Author's Notes: More of my New Year's Resolution to "write more." This one is from Merlin Missy's HG/GL Ficathon request: Shayera rescues John. FYI, "icy calm" is a phrase used often in "Remington Steele" and it's just my little tribute to my original fandom. This is exactly 500 words. Which makes it, what? A quintuple drabble? :-P
The frozen fingers of John's left hand dug weakly at the snow in the direction he hoped was up. He couldn't move his legs or feel his right arm; he couldn't control his ring. And he hoped the blackness he saw was because of the depth he was buried, not because he'd been rendered blind by the repeated blows to his head.
John gasped for the last threads of air in the snow pocket and yelled for help again, but he feared no one was around to hear. Even his communicator was silent...or missing...as he couldn't feel anything but ice in his ears. John tried for another breath of thin oxygen and choked. Had his vision not already been black, he was sure it would be fading.
He thought of Dove, of the three skiers, of Killer Frost, and hoped he'd blasted them far enough above the avalanche for them to clear the slide, but not so far as to cause them serious injury when they hit the ground again. Well, maybe Killer Frost did deserve a broken bone or two for causing the avalanche in the first place. John chuckled then coughed.
His eyelids drooped and visions of Mari filled his mind. He pictured her touching her amulet, getting the power of a badger or some such burrowing creature and digging her way down to him. He snorted, visualizing Mari digging like a dog in the snow.
John's smirk faded. He'd had her like that once. She'd insisted. John hated every second of it and only continued until she screamed with pleasure. He never got off that night.
"She faked it," he mumbled. Then he laughed and coughed and laughed some more. "I'm dying," he said, and that, too, seemed exceptionally funny.
He gasped and his head split with pain. "Ouch." His head hadn't hurt like that since... "Shit."
That damned Hawkgirl always smacking him upside the head with that damned mace. John frowned. "Fuck her," he said. "Fuck her to hell." He flipped the bird at the bird. His head lolled and his eyes teared up.
Everything was so quiet.
Gonna be dead soon, he told himself. Better make peace, Stewart. He sucked in the last of the air. "S'rry, Mari. So...s'rry," he slurred. "Ples...f'rgive me. Still...love you...Shay...era."
Death was surprisingly painless. The light at the end of the tunnel was brighter than he ever could have imagined, and he turned his face toward it willingly. An angel in white reached down to him and took his hand. The warmth of her touch was familiar and welcome, like something he'd always known yet always longed for. The angel pulled him up toward heaven and he knew he was going home.
His eyes fluttered.
"He's alive!" Shayera yelled. "Get the med team over here!"
John looked up and forced his eyes to focus. "My snow angel," he whispered.
"Right. See my wings?" she said as a blanket was dropped over him. He never let go of her hand.