𓍯𓂃 THEY FIND YOU PASSED OUT IN THE SNOW
PREMISE . . . In which you were caught wandering through a blizzard in Snezhnaya. They happen to be out in the blizzard for their own reasons when they spot a distant figure emerging through the whiteout, only to realize it's you. After the two of you meet eyes for one fleeting moment, you finally collapse from exhaustion and the cold, leaving them to rush to your aid. ꫂ᭪݁ STARRING . . . mitya, valeriy, alyosha, tartaglia, dottore (in order) + gender neutral! reader
⚠︎ WARNING . . . › sfw!!, word count : 5k total / 1k per character, hypothermia, fainting, mentions of fever, use of [name], dottore being harsh, hints of s3lf-harm, established relationship, comfort, mild angst, protective behavior
note . somewhat proofread, mild spoilers of 7.0 snezhnaya archon quest (?) mostly places from snezhnaya being mentioned + i think i had too much fun writing dottore's part hmm
── ( 𝐦. ) Mitya was completely frozen the moment he realized the figure emerging through the blizzard was you. He had been focused on his fieldwork, following an unusual energy fluctuation that had leaked beyond Glupov and appeared on his equipment despite the worsening weather, so at first he only registered the approaching silhouette as another person caught in the storm.
He raised his voice through the wind, asking who was there, and when the figure finally came close enough for the snow to stop obscuring your face, his entire train of thought simply collapsed. His eyes widened, his expression going almost blank with disbelief as he stared at you. "[Name]..?" Your head lifted at the sound of his voice, and your eyes met his through the swirling snow.
Mitya couldn't move at all. He just stared, almost as though his mind couldn't accept that you were actually standing there. You looked equally exhausted, snow clinging to your hair, shoulders trembling beneath clothing that had clearly done very little to protect you from the storm, and there was something in your expression that made his confusion slowly turn into alarm.
"Mitya," you finally whispered, his name so faint that he almost wondered whether he'd imagined hearing it. "I'm here," he immediately answered, taking a step toward you. "What are you doing—?" He reached toward you, his eyes searching your face as though trying to understand how you'd ended up here, but before he could ask anything, your knees suddenly gave way. "[Name]!" The paralysis shattered instantly. Mitya lunged forward and caught you as your body collapsed, pulling you against his chest before you hit the snow. "No— hey, hey, stay with me!" His hands immediately moved over you, checking your breathing and searching for your pulse, and the moment he touched you properly, the panic became even worse.
You were freezing, not merely cold from standing in the storm for a few minutes, but frighteningly chilled throughout, your body almost completely limp against him. He brushed the snow from your face with shaking fingers, repeatedly calling your name and trying to get some response from you.
"Come on. Open your eyes." He stared at your closed eyelids, then down at your chest, watching desperately for its rise and fall. The questions he'd been trying to ask disappeared entirely beneath one overwhelming realization, you'd been walking through that blizzard for a long time, and he'd found you only because you'd somehow managed to keep moving until you reached him.
His equipment was forgotten in the snow behind him. The energy fluctuation that had brought him outside the city could cease to exist for all he cared. He gathered you into his arms, immediately wrapping his coat around you and shielding your face against his chest before carrying you toward shelter with a frightening urgency that made his normally composed movements almost frantic.
Once inside, Mitya became intensely focused, carefully getting you out of your frozen outer layers and replacing them with dry clothing and blankets while making certain you were warmed gradually.
His hands still trembled every so often, especially whenever he remembered how your knees had simply given out beneath you, but he forced himself to concentrate on what needed to be done.
Once everything he could do had been done, Mitya finally stopped moving, standing there for a moment as though he had only just realized how exhausted he was. His breathing was still uneven from carrying you through the storm, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked down at you beneath the thick blankets.
A warm, damp towel rested gently across your forehead, your face finally beginning to regain some color as you lay quietly, your breathing soft and steady beneath the covers. He watched the rise and fall of your chest for several seconds, almost as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly safe now.
His shoulders gradually lowered, and he let out a long, shaky breath before sitting beside you. The room was finally quiet, and without the frantic movement of getting you warm and settled, the reality of what had happened began catching up with him.
His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, his expression softening with exhausted relief, before he gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your forehead. His hands were steadier now, though there was still a faint tremor in his fingers. He kept talking quietly as he worked, partly to keep himself grounded and partly because the silence left him alone with the image of you collapsing in his arms. "You know, I was supposed to be looking for an energy fluctuation tonight," he murmured, his thumb carefully smoothing along your hairline. "It leaked outside of Glupov, and I thought I'd just have to come out here, check the readings, make a few notes, and go back to report what happened." A breathless, humorless laugh escaped him as he glanced down at you. "You... really couldn't have picked a less terrifying way to get my attention, could you?" The attempt at humor didn't quite hide how shaken he was.
Once you were made comfortable and your condition had stabilized, he sat beside you rather than returning to his work, keeping one hand near yours and checking your breathing every few minutes.
Every small movement from you immediately drew his attention. A twitch of your fingers, a change in your breathing, even the faintest shift beneath the blankets had him looking down with renewed concern.
After he sat down, he gently took your hand, his fingers carefully closing around yours as though he were afraid even the slightest pressure might disturb you. His thumb slowly brushed back and forth across your knuckles, lingering over the warmth gradually returning to your skin while his eyes remained fixed on your sleeping face.
For a moment, he simply sat there in silence, his expression softening as he watched your breathing settle into an even rhythm. Then he lifted your hand slightly and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles before lowering it back onto the blanket, "You really scared me."
── ( 𝒗. ) Valeriy would be traveling with a small unit of Fatui soldiers while inspecting a remote outpost, the worsening weather already making the journey considerably more difficult than it had been when they first set out. He would remain composed despite the blizzard, walking near the front of the group while giving short, precise instructions about their route and the condition of the road.
Snow would lash against his coat and collect along his shoulders, visibility gradually shrinking until the soldiers behind him became little more than blurred silhouettes. Then, through the thick curtain of white, he would catch sight of something moving in the distance.
Valeriy would immediately raise one gloved hand, bringing the entire group to a halt. The sudden silence among the soldiers would feel almost unnatural beneath the roar of the wind. He'd narrow his eyes toward the distant figure, watching it disappear behind a wave of blowing snow before emerging again several paces farther away. It wasn't moving normally. There was an unevenness to its steps, a slow, staggering rhythm that made his instincts immediately tighten.
He'd order the others to remain where they were and advance alone, his pace increasing with every step. The figure would become clearer the closer he came, until the familiar shape of your clothing finally emerged through the storm. He would stop dead. For a fraction of a second, Valeriy would simply stare, his usual impassive expression giving way to something much harder to conceal.
"[Name]." His voice would cut through the wind, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your face would be pale from the cold, snow caught in your hair and eyelashes, your entire body visibly exhausted from however long you'd been walking through the storm. Then your eyes would meet his.
Valeriy would remain completely still, staring at you as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly standing there. Recognition would flicker across your face, followed by a faint movement of your lips. "Valeriy..." The sound would barely reach him, but he would hear it.
He'd take another step toward you, his attention narrowing entirely onto your face. "What are you doing here?" Yet before you could answer, your expression would suddenly lose focus. Your knees would buckle beneath you. "No." Valeriy would move instantly, catching you before you struck the ground, one arm securing your back while the other supported your head. Your body would feel alarmingly cold in his arms, far colder than it should have been, and his expression would harden as he checked your breathing and pulse. For one awful moment, he'd find himself waiting for the reassurance of a heartbeat. When he finally felt it, he'd release a controlled breath. "They're alive." His voice would be quiet but absolute. He'd immediately turn toward the soldiers, his expression remaining cold and composed despite the urgency underneath it. "We're heading back. All of us. Now." His gaze would sweep across the unit, leaving no room for hesitation. "Forget the inspection. I want everyone back at Snezhnograd immediately. Stay together, keep to the marked route, and don't fall behind." His eyes would briefly drop to you before returning to the soldiers. "Move."
He'd remove his own outer layer and cover you with it, shielding your face from the wind before lifting you fully into his arms.
He wouldn't allow one of the soldiers to take you from him. Instead, he'd carry you himself, keeping your head supported against his shoulder while repeatedly checking your breathing as they made their way back toward the city.
Once they reached Snezhnograd, Valeriy would take complete control of the situation. He'd have the heating system started immediately, order blankets and dry clothing brought in, and summon whoever was capable of assessing your condition.
Every instruction would be concise and deliberate, his usual cold efficiency becoming almost severe as he refused to let anyone waste time. He'd personally oversee your treatment, making sure you were warmed gradually and that your breathing and pulse remained stable, occasionally reaching down to check your hand himself.
The soldiers would notice that he hadn't left your side, though nobody would be foolish enough to comment on it. Valeriy would sit beside you once everything necessary had been arranged, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable as he watched your sleeping face.
Eventually, your fingers would twitch, and his gaze would immediately sharpen. When you finally stirred, he'd lean forward without hesitation, his hand closing around yours. "Look at me." His voice would remain controlled, but the intensity behind it would reveal how closely he'd been watching you.
Your eyes would slowly open, unfocused at first before settling on him. "You're safe." He'd pause, studying your face for any sign that you were still struggling to remain conscious. Only once he was certain you were awake would the questions begin. Where had you come from? How long had you been out there? Why had you gone into the storm alone?
He'd want every detail, but he wouldn't bombard you while you were still weak. Instead, he'd let you answer at your own pace, quietly listening while his thumb rested against your hand. Beneath the composed exterior, however, the discovery would continue to haunt him. He had seen you standing in the middle of a blizzard and, for one terrible moment, believed he might have arrived too late.
That possibility would be enough to make him unusually reluctant to leave your side. Even once you were stable, he'd remain in the chair beside you, his coat still draped over your shoulders and his hand still loosely holding yours. Whatever business had brought him to the outpost could be delegated. The blizzard could rage outside for another hour, another night, or longer. Valeriy would remain exactly where he was, silently watching over you until he was certain you were truly out of danger.
── ( 𝐚. ) Alyosha would be deep in the wilderness when the blizzard began to roll in, the snowfall growing heavier by the minute until the familiar paths around him were becoming difficult to distinguish. Tugarin would normally remain close, responding immediately whenever Alyosha called him back, but this time the dog would seem strangely distracted.
Alyosha would stop beside a cluster of snow-covered trees and call out, "Tugarin." No response. He'd wait a moment, listening for the familiar sound of paws moving through the snow, then call again, sharper this time. "Tugarin, come here." Still nothing. His expression would immediately tighten.
Tugarin wasn't the sort of dog to ignore him without reason. Alyosha would start moving through the snow, following the faint disturbances in the powder while calling his name again, but the dog would suddenly appear farther ahead before turning and running in the opposite direction. "Tugarin!" Alyosha would call after him, irritation briefly flashing across his face as he hurried to follow.
The dog would disappear behind a curtain of snow, forcing Alyosha to pick up his pace, and by the time he finally caught sight of him again, Tugarin would be standing beside someone half-buried in the snow. Alyosha would slow immediately.
You were barely standing, your legs trembling beneath you as you leaned heavily against Tugarin for support, one hand weakly resting against his fur. Tugarin would be whining and nudging at you, clearly refusing to leave your side. You'd weakly try to push him away, murmuring through chattering breaths, "Tugarin, please." as though you were worried you'd somehow drag him into danger with you. Tugarin wouldn't listen. He'd press closer instead, standing firmly between you and the storm.
Alyosha would watch the scene for several seconds, his suspicion immediately sharpening at the sight of an unfamiliar person so far from any safe path. He'd take a few careful steps forward, one hand instinctively moving toward his weapon. Tugarin would glance back at him but still wouldn't move. Then you would finally lift your head.
Your eyes would meet Alyosha's through the swirling snow, and everything would seem to become strangely still for a moment. He'd recognize you. His expression would change immediately. "[Name]? Why..?" You'd stare at him, your face pale and exhausted, snow gathered along your lashes and hair. Your lips would part as though you were trying to answer him, but no sound would come. Alyosha would lower his hand from his weapon and approach quickly, his attention moving between you and Tugarin. He'd see the way your knees were trembling, the way you were struggling simply to remain upright, and the realization that you'd been walking through the storm for far too long would settle heavily in his mind. "[Name], you need to get to someplace warm. Now." He'd reach toward you, but your strength would finally give out. Your knees would buckle, your body collapsing forward as Tugarin gave a sharp whine and Alyosha caught you before you could hit the snow.
Alyosha would immediately pull you against himself and check your breathing and pulse, his usual quiet composure replaced by a sudden, controlled urgency. "[Name]—!" You were frighteningly cold, your body nearly limp in his arms, and the sight would make his jaw tighten.
He'd look toward the trail behind you, studying the partially buried footprints and the direction they came from, already trying to determine how long you'd been wandering alone. Tugarin would stay pressed against Alyosha's leg, whining softly while watching you, and Alyosha would glance down at him before returning his attention to you.
Alyosha would glance down at Tugarin, his expression softening slightly despite the urgency of the situation. "Good boy. I knew I shouldn't have doubted you." He'd give the dog a brief pat along the head before looking back at you, immediately noticing how badly you were trembling. "Now we need to get [Name] back to the shelter before they get sick from being out here this long." He'd pull off his cloak and wrap it securely around you before carefully lifting you into his arms, keeping you close against his chest to shield you from the wind.
Alyosha would make his way back toward his place with Tugarin following immediately at his heels, occasionally running ahead before circling back to make certain Alyosha was still coming.
Once they reached their destination, Alyosha would carefully lay you down and begin warming you gradually, replacing your damp outer layers with dry, warm clothing, giving you thick blankets, and keeping you close to the heat source while having a close watch on your breathing.
Tugarin would settle on the bed, his head resting near your arm, occasionally lifting his ears whenever you moved. Alyosha would notice every little change. He'd check your pulse between tasks, adjust the blanket around your shoulders, and brush your hair with careful fingers.
The questions would already be forming in his mind, but he wouldn't ask them yet. Not while you were unconscious. When your eyes eventually opened, Tugarin would be the first to react, his head lifting immediately before he gave a few barks and nudged closer.
Alyosha would lean toward you, watching carefully for signs of confusion or weakness. "Wait, stay still, your body's still weak from the high fever you have." His voice would remain low and firm. "You're safe now." He'd let you gather yourself before asking what happened, listening closely to every word and every hesitation. His suspicion wouldn't disappear simply because you were his lover, seeing you emerge from a blizzard barely able to stand had already told him something was terribly wrong. Still, none of that would matter until you were strong enough to speak.
For the rest of the night, Alyosha would remain beside you with Tugarin curled nearby, the two of them keeping watch while the storm raged outside.
── ( 𝒄. ) Childe would be traveling through the region on Fatui business when the blizzard suddenly became severe enough to force his group away from their original route. The storm would be little more than an inconvenience to him, Snezhnaya had never been particularly kind about the weather, and Tartaglia was hardly the sort of person to let a little snow ruin his mood.
Then, in the midst of his walk, he'd catch sight of something moving through the whiteout. His voice would trail off. He'd turn his head toward the distant figure, narrowing his eyes as it appeared and disappeared behind the violently blowing snow. "Hold on." His sharp voice would be enough to make the soldiers stop on their tracks. Tartaglia would already be moving before they could ask what he'd seen.
The figure was walking toward them, though barely. Every few steps seemed to take an unreasonable amount of effort, the person's silhouette swaying in the wind as though the storm itself were pushing them backward.
Tartaglia's pace would quicken, his expression gradually losing every trace of amusement as something about the figure began to feel horribly familiar. Then the snow would shift, revealing your face. He'd stop for half a heartbeat, genuinely stunned.
"[Name]...?" You'd hear him and slowly lift your head, your eyes finding his through the storm. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you would move. Tartaglia would simply stare at you, his eyes widening as he took in the snow tangled through your hair, your pale face, and the way your body was trembling beneath your clothes.
You'd look at him with an exhausted sort of recognition, your lips parting as though you were trying to say his name. "Hey, I'm here." He'd take another hurried step toward you, his hand already reaching out. "My love, what are you doing out here? You'll get sick if you stay out like this." You wouldn't get the chance to answer. Your knees would suddenly buckle beneath you, your entire body giving out as though whatever had been keeping you upright had finally run out. Tartaglia's expression would snap from disbelief to panic. "[Name]—!" He'd rush forward and catch you before you struck the ground, dropping hard onto his knees in the snow with your weight collapsing against his chest, ignoring the loud calls from his soldiers behind them. His hands would immediately move over you, checking your breathing and pulse with frantic precision. "Hey— [Name], look at me!" He'd brush the snow from your face, his voice becoming increasingly urgent when you didn't respond. "Come on, sweetheart. Open your eyes." The moment his fingers found your pulse, he'd release a sharp breath, relief hitting him so suddenly that it almost made him dizzy. "You're okay." He'd say it under his breath, almost as though he needed to hear the words himself. Then he'd pull you closer, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "You're going to be okay. I've got you." He'd barely spare a glance toward the soldiers before ordering them to get the nearest shelter ready.
Whatever mission he'd been on no longer mattered. He'd lift you carefully into his arms and carry you through the snow himself, keeping your head tucked securely against his shoulder while repeatedly looking down to make sure you were still breathing.
The moment he reached shelter, Tartaglia's usual energy would turn into something much more frantic and focused. He'd get the fire going, call for blankets, make sure there was warm water available, and carefully remove the snow-soaked layers from your clothing before wrapping you in everything he could find.
He'd keep touching your hands and face, checking that the horrible chill was gradually leaving your skin, and every few seconds his eyes would return to your chest to make sure it was still rising and falling.
He'd keep talking to you despite knowing you couldn't answer, because the silence would leave too much space for his thoughts to spiral. "You really know how to scare me, huh?" he'd murmur while brushing the damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "I was already thinking about what would've happened if I lost you right there." He'd let out a quiet breath, trying to laugh but failing to make it sound convincing. "So you have to wake up now, okay? That's an order." His hand would linger against your cheek before he finally pulled back, watching you with an almost painfully attentive gaze.
He'd remember the way you'd looked at him through the snow, the way you'd managed to say his name before your body simply gave up, and the thought would keep returning no matter how many times he tried to push it aside.
When you finally stirred, Tartaglia would notice immediately. He'd lean forward so quickly that the chair beneath him would scrape against the floor, his eyes locking onto yours the moment they opened. For a second, he'd simply stare, as though he needed to make sure you were actually awake this time.
Then he'd let out a shaky laugh, lowering his head with obvious relief. "Good morning, sunshine." He'd press his forehead gently against yours, closing his eyes for a moment as his hand settled carefully against the side of your face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see those pretty eyes open."
Childe would stay close, letting you regain your strength while he continued checking your body temperature, adjusting your blankets, and making sure you had everything you needed.
His teasing nature would gradually return once he was certain you were truly safe, though it would be gentler than usual. He might complain that you'd given him the worst scare imaginable, or joke that he was going to start tying a bell around your ankle whenever you wandered off, but his hand would remain wrapped around yours throughout it all.
Beneath every joke would linger the memory of finding you in that storm, of watching you meet his eyes for one fleeting moment before collapsing into his arms, and Tartaglia wouldn't forget that sight anytime soon.
── ( 𝒅. ) Dottore would be conducting a field investigation in the middle of the blizzard, having deliberately ventured beyond the city to examine how the extreme conditions were affecting one of his instruments. The storm would be violent enough to turn the surrounding landscape into an indistinguishable expanse of white, yet he would remain remarkably composed, periodically checking his equipment and making mental notes about the fluctuations in temperature and pressure.
His attention would be fixed on the instrument when something in the snow would catch his eye, a disturbance that seemed too deliberate to be caused by the wind. He'd stop, his gaze narrowing behind his mask as he examined the shape from a distance. It would look almost like debris at first, half-covered by snow, but the longer he stared, the more unmistakably human it became.
Dottore would approach with measured curiosity, expecting an unknown variable rather than anything personal, until the snow shifted and revealed a familiar piece of clothing. His pace would slow. He'd recognize you.
For several seconds, he wouldn't move at all. The sight would be so unexpected that even his analytical mind would need a moment to process it, his eyes fixed on you as though the scene before him were some impossible contradiction.
You were out here. Alone. In this weather. His expression would become unreadable as he approached, his attention immediately cataloguing every visible detail, the snow caught in your hair, the pallor of your face, the sluggish way your body moved beneath the weight of your clothes.
"[Name]." His voice would carry through the storm, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your eyes would find his. For a long moment, neither of you would look away. Dottore would watch the recognition settle into your exhausted expression, and beneath that, something resembling relief.
You'd look at him as though seeing him was enough to convince you that you had finally reached somewhere safe. He'd take another step closer, his gaze sharpening as he noticed how difficult it was for you to remain upright. "What are you doing here?" There would be no answer.
Your lips would part, but your voice wouldn't come. Your eyelids would begin to droop. Dottore would immediately notice the change. "How long have you—" He'd reach toward you just as your knees gave way. Your body would slump forward, and he'd catch you before your head struck the snow, one arm securing you against him while his other hand immediately searched for your pulse.
The detached composure he'd maintained until then would become something much more intensely focused. He'd check your breathing, feel the temperature of your skin, examine your pupils, and assess every sign of consciousness he could find.
The realization that you were dangerously cold would make his jaw tighten beneath the mask. He'd remove his coat and wrap it around you, pulling you securely against his chest before lifting you from the snow. The instrument he'd been studying would be left exactly where he'd abandoned it. Whatever scientific curiosity had brought him into the storm had become completely irrelevant.
His entire attention would now be fixed on you, on the frightening stillness of your body, and on the fact that he'd arrived just in time to catch you before you disappeared beneath the snow.
Once Dottore brought you back to the small laboratory he had been using as a temporary base, the entire room would immediately fall under his control. The few subordinates working inside would barely have time to react before he carried you through the door and ordered them to clear the nearest examination table.
His coat would be dusted with snow, your body still wrapped tightly against his chest, and the expression beneath his mask would be so severe that nobody would dare waste a second asking what had happened.
"Move." A subordinate would hurry forward to help take you from him, only for Dottore to turn his head sharply. "Don't touch them." His voice would be cold enough to stop them in their tracks. He'd lower you himself, carefully arranging your frozen limbs before immediately checking your pulse, breathing, and temperature. Someone would bring blankets and attempt to help arrange them around you, and Dottore would snap without even looking up, "I said I'll handle it." Another subordinate might mention that they could prepare the equipment while he worked, only for him to give them a cutting glance. "Then prepare it without standing over my shoulder."
The laboratory would become unnaturally quiet as everyone returned to their tasks, leaving Dottore to work with frightening concentration. He'd remove the snow-damp clothing, replace it with dry layers, wrap you securely in blankets, and carefully regulate the warmth around you.
Every movement would be deliberate, every measurement recorded, his fingers repeatedly checking your pulse as though he refused to trust the numbers until he'd verified them himself. He'd brush frozen strands of hair away from your face, studying the faint color returning to your skin, then straighten and finally release a controlled breath. You were stable. For the moment.
He'd remain there another few minutes, watching your breathing, before abruptly stepping away to check the equipment he'd abandoned earlier. He'd return after a short while, glance down at you, and find you still unconscious.
Another interval would pass before he left again, giving instructions to a subordinate to alert him immediately should your condition change.
Each time he returned, his eyes would go straight to you. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse remained present, yet you stubbornly refused to wake. The pattern would begin irritating him, not because your unconsciousness was unexpected, but because he'd already calculated roughly when your body should begin responding.
He'd stand beside the table, arms folded, staring down at you for several seconds before quietly remarking, "You really intend to make this inconvenient, don't you?"
Eventually, Dottore would return to your side for what felt like the hundredth time, finding you exactly where he'd left you. His gaze would linger over your sleeping face, his expression becoming increasingly unreadable as the minutes passed. He'd sit beside the table and carefully take your hand, feeling the warmth that had finally begun returning to your fingers.
His thumb would move slowly across your knuckles, almost absentmindedly, while his attention remained fixed on you. He'd lean closer, lowering his voice so that the subordinates across the laboratory couldn't overhear. "My dear, if this was an attempt to hurt yourself, you selected an exceedingly inefficient method." His thumb would pause against your hand. "And doing it while I happen to be nearby is particularly foolish." There would be something almost scolding in his tone, though his fingers would remain surprisingly gentle. He'd study your face for another moment before continuing, quieter now, "You could have simply come to me." A faint sigh would escape him as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders. "Whatever compelled you to walk into that storm can be dealt with. There is no reason to make me reconstruct the circumstances from a half-frozen body."
He'd leave again eventually, returning to his work because he refused to spend every second hovering over you, yet he wouldn't get far. A few minutes later, his attention would drift from his notes toward the examination table. Then he'd stand, cross the laboratory, and check your pulse once more.
The cycle would repeat until one of his subordinates finally became brave enough to point out that he had checked you several times in the span of an hour. Dottore would give them a flat stare. "And?" That would be the end of the discussion.
When your eyelids finally fluttered much later, his attention would snap toward you immediately. He'd approach without hurry, though the speed with which he reached your side would betray how closely he'd been waiting. "There." His voice would soften by a fraction as your eyes struggled to focus. He'd lean down, one hand steadying your shoulder while the other remained around your wrist.
"Stay still." Once he was certain you were conscious, he'd study your face with intense scrutiny before quietly adding, "Now you can explain why you were walking around in the middle of a blizzard." His tone would be calm, almost clinical, but his hand would remain around yours throughout the questioning, unwilling to relinquish that small point of contact now that he'd finally gotten you awake.
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