singillatim | Being born again into the sweet morning fog

Thomas nods, already taking a few steps away, grabbing onto Crozier's sleeve to pull him along.

"Go!" he calls to him and makes for the nearest cabin. It's a bit of a run, but he pushes himself, sucking in air that seems to never be enough.

Despite his own warning just seconds prior, Crozier has to stumble into a run over the rough terrain. They hadn’t taken a well-trod path or road in their search for firewood, a smart decision for scavenging proving to be a very big mistake.

He just manages to keep up with Jopson, dodging rocks and brush and trees as he’s whipped about by the younger man’s steady grip on his sleeve.

Thomas finds the cabin and throws them both into it, turning to close the door and lean against it, catching his breath.

"Are you alright?" he asks, not turning away, instead staring at the window as the green fog travels lazily towards them.

Crozier doesn’t stop moving, rushing to that exact window to make sure the seal is watertight. No leaks, that green fog shouldn’t find its way into the cabin that way.

God help them if there’s a hole in a wall or the roof.

“Fine, just fine,” he pants softly. He turns to watch the slowly-creeping fog, getting the horrifying sense that it’s somehow sentient. “Can you breathe?”

Thomas nods. "Yes. Just fine."

He glances around the dilapidated cabin, unsuitable for living but just fine as a quick shelter. No one's been here in a long time, the dust almost an inch thick in places. It's fine for now, he tells himself.

But the door isn't as tight as the window. It's a little crooked, the foundation warped underneath. He notices the cracks under the door just as the fog starts to peek through. Thomas dives for the floor, throwing an arm out against it. "Find a blanket!" he calls out just as the fog touches his skin.

And burns.

Oh goddammit, Jopson, always with the bloody self-sacrificing! Crozier wheels around and looks for something to plug the crack as deliberately and as calmly as one can when there's green smoke entering the room. He overturns boxes and pulls drawers out and onto the floor, eventually turning with some tattered bits of flannel, an old towel, and a piece of what looks like canvas but feels stiff and crinkles in his hand.

"Here, here," he says, trying to move Jopson to put the various pieces of cloth in his place. "Out of the way!"

Thomas backs away from the smoke, trembling a little in pain as the fog seems to cling to his arm. He had been so warm outside, cutting wood and hauling it, and now he curses the fact that he had rolled his sleeves up so far.

He watches as Crozier plugs the hole and tries to breathe through the hurt.

Crozier’s concerned with plugging up the damn holes, so much so he doesn’t notice that Jopson happens to be hurting because of the green fog. Not at first anyway. He has to shake out his own hand as he backs away, feeling the sting of frostbite (or something more sinister) from his brief contact with the fog.

“What the hell is this. Thomas -?”

He turns, then finally takes note of Jopson’s pale mien.

He's already taken his little bottle of water and is pouring the water on it, wincing a little. "Did it get you?" he wonders without looking away from his arm.

“Just my fingers,” he says dismissively, and with no real certainty because of how little he can feel his remaining hand. He’s far more concerned with Jopson, the way he’s trying to soothe his own skin.

“Let me see.”

He holds out his arm, which has turned bright red but hasn't penetrated any deeper than the top layer of skin.

"It isn't terrible," he assures him.

He reaches for him, taking his wrist in his hand to lift it for closer inspection. His hold is gentle though, careful in case the injury is extensive and Jopson is hiding the truth from him.

He looks him over and then lowers the hand once more with a soft grunt of affirmation. His attention's quickly back on the green mist outside the window, now looming threateningly.

Thomas rolls down his sleeves. He left his coat back up on that hill and now the chill's got to him. Now the - everything - has gotten to him.

He rubs his arms and starts looking around for a way to build a fire.

"We are here for a while," he says, deliberately not looking at the fog in the window.

Hell. They probably will be here for a while, considering that fog looks like it’s lingering outside the door just waiting for them to step outside.

“I’ll look for kindling,” he grunts, already turning away to search for something useable. He’s optimistic - the cabin’s abandoned, but not dilapidated. “Check the stove, see if it’s in good condition to start a fire?”

"It is," he says. "We need tinder and something to start it with."

Which is what he's currently scouring the kitchen for. There's tattered papers in one of the drawers, which he starts to tear into kindling.

“I’ve got some matches on me, if we can get enough to burn we’ll be fine until the fog passes.” This isn’t the first time he’s had to stop and make a fire lest he freeze to death. It’s a common occurrence, almost as common as the wild nonsense that stalks them here.

He returns with a few odds and ends - splintered furniture, stacks of small logs and branches from the previous occupant, the remains of some sort of wooden crate. He sets everything down by the stove and then gives Jopson the matches and thus free rein to take over entirely. He’s more efficient than him for a multitude of reasons.

He kneels down and takes the little pieces and parts, starting a fire on his first try. The warmth of the fire is something so precious to him that he can't even fathom wasting something as precious as matches on this.

"There," he says once it's built. "That should be alright for now."

He trusts Jopson with his work, even when he's clearly still in pain. "That's good, now sit." He does so first, right by the stove, and looks to Jopson to follow. "Show me the arm."

It's burned, bright red and some blistering, but nothing that seems to be worsening.

"There is nothing to see," he insists.

Oh, like hell there’s nothing to see! Jopson’s the worst patient, right after physicians themselves.

“Those blisters say otherwise,” he counters, looking as stern as he can possibly be around the man who combed his hair when he was ill. “Christ, what sort of fog can burn?”

"It seems the green sort, sir," he says with an absolutely straight face. He takes a bit more of the water and rinses his arm again, making sure that none of it remains on his skin.

He stares back at Jopson with one eyebrow raised. "That's a terrible habit, making light of a personal pain. I assumed you picked it up from an former employer.

"Perhaps. I did have a rather rigid employer," he says, smirking despite himself.

"Now, what did I say? Nothing to see." He holds his arm out to him.

"Rigidly handsome," he mutters cheekily.

Crozier raises his left arm to let Jopson's rest on his, looking over the skin for any sign of lasting damage. "I'm unconvinced. You're not a doctor."

"Goodsir is too far away," he mutters. "Beyond the fog." He lets his hand rest on his arm.

"It will be fine for now and I will have him look it over."

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