Chapter 5 #2
“Just a few scratches,” Sander manages as Niillas helps him disentangle himself from the hole in the ground with gentle strength.
In his peripheral vision, he senses Marta drifting closer again.
There’s an air of desperation about her that makes Sander feel scared and, at the same time, almost compassionate for her.
She must be so lonely. He can barely keep his eyes open against the devastating cold, curling closer into Niillas’ warmth.
“You have to get out of here,” Sander mumbles against Niillas’ neck, though his lips are so numb the words come out slurred. “She’s dangerous. Cold.”
“You don’t understand,” Marta says as if trying to bargain with Niillas. “The troll will get him. It’s out there. Hunting. I can keep him safe if he stays with me.”
“No.”
The simple self-assuredness of the statement fills Sander with relief. He tries to focus on Niillas’ touch, his warmth, but he’s so tired. Maybe Niillas should just leave him here so he can sleep.
“The troll knows he’s here,” Marta insists. “It’ll come for the warm one. Only the cold can hide him.”
“I said no.”
Niillas’ tone brooks no argument, and Marta’s form flickers, becoming more translucent by the second. Somehow, the oppressive cold eases as she retreats down the hallway, her distorted face turned toward them, with an expression that could be disappointment or rage.
“When the troll picks your flesh from your bones,” she wails as she fades, “remember that I offered you shelter.”
Then she’s gone, and Niillas growls at the air where she’d been moments ago.
“You chased away the ghost with your Batman voice,” Sander says, his freezing hand coming up to tangle in Niillas’ hair.
It’s soft and warm, and Niillas’ eyes reflect the dim light from Sander’s phone lying discarded across the hall like a mountain cat’s. Funny.
Niillas shifts his position, never letting go of Sander, but using his height to pick up Sander’s phone. He pockets the device, and the hallway grows even darker.
“Can you stand, Captain?”
“Sure.”
Sander tries, but his legs buckle immediately.
The cold has sapped all his strength, and his limbs refuse to cooperate.
But Niillas catches him before he can hit the floor, pulling him against his chest again.
He feels nice—broad and strong, and Sander wouldn’t complain about having him on top of him.
“I’ve got you,” Niillas murmurs against his hair, and Sander melts into his warmth. “Let’s get you downstairs.”
Niillas lifts him. Just like that. And Sander should probably protest being carried around by his teammate, but he’s too cold and too grateful for the body heat to care about his pride. He lets his head fall against Niillas’ shoulder, breathing in his warm scent.
Niillas smells like safety.
“How can you even see anything?” Sander mumbles while Niillas carries him down the dark hallway and down the treacherous flight of stairs. “It’s pitch black.”
A pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.
“My eyes adjusted to the dark.”
Liar.
Sander has been stumbling around in the darkness longer than Niillas, and his eyes haven’t adjusted one bit. He wants to keep pushing, but thinking is getting harder. The cold has settled deep in his bones, making everything feel fuzzy and far away.
Niillas’ gait is confident, never stumbling, never hesitating. And soon the living room door swings open, and blessed heat washes over them from the fire. Sander makes a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper as Niillas settles him carefully on the sleeping bag in front of the flames.
“It’s going to be better soon,” Niillas promises, settling beside him.
The warmth from the fire is a shock after the bone-deep cold upstairs, making Sander’s whole body ache as sensation returns. He’s still wearing Niillas’ flannel, but it’s damp with melting frost, clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
“Still cold,” he mumbles. “Really fucking cold.”
Niillas’ eyes narrow with concern as he takes in Sander’s condition.
“The shirt needs to come off,” Niillas decides. “It’s damp, stealing your body heat.”
Fumbling uselessly at the shirt, Sander’s fingers are too numb to work the buttons, but Niillas is there, peeling him out of the flannel and then of his Henley, too.
Niillas shrugs out of his band hoodie next, leaving him in a black, fitted long-sleeve shirt, and Sander has to fight down the urge to warm his hands under it.
It’s tempting to use the excuse to get his hands on those abs, but Sander pulls himself together.
No groping of his teammate, not even to prevent hypothermia.
“Arms up,” Niillas orders, and Sander obeys automatically.
Niillas pulls the hoodie over Sander’s head, still warm with body heat. It’s comfortably large on Sander, and he wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep.
“Won’t you get cold?” Sander forces himself to ask.
No matter how cold he currently is, he can’t leave Niillas freezing for his comfort.
“Don’t worry. I run warm.” Niillas sounds almost amused, as if the notion is somehow ridiculous to him.
Settling down beside Sander, Niillas leans his back against the tiled stove. He’s close but not quite touching, the careful distance maddening when all Sander wants is to curl up against Niillas’ and absorb every bit of heat he can.
“I’m still cold,” he says.
The admission comes out more miserable and needy than Sander intended, but Niillas’ expression softens. Without a word, he opens his arms in invitation.
Sander doesn’t need to be asked twice. He practically crawls into Niillas’ embrace, pressing as close as he can get while Niillas’ arms wrap around him. The heat radiating from Niillas’ body is incredible, like cuddling up to a furnace, and Sander melts into it with a deep sigh of relief.
“How are you so warm?” Sander murmurs against Niillas’ chest.
“High metabolism.”
Yeah, sure.
But it’s hard to argue when Niillas rubs soothing circles over his back.
The motion is hypnotic, calming, and Sander feels his violent shivering finally begin to subside.
Finally giving in to temptation, Sander slips his hands under Niillas’ shirt, soaking in his warmth and marveling at the feeling of soft skin and solid muscle, and Niillas arranges the sleeping bag around them like a blanket.
“Marta,” Sander says after a while, when he’s warm enough again to form coherent thoughts. “She was real, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“She was also a ghost.”
“My grandma would call her a jábme. A restless dead.”
Sander shudders, but he’s oddly relieved that Niillas doesn’t deny what they saw. He has no idea how he’d cope if Niillas had claimed he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary, that it was only Sander being foolish.
“Thank you,” Sander breathes, voice suddenly choked with unshed tears.
This encounter has been truly dangerous, and it has been close.
As if sensing Sander’s distress, Niillas holds him closer.
“For what?”
“For not lying. About her. About the ghost. And for coming after me.”
“Always,” Niillas replies, so quietly Sander almost doesn’t hear it.