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John looks no worse for the wear when he returns from checking the perimeter. It gives James yet another reason to grind his teeth together, against frustration as well as the shivers that want to wrack his body, as he attempts to strip the worst of the wet wood from the outside of the log. His fingers, numb the better part of the time even in ideal circumstances, are shaking too hard to grip the knife properly.
"By all means, take your time, James," John drawls from the door, kicking the snow off his boots. "Don't let the weather rush you."
"The logs," James grits out, holding his jaw stiff to keep the words steady, "are wet."
"Well, in that case--" John breaks off as he approaches, standing over him with a frown that James can feel even if he can't see it.
The hands that peel the log and the knife out of his own are damnably gentle, as is the way John steps around him, taking care not to knock into him or disrupt his balance. James straightens slowly, feeling the creaking in his bones, the machinery humming louder as it compensates for his movement.
"We'll have to wait till after the storm to go back out there as it is. We could pop back, return in a few hours, and--"
"I can still gather the papers. I can find the map. We won't find those back at the Sanctuary," James says, even knowing he's being stubborn past the point of reason. John's plan isn't a bad one, and they'll likely be waiting out the storm well past the time it takes to run out of things they can do.
It's difficult enough to accept John's help, though, when it's entirely based in need. Even more difficult when it comes with that familiar, sensible tone, the one imprinted in what are still, regrettably, some of his best memories.
"James," John says quietly, as if asking him to see sense, and James knows he's digging his heels in for no reason, but he does it anyway.
"Let me have the knife back, if you're not going to get the fire started," he says instead of responding directly, and John shakes his head before settling on the floor in front of the wood pile.
"I'll handle it. You can start looking."
James isn't sure he can, until he can hold his hands a little steadier; the secrets in this place are well-hidden, carefully safe from anyone without the information he has. He walks away anyway, because he'll be damned before he says that aloud.
He's made precious little progress by the time he hears the fire come to life behind him, but pride keeps him bent over the notes he's spread out anyway, instead of running to the heat. He hears John sigh, and then his footfalls as he crosses the floor, instead of calling out at James might have expected.
Even knowing that something like it is coming, John's hands wrapping around his own are a surprise. "Come on, old boy. The papers can wait until you've warmed up."
James can't find a reasonable way to argue against something so simple, not when the alternative will drag this out far longer than it needs to be. He lets John lead him to the fire, and only hesitates a moment when John's hands reach out to take his coat off.
"It's wet," he says, with more patience than James knows what to do with. "You should get out of it, before you catch your death."
He thinks about arguing, but even his stubbornness has its limit, and he can't afford to catch any illnesses with the state his health is in, so he nods instead. He's still wearing more layers than John, but James feels peculiarly underdressed even so, especially as John settles onto the small couch before the fire next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
Even with how often he's needed John's help in walking, it's been decades since they've been quite this close. James stiffens under the touch, paralyzed by the desire to move into the warmth of John's body and the shame that rises at wanting to be close to him for any reason after all he's done.
"Let me help, James," John says, exasperation leaking in to his voice. "I'm on your side, remember?"
"For the moment, while it suits you," James reminds him, reminds them both, but he's so cold, and there are too many reasons, good and bad and selfish above all, to let himself lean in and take the comfort while it's offered. With no one else there to see his weakness, he stops fighting it, just for a little while.