Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts)

by Annabeth Albert

  “Quill.” Willie, the other specialist who had been working on the first victim, arrived next to him. “Chopper’s on the way. I’ll finish here. Go help.” He clapped Quill hard on the shoulder. “Deep breath. We’ll find him.”

  Breathing. Yeah. That would be nice. “Can’t lose him.”

  “I hear you.” The compassion and concern in Willie’s eyes did absolutely nothing to calm Quill. Sympathy wasn’t going to save Owen. And even if they could find him, Quill knew all too well all the damage the slide down could do to a victim. But finding him was the first step. The second skier had been located just outside the thirty-five minute window that usually spelled almost certain demise. That he’d survived was something of a miracle. Every minute that Owen remained buried decreased his chances, and Quill absolutely demanded a second miracle out of the day. He refused to entertain any other possibility.

  As he hurried to the searchers, Quill’s pulse pounded, making it hard to pay attention to his own footing. He wasn’t going to be much help to Owen if he too were caught, but it was hard to make himself follow normal protocol because there was nothing normal about the situation. Owen, his Owen, was missing, and life might never be worth a damn again. But the searchers were looking to him and Ross and Willie to keep order and to keep everyone looking safe too.

  He went through the motions, answered questions from other searchers and used his probe to look for signals from Owen’s beacon.

  Nothing.

  Tried again. Nothing.

  And with each probe coming up empty-handed, he prayed for the first time since his father’s death.

  Anything, he offered the universe. Anything. Take anything from me, just not him. But what did he have to bargain with? Nothing in his life made any sense, had any value without Owen in it. All the realizations he’d had earlier kept crashing into him, one frantic thought on top of the next. He needed Owen. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to have him safe.

  “I’ve got a signal!” Ross shouted. Heart clattering, Quill rushed over and started helping him dig. He’d almost given up hope all over again when his glove hit fabric.

  “Here!” he yelled to Ross. “Right here.”

  Together, they worked to free Owen. His airbag had only partially inflated, which probably kept him from a deeper burial, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him from hitting debris on the way down, as evidenced by the bruising around his face.

  Ross was the first to check for a pulse, and when he shook his head, Quill released an inhuman noise.

  “CPR,” Ross said firmly. “You know the drill. You start rescue breaths, and I’ll do the chest compressions.” Turning slightly, Ross gave instructions to another searcher, but Quill was too focused on getting ready to do the rescue breaths to hear what they were.

  “Quill.” Ross brought him back to the present motion. “Can you do this?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” No way was he moving from his spot next to Owen to let someone else give him breath. Quill could do this, could give him everything he had, every breath left in his own body. Quickly wiping more snow from Owen’s face, Quill fell back on his training, the years of doing this.

  Check airway. Listen to Ross count cycles. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  He lost track of how long they’d been at it, falling into an almost trance until Ross yelled, “Switch.”

  Fuck. His turn for the chest compressions. He’d been here before, knew how severe hypothermia could require long durations of CPR, had felt this burn in his lungs before, but nothing had prepared him for this, for the feeling that it was his own life slipping away. As they moved, he checked for a pulse.

  Please. Please. Please. Something. Anything.

  Thrum. Thrum. It was slow, so slow, and barely there, but hope rushed in, stinging his sinuses, making him shake. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Ross’s fingers brushed his out of the way. “Yeah, I feel that. Let’s keep it going. And hear that? Chopper’s coming.”

  It was his turn to count, and somehow Quill managed it, counting off chest compressions while Ross did the rescue breaths.

  “Switch,” he called, shoulders burning. He reached for Owen’s pulse again right as his neck flexed. A weak, barely-there cough escaped Owen’s lips.

  “That’s it. That’s it. He’s coming around.” Ross straightened, motioning to someone. “Let’s get a backboard over here. We’ve got a pulse and respiration.”

  “Owen.” Quill trailed a finger down Owen’s cheek, oblivious to everything other than Owen’s painfully shallow breaths. “Come back to me. Hang on. Please hang on. I need you.”

  “Medics are here.” Ross tapped Quill on the shoulder. “Gotta let them work, buddy. Come on. We’ve done all we can.”

  Quill honestly wasn’t sure he could have moved on his own, but he let Ross’s firm grip pull him back so that two medics hauling equipment and backboard could move in. He knew the protocol, knew they had to operate as if Owen had a spinal injury until doctors could determine otherwise. But it still hurt, seeing Owen collared and strapped to the board, looking so much smaller and more vulnerable than usual, still not conscious.

  “What’s his name?” the female medic closest to Owen’s face called out.

  “Owen. His name’s Owen Han.” Quill’s voice shook.

  No rescue had ever affected him like this, no gruesome scene could ever prepare him for how awful this was, having his heart, his future, his very purpose for living, lying there, not responding.

  “Owen? Owen, can you hear me? We’re getting you help, okay? I need you to stay with us.” She had a loud but calming voice. “We’re starting oxygen. You’re doing awesome. Keep with us.”

  The medics called out vital signs to each other as they prepared to move Owen, a flurry of activity Quill had seen many times before, but never had it seemed so critical, every movement essential.

  “They’re taking Owen and the second skier first,” Ross reported. “Another transport is coming in for the leg injury victim.”

  “Good.” Quill managed a nod. Most rescue helicopters were only equipped for two victims, so he wasn’t surprised that multiple crews had been required. The team working on Owen finished preparing him for transport, moving the backboard onto a specialty sled that was used for mountain rescues like this. Then they were away, medics moving with the sort of speed and expertise Quill had come to expect from their profession. But somehow this was all different, nothing routine about watching Owen go, not knowing if this was the last time Quill would glimpse his face.

  “We need to focus on clearing the scene safely. Can’t have another avalanche event today.” Ross’s voice was grim. “Willie’s with the leg injury victim now. Let’s you and I try to get the crowd dispersed and back to stable snow.”

  It was something to do. A job. How funny that he’d thought that this was his calling, his one true purpose in life. But in the end, all this was was a uniform. A badge to fall back on. Training to help. Activities he enjoyed. A job. And it had served him well all these years, but it wasn’t his heart. Wasn’t the thing he loved above all else. Wasn’t the one thing that made life worth having. A life spent married to the job was no life at all, or at least not the rich potential of a life with love in it.

  He wanted to rush after the medics, tell Owen all the things he’d realized earlier before the callout, all those words that had finally been ready to come out, tell him that he got it, that he finally understood, and that he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. But he couldn’t, couldn’t risk endangering Owen further by slowing the rescue. No, he’d have to wait. Have to keep up those humble prayers. Have to do his job if only to have something keeping him upright.

  Somehow time marched on. Everyone who wasn’t essential rescue personnel was dispersed back to safer elevations. Then the leg injury victim was away in the second helicopter, and it was time to ride the s
nowmachines back. A rescuer friend of Ross’s had already taken Ross’s machine so that Ross could drive Owen’s back down to the parking lot area.

  “Do you want to call someone?” Ross asked when they reached the lower parking lot.

  “Call?” Who would he call? He didn’t have Owen’s emergency contact numbers with him—would have to call Hattie for those. And even if he called, what would he say? He’d had to make similar calls before, but none that scraped his soul like this.

  “For you,” Ross said gently. “Let’s get a backup ranger in here to cover for you, so you can head to the hospital, check on him. He’s gonna live, Quill. Promise. I’ve never seen you so spooked. Thought he was just a seasonal volunteer. You guys good friends?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, we are.” Quill had a feeling that the full truth was evident on his face, but he was far past giving a damn about what Ross or Willie or anyone else thought.

  “That’s good. He’s gonna need a friend there when he comes around.” Ross kept his voice the same level of considerate. “You think you’re safe to drive? I’ll take you on into Anchorage myself if you want.”

  “I’m safe to drive.” Quill wasn’t sure he could handle miles and miles of being treated like a grenade missing its pin. Pity, even well-intentioned, was almost making him hurt worse, each glance at Ross a reminder of how hard they had both worked to bring Owen back, each kind word another hint at how bad things were. Besides, he knew what calls he needed to make next, and as much as he was out of fucks to give for people’s opinions, he also didn’t need an audience.

  Mainly though, he just needed to reach Owen. As quickly as possible. The need to know how he was clawed at Quill, a vicious, hard-charging beast that wasn’t going to rest until he saw Owen again with his own two eyes, touched him, made certain that he wasn’t ever going to leave Quill again. And whatever it took to get to him, whatever difficulties lay ahead, he’d do it if it meant seeing Owen’s smile again.

  * * *

  Quill wasn’t quite sure how he made it to the hospital. Despite telling Ross he was fine to drive, he probably should have taken him up on the ride because the drive was largely a blur until he reached the large medical center where the rescuers had taken Owen. He made his way through the maze of signs and buildings from the parking structure to end up at the information desk in the main hospital. A tall, broad-shouldered woman with a round, kind face was working the desk, and mercifully there wasn’t a line.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, cheerful tone at odds with the seriousness of Quill’s mission.

  “I’m looking for one of the avalanche victims brought in a few hours ago. Owen Han. What...what can you tell me about where he is?” Quill was proud that his voice didn’t waver even as his heart pounded and legs shook. His knees weren’t going to be able to hold him if the news was bad. The woman typed on her computer, monitor angled where Quill couldn’t peek at what she was seeing.

  “Looks like he’s in ICU.”

  “Alive.” The word came out on a gasp, relief coursing through him. “How is he? Where’s the ICU?”

  “He’s listed as family only for visitors. And I’m limited in what I can share. Are you family?”

  “I’m... We’re...” Coworkers was so far from accurate that the word wouldn’t even form in his mouth, and friends wasn’t much better. Sure, they’d tried to be friends since Owen got sick, but friends didn’t capture any part of how Quill’s insides felt scraped raw, every nerve ending on red alert, every cell aching to see Owen again. That wasn’t friends, and he’d been so very foolish to ever think he could settle for that from Owen. “He’s...”

  Fuck. This shouldn’t be so hard. The woman’s kind face softened further, and she lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “Boyfriend?”

  Funny how years of Quill’s life, decades of fears and insecurities, all came down to a single sharp nod. How could he possibly deny his connection to Owen, miss out on his chance to see him, be with him? He’d brave any sort of exposure if it meant reaching Owen.

  “I’ve got here that we haven’t been able to reach any next of kin. I can probably get you up to the ICU, see if they can give you an update and work with you to find the family. I’m going to page my friend Macy in ICU myself, see what she can do to get you in to see him even briefly.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’ve got someone working on locating emergency contact numbers.” Quill managed a deep, shaky breath. Hardest part done, it was easier to speak now. Hattie hadn’t had access to Owen’s records when Quill had called, but she was working on getting the information. Ordinarily, she’d be the one to make the calls, but given everything else Quill had told her, she’d agreed that he should be the one to call.

  “You were on the avalanche scene?” She gestured at Quill’s official parka and uniform before resuming typing. “That must have been difficult.”

  A quick denial died in Quill’s throat. No more lying or minimizing. “Yeah. It was. He’s...he’s everything to me. I just need to know he’s okay.”

  “I hear you, hon. Let me make a fast call to Macy, see what she knows.” Turning away from Quill, she made a brief call talking in hushed tones before returning her attention to Quill. “She’s on her way. You just take a seat, and she’ll come and take you to him.”

  “Thank you. Really. Thanks. For everything.” Finding the nearest chair, he sank down, head in his hands. Owen might be alive, but he still wasn’t going to rest easy until he knew the prognosis.

  “You here for Owen Han?” A petite woman with dark hair with red tips walked over to stand in front of him. “I’m Macy. Carol says you’re his partner?”

  “Yeah.” Partner. It was such a familiar, comforting term. Far better than friend, and more hopeful even than boyfriend. Partner implied a future, one where they worked everything out. One where Owen was alive and well. Please let him be okay. He followed her to a bank of elevators. “What can you tell me?”

  “He’s alive, and actually in remarkably good shape.” She hit the up button for the elevator. “We’ve got him in the ICU mainly for close monitoring, but he’s been conscious and that’s a great sign. Lots of tests and such still to come, but he’s breathing on his own now.”

  Once they were off the elevator, she led him down a corridor to a glassed-in room with a lot of machines, all of which seemed to be hooked to Owen as they whirred and buzzed. He lay there, still and pale, eyes closed but chest rising and falling in a beautiful rhythm, each exhale sending shivers down Quill’s back. His right arm was heavily bandaged and his hair hopelessly mussed, and Quill had never seen such a beautiful sight.

  “I’m going to give you a few minutes,” Macy murmured, putting a warm hand on Quill’s arm. “He’s probably not going to be up to much if any conversation, but he can definitely hear you, and just sitting with him can be good for both of you. Try and be positive. We don’t want him too agitated as his body works to heal.”

  “Okay.” Quill would have promised headstands if it meant getting this chance to be with Owen. And the last thing he wanted to do was to hinder Owen’s recovery.

  Fuck. Wait. He hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Owen might not want him here. He’d been so focused on simply getting here, and now that he was here, Macy backing out of the room, doubt hit him like a slap of wet snow. What if him being there made everything worse? What if Owen didn’t need him or his concern? What if it was simply too late for them?

  Feet rooted to the linoleum, he wasted several precious minutes, just watching Owen breathe and trying to decide what if anything to say. But he hadn’t come this far to let fear win, so he made himself take one step and then another. God, Owen looked so fragile in the bed, covered in the warming blankets they used with hypothermia patients. The bruises on his face stood out in stark relief to his pale skin.

  “Owen,” he whispered, coming up next to the left side of the bed,
too scared about jostling some of the cords and wires to touch him as he longed to do. Owen’s eyes stayed shut, respirations slow and steady. “Owen, it’s me. Quill. I’m here.” Felt a little weird, talking to Owen’s sleeping body, but simply saying the words grounded Quill. And Owen’s closed eyes also gave him courage he might not have had, had he been awake. “Keep fighting. I need you to fight. Need you to be okay. Need to you to come back to me.”

  Owen’s chest shuddered and a machine beeped before settling again. His eyes fluttered before he coughed weakly. “Here. ’M here.”

  Yes. There were no words for the lightness in Quill’s chest at Owen’s whispered words. “Shh. They need you to rest. You don’t have to talk. I’m here too, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Never had he meant a sentence more. He wasn’t going anywhere ever again, not without Owen, and he was ready to fight for that, fight for him, fight for them. Whatever happened next, Quill was here for Owen, here for them both and the future he now desperately wanted. If the universe was going to be so kind as to give Quill this second chance, no way was he fucking it up.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Owen was warm and itchy. The itchiness teased at the edges of his consciousness until it forced him awake. And warm and awake were good things. Last thing he had any memory of was cold darkness closing in, so warm was excellent, as was awake even if he had to blink against bright lights. And itchy, itchy was awesome because it meant he wasn’t dead. He was pretty sure the afterlife didn’t include sweating or feeling like ants were marching all over his skin, little armies of creepy crawlies making him groan. Gradually, he became more aware of his body—the throb in his arm, the heaviness in his limbs, pinching sensations in weird places. His surroundings also started to come into focus—windowless hospital room with whirring equipment, hard bed underneath him. A rising sense of being alone made panic skate along his nerves until his eyes spied a figure slumped in a chair.