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Cold. So very cold. Needs to, needs to - doesn't know what. Can't think. Alone. Doesn't know where is. Just snow, so much snow. Not used to this much snow. Can't see. All white. And so cold.
Can't feel fingers anymore. Or feet. Just blocks of ice she's dragging along. Doesn't know where is. Knows has to keep going. Why? Doesn't remember. Maybe lie down. So very tired.
Not hurting as much anymore. Feels good. Muscles stopped contracting violently. Hurt so much. But quiet now. Not good. Small voice at back of mind says.
But quiet. Doesn't like. Wants to stop. Wind loud. Stumbles. Falls down. Doesn't even hurt. Too much snow. Should get up. Doesn't want to. Too tired. Feels good not to move. Just close her eyes a little.
Alone. Doesn't want to be. Wants - Rachel or Ian or someone. Not alone. Always alone. Always lonely. Hurts more than cold.
The snow is heavy, almost impossible to drag his feet through the heavy snow. At least it's stopped falling from the sky, giving him a chance to find what he's looking for. It's not much of an improvement. The wind's still blowing it through the air, into his eyes.
His radio crackles. He's checking in every few minutes, reporting his lack of success and position. It wouldn't do to lose anyone else. Reason says he should have waited out the storm, gone out with a proper search party later. But this is Allison. He can't leave her alone.
And Allison can't wait for much longer. Ian's no doctor, but he knows the dangers of the cold, knows how quickly it can kill. Christ, she's been out here for hours. He needs to hurry.
In the end, he doesn't even see her. He stumbles, falling into the soft snow. Then his eyes fall on something red standing out in between all the white. Allison's scarf. Briefly, the thought that at least she'd worn a scarf fills him with relief. It's nothing against the overwhelming cold around them but it is something.
Then his eyes fall on her. Half buried under the snow. Her skin pale, barely above the colour of the snow. Ice crystals have formed in her hair and clothes. On her eyelashes. Her body is entirely still. Too still. No rise of the chest, no air passing between her lips.
He's too late. She's been out here too long already. His search pointless. He can only bring home her lifeless body to Rachel and Sir Toby. He'd never forgive himself for this. If he'd stopped her from running outside, if he'd only been a little faster - It's his responsibility. It always his. Every death under his command is his to bear forever. But Allison - to carry her, bright young Allison, so full of life, of laughter and tears, to carry her home, to bury her - that's beyond him. He can't carry this weight.
A different man would give up then. Would cry and lie down in the snow. Or mark the location and go home to grieve. But Group Captain Ian Gilmore is a pilot and a soldier. He does not fall to pieces. He is trained in emergency protocols and procedures that he knows without thinking.
So, even though Allison is lying so very still beneath him, even though he cannot feel any breath coming from her mouth, he takes off his glove and takes her pulse. Wrist first - nothing at all, then presses two fingers to her neck. For a second, he doesn't trust his own perception, thinks it must be his own heartbeat he's feeling. But no. It's weak, barely perceptible, far too slow. But there. Allison Williams is alive. Relief floods through him.
He shuts it down. She's alive but she isn't going to stay that way much longer. His fingers, numb from the cold, grapple around his belt, struggling for the radio. "This is Gilmore. I found her. She's alive. Requesting assistance. Repeat. Allison Williams is alive. Over."
He listens intently to the arrangements being made. But even as he hears pilots scrambling, doctors being called on standby, he knows it won't be enough. The wind is too heavy for flight, and the rescue on foot would take - he runs the considerations in his mind, of personnel and material, looks at Allison, so very still beneath him - an hour at least just to arrive. Allison does not have an hour. She might not even have minutes.
He remembers the maps he had studied before setting off. Recalls a small mark, familiar from his many years in the Air Force. A bunker. Small, one to wait out the air raids, not meant for long-term survival. It's not much, but it would give her a chance. He calls it in, then carefully, he puts his arms under her, making sure to not to jostle her too much. You shouldn't move unconscious people if you could avoid it. But out here her death is guaranteed.
The journey through the snow is not easy, more so now that he is carrying something so precious. Is the bunker stocked with supplies, is it frozen shut, how long until rescue can reach them? He tries not to think of the form in his arms, of how he has no way of telling if she's still alive. He knows he is making the right decisions, will give her the best chance possible.
The door of the bunker creaks as it opens, but it does so smoothly. A good sign. Not one of the old ones from the war, rather one still being maintained in case of nuclear attack. Even if it wouldn't do much in that case, it would help them now. Allison offers no resistance at all as Ian heaves her over his shoulder, organizes his limbs so that he can safely get them both down the short ladder. Later, the rescue team would be bringing ropes and stretchers and get her up much easier.
Gently, he places her down on the rough floor. The air and stone are colder than he would like, the only room fading on into the dark. Briefly, he takes her pulse again, does not allow the sigh of relief. Now is the moment for action. Lights, assess his resources, raise her temperature, wait for rescue.
The light switch is simple enough to find and the long hall is filled with flickering white, much bigger than apparent in the dark. Allison looks even paler now, small and crumbled on the floor. Praying the lights mean this place is prepared for emergencies, he locates a cupboard and sighs in relief. Blankets. Further back, a few gas lamps. Far better than he had dared to hope. Piling supplies into his arms, he goes back to kneel beside the girl on the floor.
Small droplets of water are pooling around her hair, on her clothes. She's warming up then. Except - the water will draw the heat from her body even faster. And Allison cannot afford to lose any more heat. Even to his fingers tingling from the cold, she feels freezing. First step, remove the damp clothing. He's brought scissors, far more effective than wrangling her poor, mistreated body around, and yet he can't quite bring himself to start.
Allison loves this duffel coat. Wears it in far warmer weather than it was made for. The first time he saw it he had to laugh. It just looked so big on her, she, already much smaller than him, positively tiny. Just like now. And he knows it is warm, knows without she surely would have been dead. So, he can't just cut it. Instead, with as much care as he can, he pulls it off her body.
He tries not to think about how very improper it is to be undressing an unconscious lady, even if he's seen Allison naked before. It is not an experience he wishes to repeat. It simply isn't right. And yet, Allison so still, no words on her lips, no constant movement, that's worse. So he pictures her as a fellow soldier, reminds him that she is just like any of the men under his command.
Except she isn't. Because he hasn't held their hair back after nights of bad choices, because they have never called him crying because their fiancé left them in the rain, because he couldn't complain about Rachel's iron will to any of them. Because he wouldn't have gone out into this snow against every ounce of common sense and protocol to look for them. Doctor Allison Williams is the heart of ICMG.
Still, there is no breath he can ascertain from her mouth. He's angled her head, checked there's nothing stopping her. But her pulse is still beating so he keeps going. Undresses her, turns on the lamp for the flimsy heat it will spread, bundles her in blankets. Ian knows those won't help, that they can only trap the non existent heat of her own body.
Only one option left. Trying not to let the utter disrespect of his actions get to him, he strips down to his underclothes with military precision, wrapping her in his arms, the blankets around the both of them, making sure to envelop her as much as possible. Her hair, now damp, makes him shiver as it touches his neck. There is nothing else he can do expect pray to a God he does not truly believe in. But maybe He will grant him this one miracle. Maybe he imagines it, but he feels Allison sigh in his arms.
Warm. Can't feel hands and feet. Doesn't matter. Feels warm. Feels safe.
Doesn't have to do anything. Just lie here. Strong arms around her. Hold her together.
Drift away. Let the warm take her. Feel the movement of breath. Remembers she has to. Not alone anymore.
Still cold inside. So very cold. Can't chase it. Warm can't reach. Will never. Always cold and lonely inside. Never stop.
Cold in her heart, forever. Can't get rid. Grows and grows. Cold fog rolling over mind. Doesn't resist.
But warm feel good. Warm just a few seconds longer. Before cold comes back. Always does.
So very cold.
They find him cradling the unmoving, icy body in his arms, unwilling to let go.