#hypothermia

Tents blow away in the wind and children in flip flops wade through winter flood waters.

1.5 million of Gaza's 2.2 million residents are homeless. 15 people have died from hypothermia, including three babies, just this month.

Dennis who is homeless for months and struggles at work because of it.

Dennis who dreads the winter months as they quickly approach.

Dennis who can no longer hide on the 8th floor for some reason and is back on the street.

Dennis who tries to spend as much time at work as possible to take advantage of the heat and food.

One night Robby sends Dennis out. "For God's sake Whitaker! Go! You'll kill yourself if you keep working yourself that hard."

So, Dennis goes to brave a Pennsylvania night in January on the street because all the shelters were full or closed. He finds a quiet corner, a little niche in an alley close to the hospital so he could go right back in the morning.

A few hours later another case comes crashing into the Pitt and Robby is ready to take it on. Homeless man, mid 20s found still and cold in an empty alley. Sad, but textbook. He calls the Pittlings over to teach them what to do in this situation. Robby has his students undress him out of his 8 layers and slowly it dawns on all of them, oh shit, this is their Whitaker.

And suddenly everyone is getting emotional, doing chest compressions on the farm boy they were teasing a few hours who now has a core body temp of fucking 80 degrees Fahrenheit.

Dennis wakes up wrapped in blankets with an iv in his arm a few hours later. He is so relaxed and warm, he never wants to leave. He's spacy, still mostly out of it when he notices someone sitting in the corner of the room. A tall man wearing glasses reading some thick book.

"Dr. Robby?" Why is his voice so weak? Maybe because he's sooo tired and this bed is sooo warm and sooo soft. Yeah, that's why he's so weak he can't open his eyes for very long.

Robby starts, looking over at the man burritoed up beside him. He had been sitting by his student for what? 2 hours now? At the sound of his voice Robby stands, stepping closer to inspect him.

"What were you doing, sleeping out there? Didn't you realize it was going to snow tonight?"

"Didn' have a choiceeee" Dennis whines, turning his head towards the sound of Robby's voice. "No where to go..." He trails off, too tired to finish the thought, but Robby understands.

He understands that Whitaker came to his ER unconscious and covered in snow. He knows he nearly died as his friends and coworkers tried to get him back up to temp. He knows he presented with burns on his fingers and a lighter in his hand, trying to warm himself with that tiny fire before he was overcome by the cold.

They’re confused and too tired to fully understand what’s going on. Caretaker feels their skin and is taken aback by just how unnaturally cold it is. They grasp Whumpee and start asking them questions, but everything sounds distorted and unreal. Whumpee slurs out something half-coherent along the lines of “I’m tired,” and Caretaker + the team realizes just how bad it is. They also realize that they need to keep Whumpee awake and warm them up NOW before they lose Whumpee for good.

He manages to defeat the rogue and tie them up, but the blizzard is raging, he spent too much energy, he barely ate the day before, he is bleeding, his suit is torn and soaked through in icy water, his communicators are water damaged, and his car is so far away... He tries his best to make his way to the closest source of warmth, but he is at the docks, surrounded by abandoned warehouses. At first, his hands, feet, and exposed skin hurt, but then the frostbite reaches far enough that he stops feeling pain at all. His pulse and breathing slow, and he feels groggy, tired, and disoriented. He starts hallucinating mirages of his parents and his children and his friends, leading him further astray in the endless labyrinth of empty buildings and shipping containers. Near the end, he experiences the "hide-and-die syndrome" and finds a tiny spot in between a few containers and a long abandoned carcass of a car. This, and the snow hiding both his steps and his body, makes it hard for his loved ones to find him in the coming weeks.

Stanley stood on the deck of the Stan O' war, watching, mesmerised, by the twinkling stars lighting up the night sky, casting a soft glow that reflected in the ocean below. A mixture of utter peace and disbelief leaving him strangely nostalgic, safe in the knowledge that his brother was just inside as he reminisced.

It was unlike anything he could have hoped for, all the years dedicated to getting Ford out, the desperate hope that he was even still alive. Now? Living the dream they'd shared since they were small, there was nowhere else Stan would rather be, even the cold chill rolling off the water, hands growing stiff and breath fogging in the night air, couldn't dampen his spirits as he let his mind wander.

"There you are Stanley, I was wondering where you'd gone off to." Ford's voice trailed from behind him, stepping out onto the deck as Stan turned to look at him with a acknowledging hum.

"I thought I told you to wrap up, it's freezing out here." Ford continued, shivering slightly as the chill caught him by surprise, raising a brow at the snort he received in reply.

"Ah, can it sixer, it ain't that cold. You're just used to wearing turtle necks in the summer." Stan poked, smiling as he made out the faint, playful scowl crossing Ford's face.

Before Ford could muster a retort, however, the shadow he cast moved as he went to stand next to Stan, illuminating his brother's face in the light of the cabin, a shocked gasp flying from Ford's mouth as he made out Stan's pale face.

"Moses, Lee, how long have you been out here?!" Ford pushed forwards, grabbing Stan's hands with a hiss as the icy digits met his own, concern growing by the second as he noticed the pale blue tinge to Stan's lips and then barest shivers wracking through his limbs.

"Hey, what's the big idea?" Stan yelped, his usual resistance weakened by the wide startled look in Ford's eyes and the cold sinking deeper into his flesh by the minute, unnoticed until now, under the sudden burning of heat of Ford's hands.

"I-I'm sorry, I should have noticed how long you were out here, we need to get you inside right now. Are you feeling ok? Do you know where you are?" Ford barreled through, causing Stan's head to spin with the onslaught of questions as his twin dragged him into the boat.

"Woah, hold up Ford, I'm not having a memory lapse, I just got caught up watching the stars, you don't need to worry-"

"With all due respect, you're borderline hypothermic and you couldn't even tell! This could be a symptom of the memory gun, Fiddleford mentioned micro-lapses were a possibility and I didn't- Ugh, now is not the time, let's get you warmed up and then we'll talk. Ok?"

Stan huffed at Ford's words but relented, throwing a huffed "Fine!" over his shoulder as he watched his brother storm into their bedroom, bringing back blankets and a hot water bottle before Stan could raise any more protests, shrugging off his jacket with numb, aching digits.

"Look it ain't that serious" Stan began, once he was settled in, their portable heater standing guard at his feet whilst Ford came to sit beside him anxiously, noting the increasing tremble in Stan's sluggish arms with a mixture of unease and relief. "I just got caught up out there, I'm fine, honestly."

"You say that but- Stanley, please, I know you think I'm overreacting but you could've been out there for hours before you noticed, what would have happened if I hadn't come to check on you?" At Stan's unimpressed expression Ford slumped backwards, leaning into the plush cushions as he met Stan's eyes.

"I just don't want anything to happen to you, this could be a sign of a major incoming lapse, or- or something even worse. I already hurt you so much, the least I can do is make sure you-"

"What? Don't walk myself off into the arctic ocean because my brain conked out? Have a lapse and forget how to breath?"

"No! Stanley you know that's not what I meant. You could get sick! And I-" Ford protested, the haunted look receding from his gaze, replaced with one of indignation and horror.

Stan sighed, sitting up with a groan as his joints protested the movement whilst Ford fumbled over what he could say, nearly missing the sheepish smile shot his way.

"I know Ford, honest. I get you're worried, but I was just distracted." At Ford's disbelieving frown Stan nudged him, smirking as his brother huffed even as the tension drained from his shoulders.

"Look, I'm not saying you weren't right, maybe I was out there too long, but I'm not keeling over just yet. So stop blaming yourself when I've already forgiven you. Ok? I've survived more than a bit of radiation."

"I know," Ford muttered, smile faltering as he relaxed into Stan's shoulder. "I just wish I could have done something different, it feels like I keep making the same mistakes. Leaving you to fend for yourself, assuming you'll be ok... Even just now, that could have been something serious."

Stan felt more than heard the way Ford's breath stuttered, his big brain no doubt racing with countless scenarios in ways Stan could get hurt.

"Eh, even if it was, we'd handle it together. So don't go beating yourself up over what-ifs, you hear? Hell if I can survive 30 years without a kidney, a little cold shouldn't bother me."

As the words left his mouth, a throwaway line meant to cheer Ford up, the light air he'd been going for sank like a heavy weight in his stomach, reality dawning too late for Stan to take it back as Ford tensed beside him.

He'd never told Ford that... Fuck.

"What was that?" Ford asked, voice colder than the water surrounding them as he shifted to look Stan in the eye, watching the various emotions swimming past Stan's face, regret, fear, guilt quickly masked before he could dig deeper into Stan's mind.

"What was what?"

"Don't play dumb, Stanley, I know you know what you said. Do you- do you only have one kidney?"

The silence was all the admission Ford needed as he shot up, heart thundering with an unrelenting panic.

"You- I can't believe you Stanley- God, do you know how many complications that comes with? If you get sick or-or even food poisoning!" Ford's voice cracked as two hands flew to his scalp, grabbing at the grey strands and pulling as he struggled to find his breath.

“Woah, easy buddy, it’s alright, I got a spare for a reason.” Stan tried to appeal, watching the indignation rise, flushing his brother’s face, enough to break him from his spiraling thoughts to instead whorl around and face Stan.

“You- I- Stanley. This isn’t a joke, at our age, with your history- and now this? Moses, what was I thinking?! I should have gotten us both checked out before we even stepped onboard. Something as simple as food poisoning could seriously affect you renal system and I didn’t even think- Not to mention the possibility of hypothermia out here! Even if you avoided it this time, theres still a chance-”

“FORD!”

Stan’s voice cut through Ford’s rant quickly, plunging the two into a heated silence as Ford caught his breath, chest rapidly expanding as he struggled to find a rhythm with the crushing pressure weighing him down.

“You’re ok and I’m ok. We’re both here right now, and nothing is going to change that alright?” His voice softened as Stan crossed the room, laying a hand over Ford’s from where it was pulling at his turtleneck’s collar.

“We’re going to be ok. With your emergency kits and Fidd’s doohickeys, there’s nothing else we need to prepare for alright? Like I said, I’ve been living without it for 30 years, even if I do get a cold from this, it’ll knock me down for a few days sure, but I’ll get back up, I always have.”

In lieu of a response, Ford let out a low keening whine, hands instinctively curling around Stan until he could bury his face into his brother’s shoulder. Breathing in the faint scent of salt and sweet Pitt cola that clung to the fabric. Ford barely even felt the start of his tears as they pooled under his eyes, the warm, silent assurance from Stan rubbing the small of his back bleeding the fear away.

It took some time for Ford to calm the avalanche of fresh terrors plaguing his mind, running scenario after scenario until they all fell into a distant background noise, but eventually he managed to collect himself, straightening with a choked cough as Stan smiled at him encouragingly.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, why don’t we head to bed, huh?” Stan suggested, smile widening as Ford nodded, nudging the both of them onwards until they were stumbling through the bedroom door, not even bothering to take the ladder to his bunk as he slumped into Stan’s pulling him down alongside him.

“Yeah, yeah, you can stay, but not hogging the blankets” Stan said, the truth painfully obvious despite his complaints. The simple, easy motion reminiscent from their childhood, striking like a match in his chest, alighting his heart with a cozy warmth.

“I’m sorry” Ford said simply, as Stan tucked himself in beside him, feeling the dismissive puff leave Stan’s lips before he could continue his self flagellation.

“Shuddup and go to sleep six. You didn’t do anything.” Stan mumbled, muffled by the pillow shoved against his face.

The witcher doesn’t care much about the snow, his mutagens keeping his body warm enough that with the thick cloak he has, he barely even feels chilled. He doesn’t usually get cold at all, really, the only time he’d ever even shivered being when he had overestimated the integrity of the ice on the lake near Kaer Morhen.

If he ever got cold as a human, he doesn’t remember it, although surely it can’t be as bad as the bard is making it seem. Yes, the man’s cloak may be a bit thinner than Geralt’s, but that didn’t mean the bard had to whine so much about the snow coming down or his wet trousers. The bard’s voice was annoying enough when it wasn’t coming across muffled from the wind and the scarf covering half of Jaskier’s face.

Besides, if her really didn’t want to come with the witcher, he should have stayed back at the inn they left three days ago.

The witcher was a bit more concerned, annoyingly, when the verbal onslaught was slowly replaced with chattering teeth, but the bard would be fine. They’d make camp soon, and the fire would warm him up, and then Geralt would be stuck with his loose lips again.

So a couple hours later, Geralt left Jaskier with Roach at the empty cave he’d found, trusting the bard to get a fire started while he went out to see if he could find something to eat, now that the storm was passing. He eyed the bard for a second, but he’d already stopped shivering, so he should be able to make a break for it if anything did see him as an easy meal.

Thus, when Geralt came back half an hour later to find Roach still tackled, curled around Jaskier on the ground, with no fire to cook the rabbits he’d scrounged up, he was beyond infuriated. Swearing loudly, he stormed over to the useless bard, eager to give him a piece of his mind, when Roach let out a sharp, piercing squeal.

At him.

Blinking rapidly, Geralt instinctively held up his hands, taking one careful step forward. When Roach didn’t react, he took another, watching as his horse snuffled at the bard’s hair with a soft whinny. Geralt was beginning to wonder just when Jaskier had become Roach’s new favorite, before he noticed how the bard’s usually bright blue eyes seemed…vacant.

He called the bard’s name, but the man didn’t answer. More worried now, he reached for the bard’s forehead, wondering if he was sick—

Geralt recoiled his hand instinctively at the coldness of Jaskier’s skin. Only corpses were ever that chilled, he swore, noticing for the first time how the bard’s heartbeat had become witcher slow.

He quickly got to work building a fire, and turned to the bard, hoping for some reaction as the flames started to grow. But the bard didn’t even seem to notice the change, eyes now closed and body leaning even more fully against Roach, far enough from the fire that little warmth would reach him.

Swearing again, he pulled Jaskier closer, grateful for the way Roach easily let him do so.

And if Geralt ran his hands over every part of the bard’s skin he could reach as he held him in front of the fire, desperately trying to heat him up?