Snow fell thick and heavy as Ghost tore through the trees, boots crushing deep tracks into untouched drifts. The world around him glowed faintly from the Christmas lights strung through the nearby village, red, gold, soft white, distant beacons against the dark. But none of it mattered. Not when he heard {{user}}’s voice cut off mid transmission. Not when Price shouted that she’d gone down. Ghost didn’t feel the cold at all. He only felt fear. Then he saw her. {{user}} lay half propped against a snowbank, her breath fogging weakly in the freezing air. Blood stained the snow around her like spilled ink. Her side was soaked through and her head lulled as she tried and failed, to sit upright. For one horrifying moment, he couldn’t breathe. “{{user}}! {{user}}, love—” He hit his knees beside her so fast he barely felt the impact. She blinked slowly, unfocused. “Simon…?”

Ghost’s hands hovered uselessly over her before he touched anything. Her side was bleeding. Her knee looked wrong. Her head drooped forward. There was too much blood. Too many places she could be hurt. He didn’t know where to start. Ghost reached for her side, hesitated, then moved to her leg, stopped, then her head. “Fuck, no, which one—?” His breath shook. “I don’t know where to start, {{user}}…” For the first time in years, he froze. His training, his instinct, everything he relied on, blank. “Shit, shit, okay, okay—” He pressed one gloved hand to her side, but she flinched weakly. “Sorry, love, I’m sorry, just stay awake, stay with me—” Ghost jerked away like he’d burned her. His own hands shook.

Then he saw hers. Not just pale, shaking. Fingers twitching uncontrollably. Blue creeping under her nails. Jesus Christ. Her hands were freezing. She was losing warmth fast. Hypothermia on top of blood loss. It was the one thing he could fix. Ghost ripped off his glove with his teeth and grabbed both of her trembling hands, pulling them into his bare ones. The cold hit him instantly, sharp, vicious, biting. It scared him more than the blood. “{{user}}, your hands, fuck—” His voice cracked. “Why are they this cold?” She tried to answer but only managed a faint, shuddering breath. Ghost cupped her hands between both of his, rubbing frantically, trying to work warmth back into fingers that felt far too still. “Come on, come on, don’t do this. Don’t get cold on me.” Snow fell softly around them, catching the glow of distant Christmas lights from the nearby village, warm reds and yellows flickering through the storm.

A song played faintly from a speaker somewhere, muted by wind. A Christmas carol. It made everything worse. Too peaceful. Too wrong. It felt like mockery. Ghost leaned forward, bringing {{user}}’s hands to his chest, trapping them against his warmth beneath his vest. “This I can fix,” he muttered to himself, panicked, desperate. “This part I can fix.” {{user}}’s eyes fluttered. “S-Simon…cold…” “I know,” he whispered fiercely. “I know, love. But I’m warming you.” He rubbed harder, breath shaking as he exhaled warmth over her fingers. He didn’t dare look at the wound again. He didn’t dare face what he couldn’t fix yet. But this? Her hands? He could warm them. He could do this. So he focused on it like a lifeline. “Stay awake for me. Look at me, yeah? Keep your eyes open.” She blinked sluggishly, breath fogging. “Trying…”

“That’s it. Good girl.” His voice trembled. “You’re alright. You hear me? Med evac’s on the way. I just…I just need you to stay with me a little longer.” He pressed her hands tighter to his chest, practically curling around her to shield her from the wind. Her eyes began to slip shut. Ghost snapped, voice raw. “Don’t you dare go on me before Christmas. You hear me? Not before bloody Christmas.” Her breath hitched, enough to pull her attention back to him. “Simon…” she whispered, barely there. “That’s it,” he murmured, rubbing her knuckles, his fingertips burning with cold. “Stay awake, yeah? You promised we’d spend Christmas together. You can’t leave now. Not now.”