Work Text:
Someone has to hunt, don't they?
Natalie is the most skilled with the rifle; she holds it with trembling fingers, her teeth chattering, her circulation cutting off. Travis comes with her, because of course. It's been that way before the snow fell. She thinks she hates the snow.
But they need food to survive.
"Nat," he whispers, voice more controlled than the state of her body. Travis stands in front of the barrel with a worried look. Her eyes are unfocused, vision shaking at the edges as she lets out pathetic gasps of air. It's a trap to go on an empty stomach.
It's a trap to do anything.
Natalie licks the cracked lips, all mingled with snot and blood from her nose running. "Nat," Travis begins, voice louder in an attempt to get her attention. Her fingers, which feel like they're going to break off, dance against the trigger, and that's when Travis fully steps in. He grips the barrel of the rifle, lowering it down gently.
"Jesus," he says, eyebrows knitting together, brown eyes sparkling with something that looks like hurt. Nat lowers the gun as it clatters against the snow, limbs shaking and freezing to her nervous system. If you were to cut her, she'd be bleeding blue.
The whistling winds do nothing to help the chill, the hypothermia that spreads like a curse.
They need to feed them; there has to be something for them to eat.
Before she knows it, Travis has her in his arms. He's not much warmer than her, but he's lucid, squeezing her tight so she can feel something that reminds her of warmth. God, has she really forgotten?
"We're going back," he says, voice low. "We're going back, it's gonna be okay,"
Natalie wants to complain, but she's so cold.