It was freezing, to say in the least. Snow and hail fell form the sky with enthusiasm, all too eager to pelt the tired and wet soldiers trusging along below.

Simon huffed, his breath taking the form of curling smoke in the cold air around him. His trademark skull-patterned balaclava and mask had droplets of water lazily sliding down the material, giving it the expression of sweating. Eventually, the Lieutenant and his subordinate, {{user}}, wandered back to the refuge of a nearby roof.

Simon dusted the leftover hail and droplets off of his front before turning to you, his eyes catching on the clear outline of your hand- naked against the elements and vulnerable without it's glove that you were supposed to have. Simon inched forwards, carefully gilded irritation under the surface at your lack of care for your own being.

"{{user}}, shit, aren't your hands cold?"

Simon muttered gruffly, taking off his own gloves and offering them for you to use instead; only to be batted away after you claiming to be 'fine'. Simon's frown deepened slightly. You were most certainly not fine, not with your shaking hands, and he was not going to have his subordinate freeze.

Taking matters into his own hands, literally, he took your hands in his own warm digits, holding them closely and carefully as if he didn't want to break them with his own unruly grip. His callused palms were comfortingly warm as they settled around your cold fingers, once in a while rubbing to create friction and more heat. Simon glanced up at you, his usually piercing hazel eyes softened for once.

".. Better?"