their bodies with little explosions of pain. Hard enough to leave welts. Cold and wet.
Squishing, splashing on and off.
Not enough. It doesn't matter. They have to get far enough away to think. Away from the little pieces of metal and plastic and sensors that are targeting them.
Side by side, traceless, they flee through a cold landscape as hopeless as the situation. Not cold enough. Arm shooting out, Alec grabs Max and they tumble to the side, down a slight incline and towards the mud. Safe a moment, behind some low-lying and dense shrubs.
No time for words, too much fear of an echo. Using speed too fast for normal people, they pull off jackets, gloves, boots, socks, shirts, and pants. They aren't normal, that's the problem. Not normal. Too hot.
Scorching.
If they don't cool off, the hounds and men are going to catch the monsters.
Bitter cold sleet still pelting them – time now for the bruises to form, hair drenched, skin paling. Clothes neatly folded to the side, clad in only a tank top and underwear, Max shrinks down into the cool mud, letting the rain freeze her from above and the ground from below.
In only boxers, Alec joins her, lying side by side without touching, eyes wide, ears listening. Not enough. Not cold enough. Too cold to be out in but not cold enough for them – not dropping their body temperatures fast enough. No time.
Bits of gray sky can be seen above, drifting between dead, gray trees and harsh gray gusts of breath. Breathe slower, beat slower, colder.
Colder.
They can hear them now, the footsteps pounding muddy ground in the distance as the sleet soaks and hurts them. Just a little more.
Stop.
Let the cold saturate in, flood them, change them, make them other. Something other. Than what they are.
A harsh breeze, biting at their skin, stirring the dead bush concealing them.
Breathe.
Color slipping away, skin prickling up.
In.
Out.
Gazes stained with understanding.
Once.
Teeth chatter.
Again.
Lips tinted by a kiss of blue.
Time.
Hearing their own hearts beating – feel the little droplets of water tracing patterns along icy skin. Hearing them talking, searching.
For the monsters trapped in the glacier.
Out it comes, to thermally destroy their world. Read the temperature, find the creations gone astray.
Hold their breath.
The deadly little machine beeps, testing the air, digging them out. No temperatures read 101.9. Frustrated, the men move on, chasing other invisible patterns as they test the world for a presence they missed.
Breathe.
Footsteps slosh away, seconds pass.
Sleet still pelting their exposed bodies. Stinging so cold that it burns. Makes lips open and silent gasps escape as they wait. The waiting is worse than the running. Worse than being chased. A careful fight against time, too little or too much.
Gasping, she moves, a flash of soaked gray fabric against sheer white skin and drenched black hair, sitting up and fighting to thaw. Emerging from the mud and sleet and death reborn again.
A beat.
Arms reach out. Feverish frozen skin seeking its mate, looking for that carefully discarded warmth. Not enough time. Too little too late. Max grasps his head between her hands, leans in.
Lips crushed together, trying to pull the warmth out of whatever recess it hid in. Rough material grinding up against flooded skin, bodies pressed deep together, sheltering against the mud and rain.
Hands grasp, nails leaving marks next to the hail bruises. Hair dripping… paths of water to be followed. Remaining clothing discarded.
Hot breath cascading against frosty flesh.
Gray skies shifting.
Just enough, skin to skin, and she sinks down. Warmth seeking.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Bodies moving in a sticky hot rhythm, building up a wall to boil within.
Gasp. Groan. Moan.
Tumbling in the mud, too fast for the sleet to catch. Safe in the shield of heat.
101.9
Gasping, sticky wet flesh pressed tight together. Hands reaching for discarded clothes. Skin flushed purple and pink and bruised and bitten. Color returning. Safe enough.