If it wasn't for the crisp winter air that filled his lungs and the shattered beads of glass that now covered Tuck's bed and spilled onto the floor, Stutely would have thought it a fever dream. A gentle face wide-eyed with human concern, a lend of a phone – hot chocolate, for Christ's sake! He'd long since given up hope of mercy from this place, and how he was staring into the face, he almost didn't dare to believe it.
The man on the other side of the window wasn't an immortal, wasn't an emergency worker, hadn't even been looking for them to begin with if his utter shock was any indication. Just a bloke who'd happened to be passing by when he'd heard a cry for help. An ordinary person who'd made a decision to do the right thing. God, it seemed too good to be true. And yet he could feel the sting of chilly air on his face, and hear the indistinct murmur of Much's voice over the phone—
Tuck's fingers brushed his, and without even a hesitation, Stutely reached out and squeezed his hand tight. This was real. This was happening.