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It was dark, and it was raining.
Jim ran.
His boots slapped into sodden grass and squelched into soft mud, but he didn't let himself lose his footing.
The rain poured down in sheets, making it difficult to see anything but blurred impressions in the distance and the thing he was most focused on, the lights on the back of the train.
He bounded up the steps and pushed his way through the door to the parlor car.
"Artie?" he called, bracing himself in the doorway for the space of a heartbeat while he ascertained Artie wasn't there. He shoved his way farther into the parlor, water pouring off his clothes and soaking the rug. "Artie!"
Blood dripped thinly into his left eye and he swiped at it, frustrated. By the time his vision cleared Artie was standing before him, frowning worriedly. "What happened?" Artie asked him.
Fingers curled around his elbow and Jim found himself being guided to a chair. His relief at seeing Artie whole and safe added enough wobble to his knees that he sat without protest, squelching onto the hard wooden seat. "There were more members than we thought," Jim said after Artie's question sunk in. A blanket was tossed over his shoulders. Artie rubbed at Jim's arms through the blanket and tucked it closer around him. Jim's fingers were clumsy as he clutched at the edges of it.
He watched Artie retrieve a water basin and a rag and lifted his chin obligingly when he returned. "A few of them ambushed us during prisoner transport. They were taken into custody," Jim assured Artie. He blinked and swallowed as Artie dabbed at his eyebrow. "I just wasn't sure if they had come here first," he added after a moment.
"So you came running to check on me," Artie inferred, giving Jim a smile.
His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and Jim found himself watching the tendons in Artie's wrist shift and flex as he tended Jim's wound. He probed at a cut on the inside of his cheek with his tongue, tasted blood, and felt his heart pound rapidly in his chest. He met Artie's gaze, staring into warm brown eyes and tasting copper. He could feel water tickling it's way down his ankles inside his boots.
"It doesn't look too bad," Artie declared after a moment.
Jim blinked and moved to run his fingers through his hair for something to do, but Artie caught his wrist, quick and firm. Jim watched as Artie cleaned the blood from his hand, left there from when Jim had swiped it out of his eye. His touch was methodical but not impersonal, paying each digit the same patient attention. Jim watched dumbly, a disconcertingly helpless feeling lodged tightly in his throat.
He kept noticing his own heartbeat, which he did not believe he should be doing.
Artie had wiped the blood away. Jim's hand was still cradled in Artie's palm, fingers curled loosely upward, pale with cold. He found himself meeting Artie's gaze again.
Artie was watching him, eyes radiating the same sort of gentle, unruffled calm with which he'd cleaned the blood from Jim's hand. "Everything alright?"
Jim nodded. A wave of shivering swept over him, prickling gooseflesh across his skin.
Artie squeezed his hand, and let it go.
Jim watched it, still hovering in the air between them, and cocked his head, looking up at Artie.
"Jim," Artie said quietly, entreating.
Jim wondered, absently, what his face must look like, to make Artie sound like that. He noticed his heartbeat yet again, thudding harsh and expectant in his chest. He rested his hand on Artie's hip, lifted his other one to curl around the back of Artie's thigh, and spread his knees, giving Artie space to come closer, urging him with suddenly shaking hands.
Artie came closer. A hand came up, cupping the back of Jim's neck, and Artie's legs rubbed up against the insides of Jim's thighs.
Letting out a shuddering breath, Jim leaned forward and closed his eyes, pressing his clammy cheek against Artie's stomach. It was warm, smooth fabric over soft skin, expanding and flattening under Jim's cheek with Artie's deep, even breaths. Jim's arms wrapped around Artie's waist, bringing him even closer. He felt a small pang of guilt for getting Artie damp, but he felt too strong and warm and soft to let go of.
Fingernails scratched through Jim's hair and pet it back down flat again.
Jim blew out a long, uneven breath, and opened his eyes. He rubbed his cheek along Artie's stomach, stubble catching as he turned his head, craning his neck and looking up without letting Artie move away. He swallowed, throat working against the press of Artie's inhalation.
Artie's gaze was frank and open, and Jim gave him a grateful little smile, crossing his arms behind Artie's back and relaxing some. Fingers played with his hair, tucking it behind his ear.
"Yeah?" Artie asked.
"Yeah," Jim replied. He loosened his hold and leaned back, hands sliding around to rest at Artie's hips. Artie was beaming down at him, and Jim felt himself smile back, wide and goofy. "Yeah."
"C'mere," Artie said gruffly, tugging at Jim's shoulder.
Jim stood, letting the blanket fall as he wrapped his arms around Artie, swaying with the force of it. He buried his mouth in Artie's shoulder and groaned in relief, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Yeesh! You're cold," Artie complained, but he held Jim tight. He hummed and rubbed his warm cheek against Jim's jaw and neck, scratchy and perfect, and then patted Jim's back, sweeping his hands low before releasing him and stepping back. "I don't mean to be too terribly forward, but I think we should probably get you out of these clothes."
Huffing out a soft laugh, Jim glanced down and scuffed the toe of his muddy boot across the small puddle that had formed under the chair. "That's probably a good idea."
Artie's hand was gentle, cupping his elbow, leading him out of the parlor. "You uh, you want me to get started with a hot water bottle?" Artie asked as they stepped through to the hallway.
Jim blinked, peeling his jacket off of his shoulders and shrugging it down his arms. He paused in the doorway of his quarters and turned back, his arms tangled behind him in thick, sodden fabric. "No," he decided after a beat. He twisted his hands in his jacket, water wringing out and tickling coldly over his knuckles.
Artie was watching him, eyes warm and considering.
Jim shook his head and took a breath. "No. I want you to warm me up."
"Well," Artie said, a delighted grin lighting up his face. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and then leaned in, pushing the damp strands of Jim's hair back where it had fallen over his forehead.
Jim swayed forward, tilting his head back and noting in an abstract way that he could once more feel his heartbeat. It thudded in his throat, a sweet sort of urgency.
The lamplight in the hallway glittered in Artie's eyes, and his breath huffed close and hot over Jim's lips as he said, soft and sincere, "It would be my pleasure."
*