She's cold. Goddamn it, she's cold.
Of course she was. She'd been in the river. In October.
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused, the worries shooed, annoying but not incapacitating. He performed the rescue breathing and then the chest compressions and then the breathing and--
She coughed. He had his mouth to hers, and he pulled back fast, struck by the ludicrous fear that she'd "catch" him. Yet she lay completely still, as if he'd imagined the cough, and he tilted her head, ready to check her airway to see if anything was blocking it. Then she coughed again, sputtering now, water dribbling from her mouth, and he turned her over, knocking his hand between her shoulder blades, and he wasn't sure if that was the right thing, but it felt right. She coughed up more water. Then he turned her onto her back, and she flopped there, completely still.
He reached for her chin, pulled her face to his, over hers. Her eyelids fluttered. Then they opened. Her lips parted, and she croaked, "Gabriel."
"I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe. We're--"
Her eyes shut again.
"Olivia?" He gripped her shoulder and gave her a shake. "Olivia? You can sleep in a moment. Just tell me you're all right."
Her head lolled to the side.
"Olivia."
He shook her harder while his free hand checked for a pulse, for breathing, and found both. Her eyes opened a sliver.
"Gabriel."
"Yes, right, now stay with me. Just for a moment. Tell me--"
Her eyes closed again.
"Goddamn it!"
He wanted her to sit up, talk to him. She seemed to be all right, but it was difficult to tell with a wet jacket and jeans plastered to her. Taking them off didn't seem wise. When she began shivering, he looked around for something to put on her, which was foolish, of course. They were on a concrete platform barely big enough to hold them--there wasn't a hidden stash of emergency blankets.
Olivia was shivering now. Hypothermia.
As further proof that perhaps he was not quite mentally alert himself, he found himself reaching into his nonexistent jacket for his phone to look up the treatment for hypothermia.
What did he know about hypothermia...?
Absolutely fucking nothing. Why would he?
> I must know something.
Warm up the victim.
Oh, yes, helpful indeed, as if he hadn't already been trying to do that. He had to go for help. But if he left Olivia unconscious, she could roll off the platform. Or wake, confused, and stumble off in the dark.
He had to rouse her first. So he shook her. Talked to her. Talked sternly to her. When his voice snapped with frustration, she tensed, her face screwing up, as if she was, on some level, aware.
Talking gently made her shift toward him, bringing her further out of whatever subterranean mental world trapped her. The best response, though, came when he touched her hands or her face, bare skin to his. Her lips would part then, in a soft sigh, and while it would be somewhat flattering to think his touch earned such a response, he realized it was the heat she sought.
He reached under her jacket, as circumspectly as he could, and laid his hands on her bare stomach. Olivia sighed and pushed against the source of the heat.
Careful, Gabriel. Be very careful.
He silenced the voice with a growl of annoyance. She was unconscious, nearly drowned, and his mind was certainly not going to slide that way.
He gingerly removed her wet jacket. That left her wearing only her bra, but he avoided looking at her torso. He draped the jacket across her legs and then rubbed her bare arms, being careful of the slice in her arm. She wriggled toward him again, as if she could feel his body heat, like a fire just out of reach. He stripped off his shirt and put it around her shoulders. Then he lay down on his side.
Careful, Gabriel...