Chapter Text
If there's one thing that Krauser's learned over the course of this godforsaken training exercise, it's that Leon has a terrible sense of navigation. The Alaskan tundra is frigid around him as he glances down at his compass, a curse on his lips when he sees they're going in the wrong direction, again.
"Rookie!" he barks into the swirling snow, watching Leon jolt and whirl around with those large, expressive doe eyes. His face is partially obscured by an olive green scarf, those ridiculous blonde bangs sticking out the side of his hat in their typical unruliness. "Where the hell are your landmarks? You're taking us too far South."
"Sorry, Major." Leon doesn't sound very sorry, the wind nearly whipping his words away before Krauser can hear them. "This blizzard is throwing me off. I can't see anything anymore…"
Krauser sighs in exasperation, pausing to resettle the heavy pack over his shoulders. They've been at this for hours, and the time limit is rapidly approaching. It's supposed to be a standard trek through the icy terrain in the name of teaching endurance, but somehow it's been turned into a day-long ordeal by Leon's sheer inability to read a map. Krauser admits that the storm blew in unexpectedly, surprising even him, but really. How hard is it to navigate a few kilometers?
Leon consults the map for the millionth time, still holding it at the awkward angle he seems to think is the right one. He glances up, scanning the landscape for a moment.
"Well," he begins slowly, glancing at Krauser like he's waiting for a comment. "I'm not seeing anything, but there is an old cabin over there. Maybe we could stop until the storm passes to get our bearings?" He gestures, and Krauser squints to see what looks to be a tiny wooden shack looming up through the snow. It's close, just under a klick away, and Krauser glares up at the falling snow. Leon's right, though. They're not going to get anywhere in this storm. Krauser holds back a sigh, nodding.
"Lead the way."
Leon starts moving, distracted yet again by his obsessive examinations of the map, and Krauser pauses. His canteen is frigid when he presses it to his lips, eyeing the back of Leon's wool-knit winter hat as he trudges through the foot-high snowdrifts. It's sheer coincidence they've ended up paired together, and Krauser's role as drill instructor means he shouldn't even be participating. He's already completed this training—a long, long time ago—and it's purely due to an uneven number of participants that he's doing it again now.
Nothing is ever simple when Leon Kennedy gets involved.
Leon's a few feet ahead by the time Krauser kicks back into gear, the ground around his feet littered with the sparse upshoots of marshland grasses and dead, frozen cattails in a thin line that almost looks like a miniature fence. Krauser frowns. That kind of thing usually grows around—
Realization hits him like a bullet, but it's too late to do anything at all. A crack rings out, and Krauser can only watch in shock as the ground splits beneath Leon's feet, plunging him down into the depths of what must be a frozen lake. He curses, already slinging his pack to the side. Dark water oozes from the hole in the ice like blood from a gaping wound, and Krauser can't make out anything besides a few lingering bubbles. A moment later, Leon bursts from the water with an audible gasp, clawing and splashing as he struggles to stay afloat. It must be freezing, and Krauser can see even from where he kneels in the snowbank that Leon's face is paler than normal. Shit. Not good.
"Hang in there, Rookie!" he shouts, removing a length of sturdy rope from his pack. "Grab onto this!"
The rope unfurls easily, sailing across the ice when Krauser tosses it in Leon's direction. He throws his body forward for better stability, laying himself out in the snow. He can feel Leon tugging at the end of it, shoulders rising out of the water a moment later. Once Krauser's pulled him forward far enough, Leon flings his upper body forward, resting his weight on the unbroken surface. He's already shivering, full-body tremors that send him sprawling limply against the ice. His pack is gone. For a moment he does nothing, slack and useless.
"Remember your training!" Krauser orders, yanking on the rope pointedly. "Push through the pain!"
Leon's movements are sluggish, but he manages to get his forearms beneath him, gripping the rope and using Krauser's strength to assist what seems to be a pathetic attempt to commando crawl. At least he knows not to stand up again. Krauser grips the back of Leon’s thick outer jacket the second he's close enough, quickly hauling his sodden form onto the shoreline. He flips Leon onto his back, concerned by the way he stares up at the sky with wide blue eyes, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but can't.
"Kennedy?"
Leon tries to stutter something in response, the sound coming out in a breathless wheeze. He seems dazed. Krauser slides an arm around his back, pulling him into standing position so quickly that Leon groans and sags against him. With the weather the way it is, he'll go into shock if they don’t get inside soon, and there'll be no bringing him back from the brink. Krauser growls, shouldering Leon's head away from where it's resting on his collarbone.
"C'mon, Rookie. Where's your sense of self-preservation? Help me, here."
It's slow going, what with Leon's stumbling, shivery steps, nearly collapsing into Krauser every few feet. The temperature is a few degrees below zero but rapidly dropping, hypothermia already imminent. He barely seems to hear Krauser's commands anymore, only able to shudder and gasp for air as they make their way along the line of frozen reeds. Luckily, it doesn't curve too far away from the cabin, the ramshackle wooden boards looking more and more appealing with every distressed sound that Leon makes. It seems to be some kind of fishing shack, and Krauser wonders darkly if there's anything useful inside at all.
The door creaks ominously against the wailing shriek of the intensifying wind when Krauser wedges it open, approval flooding through him at the sight of the blanketed bed and wood-stocked fireplace. It's a good thing Leon saw this place, after all.
"Not bad," he mutters, settling Leon into a rickety wooden chair by the door. Leon's not even shivering anymore, staring into space with a glassy expression instead of saying something sarcastic the way he should be. The exposed skin on his face is waxy and pale, washed of all color besides the blue tint to his lips. He almost looks like porcelain. His jacket and scarf are crusted with frost, eyelashes turned white by the cold. Krauser pulls off a thick winter glove, slipping his fingers beneath the frigid layers around Leon's neck to feel for his pulse. It's there; fluttering against his fingertips like a small bird, but it's thready and weaker than it should be.
They need to get him out of those damp clothes.
“Strip,” Krauser orders, to which Leon blinks owlishly. His only reaction is a clumsy hand fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, fingers still inside sodden gloves and far too uncoordinated to do much more than scrabble uselessly at the fabric. Krauser sighs, already reaching out to do it himself. Leon doesn’t so much as protest when Krauser helps to remove the rest of his garments, only shifting slightly whenever Krauser asks him to. The skin beneath his layers as Krauser peels them away is cold and tinged with the telltale cast of hypothermia, goosebumps tangible under Krauser’s rough palms as he steadies Leon from listing to the side. Leon shudders, curving in on his naked body. His brow is furrowed as he stares blankly at the wall.
“N-not th’ nicest place for this, huh, M-Major?” he stutters, slurring audibly. Krauser ignores the comment, pulling a fresh pair of underwear and a standard green t-shirt from his pack. The clothes are slightly too big around Leon’s hips and shoulders, draping in loose folds around the jut of his tense muscles, but they’re dry, and they’ll help him preserve whatever remaining body heat he can produce. Krauser pats him on the shoulder, sliding an arm around the curve of Leon’s spine. His jacket sleeve rustles, its windproof outer shell hissing against the soft cotton.
“Stand up, Rookie,” he says, guiding Leon to his feet. Leon sways, knees nearly buckling under his weight, and Krauser knows he’ll need to take most of his weight. Luckily, the trek across the frigid wooden floor to the single bed is short, and Leon’s got nothing on Krauser in terms of muscle mass. The blankets on the bed are dusty and cold with disuse, but Leon doesn’t complain when Krauser guides him to the thin mattress and tucks several layers of thick fabric around his shoulders. He’s still not shivering, something Krauser’s worried about, but there’s not much more he can do until he gets a fire going.
“Hang in there,” he mutters gruffly, watching Leon’s eyelids flutter. Not a good sign. “Keep yourself awake.”
The fire starts easily, full logs going up like tinder from how dry they are. The slender flames cast golden light around the tiny cabin, delicate heat already emanating from their glow. Krauser welcomes the sensation against the chill seeping into his hands. He stokes the fire until it’s all but roaring, carefully stacking the firebox with enough wood to last for a while. There’s no fire screen, glowing embers forced to settle against the stone hearth when they peel away from the crackling tree bark. A metal pot and several cans of soup—cream of celery, as it happens, one of Krauser’s favorites—sit haphazardly on a shelf to the side of the room, and Krauser makes short work of setting it up to boil.
“How’s it going, Rookie?” he calls, standing carefully from his crouch beside the fire and making his way over to Leon’s shivering form beneath the pile of blankets. His body has at least come back to a temperature where it can react accordingly, but his lips are still waxy and dry, skin devoid of its usual flush. He stares up at Krauser with a faint frown, quivering so hard he looks like he’s practically vibrating. His skin is cold to the touch. Krauser sighs. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
Krauser carefully unzips his jacket and sets it to the side, proceeding—in an orderly fashion, thank you very much—to remove several outer layers until he’s dressed down to the base layer of long underwear that sits over his undergarments. The bed creaks beneath his weight as he settles under the blankets, tucking Leon’s trembling form close to his chest. The bed is shockingly cold without Leon’s heat to warm it up, and Krauser can’t help but shiver at the chill. Frigid hands claw at the collar of his shirt, Leon’s breaths ghosting shallowly over Krauser’s throat as he nestles closer to the heat of Krauser’s body. His hair is still wet. He murmurs something inaudible, torso as cold as marble under Krauser’s arm.
“Jesus,” Krauser remarks, a rough bark of laughter escaping him when Leon’s knees wrap around his own. “You’re friendly.”
Leon doesn’t respond, just moves infinitesimally closer until Krauser wouldn’t know where he ends and Leon begins if not for the vast difference in temperature. They stay like that for a long while, Leon’s shivers gradually easing from full-body convulsions to gentle tremors. His heartbeat is stronger when Krauser tests it with a hand against Leon’s neck, though he’s still too cold for comfort and he seems to have lapsed into some sort of half-conscious doze. The pot over the stove has been bubbling and rattling for almost five minutes by the time Krauser manages to extricate himself from Leon’s clinging limbs, leaving the warmth of the bed behind to tend to his soup. The hut has heated up considerably from when they’d first arrived, the fire bright and greedy when Krauser adds another couple logs. He retrieves a bowl from the same shelf as before, scooping a healthy helping of celery and pale broth into it and finding a silver spoon somewhere in the mess.
He places the bowl on the small table beside the bed, shaking Leon’s shoulder with a careful hand.
“Sit up, Kennedy. This’ll help.”
Leon scowls, squeezing his eyes tight, and Krauser shakes his head at the obvious stubbornness. Despite his reaction, Leon doesn’t fight when Krauser sits him up against the wall with a pillow behind his back, worryingly placid and malleable. Blue eyes blink open blearily, face twisted in a grumpy expression.
“Food?” Leon asks, voice raspy. Krauser nods, lifting the bowl of soup so that Leon can take it into his hands. He winces as he wraps around it, likely feeling the burn against still-sensitive nerve endings. His hands are clumsy around the bowl, fingers trembling too hard to work the spoon when he tries to lift it to his mouth. Krauser watches him struggle for a moment, then sighs, removing the utensil and placing his own hands to the bottom of the bowl. It’s comfortably warm, the heat sinking into Krasuer’s skin in the chill of the cabin. He helps Leon lift it to his lips, watching Leon’s expression flicker between surprise and embarrassment. His blue eyes are still glazed and distant, but there’s enough awareness there to show how cagey he is about needing help. Krauser doesn’t back down. If he didn’t want to need help drinking his soup, he should’ve been more careful about where he was walking.
Leon scowls when Krauser pulls the bowl away, licking broth from his top lip.
“Celery?” he groans, and Krauser scoffs.
“Just eat the fucking soup. It’s warm.”
Leon makes it halfway through the bowl before his sips begin to falter, eyes lidded and glazing over in exhaustion. His movements are lethargic, head lolling to the side as he succumbs to drowsiness. Krauser tests the heat of his skin, two fingers tucked under the edge of Leon’s shirt, against his chest. Without a thermometer it’s impossible to tell, but he at least seems to be at a somewhat normal temperature. He’s in no way out of danger, but he’ll be alright until someone can come to lift them out of here. Krauser nods, setting the soup to the side and helping Leon slide back down into the bed. He’s asleep in an instant, breaths slowly evening out as unconsciousness pulls him deeper.
The radio tucked in Krauser’s pack crackles when he fishes it out and turns the button, Leon not even stirring at the sound. Krauser tests it for a moment, the signal scratchy and filled with static.
“Major Jack Krauser to Base,” he announces, “in need of Evac, ASAP. Private Kennedy is incapacitated; suffering from hypothermia.”
He rattles off approximate coordinates, leaning back against the rickety chair he’s settled into. There’s no response. Krauser frowns, glancing out the cabin’s single window at the snow falling thickly in the rapidly-dimming evening light. He tries again.
“Major Krauser to Base, do you copy?”
Static.
“Damn,” Krauser growls, punching a few buttons and speaking loudly into the device to no avail. No signal out here, it seems. It’s probably from the storm, but the fact it’s not working at all makes Krauser uneasy. Oh, well. He’ll have to try again in the morning. He sets up the radio against the windowsill, in case someone responds overnight.
Krauser runs a hand over his face. What a mess. He’s not even surprised at this point—trouble seems to follow Leon no matter where he goes, a veritable danger magnet who’s somehow never had an ounce of luck in his life. He’s still shivering under the blankets when Krauser goes to check up on him, eyelids twitching in his sleep. Well, only one way to fix that, and Krauser doesn’t have anywhere else to be. He checks to make sure the fire will be good for a while, then slips back under the blankets, rearranging Leon’s limp, sprawling arms to give himself space. Leon doesn’t even react to the manipulation, sighing lightly when Krauser pulls him to his chest in a smooth motion. Hopefully this will help get him back to a steady temp.
Krauser closes his eyes, listening to the fire crackle. Leon stirs once. It’s quiet. Warm…
Krauser doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but suddenly he’s blinking awake in the dim half-light of the fire’s embers, soaked in sweat and so warm in his remaining layers that the frigid cabin air is a relief when he throws back the blankets to pull himself to the edge of the bed. The small cabin window is dark, Krauser’s radio still blinking evenly on the windowsill as it searches for a signal. The light reflects on the silvery glass, a glaring red blip that seems overly vivid in the gloom. He stands with a sigh, rolling his sleeves up the elbow and crossing the room to the faintly-glowing fireplace. The poker hanging on the mantle is rusted and bent awkwardly, but it does the job, embers flaring when Krauser adds another log and carefully shifts the coals.
He turns back to the bed, rubbing his eyes. His watch spells out the early hour in glowing red, and he should probably try to get some more sleep—though he's not sure he needs to curl up beside Leon anymore. Krauser approaches Leon's unmoving form on the bed, noticing how strangely tense he seems for how deeply asleep he should be. Krauser frowns, noticing the unnatural flush and glistening sweat that glazes his cheekbones, moving close enough to hear the shallow, breathy rasps of Leon's laboured exhales. On instinct, he places a callused hand on Leon's forehead.
Krauser curses. Leon’s practically burning up, the heat of his skin like a lighter flame against Krauser’s palm. Not so hot as to be life-threatening, but Krauser's medical supplies are in no way equipped to deal with high fever or any other possible illness that could be attacking his system. It's probably just the lingering remnants of hypothermic shock, his body overcompensating for its earlier loss of heat, but there's no ruling out pneumonia or organ damage either.
“Leon." Krauser moves a hand to his shoulder, gently squeezing the muscle. Leon doesn’t react at first, dead to the world until Krauser squeezes harder, prompting him to stir sluggishly and blink open his glassy eyes. It takes him a moment to focus fully.
“Time ’s it?” he manages, voice thick with sleep and soft confusion. His lips are chapped, and Krauser frowns, retrieving his canteen from where he’s left it on the chair. He slides an arm behind Leon’s back, whose eyes have slipped closed again.
“C’mon, Rookie. Sit up.”
It takes some maneuvering with how limp Leon stays, but Krauser manages to get him into a semi-upright position without too much trouble. If the slurring words and bright red cheeks weren’t indication enough, Krauser’s fears are confirmed when Leon can barely keep his head up long enough to sip a few mouthfuls of water, the few stray droplets that stream down his neck evaporating quickly in the heat. He’s sick. Very sick. Krauser glances back at the radio, mentally cursing the situation. He has faith in his own abilities, but Leon’s in bad shape and likely nearing the brink of danger, something that can’t be remedied without a proper infirmary and medical personnel.
“Always gotta make this difficult, huh?” he grumbles to himself, slowly lowering Leon back to the mattress. He’s already half asleep again, eyes lidded and sunken; his usual dark creases accentuated by the glistening pallor of fever. Krauser brushes slick strands of dirty-blonde hair from Leon's forehead. He should be alright to keep resting, for the moment. Krauser just needs to keep him hydrated and comfortable until dawn breaks and the storm subsides, and they can worry about bringing down his fever when the extraction team arrives.
The remainder of the night passes relatively easily—Krauser wakes Leon up for a second time around six in the morning, coaxing him to sip more water and checking his level of coherency. He still seems mostly aware of what's happening, just so tired he can barely keep himself awake for longer than a minute. Not ideal, but Krauser's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he'll sleep it off. Getting him to a medical team is top priority—Except, there's still no radio signal by the time mid-morning rolls around, the storm's wailing gale whipping the flimsy shutters and painting the landscape outside a blinding white with the amount of snow that keeps falling.
Leon manages to sip some more soup around noon before he falls back into fitful unconsciousness, and by the evening he's developed a nasty cough that rattles his entire chest. Krauser keeps a wary eye on his sleeping form. His fever still hasn't broken, meaning this isn't just his body in distress anymore—he's gotten himself some sort of illness. The radio still gives Krauser nothing but static whenever he tries it, even when he trudges out into the still-falling snow and raises it up towards the sky like an offering.
They're alone out here.