I've Had Worse

by cabbagespoon

Summary:

A collection of sickfics and stand-alone drabbles focused on whumping the hell outta Shiro. All drabbles are based on Tumblr prompts/requests.

Chapter 1

Keith wants to run.

He’s never wanted to run from anything more in his entire life. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

So he grits his teeth and keeps a firm grip on his friend’s flesh arm. His eyes flicker over to Lance. The other boy is gray and more somber than Keith can ever remember seeing him. He winces, breathing hard through his nose as the body they’re holding down between them bucks violently.

Pidge was helping Hunk at first but the situation has overwhelmed her. The screaming is getting to everyone and she was the first to succumb. She scooted back against a corner a while ago, staring with wet, shell-shocked eyes; she’s barely moved at all, except for the rocking. Tears stream silently down her cheeks and Keith wants so badly to comfort her, to tell her it’s going to be all right. Except that he doesn’t know if it is.

“Guys, you’ve got to hold him steady,” Hunk instructs from his crouched position beside the make-shift stretcher. His voice is calm, despite how much he’s sweating; despite the pressure on his shoulders to fix their friend and make the screaming stop.

Shiro opens his mouth again and Keith braces himself. But the older boy just arches his neck, glassy eyes searching frantically until Keith slides into his line of vision.

He’s trying to say something, but his voice is so broken and raw from the pain, the sounds are incoherent wheezes of clogged air. Shiro hasn’t been with them for a long time.

“Hey,” Keith presses one hand against the curve of Shiro’s jaw. “It’s almost over. It is. Hunk’s fixing you up, okay? Just hold on.”

Shiro’s mouth continues to gape, then it snaps shut as the pain tidal-waves, crashing down and stealing his breath. He gasps, choking as he struggles to inhale. Then the screaming starts up again. The noise is inhuman. Keith feels his eyes prickle, tears threatening to spill over.

“Goddammit,” Lance mutters shakily beside him, head bowed and shoulders vibrating with tension. He won’t abandon his post, Keith’s sure, but it’s obvious that he’s losing it.

“I’ve almost got it,” Hunk says quietly, mostly to himself, damp brows furrowed with concentration as he manipulates the mechanics of Shiro’s Galra arm.

Purple electricity sputters and crackles, igniting trails of flame that flare through Shiro’s veins. The thing is fighting Hunk at every turn, desperate to remain attached to its life source. Yellow pus oozes from the seeping wound encircling his forearm as the metal begins to dislocate from Shiro’s flesh.

As gently as possible, Hunk begins disconnecting the arm from the stump. The infection pulses as Shiro’s heart attempts to pump out the poisoned blood and he tries to roll over, tries to cradle his arm while his chest jumps with frantic, shallow breaths that he has no control over; he’s hyperventilating.

“Almost there,” Keith whispers, hating himself as he restrains Shiro, forcing him to stay on his back. “Lance, snap out of it! Help me hold him.”

“P-please,” Shiro whimpers through a sob, and Keith can feel his own heart shattering. “..please…”

“Hunk,” Keith demands, voice cracking with emotion. “How much longer?”

“Almost,” Hunk grits out, refusing to pull his eyes from the task at hand. His concentration is relentless and Keith is so fucking grateful for that. “If I go too fast his body is going to reject the displacement. He’ll go into shock.”

“Hurry. Jesus, please hurry. Just get it over with,” Lance pleads, eyes wet and breath stuttering.

Shiro keens low in his throat; a mortally wounded animal. The horrible noise sends a shiver down Keith’s spine.

Hunk pauses for a few deep breaths, then he narrows his eyes and gets back to work, easing the magnetics and twisting the screws. Shiro’s screams have devolved into hoarse grunts, crazed moans as he pants for breath, because his lungs are too ravaged to scream any more. He’s still trying, though.

Finally, the fucking thing loosens with a gut-wrenching slurp and peels away, revealing the mangled infection crawling up Shiro’s stump. Keith has to turn away at the awful sight of it, but he doesn’t let go.

Shiro’s ashen face is a mess of mucus and tears and blood. He’s bitten through his tongue and lower lip. His breathing hitches as Hunk trims away the last of the clinging skin and carefully sets the metal arm aside.

Lance is holding one hand over his mouth, eyes clenched shut while Shiro whimpers through the residual aftershock. Pidge is rocking violently now, head buried in her knees. Keith applies pressure to Shiro’s flesh arm while Hunk quickly bandages the stump, his free hand running through Shiro’s hair in an attempt to calm him.

“Okay, okay, okay…” Keith repeats like a prayer while his thumb massages circles beneath Shiro’s hairline. Maybe he’s trying to talk himself down from the panic-attack he can feel building in his chest.

When Hunk’s finished, he wipes off the worst of the blood and stands, face crumpling as he places both arms on either side of the stretcher, hovering over Shiro’s body like he’s going to protect him from the world. His large hands stray to Shiro’s face, cupping his cheeks so gently.

“It’s over,” Hunk says, voice unsteady and hands visibly shaking. “You did good. You did so good.”

Shiro stares at Hunk through half-lidded eyes and hiccups. He turns his face into Hunk’s arm, trembling. Then suddenly, he’s gagging forcefully into Hunk’s bicep.

“Shit,” Keith curses, helping Hunk maneuver Shiro into a sitting position, urging his head forward. “Don’t let him choke.”

Shiro quivers, a full-bodied shudder seizing his muscles as he lurches over his lap, bringing up a warm stream of mostly bile that drips between his thighs. His legs writhe as his stomach heaves again and he spits up more sick. The liquid trickles over his chin and doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth. Shiro pants and swallows, swaying in Keith’s arms while Hunk snags a rag and begins wiping the vomit from his mouth and chest.

“You’re okay,” Hunk murmurs, lips trembling and eyes squinting as he struggles to hold back the tears. “We’ve got you, Shiro. You’re fine. It’s done.”

Shiro groans, slurring a few incoherent words before slumping limply against the pairs of arms holding him upright. They lay him back down and continue cleaning him up. At least the screaming’s stopped.

Lance has dropped down beside Pidge, gathering her up in his arms and holding her tight against his chest. He’s murmuring soothing nonsense and rubbing her back. His blue eyes are still overflowing, but they both seem a little calmer.

Hunk brushes back Shiro’s damp bangs, a few tears sliding down his cheeks when Shiro involuntarily leans into his palm, craving the warmth. Hunk doesn’t bother wiping them away.

With a monumental effort, Keith clears his throat, “We’re almost there. Allura and Coran are on their way back. They’ll know what to do.”

“Right,” Hunk’s voice is thready; he hasn’t let go of Shiro’s hand, hasn’t stopped stroking his forehead. Now that his job is done, emotion has crept back to the surface. Keith realizes he’s just as terrified as everyone else. “Good. Yeah.”

“Hey,” Keith places his free hand on Hunk’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be all right. You did a good job keeping it together, Hunk.”

Hunk lets out a choked sob and reaches out to gently pat Shiro’s stomach. The nervous gesture causes Shiro to wince in his sleep. Hunk immediately pulls back.

“He’s gotta be okay,” Hunk says, looking to Keith for reassurance.

“He will be,” Keith says. “He’s got this.”

And if there’s any doubt in his mind it’s immediately obliterated when Shiro fusses himself awake half an hour later, notices Hunk passed out beside him and slurs, “You guys all right?”

Chapter 2

Summary:

Shiro and Keith are stranded in a snowstorm. Shiro is injured and Keith is running out of time.

They hadn’t realized the devastating scope of their mistake until everything had gone to hell. There hadn’t been a contingency plan for rescuing live bombs. Or for the goddamn weather.

It was a kamikaze mission for the Galra and their cargo; collateral prisoners strapped to hidden explosives set to go off the moment they placed a foot outside the base, regardless of whether or not their captors were dead. It hadn’t helped that the paladin’s translators were vague at best, confusing more often than not.

It was a nightmare trying to herd them all, trying to reason with the terrified creatures and convince them that they only had a small window of time to get everyone to safety. Then the first explosive detonated, showering flesh, bone shards, and fluids over everything in sight like a horrific rain shower. They hadn’t had a plan for that, either.

Keith sopped at the bloody mess coating his face, shaken so badly that for a few seconds he couldn’t even force his limbs to respond to his brain’s commands. Run.

“Shiro!” And despite the overwhelming surge of panic, Keith found himself sprinting directly back into the fray. “Hunk!” he yelled into his comm, “We’re gonna need an early extraction. Get down here, now!”

Shiro fought his way through the chaotic tangle of scattering bodies. He was balancing a sobbing youngling on his hip. The child clung desperately to his neck, making it difficult for Shiro to maneuver through the crowd.

He cupped the back of the youngling’s small skull and pressed it to his chest, trying to protect its quivering body as he tore through the mayhem.

“Shiro, no!” Keith shouted, waving his arms wildly. “Stay back!”

One unfortunate creature was inadvertently pushed outside and combusted instantaneously, projectile globs of limb and flesh smacking the closest target with enough force to send them sprawling.

Shiro gaped, fury overriding shock as he began herding the group away from the exit. But the damage had been done. No one was listening to him anymore.

“Everyone, get down!” Shiro yelled, his glowing prosthetic a veritable beacon in the midst of the palpable desperation. Some of them followed the order on instinct, collapsing onto their bellies and covering their heads. One of the creatures managed to break away, flailing hysterically as it darted for the exit, confused and scared and past the point of reason.

“No!” Shiro screamed, racing after the rogue alien. The youngling tucked against his chest wailed in terror. “Stop!”

Shiro set the child down and vaulted for the fleeing creature’s hind legs. Something reverberated beneath his body, the pregnant rumblings of an impending earthquake. The air shimmered for a moment, like a mirage after a summer rain. Then the world exploded.

Keith was flung backwards, ears buzzing and vision whiting out until he slammed into the ground, blacking out for what felt like seconds but could have easily been an hour.

It was the cold that finally roused him, a bone-deep ache that nestled into his limbs, forcing them to contract against the chill. He rolled onto his back, groaning as every burgeoning bruise protested the movement. Snowflakes freckled his cheeks, clinging to his bangs as they melted out of existence, leaving a stinging kiss in their wake.

Static flickered in his ear. He recognized Lance’s panicked voice and tried to respond, but couldn’t pick up more than a few disjointed, indecipherable words. His navigator must have been damaged when he crashed, and with the storm effectively disabling any chance of visibility, he couldn’t even see his glove in front of his face. He knew the team wouldn’t abandon them, but without the comms, Keith had no way of knowing their status. They might be stranded for hours.

Keith staggered to his feet, shivering hard despite his temp-regulated armor. A smattering of color shimmering against the blinding whiteness caught his attention. “Shiro!” Keith called, voice swept away with the flurries of ice. “Goddammit, answer me!”

“Here,” a weak voice drifted over the wind, “‘m here…” A figure was crawling towards him, tripping over a frozen wasteland of bloody carcasses. “Keith —“

Shiro was a mess, armor and every inch of exposed skin bathed in congealing blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his helmet, and a deep gash above his left eye was seeping sluggishly.

“Oh, jesus,” Keith breathed, heartbeat thudding in his ears as he stumbled the last few feet, dropping to his knees beside Shiro’s hunched form. “Can you walk?” he gasped, barely audible over the deafening roar of the storm.

Shiro wavered on his hands and knees, spitting up a mouthful of blood onto the snow. He pushed up into a crouch, blinking dazedly at Keith before surveying the pulverized carnage surrounding them. Not one intact body in sight. Gone. They were all just…gone.

“The kid…” Shiro slurred, reaching up to clutch at Keith’s forearm. He was trembling. “Keith, she was —“

“I know,” Keith gulped, his own eyes burning. He looped an arm underneath Shiro’s shoulders, hauling him upright. “There’s nothing we can do now.” He tugged roughly on Shiro’s arms, tried to get him to focus. “Shiro, we have to get out of here.”

Shiro shivered, closed his eyes and nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Right.” With Keith’s help he got his feet underneath him, leaning heavily on the smaller boy. He winced, grunting softly as he pressed a hand just below his ribcage.

Keith saw the small piece of shrapnel protruding from an abrasion in Shiro’s armor. Fresh rivulets of crimson dripped between his fingers and down his inner thigh.

“Fuck,” he grit his teeth and secured his grip around Shiro’s waist just in time to catch him from swaying backwards. “I’ve got you,” he told him, urging them forward. Shiro did his best to keep up.

“All right?” Shiro wheezed through clenched teeth, patting blindly at Keith’s armor.

“I’m good,” Keith confirmed, rubbing Shiro’s chest for reassurance. “Just a couple of bruises. Got lucky.” Shiro stumbled again, nearly dragging them both down, and Keith tried his comm for the umpteenth time. Nothing. Not even static this time. Their best shot was to head in the direction of the original rendezvous location and hope that Hunk was on his way.

“Think I — lost my helmet,” Shiro panted, reaching up to touch his forehead as if he still expected to find it there. His fingers came away tacky with blood and he frowned at them. “I need my helmet…” he trailed off, voice hitching as if the physical effort of inhaling a full breath was simply too much.

“We’ll find it later,” Keith assured through chattering teeth. He reached up to shield his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “Right now I’m more worried about turning into a human popsicle.”

It was becoming nearly impossible to continue navigating safely through the furious gale of icy wind, and Shiro was fading fast, sagging heavily in Keith’s grip, mumbling nonsense that Keith couldn’t decipher over the white noise. The probability of a concussion revived the gnawing sense of dread bubbling in his gut.

“Stay with me, Shiro,” he ordered, tightening his grip and quickening their pace. “Does anyone copy?” he demanded into his comm. A staticky peppering of voices filtered back over the line, still indecipherable, but clearly panicked. Keith grasped onto the hope that they could hear him. “We’re heading to the rendezvous point. Guys, we need help.”

Static. Keith forced himself to breathe.

A few tedious steps further and Shiro was just barely supporting his own weight. “Keith, wait,” he panted, voice thick as molasses. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees and exhaling ragged breaths through his nose. “Sorry, hold on…I think — I need to…to—“

“Shiro?” The hellacious wind masked the humiliating tremor tainting Keith’s voice. “Please, we’re almost there. Come on, stand up—”

Shiro’s spine arched, muscles shuddering as he sagged over his knees and coughed up a thin stream of bloody vomit that sprayed across the snow at their feet. Keith winced, one hand splayed across Shiro’s chest while the other rubbed circles between his shoulder blades.

“Shit,” Keith whispered, his heartbeat pulsing tightly in his throat.

It was over quickly. Shiro swallowed down a residual gag and straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dark eyes momentarily clearing. “Lets keep movin’,” he slurred, swaying precariously despite his best efforts.

The small cave they stumbled across was sheer luck. A tiny protrusion nestled in the midst of a rock formation that Keith would have missed completely if Shiro hadn’t chosen that spot to pass out. He muttered something about feeling dizzy and collapsed without any further warning.

“Hey, no, no, no,” Keith begged, forced to his knees as he supported Shiro’s considerable dead-weight to the ground. He slapped Shiro’s icy cheeks, cupping the back of his neck before giving it a hard shake. Shiro moaned, eyelashes fluttering as he came back around. He convulsed with a wet cough, burrowing his face into Keith’s chest.

“Not yet,” Keith murmured into Shiro’s hair. “Don’t give up, yet.” He mustered the last dregs of his dwindling strength and hauled Shiro into the claustrophobic mouth of the cave.

The space inside was barely large enough to fit the both of them, but at least they were finally out of the wind. Keith’s teeth chattered loudly as he rubbed his own hands, then Shiro’s, trying to coax a little blood-flow back into their fingertips.

Shiro scooted back against the wall of the cave, one arm clutched abusively around his middle.

Keith blew into his hands, frowning at the tears of blood stubbornly leaking through Shiro’s fingers. “That needs to come out.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shiro coughed. “Was kinda getting used to it. Like a new mole.”

Keith glared, lips pursing into an unamused scowl as he removed his helmet and untied the bandana from around his neck to use as a rag.

“This is gonna hurt.” Keith braced himself, gloved hand wrapping around the piece of shrapnel, small but wickedly jagged.

Shiro inhaled a steadying breath, then blew it out in a hoarse laugh. “I’ve had worse.”

“On three,” Keith warned. “One —“ he yanked at the piece of metal. Shiro cried out, head thrown back and teeth grinding as he rode out the waves of pain. For a terrifying moment the thing didn’t budge, then the flesh cocooning the metal loosened with a nauseating slurp and slid free. Keith tossed it far away from them with a disgusted grimace.

“Damn,” Shiro panted, weakly knocking Keith’s shoulder with his boot. “Remind me to never let you play nurse.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Keith intoned. “Don’t be a baby.”

“There’s that charming bedside manner.” Shiro forced a shaky smile just before his eyes rolled back into his head, overwhelmed by a fresh surge of dizziness. He swallowed a few times, features visibly draining as he fought the urge to throw up.

“You’re doing good,” Keith coached, easing the pressure he was applying until Shiro could get himself under control.

Despite the frigid temperature, Shiro was sweating profusely; bangs matted to his forehead and damp eyelashes clumping together with every slow blink. The puncture wound was leaking sluggishly, staining his battered armor with slippery crimson. Keith dug out a small package of yarrow from his meager pack of supplies, tore the seal and shook its contents over the wound, then pressed down with both hands. Shiro’s jaw worked and he groaned through his teeth as the powder melded to his exposed flesh, working desperately to staunch the bleeding.

“Let me know if you’re gonna puke,” Keith instructed warily, working quickly to tie off the bandana, hoping the make-shift bandage would hold until they were picked up.

Shiro shook his head, but the rapid bobbing motion of his throat wasn’t necessarily inspiring confidence.

Gradually the pain ebbed and Shiro slumped bonelessly against Keith’s shoulder, panting hard as his muscles reluctantly uncoiled. Keith reached up to cup his forehead, thumb brushing across Shiro’s brow. His skin was flushed and warm to the touch. “Stay awake,” he ordered. “The others are coming to get us soon.”

Shiro hummed, licked his lips and made an effort to open his eyes. “Right,” he breathed, throat still working convulsively. “Sorry.”

It made Keith’s chest ache, thinking about the fact that Shiro felt the need to apologize for wanting to sleep, for his body betraying him. “Not your fault.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Keith occasionally trying his comm, Shiro frequently shaking himself awake.

“I fucked up.”

“Wha-what?” Keith swallowed, lungs spasming in his chest. The words were spoken so softly that Keith thought he must have misheard.

“I fucked up,” Shiro repeated with more conviction. He was quiet for a long moment before glancing up at Keith; his eyes were damp, lower lip trembling. “—’s been a while. Almost forgot how bad it feels.” He huffed out a watery smile.

“Shiro…” Keith’s throat was uncomfortably tight. He crawled a little closer, resting his shoulder against the other boy’s. “This wasn’t your fault. Nobody could’ve—“

“They’re dead, Keith,” Shiro breathed, glassy eyes staring off towards the mouth of the cave, into the storm. “All of them. That…that little girl,” he choked, pressing a fist to his mouth. There was an audible gulp, then he closed his eyes, dislodging a tear in the process. It dripped over his nose and fell into his lap. Another quickly followed. “That’s on me,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Keith growled, twisting to grip Shiro’s shoulders. “Don’t do this.” Shiro turned his head away, sniffing into his fist. “There were factors we couldn’t have predicted, totally out of our control. Not to mention this fucking snow came out of nowhere.”

“I shouldn’t’ve put her down,” Shiro mumbled, words slurring as his head rolled against the harsh edges of stone. He startled Keith by banging it hard against the cave wall. “I shouldn’t’ve—“

“Stop it,” Keith’s fingernails dug into his shoulders, desperate to ground himself as much as Shiro. Shiro blinked, and Keith reached up to run a hand through his hair. Then more gently, “Stop it….”

Outside, the wind moaned sorrowfully, an eerie lament serenading a frozen graveyard. Keith shuddered and pressed his shoulder closer to the only other source of warmth. A few more silent tears trailed down Shiro’s pale cheeks, eyelids drooping as he drifted against Keith’s shoulder, eventually sliding down to rest his aching head in Keith’s available lap.

Keith stroked his hair, fingers working carefully through the blood-matted tangles. The comforting gesture was distracting for both of them. Then Shiro coughed into Keith’s thigh, breath hitching before he settled back into a fitful doze. Keith rubbed his back. Flecks of fresh blood were soaking into his pant-leg. He reached for his discarded helmet. One last ditch effort.

“Guys,” he hissed into the comm, no longer bothering to disguise his desperation. “We need help. Please…somebody copy.”

Static flickered mockingly in his ear. Keith felt sick.

“Keith!” Suddenly the comm sputtered to life. He shoved his helmet on and pressed the digital button so hard he was surprised he didn’t fracture his finger.

“Lance!” he shouted, relief flooding his body like a cool drink of water. “I’m here! Do you read me?”

A few jumbled words filtered over the line, but the message was clear enough.

Their team was on the way. They weren’t alone anymore.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Shiro's been poisoned. Keith stands watch. Featuring Coran :)

Keith hovers on the outskirts of the doorway. He may as well be stranded back on Earth for all the good he’s doing.

“How is he?” he asks quietly when Coran glances up from his post. Keith instinctively crosses his arms over his chest, as if the gesture will defend him from the news.

“Fever’s being stubborn,” the Altean sighs, wringing out the cloth he’s been using to dab Shiro’s forehead. Almost as if sensing Keith’s bubbling panic, he gently adds, “But the good news? So is he.”

Keith inhales a hitching breath, releasing it slowly as he stares at Shiro, lying so unnaturally still its almost as if he doesn’t exist at all.

He is not going to lose it. Not again.

“We’ve done everything we can,” Coran assures, pressing the dripping cloth against Shiro’s neck. “Nothing to do now but wait for the rest of the poison to filter out of his system. I believe he’s powered through the worst of it.”

Keith glances at the reeking bucket resting within easy reach at the foot of Shiro’s bed and suddenly it’s difficult to swallow. The thing’s been emptied multiple times but the room still smells rancid.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he mutters, fingers digging painfully into the meat of his arms.

They’d returned from the mission and Keith had watched Shiro collapse on the ramp; eyes rolling into the back of his skull, sweat beading over wax-gray skin, dropping to the floor like a sack of flour, and no one there in time to catch him. Because Shiro hadn’t bothered to mention that something was wrong.

Just a cut, he’d dismissed after the arrow struck. He’d dislodged the small silver tip easily from his calf without so much as a wince. Nothing to worry about. And no one had questioned him.

Keith remembers the scuttle of phantom fingers burrowing into his chest as they tangled around his heart, breath stuttering in his lungs and the world vibrating to an abrupt halt. He recalls the bruising impact of his knees colliding with the floor as he draped his body over Shiro’s, roving hands searching the ignored injury, begging for a response.

Dazed eyes had fluttered for a brief moment, but they hadn’t seen Keith.

Shiro’s chest had contracted, mouth gaping like a suffocating fish as he hiccuped a choked breath of air. Then Keith was struggling to roll him onto his side as Shiro convulsed, vomiting a slurry of black sludge, thick as tar as it slid over his chin and down his neck to pool in a Rorschach pattern on the floor.

After the chaos erupted around him, Keith only remembers sensations. The inflamed scorch of his raw throat, noxious ebony slicking between his thumb and forefinger, the chilly absence of Shiro’s limp body as a powerful arm looped around his shoulders and dragged him up off the floor. The world collapsing beneath his feet and his stomach hurtling up into his throat as the white void swallowed him whole.

Minutes, or hours later, (he wasn’t sure which), when he found his way back, Lance was sitting on the floor with him, mouth moving a thousand miles-per-hour, concern practically leaking from his pores. But Keith couldn’t hear a word he said.

“It’s been quite a day,” Coran says, resting a hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezing. The gesture guides him back, grounds him. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m staying,” Keith grits through the lock of his jaw.

Coran follows the boy’s grim gaze over his shoulder towards Shiro’s bed and nods. “As you wish, number Three.” When Keith doesn’t respond, Coran sighs and drops his hand to his side. “He should sleep for a bit. Call me if anything changes.”

Keith had hoped the silence would be more bearable; instead it feels like it’s suffocating him. He slides into the chair Coran had been occupying earlier and braces his elbows on his knees, folded fingers pressed to his lips.

His eyes drift to Shiro’s neck, lingering on the heartbeat that’s pulsing too quickly. He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Shiro’s chest as labored breaths slip through parted lips.

Keith reaches out, fingers brushing over the ridges of Shiro’s knuckles. The clenched fist loosens around the bedsheets and Keith carefully eases his hand inside the larger one. The crease etched across Shiro’s brow visibly relaxes as Keith’s thumb strokes a few gentle circles.

Something climbs up into Keith’s chest and tears out of his throat before he can stop it.

“You goddamn son of a bitch,” he chokes, leaning down to rest his forehead against their entwined hands. Another sob wrenches free without his permission and suddenly he’s cracking from the inside out. The sheet is damp beneath his cheek when he finally raises his head.

Shiro sighs in his sleep, fussing for a moment before his features smooth and he’s breathing evenly again.

Exhaustion washes over Keith, cloying and insistent, as he absently traces his free fingers back and forth over Shiro’s bare forearm.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it feels like only seconds before he’s dragged back to consciousness by a wet sounding cough, clammy fingers spasming around his own.

“Shiro?” Keith mumbles, reaching up to swipe the drool from his cheek with the back of his hand. He’s not quite awake.

Shiro moans into the pillow, eyes darting frantically behind closed lids as his legs writhe beneath the covers. His skin is nearly translucent, except for the two angry swatches of red flushing his cheeks. Shiro curls onto his side, drawing his knees up as he wraps his arms protectively around his stomach.

His shoulders jolt and an odd noise gurgles in the back of his throat. Keith isn’t quick enough to grab the bucket before Shiro’s spitting up onto the blankets.

“Shit,” Keith curses, snatching the damp cloth to wipe Shiro’s mouth and hopefully catch anything else he brings up. He does a quick check, shoulders sagging with relief as he notices only a few rivulets of black sludge staining the otherwise clear viscous liquid soaking into the sheets.

Shiro gags weakly, coughing as he blinks up at Keith in obvious confusion. Tremors jerk his large frame as he struggles to burrow back into the warmth of the bed.

“Hey, you’re all right,” Keith soothes, climbing onto the mattress without a second thought. He gasps when Shiro’s arm emerges and latches onto his shirt, fingers twisting and tangling in the fabric as he pulls Keith down beside him.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, reaching to card his hand through the sweaty mess of bangs. “You with me?” His fever’s up again, so the lingering nausea isn’t a surprise. What’s more concerning is Shiro’s total lack of awareness. Keith’s never seen him so out of it. So unresponsive. Maybe he should call for Coran.

Shiro sips a wet, hitching breath, shivering as he wraps his arm around Keith’s waist and buries his hot goddamn forehead against Keith’s chest.

“Mm…’s cold—“ Shiro slurs, voice muffled.

Keith tugs the covers up around both of their shoulders, rubbing slowly down the arc of Shiro’s back. “Better?” Shiro hums contentedly, limbs growing heavy as the enveloping warmth coaxes his muscles to relax.

“There you go,” Keith murmurs into Shiro’s hair. “I’ve got you.” The promise is so quiet he isn’t really certain he said it out loud.

But Shiro must believe him, because in the next breath, he’s asleep.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Shiro has the flu and is being stubborn about it.

Keith notices a few minutes into breakfast.

The borderline disgust as Shiro sluggishly pokes at his bowl of “space porridge”. The deep bruising around his eyes, (he obviously hadn’t slept a wink), the fringe sticking untidily to his sweaty forehead, and the way his hands shake with little tremors - he’s having trouble holding onto his spork.

It was obviously a bad night. Keith’s chest feels too tight. He should have noticed sooner. He should have noticed yesterday when Shiro cut their training session short. When he went to bed before everyone else because he kept dozing off during the movie.

Keith is nearly hovering in his chair because Shiro looks like he might just fall out of his. He’s swaying gently, eyelids fluttering as his head droops towards the table. He’s gone grey, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

“Shiro?” Lance asks, sounding worried. “Are you all right? You look kind of, um—“

“Sick,” Hunk interjects. “You look sick.”

Shiro startles and sits up a little straighter. He looks dizzy and vaguely disoriented. But he tries to smile because suddenly everyone’s attention has turned on him.

“I’m fine,” he nods, then quickly closes his mouth and swallows again, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Shiro—“ Keith begins, but he’s cut off when Shiro’s shoulders abruptly jerk forward with a wet choking noise.

He cups his hand over his mouth and pushes away from the table, looking like he’s seconds away from losing it right there. “Excuse me,” he mumbles behind his hand before stumbling for the door.

“Crap,” Pidge breathes, looking scared and glancing around at the others for help.

“Someone should go make sure he’s all right,” Hunk suggests, obviously not too keen on volunteering. He already looks queasy just thinking about the prospect.

Keith stands up without a word.

“Keith, wait! Take this,” Lance calls after him. “He’s probably gonna need it.”

Keith catches the water pouch Lance tosses at him and stalks out the door.

Shiro made it back to his room, but couldn’t quite make it to the toilet. Keith finds him on the floor, crouching over a small trash bin. The smell hits him before anything else, the cloying tang of sickness already permeating the small room.

Shiro’s shoulders ripple with a belching heave and Keith cringes as a noisy splatter of liquid gushes into the bottom of the bin. His bloodless knuckles are gripping the edges of the can so hard Keith’s certain he’s going to fracture something. Shiro curls forward with another guttural retch, expelling more of his stomach contents. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s not alone.

Keith squats down behind him, carefully placing his hand on Shiro’s shoulder as soon as his stomach gives him a break. Keith takes a chance and strokes his fingers lightly down Shiro’s back.

“Fine my ass,” Keith sighs.

Shiro leans forward to spit, struggling to get his body under control. “Please, go out,” he pants, swallowing down the renewed urge to gag. “Don’t — want you to see this.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Keith hums, fingers weaving an invisible path back up along the broad plane of Shiro’s shoulders. He hasn’t been shrugged off yet. That’s not a good sign. “Your twentieth birthday ring any bells? You couldn’t get out of bed for two days.”

Shiro groans, shuddering with revulsion at the memory. “‘m…sorry about your boots,” he slurs.

Keith shrugs, moving a little closer. “They were falling apart, anyway.”

Shiro snorts out a strained breath of laughter. Then a wet belch sets him off again and Keith grips Shiro’s shoulders, holding him upright over the bin. He waits a few minutes, but Shiro isn’t bringing anything up. He’s just gagging on saliva and burping up sour air.

“Hey,” Keith soothes, reaching up to brush away the damp bangs plastered to Shiro’s forehead. “I think you’re empty. Just…um, try to breathe, okay?”

Shiro grunts and squirms in Keith’s grip, coughing through another aborted retch. “Yeah —“ he gasps.

“We should move this party into the bathroom,” Keith suggests, awkwardly rubbing circles between Shiro’s shoulder blades. Shiro nods and tries to stand. He wobbles and reaches out to catch himself against the wall. “Easy.” Keith loops an arm around Shiro’s waist, helping him into the bathroom.

Shiro collapses onto the closed toilet seat and buries his head in his hands, inhaling a few deep breaths to try and calm his stomach.

“You could’ve said something,” Keith mutters, wetting a washcloth in the sink.

Shiro makes a noncommittal noise. He isn’t really paying attention, too focused on keeping his stomach from crawling back up his throat. He lets out a small groan and burps into his lap. “Sorry. This is gross,” he cringes. “You don’t need to stay. I’ll be f—”

“Here.” Keith ignores him and pokes the plastic straw into the water pouch, guiding it to Shiro’s lips. “You’re dehydrated.”

Shiro peers up at Keith through his fingers and reluctantly accepts the pouch, sipping slowly, allowing the water to soothe his ravaged throat. Eventually, he pulls away with a contented sigh, swallowing a few times to ensure the water stays down.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, pressing a fist to his mouth.

“You need to go to back to bed. Rest.” Keith runs his fingers through the limp mess of hair, enjoying the way Shiro automatically leans into his touch. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Shiro whispers, throat working frantically again. “Fuck,” he slurs quietly.

Keith uses the wet cloth to wipe Shiro’s mouth, then underneath his nose, and he doesn’t say anything. He’s had enough experience with this to know he can’t convince him otherwise.

“Mmnnn, Keith…” Shiro’s stomach rumbles with a foreboding gurgle. He winces, utterly miserable, and cradles an arm against his upset belly, weaving slightly as he begins tilting forward, forehead dropping onto Keith’s shoulder. Hot breaths puff against Keith’s neck and Shiro’s overly warm skin is flush against his. Keith swallows, aware that he’s lingered too long before he finally scoops his hands underneath Shiro’s armpits and gently lifts him up.

“C’mon,” Keith tries to smile for him. “Time for bed, yeah?”

Shiro blinks twice, lips moving silently. Then suddenly he’s gagging in his mouth and his stomach muscles visibly contract. He lurches to the side and throws up into the shower drain. It isn’t much, but he still dry-heaves for a solid five minutes before he’s finally wrung out. He collapses against Keith’s shoulder, stress-tears staining his cheeks and smearing against Keith’s skin.

“Okay, seriously,” Keith whispers into Shiro’s hair. “Bed.”

He’s almost grateful that Shiro is too exhausted to argue.

Chapter 5

Summary:

It's a bad night. Keith soothes Shiro through a fever.

He couldn’t get warm.

That’s what he’d said to Keith, when he’d found Shiro on the floor of their communal shower, pruning skin saturated beneath a freezing spray of water.

Keith could have kicked himself, because he should’ve seen this coming. It always happened the same way. Shiro would work himself into the ground, insisting he was fine. Until he wasn’t, and winding up in far worse shape than if he had just admitted to not feeling well in the first place.

“Cold —“ Shiro grunted through chattering teeth, “— couldn’t get warm,” he’d admitted when Keith had asked why the hell he was taking a nap in the shower.

Keith quickly discovered that at some point he’d been sick, the cloying scent of stomach acid lingering stubbornly even though most of the mess had already washed down the drain.

“Dammit, Shiro. You can’t keep doing this.” But Keith had turned off the water and helped him up off the floor, wrapping him up with two towels in an attempt to stop the shivering. He’d settled Shiro into bed, placed a trashcan nearby in case of emergency, forced a little water in him, and told him to sleep it off.

Shiro hadn’t really been awake when he’d asked Keith to stay, and he’d barely stirred since, content to doze in Keith’s lap while his body struggled against the virus ravaging his weakened system.

Keith combed his fingers through the soft tuft of snowy fringe, frowning at the uncomfortable warmth simmering beneath his palm.

Shiro hummed at his touch, forehead wrinkling in confusion as he blinked away the grogginess of fever-induced sleep.

“Hey,” Keith managed a small smile, smoothing the unruly bangs curling around his fingers. “How you feelin’?”

Shiro swallowed with noticeable effort, foggy brain taking longer than usual to process the question. “Been better,” he finally croaked, licking at chapped lips.

Keith nodded, biting his tongue. Understatement of the century. “Can you sit up for a second?”

Shiro immediately paled at the suggestion, eyelids fluttering closed, and he swallowed once more for good measure.

“Shiro, you need to try to drink something,” Keith sighed. He stroked through Shiro’s hair in a gentle rhythm, watching the older boy’s throat bob precariously.

He shook his head and turned his face into Keith’s stomach. “Don’ want anything,” he murmured drowsily.

Keith’s lips quirked in spite of himself at Shiro’s twinge of petulance. “At least you’ll have something to get rid of if you need to,” he reasoned. “It won’t hurt so much.”

A hard shiver seized Shiro’s muscles and his fingers clenched in Keith’s shirt. He rubbed a few slow arcs down Shiro’s back, soothing the involuntary muscle spasms. Shiro gave a small grunt of thanks, the noise reverberating in the back of his throat before he went limp again, face smushed in Keith’s lap.

“C’mon,” Keith nudged the plastic straw against Shiro’s cheek. “It’s not a request.”

Shiro groaned, but managed to push up on his elbows, blinking dazedly as he sucked a few tentative sips from the water pouch, then began sucking more vigorously when he realized how thirsty he was. When he’d had enough, Shiro pulled away and collapsed back onto his human pillow. His cheeks inflated with a breathy belch, shoulders hitching as he muffled the noise in the fabric of Keith’s shirt.

“You okay?” Keith frowned, slowing the back rub.

Shiro nodded, panting through a much wetter burp as the excess air he’d swallowed gurgled back up without his permission. He slipped a hand down between the couch and his stomach, fingers gripping his upset belly, and bare toes curling as an audible cramp ricocheted through his abdomen.

“Shiro? Hey…” Keith massaged his fingers through the mess of sweaty hair, trying to coax a response out of the older boy.

Shiro jolted with an ominous hiccup, and when he finally raised his head he was breathing heavily through his nose, lips pursed together as a last resort.

“‘M gonna be sick,” he slurred miserably, biting his bottom lip in desperation. He swayed upright, shaking his head and cupping his hand over his mouth just in time to retch into it. Keith sat up with him, hands roving nervously over Shiro’s back as the older boy abruptly lurched over his lap.

“Okay,” he breathed, heart pounding like it was trying to jackhammer right out of his chest. “C’mere.” He snatched up the trashcan and positioned the small container in Shiro’s lap, leaning the larger boy over his arm.

Shiro immediately reached up to grip the edges, head dipping low between his shoulders as his next heave echoed inside the metal confines of the trashcan. Keith rescued his bangs just before a roiling belch triggered a deep gag.

“S-sorry,” Shiro spluttered weakly.

Keith cringed, turning his head away as the sounds of liquid splashing against the plastic lining met his ears. Shiro shuddered, muscles trembling as his stomach clenched and ushered up a much thicker wave.

“Easy,” Keith coached, hoping Shiro was too distracted to detect the tremor tainting his voice. “Deep breaths.” He worked to steady his own frantic breathing, inhaling and exhaling deep and slow, trying to encourage Shiro to do the same.

After a few minutes, Shiro was wrung out and reduced to dry heaves, little more than bile spilling past his lips. He burped into the can, panting softly while he drooled, embarrassingly uninhibited by fever.

“You’re okay,” Keith soothed, chin resting between Shiro’s shoulder blades. After a few quiet seconds he asked, “You think you’re finished?”

Shiro responded by pushing away from the offending trashcan and leaning his head back against Keith’s shoulder, chest heaving as he gasped for air. His prosthetic hand still hovered over his stomach, rubbing absently in an attempt to quell the lingering queasiness.

“Here.” Keith retrieved the water pouch and watched as Shiro’s lips automatically wrapped around the straw and his throat bobbed with several parched gulps.

“Feel better?” Keith brushed back the sweat drenched bangs plastered to Shiro’s forehead, trying not to flinch away when Shiro failed to swallow and released a thick belch into the open air, instead.

“Mmm…tired,” Shiro mumbled, head rolling listlessly and lips just close enough to graze the sensitive skin beneath Keith’s earlobe.

Keith couldn’t suppress the shiver that traveled down his spine, automatically tightening his grip around Shiro’s waist. The older boy moaned, warm breaths prickling the fine hairs along Keith’s neckline. Keith swallowed hard, easing Shiro back down against the pillows. He was practically asleep in his arms.

Shiro fussed for a few moments before rolling over and nuzzling back into Keith’s lap, one arm looping around the younger boy’s stomach as if he were an oversized goddamn teddybear.

“Sleep it off,” Keith repeated, patting the older boy’s back. But he couldn’t bring himself to push Shiro away. Instead, he endured the sweaty clothes and the drool and the feverish sleep-talking.

And in the morning, none of it would matter, because when Shiro emerged from the slough he likely wouldn’t remember a thing.

Chapter 6

Summary:

~ I can hear the storm come from many roads away. And it brings the night, if the ones who died sit around me. I hope they’re going to stay. I lived here half asleep. Walking nights to the road, empty, drunk and alone. In hopes you’d come to me. ~ Winter Ghosts, JBM

He gets like this, sometimes.

He lapses; gets trapped inside his own head, circling dark thoughts like a maze. Sometimes it takes him a while to find his way out again.

He tries to isolate himself when it happens. Never quite sure what he’s capable of when he loses that fragile grasp on reality. He does his best to never let the others see, prays they never find out how truly fucked up he is.

Most nights he can distract his mind with training. Smother the darkness one superficial blow at a time until he’s too exhausted to see straight and too numb to feel anything at all.

But there are other nights. Nights when the guilt jerks him from sleep, surging like an almighty force of nature to drown him, sweep him off his feet and bury him in the surf.

There are nights when he has no choice but to scream.

When the voices grow too loud to ignore any longer and the ghosts of the murdered refuse to leave his side. When the blood gurgling in their throats drips onto his shoulder as they breathe their last in his ear for the thousandth time. When voiceless screams tear from mangled mouths and the memory of how they fell, every minute detail, replays before his eyes like a nightmarish reel of every fucking failure.

Shiro covers his ears, buries his head in his knees, and he screams back.

He remembers every single one of their faces. Their eyes, mostly. Eyes that had dimmed cold when he stole their light. Now they stare back at him, dull and damning.

Tonight is bad.

Tonight, he can’t get her out of his head. She’d been one of his last kills before escaping that place.

He doesn’t remember her name but he remembers the way those amber eyes fought to stay open when he sliced her stomach and everything spilled out, insides staining the ground with her life’s blood.

Most of the time, they all looked the same. His opponents were merely obstacles. And so he hadn’t known until the end. Until he was no longer fighting for his life.

It was a brutal battle. One that left his body marred by wounds that took weeks to heal. As the crimson haze began to fade he’d realized why the creature fought so viciously.

She’d been pregnant.

And unlike the mother, who had died quickly at his feet, he’d been forced to watch her premature little one struggle before taking its last breath, too weak to survive outside of the womb.

Its tiny mouth had gaped and gasped, the pitiful noises drowned out by the deafening cheering from the crowd.

And Shiro had…he had…

Shiro chokes on his next scream, doesn’t realize he’s going to be sick until it’s too late and he’s emptying his stomach onto the floor. His body convulses until he’s heaving up little more than air, gagging helplessly until he has nothing left to give.

He can feel his fingers slipping just a little further off the ledge of sanity and wonders how long it will be before he can’t hold on any longer.

He knows he deserves this. To feel as they had felt. He deserves every second of it. If he’d been stronger, if he hadn’t been so afraid…

Shiro curls up on the floor and cries himself out. He doesn’t come back for a long time.

 

 

Keith’s sitting up with him when he opens his eyes. The younger boy’s tense body language clearly indicates that ordering him to leave would be pointless.

He won’t leave Shiro alone like this.

Shiro wonders how bad it was. He must have been really out of it. His throat has been scraped raw; feels like he’s been gargling shards of broken glass. He doesn’t remember much, but that’s not unusual.

His face is wet and his head is foggy. There’s a blanket tucked around his shoulders that wasn’t there before; he reaches up to grip the soft fabric, wrapping it tighter. His hands are shaking badly but he doesn’t have the energy to ring them out.

Keith’s sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, watchful, careful not to touch until Shiro’s ready. Neither of them speaks. There’s little use for words.

Gradually, Shiro finds his way back. It’s a slow process, one that requires rebuilding the fragile wall in his mind piece by piece, slowly stemming the horror bleeding through the cracks.

When his voice finally comes, it’s foreign and thick and he’s forced to slur around an uncooperative tongue.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

The words are weak without conviction to hold them upright.

“Tough,” is all Keith says. His dark eyes are bright with unshed tears but he still hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor.

Shiro leans his forehead against the wall, blinking sluggishly into the darkness. He can feel himself starting to slip away again. He clenches the blanket so hard his knuckles ache; there’s nothing else to hold onto, nothing to ground him.

Then he feels Keith shifting in the dark and a crushing weight settles in Shiro’s chest. He’s overwhelmed by a nauseating swell of panic. He doesn’t want Keith to leave. The prospect of being left alone right now is terrifying.

But Keith doesn’t leave. He scoots over until his back is against the wall and they’re resting shoulder to shoulder. Shiro flinches at the contact before settling down. Keith pretends not to notice.

They sit quietly for a while; Shiro’s ragged breaths and soft hiccups are the only sounds interrupting the silence between them.

When Shiro’s too exhausted to hold his head up any longer, he lets his cheek slide down against Keith’s shoulder. Keith says, “You didn’t take your meds, did you?”

It’s not an accusation. He’s not disappointed or angry with Shiro. He just sounds sad.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers. His throat hurts and it’s all he can manage.

“Where’d you go?” Keith’s voice is trembling slightly. A soft brush against Shiro’s arm. So much warmth in that small gesture. “You were gone for a long time.”

He’s being so gentle, probably afraid Shiro will shatter into pieces at any moment.

“Got lost,” Shiro croaks out a bitter laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Won’t happen again.”

“Have they stopped helping?”

Instead of answering, Shiro pushes up slowly; it requires a surprising amount of effort. He sniffs through his clogged nose and tries to clear his throat. An acrid stench smacks him in the face like a punch and he glances down at himself with a confused grimace.

“I stink.”

“You threw up.”

He notices the mess congealing underneath his legs on the floor and a vague recollection of the panic attack is immediately followed by a hot flush of embarrassment. He winces and ducks his head, grateful for the cloak of darkness.

Keith sounds apologetic when he says, “I would’ve cleaned it, but you didn’t want to be touched.”

“Oh,” Shiro says. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. It’s too difficult to put his thoughts in order.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Keith presses up against his side and Shiro gives an involuntary shudder. He tilts his head back with a weary sigh and allows himself to lean into the touch, just for a little while longer.

He knows that sooner or later, he’s going to have to pick himself off the floor. He can’t stay here forever. He’ll clean himself up and they’ll both pretend like it never happened. They won’t talk about this again. After all, they have a job to do.

He’s just so tired. So goddamn tired.

“Take your time,” Keith’s warm breath ghosts over the sensitive skin just below his earlobe. His chin rests comfortably against Shiro’s shoulder while his fingers circle lightly over Shiro’s flesh arm. When he brushes across a scar, he lingers, thumb rubbing over roughened tissue.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You shouldn’t…be with me, right now,” Shiro’s voice lilts in a broken, incoherent slur.

Keith doesn’t say another word. Just sits there on the floor beside Shiro until he’s ready.

He stays until Shiro can stand on his own, without feeling like the world’s dropping out from underneath his feet.

Chapter 7

Summary:

Shiro has a fever. He's acting unlike himself and the paladins are concerned.

Shiro’s head hurt.

It wasn’t just the other paladin’s enthusiastic chatter or the too bright lights searing his closed eyelids. It was an unavoidable, bone-deep ache that had been gradually building since he’d retired last night. He hadn’t slept for more than half an hour, tossing and turning into the early hours. Now his head felt like it was on the verge of implosion.

The scenery spun just a fraction out of place every time he attempted to focus. His body shuddered with chills one moment, and was sticky with sweat the next. His stomach felt unsettled, queasy like oil filming over the surface of lukewarm soup.

Once during the night he’d woken up in the midst of a violent coughing fit, struggling to clear the gunk from his lungs that had been threatening to suffocate him in his sleep. Now his chest was heavy with congestion and his damaged nose was so clogged he couldn’t draw a proper breath without wheezing.

He used his spork to push around the pile of goo in his bowl, grimacing at the unappetizing mess of congealing glop. Just the sight of it was enough to make him want to gag. He gave up and shoved the bowl away, resting his pounding head in his hands while he waited for the others to finish up.

He had things to do. He didn’t have time for this. And yet the gears in his brain seemed to have come to a sputtering halt. He imagined all of the shit in his sinuses clogging the machinery, dripping from wires and cogs…

His ears were buzzing faintly, though it wasn’t enough to distract him from the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the painful pinch of deadened nerve-endings that he knew he shouldn’t be able to feel anymore.

A warm hand on his shoulder startled him. He didn’t remember resting his forehead against the table.

“You fell asleep,” Hunk said, eyes kind and full of concern. “Shiro, you’re really warm.” He withdrew his hand from the back of Shiro’s neck, frowning.

“I’m fi —“ Shiro tried to speak, but his throat was sore and the assurance got stuck on the way out. He convulsed with a few wet coughs, shoulders curling forward as he struggled through the fit.

“Riiight,” Lance drawled, rolling his eyes. “The last time I felt that fine, I was in bed hacking my lungs up and hallucinating about space fairies for a week.”

“That was last week you moron,” Keith snapped. “I told you to stay in your damn room. Now you’ve infected everyone!”

“I was dying of boredom. Literally,” Lance emphasized, crossing his arms defiantly. He glanced over at Shiro with his fever-flushed cheeks and watery eyes. His bravado immediately deflated. “But I’m really sorry I got you sick, Shiro.”

“I’m not sick,” Shiro coughed into the crook of his arm. “Just a little under the weather.”

“Dude,” Hunk smirked, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You fell asleep on the table.”

“Good thing nobody’s trying to kill us today,” Pidge smiled, picking up her bowl. “You can take the day off. We could all use a break, actually.”

“Somebody’s always trying to kill us,” Shiro deadpanned, sniffling.

“I think somebody needs a nap,” she retorted, offering him a smug smile.

“She’s right,” Hunk agreed. “The only thing on your agenda today is rest and pampering. No arguing.”

Shiro opened his mouth to do just that and was overcome by a fit of coughing; deep, chest-rattling expulsions that left him dazed and shaky once he’d caught his breath.

“Rest and pampering,” Hunk reiterated, looking like an agitated mother with his hands on his hips and a raised eyebrow.

“Four against one,” Keith pointed out.

And Shiro wanted to argue with them. But he couldn’t deny that a nap sounded amazing. Plus, with the way his head was pounding, he doubted he’d be able to get much done.

“I’ll set you up with a movie,” Pidge volunteered.

“Maybe just for a little while,” Shiro slurred through a muffled yawn.

~

Keith knew Shiro hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But when he entered what they had affectionally dubbed the “movie lounge”, Shiro was snoring softly, one arm tossed over his face as his chest rose and fell in a gentle swell.

An old black and white film was playing on the projector. Keith vaguely recognized the actors but couldn’t recall the title. He set down the food tray and settled down on the couch, eyes absently flickering over the screen.

Shiro stirred beside him, tongue clicking a few times before he coughed and blinked at Keith.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice hoarse and scratchy.

“Hey,” Keith said. “How you feeling?” Almost without thinking, he reached over to palm Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro hummed sleepily, but he didn’t pull away, and Keith took that as a bad sign. He was still too warm, though his fever didn’t seem to have risen much.

“Hunk made soup,” Keith said by way of explanation when he noticed Shiro eyeing the tray.

“Mmm,” Shiro hummed again, glassy eyes slipping shut. He didn’t seem the least bit interested.

“Shiro, you should try to eat something,” Keith withdrew his hand. “You didn’t have any breakfast, either.”

“Tell Hunk thanks,” Shiro mumbled drowsily. “But I don’t really feel like food.” He winced as he swallowed.

“Try a few bites,” Keith coaxed. “It might make you feel a little better if you have something in your stomach. Besides, you wouldn’t want to hurt Hunk’s feelings. You know how he gets.”

Shiro peeled open one eye and glared, lips turning down into a pout, “That was low, Kogane.”

Keith shrugged, smirking to himself as Shiro released a long-suffering sigh, resigned that Keith wasn’t going to let the matter rest until he’d had his way.

Shiro blinked slowly as he pushed himself upright, obviously dizzy.

“Okay?” Keith rested a supportive hand on the older boy’s shoulder.

Shiro nodded, still looking woozy as he reached for the steaming bowl. He winced, rolling the shoulder attached to his prosthetic as he picked up the spoon.

“Is your arm bothering you?” Keith asked, brows furrowing.

Shiro shook his head, but moved gingerly all the same. He was struggling by the fourth spoonful, flesh hand trembling as he raised the utensil to his lips.

“Sorry,” he sighed as a few drops spilled into his lap. “I think I’m done.”

Keith took the bowl from him without a word. Shiro brushed his hand over the wet spot staining the cushion between his legs, gave up and stared at the screen with heavy eyelids.

“What’re you watching?” Keith asked, trying to sound interested and failing miserably.

Shiro shrugged, head nodding as he fought off the pull of sleep. “First title in Pidge’s collection.”

On screen, a flustered man in a suit two-sizes too small was chasing a stray leopard while an attractive woman with big hair cackled at his foiled attempts to corral the beast.

“Any good?” he asked skeptically.

“Um…I can’t remember,” Shiro smiled sheepishly. Keith heard his jaw cracking through a massive yawn. Shiro sniffed and pulled a pile of blanket onto his lap, hitching the fabric up around his shoulders.

Keith sighed, propped a pillow against his thigh and gave it a pat. He was expecting an amused snort followed by blatant refusal. But Keith didn’t even have to coax as Shiro slumped down, gratefully resting his head on the pillow as he rolled onto his side and got comfortable.

They watched the movie, Shiro’s breaths growing slow and deep while Keith fiddled absently with his hair. He twirled a few white strands around his forefinger, tugging gently before releasing and repeating the motion.

He peered down, pausing experimentally. Shiro’s mouth was slack, his eyes glued to the screen and blinking so heavily Keith was surprised he was still awake. He massaged his fingers through the shorn hair and Shiro gave a small, involuntary shudder, sighing into Keith’s leg.

Keith didn’t understand why the hell Shiro was being so stubborn, struggling desperately to stay awake, even though he could really use some rest.

When he began shifting a few minutes later, it was obvious that something was wrong. Keith continued petting Shiro’s hair, hoping to soothe him to sleep, but it wasn’t working. Shiro’s muscles were limp beneath the blanket, his body warm and heavy, and he was receptive to Keith’s touch. But he refused to let his eyes close for more than a few seconds.

Keith frowned, feeling a sudden dampness as he worked his fingers through the tuft of white. Shiro had begun to sweat profusely. His skin was clammy and he’d gone very pale. Warm breaths puffed against Keith’s leg as Shiro panted through his nose.

“Shiro?” Keith brushed back the bangs clinging to the older boy’s forehead. “You want some water?”

The decline had occurred so abruptly that Keith had to force himself not to overreact. Logically, he knew it was probably the fever running its course.

Shiro shook his head, swallowing hard as he pushed himself upright, arms shaking slightly. He sat very still for a moment, glaring down at his lap, the rapid bobbing motion of his throat a persistent action now as he waited for the dizziness to pass. The blanket had slipped to the floor and Keith reached down to pick it up.

Shiro stood, swaying a little before he found his equilibrium and began walking towards the hallway jutting off from the lounge. His movements were deliberate, features strained with urgency.

Keith rose, intending to follow, then decided it would be weird if he stalked Shiro into the bathroom. After all, he was a grown man and could take care of his own business. Never mind that Shiro looked like he could keel over at any moment.

Keith heard the door whoosh shut in the distance and tried not to chew his lip as his anxiety spiked. He didn’t even hear Hunk enter the room.

“How’s the patient?” Hunk asked, keeping his voice low and soft. He set down a steaming mug of something sweet smelling and a small container of milk.

“He’s in the bathroom.” Keith hoped Hunk couldn’t sense the anxiety practically leaking out of his pores. He shrugged, trying to appear disinterested.

Hunk nodded, sitting down beside him. “Any change?”

Keith exhaled and shook his head. “I think his fever’s up. He won’t go back to sleep.”

“Well, that’s nothing new,” Hunk sighed sadly, fiddling with the tea-spoon on the saucer.

“Yeah, but not when he’s —“

Keith quickly shut up as Shiro shuffled back into the movie lounge. He was using the prosthetic to support his weight against the wall while the other cradled his stomach. He was sweaty and gray and shaking with little spasms as his muscles struggled to cooperate.

Keith hurried to help him back over to the couch. Instead of protesting, Shiro slumped against the smaller boy, giving Hunk a weary nod.

“You all right?” Keith asked, carefully easing him down.

Shiro nodded, tilting his head back to rest against the cushions. “‘M fine. Jus’ tired.”

“Did you throw up?” Hunk blurted, looking horrified. “I know that face. Was it the soup? Oh, god…it was the soup. I made you sick.”

“Hunk, relax,” Shiro breathed, lifting his head to smile weakly at the other boy. Hunk had a tendency to work himself up to the point of panicking and Shiro didn’t have the energy to deal with a full blown meltdown. “It wasn’t the soup.”

The tension in Hunk’s shoulders eased considerably.

“I think the fever’s making me nauseous,” Shiro grimaced, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “It’s been that way since I was a kid. My temperature spikes a degree over ninety-eight and I’m puking my guts up.” Shiro gave a hoarse laugh, rolling his eyes at himself. “Really, the soup was delicious.”

“Look who’s finally admitting he’s sick,” Keith muttered under his breath.

Hunk didn’t look convinced, but he seemed pacified for the moment. “Well, if you think you can keep it down, I made some tea. Or you know, the space equivalent of steeped herbal leaves.”

“Thank you,” Shiro coughed and picked up the mug, taking a sniff. “It smells great.”

Hunk beamed proudly, explaining the various accoutrements he’d brought along with the tea. Shiro listened politely, taking a few careful sips, though his eyelids were drooping dangerously again.

“I need to start dinner,” Hunk announced, arching his back into a long stretch as he stood. “Shiro, let me know if there’s anything that sounds good, okay?”

“Thanks,” Shiro offered a tired smile, resuming his former position curled up in Keith’s lap as exhaustion began overruling his willpower.

Keith watched the screen for a while, glancing down occasionally to check on Shiro. He was warm and sleepy and seemed to be skirting the edge of unconsciousness, one leg resting outside of the blanket and one arm tossed comfortably over Keith’s knee.

“You’re such a liar,” Keith whispered, amused when Shiro nuzzled into the pillow, trying to hide. “It was definitely the soup.”

“If you tell him I’ll make you run suicides for a week,” Shiro slurred, voice breathy and teasing.

Keith slid his hand down to rub a few circles against Shiro’s back, stroking his fingers back and forth in a lazy rhythm. Shiro sighed contentedly, muscles melting into the cushions as his eyes finally slipped shut.

Seconds later he was snoring softly. Minutes passed and a spot of drool had formed on Keith’s pants.

An hour later, Keith had accidentally joined him.

The movie ended and the screen powered down, both boys oblivious as they slept.

 

Chapter 8

Summary:

Shiro is feverish and sleep deprived. This go around requires a little team effort.

Most nights he sets his alarm out of habitual courtesy more than actual necessity. As usual, Shiro wakes long before it goes off.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he emerged from sleep feeling refreshed and rested rather than moderately functional.

Hell, most nights he’s lucky to clock in three hours before he’s jerked back to consciousness, frantically trying to pull his mind out of Kerberos. It usually takes a solid two minutes of deep breathing exercises to quiet his heartbeat, calm his glitching reflexes and finally, remember where he is. That’s always the hardest part; separating nightmare from reality, trusting himself to make the right decision. And when he finally does, he’s too wound up to go back to sleep.

He lies still on his back for a few minutes, breathing deeply through his nose and allowing his eyes to adjust. His head feels strange. There’s a dull but concentrated ache pulsing behind his eyes and the ceiling of his bunk shimmers every time he blinks. An uncomfortable twinge twists in his stomach but he ignores the sensation. Nausea isn’t unusual after fighting his way out of a nightmare.

Shiro rolls out of his bunk, yawning and pulling his arms into a careful stretch. His fractured rib is taking its sweet-ass time to heal and he can still feel the lingering discomfort if he contorts his body too far to the left. He drops into a crouch, gliding forward until he’s horizontal on the floor, balanced on his hands and the pads of his feet. He launches into a rigorous series of push-ups, concentrating on keeping his rhythm steady. His momentum doesn’t last long.

He’s only just completed fifty reps, (not even close to his usual hundred), when a surge of dizziness crashes over him, causing his limbs to quiver and his vision to blur as he struggles to ride out the wave. He gingerly scoots back onto his elbows and knees, forehead pressed hard to the chilly floor, panting shallowly against the urge to puke.

“What the hell,” he gasps, swallowing convulsively as his body instinctively fights back. His hands clench into tight fists against the floor as he extends his arms, straightening with a slow exhale through his mouth. A cold sweat breaks out over his bare skin, sending shivers down the length of his spine and back up again. He stumbles into the bathroom, groping for the faucet and gulping down several mouthfuls of icy water.

He barely recognizes his reflection when he glances up from the basin. Haggard and weary. Dark circles bruise the pale skin beneath his eyes while a thin sheen of sweat glistens over his forehead and upper lip. Shiro watches in the mirror with detached fascination as a water droplet trickles from his lip, trails down his chin and drips into the sink. He scrubs a hand roughly over his mouth, then through his hair, trying to shake off the residual vertigo. He strips out of his damp sweats and steps into the shower. The steam helps a little.

During breakfast he doesn’t usually mind the hectic blur of chatter constantly bouncing back and forth between the other paladins. But this morning, every minute sound is aggravating.

Shiro stabs his spork in the jiggling pile of food goo and gives up the pretense of trying to eat, opting instead to pillow his aching forehead in his hands while Lance argues with Keith about whether the leg or the arm is the dominant appendage. They’ve been at it for a solid fifteen minutes. Their voices are too much, too loud…so loud.

“I’ll bet you a hundred-million dollars Blue can beat the crap out of Red. Name a time and place. We’ll be there to kick your ass,” Lance boasts, brandishing his goo laden spork in Keith’s direction.

“No dollars in space, stupid,” Keith retorts dryly, shoving a bite in his mouth.

“Actually, I think it’s a trading currency,” Hunk interjects, looking amused.

“Fine,” Lance slams his fist on the table, practically growling at Keith. “How about if I win—“

“You won’t,” Keith interrupts.

“Will you two please shut up,” Shiro groans from his hunched position, reaching up to knead the heels of his hands into his eyes.

All heads swivel towards him, twitching with confused, nervous expressions. Keith looks like he wants to crawl under a rock and Lance looks like he’s just discovered a third eye growing on Shiro’s forehead. Hunk and Pidge look thoroughly uncomfortable, choosing to study their plates.

“I mean, uh,” Shiro stammers, struggling to recover. He hardly ever snaps at them, especially for no reason. “It’s just — you guys have had this argument like four times already.”

“Well, yeah,” Lance begins, fidgety and suspicious. “But it’s never been officially settled.”

“Right,” Shiro sighs wearily, picking up his full plate. “Well, you can settle the great debate later. We should get going. Finish up and we’ll all meet on the training deck in ten.”

Everyone nods and returns to their meals, the atmosphere noticeably subdued. Hunk gathers up his own plate and follows Shiro into the kitchen. He finds the older boy leaning heavily against the sink, shoulders hunched and head bowed low.

“Hey, man,” Hunk reaches out, places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right?”

Shiro startles and his head immediately whips up. Hunk frowns, watching Shiro blink several times before his eyes seem to focus.

“I-I’m fine. Thanks.” Shiro dredges up a smile, giving Hunk’s hand a firm pat before slipping out of his hold. “You should go suit up.”

“Okay,” Hunk still looks hesitant. “But if there’s something going on, you know you can tell us, right?”

Shiro nods, squeezing Hunk’s shoulder as he turns to leave.

“See you downstairs.”

Neither of them say a word when he stumbles over nothing and reaches out steady himself against the wall.

He’s fine.

Shiro reaches up to swipe a hand over his face. Coran shouts another instruction into the speaker but Shiro doesn’t understand what he’s saying. The lights are too bright and the buzzing in his ears is too loud and everything blurs in and out of focus like he’s swimming underwater.

He can hear himself panting, struggling to catch his breath even though they’ve only been sparring for a little over an hour. It’s a fairly simple exercise, but his inability to focus is drastically effecting the performances of the rest of the team.

After Lance gets tossed into the wall and Hunk tries to defend Keith’s counter-attack, Shiro is supposed to go on the offensive. But he can barely see his own fucking hand in front of his face. He manages to distract the robot with a few strikes so Pidge can sneak up from behind. She’s almost there when the robot launches unexpectedly into the air, hurtling into a backflip and landing several feet away.

Right. Coran upped the level a while ago.

“Shiro, behind you!” Lance yells, waving his bayard wildly.

The robot rears back to gain momentum, aiming for Shiro’s skull as its weapon swings in a lethal downward arc. Shiro spins, blocking the initial blow but his reaction time is shit. He’s too slow to dodge the robot’s right fist which simultaneously plows hard into his gut. Shiro doubles over, grunting as the impact sends him flying onto his ass. He can taste bile flooding the back of his throat and instinctively wraps an arm around his abused abdomen.

His head is spinning, feeling tight and heavy as it lolls uselessly on his shoulders. His limbs are refusing to obey his brain’s commands. A sick feeling surges up from the pit of his stomach.

He can’t move.

The world quivers and the ground whirls beneath him, scenery shimmering like a goddamn mirage. He tries to blink away the sweat but the effort only makes his eyes tear up.

Something’s approaching, the figure looming and leering in anticipation as it kneels over him and pins him down. It traps his Galra arm beneath an iron grip and Shiro begins bucking violently, twisting his body as an overwhelming panic seizes his chest. Hot and cloying and threatening to smother him if he doesn’t do something. If he doesn’t move.

But the harder he struggles the firmer the grip around his arm, and then his neck becomes. Unyielding and inevitable. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe.

And behind it all is the sinister cackle of amused curiosity. The scientist observing the flailing lab rat. He can feel the cruel metal edges of the gurney digging into his flesh, the sharp stench of foreign chemicals stinging his nostrils. The sickly purple flare, flickering promises of the torture to come.

Shiro inhales a hitching breath, releases it in a choked scream.

Suddenly, there are hands ghosting all over his body, desperate and uncertain. He screams again.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice hollers. “Turn it off! Coran! Fucking turn it off, now!”

The grip around Shiro’s neck immediately loosens, leaving him coughing and wheezing for air, clawing at his own throat. He rolls onto his stomach, ignoring the cacophony of voices pin-balling back and forth over his head.

“No,” he hears himself choking. “N-no. No more.”

“Shiro—“

“No!”

And then he’s scrambling back on all fours, out of reach of the hands exploring his body, feeling for weaknesses, feeling for the soft spot to break him.
He has to get away get away get away —

Shiro struggles to his feet, staggers a few steps before gravity forces him back down to his knees. He tries again, vision weaving as he searches for a way out.

He doesn’t acknowledge any of the voices calling after him, can barely hear them over the impenetrable ringing in his ears. And yet he knows they won’t stop coming for him. They never stop —

He collapses against the wall just outside, the jarring impact undoubtedly bruising his flesh shoulder. His breaths are still coming too fast, too shallow. He can’t make his lungs work properly.

Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, something emerges from the shadows of the corridor, materializing out of nothing at all. A willowy shape enveloped in ghostly wisps of darkness, black as tar and thick as smog. A pale finger reaches out towards him, suspended by a skeletal arm.

A stained mouthful of canine teeth emerges from the darkness and twists into a smile, hanging in suspension like a demonic Cheshire cat. The teeth never quite open all the way, but he can still hear the hiss of laughter — that blood-curdling screech of nails casually filleting a chalkboard.

He shivers, wraps his arms protectively around himself. His legs have turned to rubber, threatening to give way at any moment. His prosthetic hums with nervous energy, unnaturally heavy against his body. Shiro closes his eyes, breaths hitching hysterically. This place doesn’t look like his nightmares. But he isn’t really certain of anything right now.

“You’re not here,” he gasps, reaching up to grip his head with both hands. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my head!”

“Mine,” the apparition whispers, that single word flooding his veins with ice water. The other arm reaches for him, hovering inches from his face. “Mine.”

Shiro curls over his knees and throws up between his feet, the wet splatter of liquid and sour stench making him gag even harder.

“Shiro?”

An unexpected warmth lands on his shoulder, solid and grounding. He spins around with a furious growl, smashing the wall with his Galra arm as it flares to life. They won’t take him.

“Whoa! Shit!” A voice yelps in surprise. “Shiro, calm down! It’s me. Just take it easy.”

“Leave me alone,” he croaks, vocal chords raw from the exertion of vomiting. He slides down in a boneless heap against the wall. His natural hand lands in something warm and sticky and he vaguely wonders if he’s bleeding.

“Okay,” the voice placates, purposefully lowering a few octaves to a soothing volume. “Okay. Nobody’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do, all right?”

The figure crouching low in front of him gradually shifts into a tangible form. Floppy hair, thin shoulders and concerned dark brows furrowing over eyes that are far too old for his age. Those dark orbs are searching his own, glistening with poorly disguised dread.

“Keith?”

Keith’s holding his hands out in front of him, just as he would if he were calming a feral animal.

“Behind you,” Shiro rasps, reaching out to latch onto Keith’s arm, pulling him roughly into an awkward embrace. Keith slams into Shiro’s chest, cheek smooshed against armor as he struggles to glance over his shoulder at whatever Shiro’s staring down.

“Shiro,” Keith grunts. “Let go.”

“Stay down,” Shiro whispers, prosthetic tightening around the younger boy’s shoulders.

“Hey,” Keith spreads his fingers over Shiro’s chest, pressing gently. “Listen to me. There’s no one there. I promise.” The grip around Keith’s upper body loosens a fraction. “Do you understand? You’re sick. Your mind’s messing with you.”

Shiro snorts derisively, because what else is new?

“Whatever you’re seeing,” Keith continues, keeping his voice neutral, “—it isn’t real. I’m not gonna let anything hurt you. You hear me?”

It’s Keith’s ferocious determination that cause Shiro to nearly choke on a sob. He buries his face in Keith’s shoulder, suddenly feeling very warm. A lethargic heaviness sluices through his body, numbing his terror and thawing the ice in his blood.

“Is that a yes?” he hears Keith ask, voice still uncertain but lightly teasing nonetheless. He rubs Shiro’s back a few times, hoping to ease the tension.

Shiro simply hums into his shoulder, forcing himself to slow his breathing. His head’s a wreck, still spinning in too many directions to make any sense.

“I’m gonna call the others now, okay? Don’t freak out,” Keith says slowly, planting both hands on either side of Shiro’s face. “We’re gonna fix you up. You need rest.”

Shiro blinks dazedly, eyes wandering to the large dent in the wall just above their heads. He gives an involuntary shudder.

“Oh, no,” he barely whispers, tears trailing over his cheeks. “Keith.” He grasps at his Galra arm like he’s going to tear the thing off. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m —“

“Shiro,” Keith grips both of his shoulders, forcing Shiro’s eyes away from the superficial damage and back to his own. He thumbs away the tear tracks. “Stop it.”

“I could’ve —“

“You didn’t.”

Shiro feels the nausea welling up again, hot and urgent.

“Don’t do this martyr bullshit,” Keith continues, frustrated and vibrating with righteous anger. “You didn’t know.”

“That’s no excuse,” Shiro slurs, swaying as his world tilts, caught in a sickening merry-go-round.

Keith reaches out a hand to steady him, lingering briefly over Shiro’s forehead.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re burning up. No wonder you’re seeing things.”

In response, Shiro lurches to the side, coughing harshly as he retches up another mouthful of bile.

“Shit,” Keith lurches forward with Shiro’s momentum, bracing a steadying forearm against his chest. “Easy. Deep breaths.”

Keith shouts for Hunk and the other boy instantly appears at Shiro’s side, lending a supportive arm. Keith gestures for the others to stay back, not wanting to overwhelm Shiro with too many hands like before.

“He looks pretty bad,” Hunk glances anxiously towards Keith as he hoists Shiro’s Galra arm over his shoulders.

“I know,” Keith grits. “Help me get him back to his room. Pidge, go tell Coran what’s going on. Maybe he’s got some space voodoo that’ll help with…whatever the hell this is.”

Lance volunteers to retrieve water packets and towels.

When they start moving and Shiro insists that he can walk on his own, Keith blatantly ignores him.

“Dude,” Hunk sighs, smiling indulgently when Shiro’s head rolls listlessly onto his shoulder. “You’re exhausted and pukey and you were just pummeled by a level three robot. Let us help, okay?”

“Wasn’ pummeled,” Shiro protests weakly, throat working with a few foreboding swallows.

Keith shakes his head and tightens his grip around Shiro’s waist.

“Goddamn stubborn.”

Chapter 9

Summary:

Shiro is kind of a mess, so it's Hunk to the rescue.

Shiro wakes from the blood-soaked chaos of the arena with a strangled cry, chest heaving in several wheezing breaths.

He blinks, head swiveling frantically around the small confines of his quarters as his muddled brain processes where he is. Not the arena. It was a dream. Just a dream.

He closes his eyes, forcing the crimson images deep down with all the others, willing his mind to lock away the darkness swelling up inside of him.

His body is drenched in clammy sweat and he’s shaking. Nausea tickles the back of his throat and it feels like someone is detonating miniature explosions inside his pounding skull.

Shiro untangles his legs from the blankets, pulling off his damp shirt and balling it up with a grimace. The room spins when he tries to sit up and he drops his aching head into his hands with a groan. He wants to lie back down but he feels disgusting; sweaty and achy and miserable. He decides a shower might help to wash away some of the grime, perhaps clear his head.

Peeling off the rest of his clothes is a relief. His body is slick and far too warm. He steps into the shower, letting the scalding water pound over his back. He takes a deep breath, tilting his head up to let the torrent cascade over his neck and face. The headache dulls with each pulsing spray of water. But the dizziness persists.

Shiro runs his hand through the hair plastered to his forehead. Steam swirls around his body in soothing tendrils, caressing him, kissing his naked skin. He braces both hands against the wall, allowing the water to rush down his back as he bows his head low between his shoulders. The drain shimmers beneath him; not only is the water swirling, the tiles surrounding the metal are disjointing and sliding loose as well. He absently counts twenty-two toes.

Dark spots flicker at the corners of his vision as Shiro struggles to raise his head. Swallowing convulsively, he shuts off the water, (it only takes him two tries), and steps out of the shower. At least, that’s what he attempts to do. The dizziness assaults him so abruptly that the only thing he can manage is a startled cry as he loses his footing, slips, and ends up sprawling face-first on the unforgiving floor. His forehead hits hard on the way down, smacking with a wet thud and sending fireworks exploding behind his eyes.

Dazed, Shiro simply lies there, panting through soft, little moans as terror seeps into his very core; vision lost in splotches of darkness as his brain struggles to play catch-up.

It’s so fucking cold. It’s…he’s back. Back there. Always so cold. Never enough warmth or light…except when he was fighting for his life. But that was a freezing, indifferent heat. Something foreign and sick, pumping through his blood to keep him alive and struggling for another day. Just one more day. The sweat feels chilly on his face and his body trembles uncontrollably until he passes out from the exhaustion, slumped against the slimy cell wall. Always sitting, never daring to lie down. Can’t let your guard down; not for a second.

Some poor soul screams incoherent nonsense as it’s hoisted out of the cell by its armpits, digging its heels into the soiled dirt and struggling for all it’s worth. It’s begging for salvation. Shiro understands without really comprehending the words. Fear is a universal language. He buries his face against his knees, shaking as the guards swing the door shut, leaving the survivors to whimper out their terror in the dark. Shiro feels sick; bitter warmth worms up the back of his throat and he cups a hand over his mouth.

He cringes against the wall, turning his body away from the others, even though they can’t see him in the pitch black. Moments later, he’s retching up the pitiful remnants of whatever’s left in his stomach. He hears someone else follow suit and curses himself for his weakness.

He nearly jumps out of his skin as a hand materializes in the dark, cupping around the back of his neck. It’s warm and strong and supportive. It doesn’t belong here. Not in this place.

“Shiro?”

His head swivels frantically around, trying to penetrate the inky blackness, trying to locate the source of the voice; but his neck is stiff and his head aches so fiercely that his vision blurs.

“Shiro!” The voice sounds so frightened. The large hand clenches around the nape of his neck and Shiro bucks. “No, no. Hey, easy. Just take it easy.”

There’s slimy warmth pooling beneath his cheek. His skin is exposed to the frigid air and he can’t stop shivering. His throbbing head is going to be the death of him.

He blinks, lips smacking against the sour taste flooding his tongue. He’s on the floor. How did…?

“That’s it,” the voice encourages, still noticeably shaken. “Come on, man.”

Gentle hands maneuver his upper body so that he’s lying on his side, one giant palm cradling his head, acting as a cushion.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“I…” Shiro’s voice croaks inaudibly. His throat is sore and parched. His cheek is wet with something that drips thickly when he tries to lift his head. He’s cold. So unbelievably cold. A shudder rushes up from the base of his spine to the top of his head, causing his muscles to convulse.

“All right,” the voice soothes. “I’ve got you. You’re all right, Shiro.”

It’s uncertain and scared and faltering. But for some reason, it reminds Shiro of home. He latches onto the voice, clawing his way to the surface as the darkness gradually begins to fade. A familiar face blurs into focus above him, hovering and concerned.

“H-Hunk?” Shiro coughs, gritting his teeth as a surge of pain ripples through his skull. “Wha’?”

“Shh, don’t try to talk right now,” Hunk orders, his free hand trembling over Shiro’s forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

Shiro opens his mouth to protest just as a wave of nausea sends his stomach catapulting into his throat. He curls into himself, stomach muscles clenching spasmodically as he heaves up a slick flood of vomit. The mess spills over his chin and splatters onto the floor, joining the congealing pool beneath his head.

“Ah, jeez,” Hunk winces, supporting Shiro’s forehead as he convulses. “Okay, okay,” he breathes. “This is fine. Get it out. Then I’m gonna get you some help.”

Moments later, his mouth is being wiped clean and a warm towel is tucked around his shoulders with such careful precision that he wants to cry. Shiro buries his face in the warmth of Hunk’s shirt, shivering violently as chills seize his feverish body. Two strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a protective hug. Perhaps he’s still dreaming.

“I’ve got you,” Hunk repeats, stroking slow arcs up and down Shiro’s back. “You’re gonna be fine. Just need to get you to the healing pods. Will you be all right if I carry you? I can’t really see you walking right now. You won’t freak out on me or anything, right?”

Shiro barely registers a word. His ears are still buzzing with the deafening noise echoing from the arena. Pleas for mercy and screams buried in raw agony. He bites viciously at his lip, forcing it all back. That’s all they are; just echoes. Whispering ghosts of voices long gone.

Something wet gurgles in the back of his throat and he chokes on a sob. Shiro jerks, nose slamming into the crook of Hunk’s neck. He spits up another mouthful of hot bile, groaning as the liquid dribbles down Hunk’s chest.

The other boy doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he hugs Shiro tighter, adjusting his arms so that one hand cradles the back of Shiro’s head.

“Dude, you’re a mess,” Hunk says, worry slithering around the wobbling corners of the smile Shiro can hear him trying to muster. “I’m gonna get you some help, okay?”

Shiro doesn’t have the energy to do more than nod.

“Sleep,” he slurs, forehead falling to rest against Hunk’s shoulder. “Please.”

“I know,” Hunk says, stroking Shiro’s back. “I know you’re tired. You can sleep soon, all right? Just stay with me here for a second.” He loops his arm around Shiro’s back, hooking the other underneath his knees. Ever so gently, Shiro feels himself being lifted off the icy floor and settled against a warm chest. He turns his face into Hunk’s shirt, far past the point of caring how pathetic he must look right now.

He’s tired. Just…so tired.

Chapter 10

Summary:

Shiro has a very fragile relationship with food.

As the team’s unofficial chef, Hunk is very aware of everyone’s individual eating habits; likes, dislikes, specific allergies, and so forth.

For instance, he knows that Lance won’t touch anything that even remotely resembles a brussels sprout with a twelve-foot pole. He knows Pidge has a quirk about different foods interacting on the same plate; everything has to have its separate, designated space. Keith has to be coaxed, (sometimes forced), into eating even a little breakfast and he blatantly refuses food when he’s anxious before missions.

It took Hunk a little longer with Shiro. The night they had rescued him from the compound he hadn’t realized the extent of the damage; he’d assumed the poor guy was still suffering nasty side effects as a result of being drugged, not to mention starved for over a year.

Hunk had whipped up an impromptu dinner for everyone in Keith’s little shack, taking solace in the comforting sense of control the process of stirring, chopping, and searing had allotted, if only for a fleeting couple of hours.

Long after everyone else had cleaned their plates, Shiro had continued to eat. He’d mechanically shoveled food into his mouth like a ravenous robot, oblivious to his companion’s bafflement. At the time, Hunk hadn’t understood; hadn’t really thought anything of it. He’d seemed hungry, so Hunk had continued to feed him. And Shiro had kept eating. It was the grim concentration that had really freaked Hunk out. Shiro hadn’t enjoyed the food, either. In hindsight, Hunk realized his objective had been to inhale every scrap of nourishment as quickly as possible. He’d quite literally eaten himself sick.

Halfway through his fourth bowl of stew, Shiro had abruptly spun away from the table and vomited it all back up onto the floor, nearly giving Keith a heart attack.

Shiro never talked about his year in captivity. But Hunk was willing to bet his ass that food - if you could call it that - had been scarce and Shiro had been forced to fight for every morsel. He also guessed that prisoners were never fed regularly or sufficiently. Hunk had no idea if humans were even meant to ingest whatever the Galra considered food. It couldn’t have been especially pleasant. He couldn’t imagine forcing yourself to eat for the sole purpose of fighting to stay alive, not knowing when or if you’d ever be fed again. It made his chest ache when he thought about Shiro trapped in such a monstrous hell.

Shiro’s brain had undoubtedly been conditioned to consume every bite of whatever he was given, solely fueled by the most basic human instinct: survival.

Since they’d all been tossed together, Hunk’s taken it upon himself to meticulously monitor Shiro’s meals. The man has absolutely no concept of hunger or the parameters those triggers entail. Essentially, it boils down to making Shiro eat and then ensuring Shiro stops if he’s distracted. Hunk isn’t positive Shiro is ever going to be able to enjoy food like a normal person ever again. That realization makes him incredibly sad.

One of Hunk’s favorite pastimes is cooking for the team, (when Coran hasn’t beaten him to it). He’s grown exceptionally skilled at experimenting with the various foreign ingredients and creating dishes that taste nearly identical to some of his favorite foods back on Earth.

Still, he’s never seen Shiro actually enjoy a meal. Sure, their leader enjoys the company, the camaraderie and routine of sitting down to do something so mundane and familiar in the midst of their crazy lives. But from what Hunk can deduce, Shiro eats because he knows his body requires the nutrients and energy in order to function properly, not because he relishes the flavors or textures of whatever’s placed in front of him.

So the night he makes something vaguely similar to chicken spaghetti, (it’d been a rough mission; Hunk needed comfort food), and presents it to the group, he isn’t surprised when everyone digs in. What does surprise him is Shiro’s reaction after his first bite.

“Oh,” Shiro pulls back for a moment, chewing slowly and giving a curious tilt of his head. He swallows, a strange smile playing at the corners of his lips. “This is…”

“Oh,” Hunk echoes, disappointment weighing heavily as his shoulders droop. “You don’t like it.”

Shiro shakes his head, “No, I…this is really good. It tastes like…I don’t know. Something my mom used to make, I think.”

Shiro’s never bothered mentioning his family. The comment sends Hunk sputtering while the other paladins gape at Shiro, noisy sounds of chewing abruptly halting as forks poise listlessly in the air.

“I, uh,” Hunk stammers, still taken aback by Shiro’s compliment. “I was going for chicken spaghetti?”

“Yeah,” Shiro hums after a thoughtful moment before digging into his meal with renewed enthusiasm. “That’s it. That’s what she used to make.”

Shiro moans around another mouthful, closing his eyes as he swallows. “Hunk, this is incredible. I don’t know how you do it.”

Hunk beams with the praise, smiling from ear-to-ear as he watches Shiro reach for the serving bowl to ladle out another helping. He’s eating with gusto, relishing every bite.

“Well, it’s not exactly spaghetti, but I guess it had the general shape,” Hunk chuckles, swirling a bite around his own fork. “So I figured I’d give it a try.”

“It’s awesome, Hunk,” Lance agrees, cheeks ballooning as he struggles to speak through an obscene amount of…space spaghetti?

Shiro nods, barely pausing to breathe as he practically inhales his second plate.

Pidge and Keith contribute their own compliments, quickly finishing their portions and heading to the showers to wash off the day’s grime. Lance lets out an unapologetic, thoroughly satisfied belch before announcing he’s wiped.

“You want some help?” Lance offers lazily, slurring around a sleepy yawn.

Hunk rolls his eyes, “No, no. I’ve got it. You’d only screw up my system, anyway. Yes, there is a system, Lance.” He begins gathering up the empty plates, feeling the grueling exhaustion beginning to take its toll. That’s when he notices that Shiro hasn’t moved. Come to think of it, he hasn’t moved for a good five minutes.

The older boy is hunched over the table, head bowed, arms braced against the surface and hands clenched into tight fists. His eyes are squeezed shut, upper body swaying gently as his throat works with convulsive swallows.

“Shiro?” Hunk frowns, crossing over to place a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Shiro jerks upright, blinking at Hunk with hazy, unfocused eyes as his throat bobs with another thick swallow. He’s alarmingly pale, skin clammy with sweat and hair matted to his forehead.

“Yeah,” he pants, tongue slowly licking over his upper lip. “‘M fine. Jus’…just tired.” His slurred words end with an audible shudder that visibly ripples down his spine. His hand strays to hover over his abdomen, lips parting to pant softly as he struggles to stand.

“You sure?” Hunk glares skeptically, keeping his hand on Shiro’s shoulder as he rises. “‘Cause you look kind of -“

Hunk is abruptly cut off by an odd gurgling sound. Shiro’s eyes widen as he frantically presses a fist to his mouth. A wet burp rumbles in his throat, causing his chest to jolt.

Hunk takes an involuntary step back as Shiro cringes, suppressing another deep belch. “Um, Shiro?”

“E-excuse me, I -” Shiro blushes furiously, hand rubbing over his stomach as he takes a few steps away from Hunk. “My stomach feels…sorry. I don’t know what’s -“ he cuts himself off with another rumble of a burp, cupping a hand firmly over his mouth before stumbling away from the mess-hall, breaking into an awkward jog. “I’ve..gotta go.”

Baffled, Hunk really has no choice but to follow. Something is seriously wrong and he has the sinking suspicion that it’s his fault.

He catches up easily. Shiro’s hunched over in the hallway, one arm gripping abusively around his stomach and the other bracing his weight against the wall. He’s panting, broad frame jerking with sharp hiccups that he’s obviously desperate to stifle.

Hunk can’t help resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Shiro flinches, but doesn’t push him off, just curls in harder on himself.

“You’re sick,” Hunk says matter-of-factly, leaving little room for argument. “You should have said something.”

“I’m not -“ a muffled retch interrupts his protest. Shiro presses his fist against his mouth so hard Hunk’s afraid he’s going to crack his jawbone. “I’m just…so full. I can’t remember ever feeling so…god, my stomach -“ Shiro’s voice catches on another hiccup and Hunk braces his palm against the other man’s chest, attempting to steady him.

“I know,” he says, voice gentle. “Don’t worry. You’re okay. It was just a little too much, I guess.”

Shiro grunts, trying to detangle himself from Hunk’s grip as another violent gag erupts from his throat. He staggers into the shared bathroom, knees bruising against the floor as he drapes himself over the toilet. He clenches the edges of the bowl, legs writhing as he struggles to regain control of his rebelling body.

“What the hell is - ulp - wrong with me?” Shiro demands, shoulders shuddering brutally as saliva drips over his bottom lip.

Despite his own mounting nausea, Hunk squats down behind the older boy, placing a warm hand against the center of his back. He begins rubbing slow, methodic circles, hoping to help in one way or another. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Shiro isn’t pulling away, so it must be all right.

“Your body isn’t used to so much,” Hunk reasons, wincing sympathetically as Shiro convulses wretchedly at the mention of food. It’s true; he hasn’t seen Shiro eat that much since their first encounter and he feels awful for allowing it to go so far. “I think you may have overdone it a little. I’m sorry. I should have -“

“Don’t be,” Shiro gags, spitting uselessly into the bowl. “Wasn’t your - fault.”

Of course it wasn’t. Nothing is ever anyone’s fault but Shiro’s. Goddammit.

Hunk takes a deep breath through his nose, wrapping his arms in a sturdy embrace around Shiro’s waist as he muffles the shaky words, “Yes it was. Don’t be such a fucking hero.”

It’s angry and stupid and selfish but it gets Shiro’s attention.

Shiro glances up from the bowl, eyes momentarily softening as he regards his friend.

“Sor-” Shiro barely manages to choke out the name before he’s curling forward with a full-bodied heave, burping up a stream of brown bile. Hunk winces, automatically increasing the pressure of his hand against Shiro’s back. His other unconsciously presses against Shiro’s contracting stomach.

“Don’t worry,” Hunk reassures, tightening his grip as he feels the other boy’s determination waver, muscles bunching and coiling in desperate anticipation. “I’ve got you.”

Hunk feels like his insides are disintegrating when Shiro’s self-control finally gives out, sending him lurching over the bowl with a belching gag that results in a flood of pre-digested liquid spewing from his mouth. Shiro coughs and wheezes, desperate for a breath of air as crippling waves of nausea threaten to suffocate him.

“Take it easy,” Hunk coaches. His nose brushes weakly against Shiro’s right shoulder blade as the older boy hiccups pitifully, grasping onto the supporting arm that Hunk’s encircled around his waist. “Breathe.”

Shiro tries to follow the order and ends up retching, another harsh belch ushering up a watery flood of sick. He slumps over the toilet, panting raggedly as the fit eventually wears off.

Hunk is kind of freaking out. It’s almost as bad as the first time it happened. Except this time, he knows it’s his fault.

Shiro coughs, tainted drool dribbling languidly over his bottom lip as he struggles to regain some semblance of control over his own body. Then his hand strays to Hunk’s, long fingers brushing against his skin.

“Hunk,” he slurs, voice breathless. “Wasn’t you. Stop…stop thinkin’ so hard.”

“W-what?” Hunk stammers, voice catching.

“I can hear you,” Shiro chuckles, a little deliriously as he slumps against Hunk’s chest. “So loud.”

“Well, stop it,” Hunk demands, readjusting Shiro’s weight against him. “It’s weird, okay? Reading people’s thoughts isn’t normal.”

Shiro tries to nod, coughing until he's red in the face. 

“Ah, jeez,” Hunk sighs, dragging his fingers awkwardly over Shiro's back. “You’re all right,” he whispers when Shiro chokes on a labored inhale. “You’re gonna be all right.”

Chapter 11

Summary:

It's Lance's turn!

Shiro moaned, rolling over onto his side as he rode out a fresh wave of nausea.

He blinked at the clock and sighed. He had to be up in two hours for a mandatory training session…and he couldn’t recall a time in recent memory when he’d felt so awful.

Shiro suspected he was running a fever, if the pulsating bouts of dizziness, chills, and bone-deep aches plaguing his body were anything to go by.

His stomach had been up-in-arms ever since he’d retired earlier that evening. He’d already made two trips to the bathroom to heave unproductively over the toilet, but his body stubbornly refused to grant him any sort of relief.

He felt overly full, even though he’d barely eaten two bites at dinner. He could feel the low rumble of digestion, contents sloshing beneath his palm, ushering another acidic pocket of air into his chest. Shiro rubbed gently over the base of his throat, attempting to ease the uncomfortable burning sensation.

The trapped air abruptly burst out of him in a long, gurgling expulsion that he did his best to muffle into his pillow.

Kneading his fist over his abdomen yielded another wet belch, and Shiro felt a thick surge of something hot sludge up the back of his throat.

He struggled out of the blankets, scooting up into a sitting position and immediately faltered as another wave of queasiness nearly knocked him back down. He shivered violently, gooseflesh prickling over his skin in response to the sudden loss of warmth.

Forcing his shaking limbs out of bed, Shiro carefully rose to his feet, instantly regretting the movement as the room tilted and the floor wobbled beneath him. He felt dangerously lightheaded, could hear himself panting softly as he staggered against the wall, bracing against the solid plane for balance as he weaved towards the small bathroom.

He collapsed in an unceremonious heap at the base of the toilet, familiar with the routine.

Shiro opened his mouth, panting heavily now as strings of saliva dripped down into the water. He tried to rid his mouth but his body was producing the stuff faster than he could spit it out.

He grunted weakly, adjusting his position over the toilet. The small noise was infiltrated by a sharp belch that he aimed towards the water. His muscles seized up as a sudden gag brought up a thin dribble of watery fluid.

The sharp sting of acid and the slimy texture resulted in a much deeper retch. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe as a massive flood of liquid abruptly began pouring out of him, choking him with the sheer force of its volume.

Shiro felt panic well up in his chest as his arms shook and his legs spasmed, writhing over the floor as more sick spilled from his mouth, refusing to release his straining body from the suffocating clutch of nausea.

Finally, with a strangled cough, Shiro was able to draw in a much needed breath without retching, heaving in lungfuls of the precious air that had been denied for the past few minutes.

He slumped over the bowl, feeling the adrenaline drain from his body as he recovered from the attack. His head was spinning, the debilitating nausea ebbing and flowing in a torturous cycle, though the threatening urge to puke his guts up had eased somewhat.

Shiro rested his forehead against the rim, swallowing thickly around the acidic taste coating his tongue and trying to force himself to move.

He startled when he heard shuffling footsteps approaching and realized that in his haste, he’d forgotten to shut the door all the way.

“Holy shit,” a familiar voice mumbled, still groggy with sleep. “Shiro?”

Shiro scrambled back from the toilet as if he’d been electrocuted. He glared up at the disheveled figure in the doorway.

“You know,” he began, trying to clear the hoarse edge clogging his voice, “on most planets it’s customary to knock.”

Lance rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Sorry,” he apologized, still hopelessly confused. “I just…well, the door was open and you, um…Shiro, what’re you doing on the floor?”

Shiro felt his cheeks flush as he reached for the edge of the sink in order to pull himself up. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as a surge of dizziness nearly got the better of him, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Lance frowned, taking a few steps inside the small bathroom, cautious concern evident all over his face.

“Are you…sick?”

Lance stumbled over the word, as if the very notion that Shiro might actually be ill was laughably impossible. Nevertheless, the younger boy wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked rather terrified.

“No,” Shiro promptly lied, reaching down to flush away the evidence of his earlier episode. “Something at dinner didn’t agree with me. I’ll be fine.”

He moved towards the sink, turning on the faucet and cupping a few handfuls of the cool water to splash his face.

“Really?” Lance placed both hands on his hips, arching his eyebrows at Shiro’s dismissive tone. “‘Cause you look like total shit. You’re shaking all over and -“

“Why are you even up right now?” Shiro gritted, his normally pleasant voice marred by annoyance.

Lance snorted, taking a few steps back to lean against the doorframe, “Um, I have to pee.”

“Oh.” Shiro finished washing his hands and tried to avoid Lance’s searching gaze as he moved past him. “Right. Well, it’s all yours.”

As Shiro brushed past Lance’s shoulder, the younger boy placed a cautious hand on Shiro’s arm, easing him to a stop with a gentle rubbing motion.

“Hey,” Lance’s voice was quiet, worried. “Seriously, though. Are you all right?”

Shiro forced a tiny smile and nodded, stubbornly ignoring the reeling scenery.

“I’m fine. I just need to sleep it off. See you in the morning, Lance.”

He felt Lance’s eyes boring into his back as he retreated to his bedroom, refusing to use the wall for support this time, trying to convince himself that this wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Shiro crumpled into bed, wrapping his arms around his burbling stomach. Now that he was alone, concealed from prying eyes, he allowed himself the weakness of groaning aloud as his belly emitted another foreboding gurgle.

He tossed and turned, muffling sick burps and wet hiccups until the sun came up, peeking through his window and bringing with it an unwelcome stream of yellow light. His alarm buzzed and Shiro forced himself out of bed, his movements on autopilot.

He threw up in the shower and nearly cracked his head open when he stepped out and slipped on the tiled bathroom floor.

It was going to be a long fucking day.

He sipped on a glass of orange juice at breakfast, hoping that having something in his stomach might help a bit with the lingering queasiness. He definitely wasn’t the loudest of their small group, so no one thought his silence or lack of participation entirely unusual.

At least, that was what Shiro tried to convince himself. He caught Lance’s eyes once, those worried blue orbs searching his own as he refocused his concentration entirely on his glass of juice.

Shiro swallowed, feeling the liquid he’d ingested bubbling in his stomach, refusing to settle. He suppressed a belch in his throat before it could escape, swaying in his seat as his shoulders shook with chills.

He suddenly had the unsettling suspicion that everyone was watching him. He needed to get out, needed to escape before something terrible happened.

Shiro pushed away from the table, hearing the soft murmurs of confusion and stuttering questions from his teammates.

“Shiro, what’s the matter?”

“Yeah, you don’t look so good.”

“I - I’ll be right back,” Shiro informed the group as he quickly strode away from the mess-hall, resisting the urge to press a fist to his mouth.

His teeth chattered as he hurried down the small passage, occasionally reaching out to steady himself against the hull. His vision wavered as he collapsed to his knees, back arching with a violent gag.

Shiro clamped both hands over his mouth, lurching forward with a gurgling belch. He felt wet slime coating his fingers, dripping onto his knees as he heaved raggedly into his hands.

Tears filled his eyes, flowing unchecked down his hot cheeks as he burped up a warm flood of the damn orange juice. He pulled his hands away from his mouth as a second wave spurted out of him, spattering onto the floor and flecking his forearms with sick.

He felt himself tipping over, on the verge of collapsing in a puddle of his own vomit. Then a pair of hands were wrapping around his chest, pulling him back against a solid body.

“Shiro,” the warm voice shushed him, brushing back the long silver bangs sticking to his forehead. 

Shiro hiccuped wetly, feeling a strange tightness clog his throat as he struggled to regain his composure.

“I - I’m s-sorry,” Shiro struggled weakly against Lance’s hold, but the other refused to release him.

“You’re really sick,” Lance said, as if he’d known the truth all along. “Why didn’t you just tell us?”

Shiro released a breathy belch, swaying on his hands and knees as he went boneless in Lance’s arms.

“'m sorry,” Shiro repeated, voice slurred with fever. Tears brimmed, unbidden as Lance’s hand stroked a soothing arc down his back.

“You feel really warm,” Lance commented, frowning at the small choked noises reverberating beneath his hand. “Shiro, you need to go back to bed.”

Shiro was about to protest when another deep retch caught him off guard, ushering up a thin slurry of bile. The mess trickled over his chin as he coughed, trembling beneath Lance’s steady grip.

“Jesus…” Lance breathed, watching in disbelief as his team leader fell apart before his eyes. Choking on snot and sick and begrudging tears as Shiro collapsed against Lance, utterly exhausted.

“Feel...like crap,” Shiro hiccuped, eyes rolling dizzily as his world teetered, darkness spotting ominously over his vision.

“That’s because you’re running a fever,” Lance supplied, brushing the back of his hand over Shiro’s sweaty face. “You need to rest.”

“I need to -“

“Training can wait,” Lance insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Shiro, you couldn’t even make it to the bathroom. Flying in your condition would be a freaking disaster. You’d put all of us in danger.”

Shiro suppressed a breathless sob, slumping towards the floor. He knew Lance was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to admit defeat.

“Come on,” Lance’s voice softened as he eased the other man’s arm over his shoulder, looping his free hand around Shiro’s waist as he hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed. I’ll tell the others you’re taking the day off.”

“It’s okay,” Lance ran his fingers in a circular pattern over Shiro’s ribcage. “It’s sort of nice to know you’re human, too.”

Chapter 12

Summary:

Set S1, just after Shiro's rescue. Escape on the hover bike doesn't go as planned.

“Oh, god,” Hunk swallows around the urge to gag as the rover dips into another sharp dive. “Please tell me we’re almost there.”

“A few miles,” Keith answers, sounding annoyed. “Lean right, big guy.”

Hunk groans but complies, shifting his weight in order to steer the rover away from a looming sand dune. He accidentally slips back onto Lance’s hand. The boy lets out a startled yelp before punching Hunk in the arm.

“Dude! Stay on your side,” Lance growls, shaking out his smashed hand.

“Okay, technically there aren’t any sides,” Hunk retorts, about to turn around and give Lance a shove when the stranger shifts in his arms, moaning softly.

“Um, guys?” Hunk peers down at the slack features beginning to contort into a grimace. “I think he’s waking up.”

“Hold his head,” Pidge says, nudging her shoulder where the man has fallen against it. “He’s kinda crushing me, here!”

“Right. Sorry,” Hunk braces the guy’s forehead, easing him back against his own shoulder. He feels the stranger’s stomach heave with a convulsive gasp as his head lolls before snapping to attention.

“Wha’s…what’s goin’ on? What…” The man glances up, absorbing his surroundings and apparently making an immediate decision as he springs forward with surprising speed to grip Keith in a violent headlock. Keith chokes, swerving abruptly as his airway is obstructed by the crushing grip.

“Fuck, Shiro, stop! It’s me. Shit, get him off!” Keith struggles, causing the rover to lurch unsteadily as he scrambles to regain control. “Calm down! We’re here to help you!”

Shiro’s panting heavily, head swiveling in obvious confusion as he absorbs the whirling scenery and the teenagers holding him upright. “What’s happening?” he breathes weakly, head thumping against Pidge’s shoulder blades as the initial adrenaline rush drains away.

“Well, technically you’re being rescued from an evil alien race that was probably gonna kill you, which, before like an hour ago, I had no idea existed so -“

“Lance, you’re not helping,” Keith shouts, steering the rover over a cluster of trees.

“Lemme off,” Shiro slurs, clenching at Lance’s shirt as the rover swerves violently. “I…I - let me off!”

“Hey, just take it easy,” Hunk soothes, rubbing the man’s back. He’s clearly out of it. Poor guy’s gotta be pretty confused right now. Emerging from a drug-induced coma on a speeding rover with four strangers straddling you has got to be a little jarring. “We’re almost there. Right, Keith?” He emphasizes with a subtle growl; because if they’re not he might just hurl all over the guy’s rover to prove a point.

“Ten minutes,” Keith’s voice is clipped, sounding like he’s about to kick everybody off if they don’t stop pestering him. “Hold on to Shiro.”

As if he was going to do anything else, but Hunk tightens his grip anyway. The older boy squirms in his arms, hard muscles coiling beneath Hunk’s hands.

“What the hell…is happening…” Shiro grits out, panting raggedly as the rover dives over another hill. He groans as his robotic arm flares to life, sparking with glowing, purple bolts of electricity. The alien thing was freaking Hunk out before he realized it was a deadly weapon.

“Um, guys?” Panicking, he snatches his hand away from Shiro’s metallic arm. “I don’t think his alien arm thing is happy! Maybe trying to kill us?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Keith shouts back.

Lance yelps as the electricity grazes his thigh, “Oh shit, get it off me!”

“Can you power it down?” Pidge demands, head swiveling frantically as Shiro’s arm continues to hum menacingly with a foreign energy.

“I don’t think it has a power button,” Hunk yells back, struggling to maintain his grip around Shiro’s waist as the older boy slumps forward with a strangled whine.

“Try to keep him calm,” Pidge suggests, nervously glancing over her shoulder.

“Almost there,” Keith assures, steering the rover into a sharp left.

Hunk rolls his eyes but ends up petting Shiro’s back. The broad shoulders hitch with a choked noise and Hunk tries to get a better look at the older boy’s face.

“Hey, guys? He’s not looking too good,” Hunk brushes the snow-white fringe out of Shiro’s face, frowning at the sheen of sweat glistening on the other man’s face.

A low gurgle vibrates in Shiro’s throat as he swallows convulsively, flesh hand clenching spasmodically around Hunk’s arm.

“Lemme…off,” he repeats, though Hunk can barely hear his strained voice over the rumbling noise of the engine.

“Just hang on,” Hunk says, emulating a confidence he absolutely does not feel. “We’re almost there, man.”

Hunk barely has time to register the urgency as Shiro suddenly leans to the side, jolting with a wet sounding burp. “Oh, crap,” he breathes, belatedly realizing what’s about to happen just before Shiro convulses with a gurgling retch.

A stream of vomit splatters all down the side of the rover, coating Hunk’s leg in sludgy warmth as Shiro coughs, gagging on another mouthful of sick.

“Oh…oh my god,” Hunk sputters, simultaneously trying to hold the guy steady and keep his own stomach contents down. “Keith, please stop this thing!”

Everyone erupts into panicked exclamations of disgust as Shiro continues retching weakly over the side of the rover. Keith complies and brings the vehicle to a hovering stop. Hunk immediately slides off and Shiro follows him, landing in a graceless heap as his back arches with an unproductive gag.

“Oh, okay,” Hunk swallows thickly, pressing a fist to his mouth as he kneels down, awkwardly patting Shiro’s back. “Wow. That’s a lot of…geez, all right. Get it up.”

“What happened?” Keith demands furiously.

“The drugs are probably making him sick,” Pidge supplies, staring with wide, frightened eyes.

“Or maybe it’s your shitty driving,” Lance sneers. “I don’t blame the guy. I feel like puking, too.”

Keith lands a punch on the other boy’s arm which sends him tumbling off the rover with a startled, “Hey!”

“Guys, cut it out,” Hunk says, gripping Shiro’s bicep as he jerks forward, bringing up a much weaker dribble of brownish bile. “You’re probably freaking him out.”

“Shiro?” Keith kneels down in front of the other man, cupping his cheek in a strangely intimate gesture. “It’s Keith. You’re safe, all right? Can you hear me?”

Shiro coughs, glancing up uncertainly at the vaguely familiar voice. He squints, swallowing hard and giving a weak nod.

“Good,” Keith breathes a sigh of relief. “We’re taking you home. Don’t worry. Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

“Ke - Keith?” Shiro reaches out with his metallic hand, face crumpling as Keith instinctively flinches. He instantly pulls back and collapses, supported only by his trembling arms and knees.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” Keith frowns and places a hand on the back of Shiro’s neck, glancing up at Hunk. “Can you lift him?”

Hunk wraps his arm determinedly around the other man’s waist, hauling him back onto the rover with ease.

“I’ve got him,” he assures, climbing on behind and settling a half-conscious Shiro against his chest. He rubs a soothing hand down the older boy’s arm as Shiro moans something that Hunk doesn’t quite catch.

“Everybody hang on,” Keith commands, revving up the engine. “Lance, you’re welcome to go hands-free.”

Lance squawks indignantly as the rover glides into motion, carrying the five of them into the emerging sunrise.

 

Chapter 13

Summary:

Shiro doesn't mean to get drunk. He thought he was just being diplomatic. Part 1 of my drunk!shiro fics :)

“He’s been gone for a while.”

“Yeah, too long if you ask me.”

“No one asked you.”

“Shut up, Keith.”

“Should we go check on him?”

“I don’t like this, you guys,” Hunk took a nervous sip from his glass and set it down with a grimace. “He said it wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes. It’s been over an hour. I think something’s wrong.”

“I second that,” Keith pressed a contemplative fist against his lips, glaring at the closed door as if he could pry it open through sheer force of will. “Negotiations should have been wrapped up by now.”

“Okay,” Pidge rubbed a hand over her forehead, obviously agitated but doing her best to disguise it. “It’s not a negotiation. It’s a treaty ceremony…sort of. You guys are over-reacting. As usual.”

“Oh, like you’re so cucumber cool,” Lance interjected, glaring pointedly at the fingernail she’d been steadily biting down to the quick for the past half-hour.

All of the paladin’s heads swiveled as a loud thud echoed from behind the closed door and a chorus of chaotic laughter abruptly followed.

“Okay,” Keith snarled, hand flying to his belt. “That’s it.”

Just as Hunk was mentally preparing to restrain the smaller paladin, the door made a whooshing sound and flew open.

Out stumbled Shiro, leaning heavily against the alien prince. They were both laughing, hands clapping each other’s shoulders as if they’d been companions for a millennia. Shiro tripped down the last step and was only saved from a nasty face-plant by Hunk’s strong grip around his shoulders.

“Hunk!” Shiro smiled brightly, (once he realized who was holding him), and buried his head against the larger boy’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “Hey, I missed you guys.”

“What -“ Keith started, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“- the fuck.” Lance finished for him, facial muscles twitching like they couldn’t decide which emotion to indulge first.

“What?” Shiro mimicked, pulling away from Hunk and stumbling over towards Keith. His movements were uncharacteristically sloppy and the cherry-on-top was the loose grin plastered across his face. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, sliding from one paladin to the other in obvious confusion as he absorbed their shocked expressions.

“Is he…” Hunk trailed off, bewildered by the entire situation and looking to the others for help.

“Oh my god,” Lance finally barked a flabbergasted laugh, throwing his arms wide as if welcoming a spiritual being into their midst. “He’s…he’s wasted!”

“I - what? Oh, no - that’s…fuck, you smell nice,” Shiro murmured, practically purring into Keith’s neck and tipping so far forward that his face was eventually pressed into the crook of Keith’s shoulder.

Keith gently nudged him off, holding Shiro at arms length as he inspected the older boy. Shiro stared back, blinking a little too slowly. His broad chest jolted with a resounding hiccup.

“Ah, geez,” Pidge moaned, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Did they even give you anything to eat?” She turned to the prince. “Did you give him anything to eat before you started chugging ceremonial - “ she held up her fingers and air-quoted, “ - shots?” Hunk quickly pushed her arms back down to her sides, glancing anxiously at the curious alien spectators surrounding their little group.

“Hey, knock it off,” Pidge scowled, but she took the hint.

The prince smiled, his algae-green locks swishing hypnotically across his shoulders, almost as if they were floating. He shrugged, still undeniably amused by the situation, “That was not part of the ceremony. He possesses admirable stamina for a human. He did not lose consciousness once,” the prince chuckled, his melodic voice tinkling pleasantly. Several of the other aliens joined in. “A few drams of the elixir induces honesty, among other things, and now we are assured that you bear no ill will towards our people. Your intentions are advantageous. We welcome you as allies.”

“Okay, so that is definitely more than a few drams,” Pidge bristled at the alien, stepping protectively in front of Shiro, who’s head was swiveling back and forth between the two of them, utterly oblivious as to why everyone was so upset.

“The effect on humans seems to be a tad more…concentrated, I admit. Honestly, he is quite pleasant when he is not so stiff. Your species are exceptionally entertaining conversationalists.”

“What else did you give him?” Keith demanded, steadying Shiro as he swayed on his feet, fingers grasping clumsily at Keith’s arm as he struggled to maintain his equilibrium.

“Not a thing,” the prince smiled, displaying a mouthful of perfect, crystalline teeth. “Let him be. Our talks have concluded and all is well. Besides, he seems to be enjoying himself. Perhaps you all should come and partake; banish some of this unpleasant energy, as it were.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Keith gritted through clenched teeth. “But it’s time for us to leave.”

“As you wish,” the prince nodded, appearing mildly abashed by the refusal. “They will escort you back to your ship,” he added, gesturing flippantly towards a gaggle of guards standing at attention. And just like that, they were dismissed. Disregarded.

“How long is he gonna be like this?” Pidge demanded, glancing back at Shiro who was humming softly to himself, chin lolling awkwardly against his chest.

“Hard to say,” the prince mused, barely bothering to glance back over his shoulder. “I have never witnessed the duration with a human.”

“Okay, we need to get him back to the cryopods,” Keith hissed, tugging a little more frantically. “We don’t know what the hell this stuff is doing to his system.”

“We’re leavin’?” Shiro’s eyes rolled back over his shoulder, disappointment plainly evident as Keith looped an arm around his waist.

“Yeah, buddy. Time to go,” Lance hitched Shiro’s free arm over his shoulder.

“Keith, don’t shoot ‘em, huh? He didn’t…didn’t -” Shiro’s slurred plea was interrupted by a much wetter hiccup. He swallowed hard, dark brows knitting with a twinge of confusion.

“Whoa, you okay there?” Lance eyed him, placing a firm hand over Shiro’s chest.

“Mmhmm,” Shiro gave a slight nod, lips pursing as he swallowed a few more times for good measure. “‘M great. How-how’re you?”

“All good here, man,” Lance’s mouth twitched as he struggled to rein in an undeniable urge to laugh out loud.

“Yeah,” Shiro agreed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hey…hey, guys?” His brows furrowed as he glanced first at Keith, then at Lance. “If I don’t make it back -“

“What?” Keith practically growled. “Shiro, seriously.”

“Make sure -“ Shiro swallowed down another hiccup, “- somebody plays Gloria Gaynor at my funeral.”

“Holy shit,” Lance snorted, breaking into a semi-restrained fit of laughter. “This is incredible. This is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith snarled, readjusting his grip around Shiro’s waist. “Stop laughing at him. This isn’t fucking funny!”

“Oh, come on,” Lance whined, reaching down to guide Shiro’s left foot onto Yellow’s bridge. “It’s kind of funny.”

“How about both of you shut up and move your asses?” Hunk arched an eyebrow, concern bleeding through his palpable annoyance. “I, for one, don’t want Shiro to keel over from alcohol poisoning. Or, you know, elixir poisoning…whatever.”

“I’m telling you, he’s just drunk. It’ll wear off,” Lance insisted, still doing his best to stifle his giggling. “I’ve seen him like this once before. He gets really -“

A disruptive, gurgling noise cut through the tension and everyone turned to gape at Shiro. He had the courtesy to look embarrassed and cupped a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah. That,” Lance finished, grinning unapologetically.

“Okay, Captain Fantastic. You’re in charge of keeping him awake until we can get him back to the castle,” Keith ordered, eyes flashing angrily in Lance’s direction.

“’Scuse me,” Shiro muttered quietly, blushing even through the haze of intoxication. He swayed in the other boys’ grip, flushed and dizzy and yet somehow coherent enough to look embarrassed.

“It’s all right, buddy,” Lance snickered, patting Shiro’s shoulder. “Come on. Right foot, Left foot.”

“Like walkin’ down the - down the isle,” Shiro volunteered, abruptly closing his mouth to muffle another burp.

“Jesus Christ,” Keith murmured under his breath.

Lance responded by whistling the Wedding March as they continued ascending the ramp. And if Keith happened to smack him upside the head on the way up, he figured it was worth it.

Shiro didn’t protest when they eased him down against a stack of crates. He nodded gratefully, drew his knees up, cradled his head, and jolted with another hiccup. The wet noise morphed into something far more ominous halfway out of his mouth.

“Um, guys?” Hunk glanced back from his chair. “Maybe somebody should get him a bucket or something? He doesn’t sound too good. I mean, who knows how long it’ll take him to crash?”

“Hmm, probably not long,” Lance admitted, both hands balanced on his hips as he assessed. “Shiro’s definitely a lightweight.”

“‘M sittin’ right here,” Shiro pouted - actually stuck his fucking lower lip out. Then he slapped a palm over his mouth, bowing over his lap as he struggled to swallow down the subsequent attack of hiccups.

“Okay, seriously,” Hunk gritted, on the verge of panic. “I know that sound. The extra motion isn’t gonna be fun, either. At least aim him over the cargo shoot or something!”

“Relax,” Lance shushed, kneeling effortlessly to position an empty crate between Shiro’s legs. “I’ve got it covered. Besides, he probably won’t even need it.”

Shiro’s posture immediately wilted, head lolling listlessly against the stacked crates while his throat worked with a few convulsive swallows. He startled back to consciousness when his chest jumped with another involuntary expulsion.

Pidge hid her eyes, audibly containing a stifled chuckle.

“Wha - hic - what?” Shiro stammered through the query, looking more than a little woozy.

Pidge hid the grin behind her fist as she crouched down to rub his back.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “It’s just…dude, your hiccups.”

“Whadd’a - hicc! - ‘bout ‘em?”

“They’d be cute if you weren’t so, you know, smashed.”

Pidge was probably the only team member who could get away with labelling Shiro as cute and avoid dismemberment.

Lance snorted. Because, they really were pretty goddamn adorable. The complete opposite of his smooth, even-keel baritone, Shiro’s hiccups were high-pitched squeaks that somehow managed to jolt his entire upper body. He simply couldn’t help it whenever the need arose; something he couldn’t control, especially in his current state.

“Well, stop it,” Shiro slurred, mouth curling down into a poor imitation of an indignant pout. His lips remained stubbornly pursed.

“You know, they’re actually pretty -“ Lance began, the backhanded compliment dying on his tongue as Keith swung an accusatory finger at him.

“Nope. Nuh-uh, you don’t get to talk to him anymore. Go sit up there with Hunk,” Keith’s entire body was practically humming with righteous, overprotective fury.

Lance widened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut as soon as he saw Shiro slump over the crate with a miserable sounding groan. And when he spit up a mouthful of watery saliva, Lance promptly scrambled to the front of the cockpit.

“Did you just put him in time-out?” Pidge smirked, absently rubbing a little slower between Shiro’s shoulder blades.

“He knows what he did,” Keith muttered, crouching down on the other side. The ship trembled as Hunk steered them back through the worm-hole, G-force momentarily sucking the air from their lungs. Keith gripped Shiro’s bicep as the older boy lurched forward, gulping frantically. “Hey. How you holding up?”

Shiro gave the slightest of nods as Yellow regained its center of gravity. He was panting heavily through his nose between thick swallows and his gray pallor wasn’t necessarily inspiring confidence.

“We’re almost back. You can sleep soon,” Pidge promised.

“That shit really did a number on you, huh?” Keith winced sympathetically, carefully cupping the base of Shiro’s neck and rubbing small circles with his thumb. “It’s okay if you need to…you know,” he gestured awkwardly. “Might make you feel better.”

This time, Shiro shook his head, cheeks inflating as he slowly expelled another low burble of trapped air.

“Nothin’ feels real right now,” his voice was so horribly slurred that Keith had a difficult time deciphering. This was the inevitable stage he’d been afraid of. “Not real.”

Beads of sweat dotted Shiro’s skin, bangs sticking to his forehead as he clutched at the edges of the crate, struggling to pull himself together. Pidge rose to retrieve a canteen while Keith took over back-rub duty.

He stroked his fingers over the muscled arc in one smooth, encouraging motion. Shiro burped and slouched forward, bent almost double as saliva dribbled languidly from his parted lips and his stomach contracted with a weak heave.

“Okay,” Keith whispered, quickly waving Pidge away as she stared down uncertainly at them, canteen gripped tightly in her left hand. “Here we go.”

“No…no, ’m good,” Shiro inhaled a few shaky breaths. “Jus’…dizzy.”

In the end it was the landing that sent his precarious control careening over the edge.

“Ah, quiznak,” Shiro gagged violently. “Please…don’t look,” he begged before burying his head in the crate.

While Shiro did his best to vomit up his stomach lining, Hunk covered his ears, Keith murmured encouragement, and Lance looked like he’d been stranded on a desert island without adult supervision. Pidge placed the canteen within easy reach and rejoined Hunk in the cockpit.

“Does anyone else really want to be allies with those assholes? I mean, is it really necessary? ‘Cause I say screw ‘em,” Lance ranted. “They can save their own damn planet.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Keith sighed. “This isn’t helping him.”

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?” Shiro gasped, pressing the back of his hand to his lips when he finally pulled his head out of the crate.

Keith smoothed back the damp fringe clinging to Shiro’s face and solemnly shook his head, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Probably going to live on in infamy,” Lance countered.

Keith didn’t unsheathe his bayard, but he definitely thought about it.

Chapter 14

Summary:

Part 2 of the drunk!shiro saga. Keith helps him through the aftermath.

As they stumbled out of the Yellow Lion, Keith made sure to secure one arm around Shiro’s waist.

Though the older boy was upright, he was woozy, and definitely less than coherent. His steps were heavy and uncertain, his features flushed and his eyes glassy with intoxication.

Shiro swayed a little too far forward as they made their way down the ramp and Keith braced his free hand against Shiro’s chest.

“Easy,” Keith urged. “Take it slow.”

Shiro nodded and placed one foot deliberately in front of the other. His renewed concentration might have been comical. But nothing about Shiro’s current state was funny. He couldn’t help it.

Perhaps if Shiro had intentionally gone and gotten shit-faced Keith would have been a little more willing to let him fend for himself. But this wasn’t Shiro’s fault. He’d been duped and Keith was sorely tempted to track down the alien bastard and “amuse” him in an entirely different way. Primarily with his bayard.

“Is he gonna be all right?” Pidge asked, trailing a few steps behind them.

“Shouldn’t we take him to a pod?” Hunk sounded anxious.

“That won’t do any good,” Lance interjected. “He’d just be sleeping anyways.”

“He’ll be fine,” Keith said, mildly agitated. “I’m taking him back to his room.”

“You guys — worry too much,” Shiro slurred into Keith’s shoulder, half-asleep, tripping over his own feet and nearly knocking Keith off balance in the process.

“He shouldn’t be left by himself,” Pidge observed, frowning at Shiro’s hopelessly uncoordinated limbs.

“I’m staying with him,” Keith said, leaving no room for argument. “Can someone debrief Allura?”

“On it!” Lance volunteered, a little too enthusiastically.

“Someone else,” Keith deadpanned.

“Rude!” Lance squawked indignantly. “Look, mullet, I’ll have you know that the princess and I are like this,” he held up two fingers mere centimeters apart. “Literally—“

“We’ve got it,” Hunk quickly intercepted, shooting Lance a warning look. “Take care of Shiro. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Keith nodded, readjusting Shiro’s weight against his hip. “C’mon, big guy. Time for bed.”

Shiro raised his flesh hand in a half-hearted wave, mumbling a farewell to the others as Keith tugged him towards the sleeping quarters.

“You don’ have to — come,” Shiro hiccuped, eyes fluttering as his head rolled listlessly against Keith’s supportive shoulder. “‘M fine.”

Keith smirked and gave Shiro’s stomach an affectionate pat. “I know. Just a precaution.”

“Keith,” Shiro’s slurred drawl floated over Keith’s neck, warm breath prickling the hairs along his nape. “So official.” After a thoughtful moment, he added sadly, “You sound like…like me.”

Keith swallowed, something curdling inside his chest as the words spilled carelessly out of Shiro, unhindered.

“Shh,” he shushed, urging Shiro to move his feet. “Almost there. You can lie down soon.”

“That’d be nice.” Shiro’s soft voice lilted, his precarious balance wobbling with every step, the promise of blissful unconsciousness grappling with his determination to stay awake; to be okay. “But I don’t wanna sleep.”

Keith entered the code and the doors whooshed open, ushering them inside the compact living quarters.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Keith grunted, depositing Shiro on the bed.

Shiro flopped back, helmet rolling onto the mattress beside him as he spread his arms wide and jolted with another breathy hiccup. “Never do,” he murmured drowsily, staring up at the ceiling. No venom tainting his words, no bitterness, only steadfast resignation. His mind had wandered somewhere else, dark eyes following invisible shapes and figures.

“Shiro, sit up,” Keith coaxed, ever so gently. “You can’t sleep in your armor.”

“Watch me,” Shiro snorted out a delirious giggle. As if to prove his point, he rolled onto his side, pressing his face against Keith’s available thigh and tucking one heavy arm across the younger boy’s waist. His eyes fluttered and his breathing deepened, flirting with the possibility of passing out.

“Hey, not yet,” Keith sighed, giving Shiro’s shoulder a shake. “C’mon, work with me, here.”

Shiro blew a disgruntled huff into Keith’s leg before pushing himself into a precarious sitting position. He frowned down at his lap, swaying slightly as his throat worked with a few careful swallows.

“Keith?” Shiro suppressed something that sounded like a hiccup before continuing. “Do you ever wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

Keith felt his shoulders tensing involuntarily. This introspective, albeit intoxicated, line of questioning wasn’t something he felt capable of fielding, tonight.

“You know,” Shiro’s voice was barely a whisper, head bowed low over his lap, “—why us? I mean, why do you think the universe, or whatever, saw us and said tag-you’re-fucking-it?”

Oh, boy.

Keith cleared his throat, watching Shiro carefully because his chin had definitely quivered and his breathing had definitely sped up. “I don’t know,” he shrugged awkwardly. “But I doubt the universe put a lot of thought into it.”

“Don’t joke.” Shiro sounded hurt. Keith felt his heart clench as a single tear trailed down the older boy’s flushed cheek.

“Shiro,” Keith reached up to thumb away the stain. “You’re so drunk,” he smiled gently. “You need sleep.”

Shiro shook his head, pupils dilating with an unexpected surge of fear.

Keith allowed his fingers to linger for a moment longer, tracing a slow pattern along Shiro’s jawline, before he finally pulled away.

“Where do you keep your clean clothes?”

“Keith…” Shiro swallowed thickly. He was pale and shaky and he needed to lie down. Keith didn’t wait for a response, he rose and walked over to investigate the closet.

“How the hell do you find anything in this mess?” Keith asked over his shoulder. “Do you own a single article of clothing that isn’t gray?”

“Kei—“ Shiro’s voice abruptly choked off. There was a pause, then a stifled gag. Keith whipped his head around in alarm and stumbled out of the closet.

“Shiro?”

Shiro was still sitting up, but he was cupping his flesh hand over his mouth, glaring intently at the floor. A low gurgle split through the silence and suddenly Shiro was fumbling for his discarded helmet, holding it upside down in his lap. His broad shoulders rolled with a silent heave.

“Oh, shit,” Keith’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen. “No, no, no!” He rushed over to the bed in a panic. “Don’t throw up in that!”

He yanked the helmet out of Shiro’s grasp and glanced frantically around the room for anything else. Shiro was too far gone to be startled. He swayed over his lap and whined, cheeks inflating with another aborted retch. Any second now he was going to lose it and Keith wasn’t prepared.

“Wait,” Keith pleaded, setting the helmet aside and spinning in a wild circle, desperate to locate a receptacle. “Just hold—“

Shiro doubled over and threw up between his legs.

Keith closed his eyes in defeat as he heard the wet slap of liquid splattering all over the floor. He tossed the pajama pants he’d retrieved over the puddle at Shiro’s feet, hoping to catch anything else that he brought up. Keith slumped down on the bed and placed a steadying hand against the center of Shiro’s back, feeling the toned muscles contracting beneath his touch.

“I guess you weren’t quite empty, huh?”

Shiro sat very still, panting raggedly over the mess he’d made. He released a soft belch and a weak dribble of bile spilled out, quickly absorbed by the gray fabric lying at their feet.

“‘M sorry,” he finally slurred, voice thick with nausea. And then, under his breath, “Fuck…”

“It’s all right,” Keith assured, attempting to disguise his squeamish cringing. “This’ll be your one for the week.”

Shiro tried to laugh and failed miserably, teetering so far forward that he nearly tipped over. He groaned, swallowed, and hung his head.

“I don’…mmnn. Keith?” Wet, bloodshot eyes and a distinct flush of embarrassment decorating both cheeks. “I don’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Keith’s smile was loyally indulgent. “I figured.” He gestured for Shiro to raise his arms. “C’mere.”

Shiro complied, eyelids half-closed and head bobbing sporadically as he struggled to remain conscious and cooperative.

“You don’…have to do this,” Shiro whispered, forehead bumping against Keith’s convenient shoulder as he slumped a little further.

“Yeah,” Keith whispered back, cupping Shiro’s nape for support as he worked the chest-plate free and peeled off the damp undershirt. “I do.”

“Sorry—“

“Stop.” Keith paused, pressing his nose against Shiro’s forehead. “Just…stop it.”

Shiro shuddered, hot breath tickling Keith’s earlobe as he released a long exhale.

“Don’ lemme sleep,” he breathed, muscles loosening as his body slowly succumbed to intoxication. “Please.”

Keith pressed a soft kiss to his temple, stroked his fingers down the length of Shiro’s back; once, twice, and once more before the older boy fell completely boneless in his arms, dead to the world.

“I’ll be here,” he murmured into Shiro’s hair. “Okay?”

When the nightmares inevitably came, Keith would be there.

Shiro would not be alone, tonight.

Chapter 15

Summary:

Post S6: Shiro’s immune system is crap, Keith is a mama bear, and Krolia does not do the “mom thing”.

“He does not look well.” Krolia frowned at the figure curled up in a shivering ball on the cot just outside the cockpit. There wasn’t a lot of extra space in Black and therefore, not a lot of privacy.

“I know,” Keith grit through clenched teeth. His shoulders were hunched and his fingers kneaded anxiously into the meat of his biceps. She belatedly realized that she’d simply stated the obvious and had not helped in the slightest.

“It’s the damn fever,” Keith said. “It’s kicking his ass.”

“We should be landing soon,” Krolia offered. Her son was worried. She’d never seen him this worked up about, well, anything. “You said Coran knows medicine. He will help.” It wasn’t what Keith needed to hear, but it was the best she could do. It was odd, having someone else to care about. Remembering that her words carried precious weight.

Shiro had contracted a virus four days in to their journey. Something Krolia wouldn’t bother batting a lash at, but that seemed to affect humans far more seriously. Shiro, who had already been in a weakened state and slept most of the time anyway, hadn’t left his cot in almost twenty-four vargas. He was prone to sudden bouts of sickness, and when he wasn’t shivering to death, lay tossing in the throes of fever-induced nightmares.

Krolia administered an elixir and did her best to keep fresh linens on hand. But human bodily functions were horrifying. When Shiro had first fallen ill, she’d assumed he was dying. But her son had been adamant that it was only a fever. They were always bad. Shiro would be all right.

Keith believed so stubbornly that Krolia couldn’t help but indulge him, even if she feared the worst for this man that her son loved so dearly.

Keith had barely left Shiro’s side. He was there when Shiro woke in the middle of the night, disoriented and emotional and rambling about things that Krolia could only vaguely decipher. He was there to clean up the blankets when Shiro worked himself up into a coughing fit and made himself sick. He was there when Shiro didn’t know what he needed, to pet his hair or stroke his back when Shiro simply couldn’t calm down.

Up until now, Krolia hadn’t realized how acutely humans relied on the sensation of touch. These two, at least, seemed to require constant contact with each other. She noticed that Keith became anxious and snippy when he was away from Shiro for longer than half a varga.

It was fascinating, and a little disheartening, how well they knew each other. How undeniably deep that trust ran. She knew that was something that could only be earned.

“Shiro?” Keith was saying.

Krolia jolted back to their present circumstance. Shiro was writhing on the cot, bare limbs splaying akimbo as he struggled to kick off the blankets. Keith was already kneeling beside him, looping one arm underneath his shoulders to sit him up. When the absence of the blankets wasn’t sufficient, Shiro began tugging at his damp undershirt, trying to pull it over his head. But his movements were ineffective, clumsy.

“’S too hot,” he complained, frustration furrowing his features as he looked to Keith for help.

“Okay. All right,” Keith placated. He ran his hands over Shiro’s arms, up and down until some of the tension ebbed. Then he worked the shirt over Shiro’s head and tossed it aside.

“Better?” he asked.

Shiro nodded gratefully, then his face screwed up and he curled over his lap as a wet cough wracked his entire frame. Then he couldn’t stop. He gasped between each hack, hand scrabbling to clutch at his chest, fingers scraping mindlessly over his collarbone as he sought relief.

“Easy,” Keith soothed, patting firmly between Shiro’s shoulder blades. “I’ve got you. Just slow it down.”

Shiro’s eyes were leaking by the time he finished, gagging on the last few expulsions before he could inhale without choking.

“Thanks,” he gasped hoarsely, throat shredded raw. It sounded like it hurt to speak. “Sorry.”

Krolia watched Keith easily running his fingers through Shiro’s limp bangs. Shiro closed his eyes and swallowed, humming sleepily while Keith continued petting his hair out of his face. The small gesture spoke of a tenderness Krolia rarely glimpsed in her son.

In fact, those rare occasions had almost exclusively been reserved for Shiro.

“How’re you feeling?” Keith asked.

Shiro pulled away, blinking slowly as he considered. He settled on, “I—don’t know.” His throat bobbed with another thick swallow and he winced, dropping his forehead onto Keith’s convenient shoulder. “‘m dizzy,” he slurred, voice muffled in Keith’s neck.

“You’re still really warm,” Keith murmured. He reached up to cup his hand against the back of Shiro’s neck. “Ready to try some more medicine?”

“Keith,” Krolia interjected. She cleared her throat and spoke a little quieter. “He has not eaten. The elixir should not be ingested on an empty stomach,” she warned.

“His fever’s too high, Mom,” Keith countered. “Do you have another solution?”

It only took a second for Keith to realize he’d practically been snapping at her. “I’m sorry,” he lowered his eyes with the apology.

“No need,” she shook her head dismissively. Then added,” I know how hard it is to watch your loved ones suffer.”

Shiro coughed into Keith’s shoulder, muscles arching and trembling with the effort. Keith rubbed his back a few times. When he looked back up at her, Krolia saw his fear.

“He’s getting worse,” Keith whispered. “Please. Just to help him sleep.”

She assessed the pair for a moment. Shiro, barely conscious and slumped over Keith’s shoulder, and her son, slender arms trying their best to envelop every square inch of Shiro’s broad back.

Krolia noted with amusement that Keith resembled a mother bear protecting her cub. She figured Shiro wouldn’t appreciate the analogy, but then again he was in no position to protest.

She unfolded her arms, sighed, “Very well,” and did not comment on their dwindling supply of clean blankets. She administered a small dose and Shiro swallowed it obediently, followed by a few sips from a hydration pouch before he fell back in his spot against Keith’s chest. He was shivering again, so Keith pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders.

“He should sleep for a while.” Krolia hoped it was true. “You should, too.”

The purple bags beneath Keith’s eyes scrunched at the suggestion. “I need to stay with him.”

“Keith—“

“Mom.”

If nothing else, he had certainly inherited her stubbornness.

They both froze when Shiro groaned, keening softly as he wrapped his arm around his stomach. He jolted with a breathy burp, slurring an apology into Keith’s shoulder.

“Mom? He’s—”

“I was afraid of this,” Krolia sighed, pulling over the designated bucket and positioning it within easy reach.

“Help me sit him up,” was all Keith said. They propped Shiro upright and eased him over the bucket just in time for him to retch.

“Le’go,” Shiro protested, coughing harshly as he tugged out of their grasp. He pulled the bin to his chest on his own, hand clenching around the rim in preparation. His lips parted and he belched again, spitting up a mouthful of watery saliva.

“Oh, Shiro,” Krolia cooed, hand covering Keith’s as they both supported him through the bout of nausea. Despite only knowing this man for a short time, she did not feel that he deserved this pain, nor this sort of indignity. She felt his muscles contracting beneath her hand, massive shoulders hunching nearly to his ears as he buried his head in the container and began retching in earnest.

A wet splash echoed in the bottom of the bucket, Keith cringed and pressed his nose against Shiro’s shoulder, grinding his teeth.

“Shiro, take a breath,” Krolia instructed calmly. She adjusted his slipping grip on the bucket and helped him hold it steady.

Shiro coughed, throat contracting with a noisy clicking sound before he lowered his head to burp up another mouthful of stomach bile.

“Almost forgot how— much this sucks,” he sputtered, saliva spilling messily over his bottom lip as he sagged over the bucket.

“Are you finished?” Krolia asked. She watched Keith smooth back the snow-white tuft, securing the longer portion behind Shiro’s ears.

“I’m tired,” he murmured. “I don’— don’t want to drink anymore.”

“You need to rehydrate,” Krolia observed, stabbing a straw into a fresh pouch.

But Keith pulled Shiro back against him, tucking boneless limbs against his body and wiping his own sleeve over Shiro’s wet lips. “It’s all right. Sleep,” he whispered into Shiro’s hair. “You don’t have to drink anything else right now.”

“Keith,” Krolia warned. “He needs fluids. We’re still more than a quintent out from landing.”

“Mom, I’ve got him,” Keith said, his voice was steady and did not waver. “He can try again in a little while.”

“His situation is dire. His body does not seem to be acclimating.”

“S’okay,” Shiro slurred, patting Keith’s chest before his fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. For some reason that made Keith smile.

“He’ll make it. I’m not letting him go anywhere.”

And that made Shiro smile, sick and exhausted as he was.

Damn their stubbornness. And yet, despite her irritation, Krolia couldn’t help but believe him. For her son’s sake, she would do everything in her power to make his conviction a reality.

Chapter 16

Summary:

Post S6 reflection.

It’s unsettling, watching Shiro sleep so deeply.

Keith has to remind himself that having your metaphysical soul crammed back inside a corporeal body would knock the wind out of anyone. Keith knows that recovery will take time. But he still can’t shake the feeling that if he lets his guard down for a split second, Shiro will simply cease to exist. Again.

He’s barely said four words since he woke, and at the moment, none of it feels very real. He’s just sleeping, that’s all.

“Hey, Shiro,” Keith whispers. He brushes the back of his knuckles along Shiro’s slack jaw, coaxing him to awareness. “Can you sit up? I really need to look at your arm.”

Shiro fusses for a moment, eyes scrunched shut and nose wrinkling at the question. He hums something unintelligible before blinking heavy, glassy eyes up at Keith.

“Hey,” Keith repeats, smiling gently. “How you feeling?” He doesn’t expect an answer, he’s just asking because it seems like something he ought to do. Shiro hasn’t really been coherent since they loaded him onto Black nearly five hours ago. It’s all a blur; rushing to scavenge belongings from the castle, packing up their lives and saying goodbye.

Now that things have calmed down a little, Keith can focus on what’s really important.

“Keith,” Shiro slurs, his voice is paper thin. He tries to return the smile but his lips falter and they quiver a little instead. “Hey.” Fragile, but certain.

“I’m sorry,” Keith apologizes. “I didn’t want to wake you up. But we need to take care of this before it gets any worse.”

“Right, yeah,” Shiro rasps. He attempts to push up on his one good arm and immediately loses his balance. “Shit—“

“Here.” Keith scoops his arm around Shiro’s back, easily supporting him into a sitting position. “Just take it slow.”

Shiro’s avoiding his eyes, staring at his lap and fiddling absently with a loose string fraying off the edge of the blanket while Keith unpacks the med-kit. Shiro’s hand involuntarily strays to hover over his stump.

They only had time to remove the excess metal still attached to his arm and apply a temporary bandage before taking off. Coran made it very clear that he was adamant about following through with a thorough surgery once they find somewhere to land. It made Keith feel a little better. For now, they’ll have to make do.

Keith settles his hand over Shiro’s collarbone, massaging a careful, reassuring circle with his thumb. Shiro flinches, then tries to correct himself and tenses under the touch while his newly resurrected body decides how it wants to react to the stimuli. He’s been hypersensitive to sensation, touch in particular, both gentle and painful. Keith isn’t sure if it’s getting better or worse.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says again, trying to swallow around the lump that’s suddenly lodged in his throat. “I know it hurts. I’ll try to be quick.”

Shiro can’t suppress the involuntary shudder that slithers through his muscles, but he looks at Keith and nods, trusting. He watches with weary, bloodshot eyes as Keith carefully removes the items he needs to disinfect what remains of Shiro’s stump, then unwraps the impromptu bandage. The wound was mostly cauterized, but it’s still leaking sluggishly, and there’s the looming risk of infection to worry about.

Keith tries to hurry, but it’s a painstaking process to clean everything properly. They have to take a break when it becomes evident that Shiro’s struggling. He’s hurting, overwhelmed and overstimulated, and he waits until the very last second to ask Keith for a breather.

“Your stubborn is showing, again,” Keith teases, patiently rubbing Shiro’s back when he leans over to throw up the little bit of water he’d managed earlier.

Coughing, Shiro pulls his head out of the bin and shrugs, “Blame Black. God knows I tried to get rid of it.” A low purr rumbles through the Lion and Keith can feel Black nudging fondly inside their minds, acknowledging the inclusion. Shiro falls back against Keith’s chest, already half-asleep.

When Keith is finally finished wrapping the fresh bandage, he finds himself instinctively searching for a word of comfort to offer. He comes up empty and resorts to silently cursing himself instead.

Shiro’s staring numbly at the remnants of his right arm, his expression unreadable, dark eyes nearly glazing over before they abruptly dart back down to his lap. “Feels so weird,” he tries to smile, but a tear slips down his cheek and his throat seems to close around the words. “I can’t remember when it didn’t have…you know, something attached to it.” He immediately reaches up to swipe at the rogue tear, scrubs his hand roughly over his face and tries to pull himself together.

“Hey,” Keith reaches up without hesitation, cupping his hand over Shiro’s to cradle his cheek. He arches up to press their foreheads together and breathes in Shiro’s scent, his warmth, then exhales in a single, measured breath. He forgets what he was going to say, but Shiro doesn’t seem to mind. He leans into Keith’s touch, returns the embrace and melts into Keith’s shoulder.

Keith feels warm wetness soaking into his shirt, feels the broad shoulders pressed against his own begin to tremble. He slides tentative fingers up along Shiro’s hairline, combing through the snow-white tufts that he won’t let Shiro see just yet. Not until he’s had a little time to adjust.

Shiro muffles a quiet sob in Keith’s shirt and reaches around to grip the fabric, bloodless knuckles twisting a little too hard. Keith doesn’t mean too, but he can’t help the soft gasp that slips past his lips at the urgent contact. He hasn’t had time to do an inspection, but he’s pretty sure ninety-eight percent of his body is an ugly, mottled Rorschach pattern of bruises by now.

Shiro pulls away like he’s just been electrocuted and stares at Keith for a long, gut-wrenching moment. Then his gaze crumples, devastated and overflowing with something so much deeper than regret. He releases Keith’s shirt and gingerly touches two fingers to the bandage covering the blistering scar seared across Keith’s cheek.

“You’re hurt. Everywhere…” Shiro’s fingers trace down Keith’s jaw, lingering just above his throat where a purplish handprint has swelled into a massive bruise. Shiro swallows and turns very pale. Keith gently tilts his head down, cloaking the damaged area in shadow.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine, I promise.” It’s a reflex, and it’s not at all convincing. The hoarseness grating his voice is evidence enough.

“I remember,” Shiro whispers thickly. It’s a statement, not a revelation. Keith was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.

“Shiro—“

“Everything,” Shiro strokes his middle finger along the crinkled edges of Keith’s untidy bandage, pressing it back into place against his cheek. “Everything that happened—”

“It wasn’t you,” Keith says, fierce in his conviction to believe for Shiro if it’s something that Shiro can’t believe for himself. “I know that. They know that, too.”

The smile that Shiro offers breaks Keith’s heart.

“No, it wasn’t,” Shiro agrees softly. “But he remembers.” He pauses, searching Keith’s eyes before he forces himself to keep going. It’s something he needs to get out. He needs Keith to know, even if no one else ever will.

“Every interaction with each one of you. God, it’s so strong. It’s all inside of me.” Shiro inhales a tremulous breath, curling in on himself as if to smother the pain. “His…” no, “— our worst fear came true,” Shiro’s voice finally breaks. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

A few quiet beats of silence hang in the air between them before Keith offers, “It wasn’t him, either.” He’s not sure he believes that, but he’s trying. For Shiro, he’ll try.

The desperation when the clone choked out his name, the burgeoning horror of awareness during his last few moments, it feels like a punch to Keith’s stomach every time he relives it. The moment those terrifyingly blank eyes cleared, blind fury bleeding into confusion, and finally realization, as his mind struggled to cling to the remnants of an existence that was never meant to be. That man had been broken, terrified.

But even at the very end, he’d still hoped.

And yet, Keith can’t find it in his heart to acknowledge the counterpart just now. The man he called brother who tried to — no, would have killed him. Who would have discarded Keith like a piece of garbage and who would have killed their friends if—

“I know this doesn’t help. It doesn’t fix the trust he broke,” Shiro interrupts Keith’s spiraling thoughts. “I know it’s too late,” he sips a wet, hitching breath, fingernails digging abusively into his thigh as he struggles with the words. As Shiro struggles to make Keith understand.

“But…I—I need you to know that he never meant for any of this to happen. He never wanted to hurt any of you. It wasn’t him, Keith.”

“Yeah,” Keith grits around the lock of his jaw. The words taste bitter on his tongue, but he forces them out for Shiro’s sake.“I think I know it wasn’t who he wanted to be, at least.” Keith traces his thumb between the crevices in Shiro’s clenched fist, coaxing him to let go, urging himself to do the same. “In the end, the very end, I don’t think he really ever had a choice.” And he means that. He’s saying it as much for himself as he is for Shiro.

Shiro’s eyes well with tears. Not for himself, Keith realizes, but for the man he couldn’t save. For the man who’s fate was sealed the moment he took his first stolen breath, who tried his best and lost because he was never meant to win, who survived for as long as he could because it was all he knew how to do. The only thing he could do.

Whose sacrifice meant that Shiro could finally come home.

For the man who wanted nothing more than to be a Paladin.

Chapter 17

Summary:

Post S7 Sheith. Shiro isn't handling things as well as he'd like everyone to believe.

“I’m fine,” Shiro smiles. “Just a little tired.”

And Keith nods, trying to believe Shiro like he always ends up doing anyway. He convinces himself to let it go.

But there’s a weariness etched behind Shiro’s eyes. Bone-deep exhaustion that forces his feet to drag and his posture to slump just the slightest fraction. It’s almost imperceptible. Would be to anyone else. But Keith notices. He can’t help it.

So much has happened so quickly and Keith knows. He knows everything that isn’t an immediate priority is being disregarded, shoved aside like every other thing in Shiro’s life he refuses to deal with.

“I’m fine,” he says after returning from Adam’s memorial, eyes puffy from crying and hollow with a grief he can’t even share.

“I’m fine,” he promises when he visits Keith’s hospital room, ecstatic with relief to see them all alive and healing. They don’t talk about how close they came to losing it all, forever.

“I’m fine, Keith,” he whispers through a forced smile when Keith catches him sitting up by himself in the middle of the night. Red-rimmed eyes staring up into the stars like they hold all of the answers — or maybe none at all and he just doesn’t know where else to look.

Keith doesn’t say anything. But he sits up with Shiro, shoulder to shoulder and watches the stars. He’d almost forgotten how chilly desert nights could get.

“Thank you,” Shiro murmurs into his shoulder.

—

Shiro glares down into his third mug of coffee, trying to focus as the tension in the room rises and several voices around him strengthen with anger. They’ve been at this for hours, and still, no one can come to an agreement on the best course of action.

Shiro despises politics. He prefers to shoot first and ask later; a philosophy that’s kept him and the others alive these past few years. Besides, he knows in the end it won’t matter how much they plan and strategize. They’re all on Sendak’s terms now. When he decides to attack, there will be no negotiations, no compromises, no mercy. That’s something the people here on Earth haven’t accepted yet, despite how many times Shiro and Sam have tried to explain.

He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. It’s gone cold. The bitter liquid travels down his throat and it’s all he can do not to cough it back up. He hasn’t felt right since yesterday, and the arguments certainly aren’t helping his headache. It’s so tempting to rest his head on his arms, maybe close his eyes for a few minutes. But that wouldn’t look too good. Maybe Shiro isn’t as fine as he thought.

Or at least, as he’s trying to be…

He’s yanked from his thoughts by one of the voices, one he’s still conditioned to respond to, despite his long absence.

Someone nudges his elbow and he snaps to attention.

“Sorry, uh,” he stutters, not sure what he’s expected to say because he hasn’t been listening for the past few minutes. “What was that?”

“I asked for your thoughts, Shirogane,” Iverson says with a pointed glare.

Shiro’s stomach does a slow roll as multiple pairs of eyes turn towards him, waiting. He clears his throat and straightens, pushing away from the table. The scenery shifts and for a moment Shiro panics, praying he doesn’t collapse. He blinks hard, waiting for the room to settle back into place before opening his mouth.

“Like I’ve said before,” he swallows, bracing his arm on the table. “We go on the defensive. Lock down our defenses and evacuate as many civilians as possible.” His voice strengthens, gaining momentum as a few heads nod. “You already have the information. Don’t squander it on a pipe dream of salvation. When they come, it’ll be with the intention to wipe out every soul on the face of this planet. And they have the manpower to do it.”

The Commander’s eyes harden, cold as steel, and she gives Shiro a polite, dismissive nod. “Duly noted, Shirogane,” she says, emphasizing his name like she’s just tasted something sour.

Shiro sighs and shakes his head. “Please, excuse me,” he says, turning to leave. He can’t take another second of this.

Outside, Shiro has to catch himself against the wall. He sways on his feet, dizzy and suddenly so nauseous it’s difficult to keep swallowing. Something’s not right. His head throbs, echoes of a year he doesn’t quite remember.

He wants Keith. He needs to find Keith….

-

Keith’s standing beside the bed rummaging through a med-kit, the top half of his under-suit hanging loosely around his hips. He has a pair of headphones jammed in his ears, head bobbing gently in time with the music. He doesn’t hear Shiro come in.

Shiro’s eyes lock on the ugly bloom of mottled color spreading down the left side of Keith’s ribcage. He’s already wiped away the worst of the blood. Shiro’s stomach gives a small lurch. He swallows hard, inhales a deep breath and forces himself to calm down. Keith doesn’t respond well to people freaking out on him.

So instead of fussing, Shiro walks up behind him, carefully looping his arm around Keith’s waist and pressing a gentle kiss into the crook of his shoulder. He doesn’t have to see Keith’s face to know that he’s smirking.

“Hi,” Shiro breathes into Keith’s shoulder, mouth traveling up a little further. He already feels better, just being close to him again.

Keith shivers, pulls out an earbud and tilts his head back to brush his lips over Shiro’s cheek. “Hey,” he says, smiling against Shiro’s skin.

“Rough night?” Shiro’s only half-teasing.

“Rough week,” Keith grunts, returning his attention to a tube of ointment. “Kolivan said he’d punch me into the next one if I don’t take a sick day.”

Shiro brushes his fingers lightly over the angry pattern of bruises. “What happened?”

Keith winces slightly, rolling his shoulders against the ache. “Let’s just say I got pretty intimate with the side of a wall.”

“Is everyone else all right?”

“They’re fine,” Keith nods. “And this looks worse than it is.”

Shiro slumps down onto the edge of the bed, massaging his thumb and forefinger along the bridge of his nose. His headache is becoming difficult to ignore. He releases a heavy sigh, frowning up at Keith through watering eyes.

“Don’t give me that look,” Keith huffs, nudging his thigh affectionately between Shiro’s knees. “It was nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Shiro retorts wearily, and then more gently, “want some help?”

“I’ve got it,” Keith shakes his head. “They aren’t cracked, just kinda bruised.” He finishes applying the salve and gingerly lays a butterfly bandage over the clotting gash.

Shiro snorts at the understatement. He watches quietly for a moment, eyes glazing over as a fresh wave of exhaustion pummels him. He’s starting to sweat underneath his suit, nausea and fatigue encroaching fast now that he’s let his guard down. He needs a shower. And sleep. God, sleep sounds amazing. He wonders if he can muster the energy to peel himself off the bed.

“Shiro?”

Shiro blinks, fog dissipating as he glances up to meet Keith’s searching eyes. There’s a pang of urgency in his voice that suggests it isn’t the first time he’s tried to get Shiro’s attention.

“Hmm?”

“You all right?” Keith’s forehead crinkles. He steps all the way between Shiro’s legs, tilting his chin up with one hand and brushing Shiro’s limp bangs out of his eyes with the other.

“‘m fine,” Shiro murmurs, struggling to keep the slur out of his voice.

Keith clicks his tongue in disapproval. The back of his hand lingers against Shiro’s forehead, soft and cool. It feels nice and Shiro’s eyes slip shut before he realizes it’s happening.

“You’re warm,” Keith says, sliding his hand down from Shiro’s forehead to rest on the back of his neck. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

“Not sick,” Shiro instinctively protests, pulling away from Keith’s hand.

“Huh,” Keith arches an eyebrow. “Try again when you’re not two seconds away from falling asleep sitting up.”

“I’m just a little tired,” Shiro insists. He knows he can’t keep this up, not now that Keith’s caught on. The tension behind his eyes flares and his stomach clenches again. Shiro gulps, tasting bitterness in the back of his throat.

Keith’s expression softens. “Shower?” he asks, running his fingers through Shiro’s undercut.

Shiro hums, lulled by the hypnotizing rhythm of Keith’s nails scratching across his scalp. The nausea recedes as he focuses on the soothing sensation. He hears Keith chuckle softly above him.

“You’re so easy,” Keith smiles with that quiet fondness reserved just for Shiro.

“A shower would be good,” Shiro admits, kneading his knuckles over the arc of his forehead. He pushes to his feet, takes a couple of steps towards the bathroom then pauses, “You coming?”

Keith laughs again. A rich, warm sound that makes Shiro’s chest ache every time he hears it.

“Maybe later,” he says, voice lilting into something like a purr. “I’m gonna finish up here, first.”

Shiro nods, shoulders slumping slightly with disappointment, but he doesn’t argue. To be honest, he doesn’t have the energy for anything more rigorous than washing his hair.

Keith lets him go, and when he shuts the door, Shiro has to admit the solitude is a relief. He immediately deflates, teeth grinding against the suppressed groan that’s been trying to escape since the debriefing. The queasy feeling resurfaces and Shiro has to swallow several times before it feels safe to move.

He turns on the shower, letting the water warm up while he removes his uniform. Condensation rapidly fills the small space and his vision swims along with the fog. The muggy warmth makes his head go all funny. Shiro sways dangerously, hipbone catching the side of the metal sink as he reaches to steady himself. His mouth is watering faster than he can swallow now, something hot and urgent climbing up the back of his throat. He presses a fist to his lips, jaw clenching as he tries to force it back down, tries to get a grip.

It only takes a single shaky inhale to realize it’s a lost cause. Shiro’s throat contracts and he heaves into his hand, knees banging hard against the floor as he drops down beside the toilet. He lets go of his mouth, his body barely sparing a second to gag before he’s spewing coffee and bile into the bowl. He coughs and sputters, the rancid liquid stings his nose and makes his eyes water. Shiro slumps over his arms slurring, “Fuck me…”

His stomach cramps again and he pulls himself back over the bowl to wait. An empty belch and some watery drool, but nothing else is coming up. Except for the coffee, Shiro is running on fumes. Probably why his head feels like it’s about to roll off his shoulders.

There’s a knock at the door. “Shiro? You okay?” Keith’s voice is tight with worry.

“Yeah,” Shiro croaks, coughing to clear his throat. “Be out in a few minutes.”

Keith doesn’t say anything else, but Shiro knows he’s listening just outside the door, probably won’t leave until he hears Shiro get out of the shower.

Shiro wipes his mouth, blows his nose, and flushes, hoping the noise isn’t too obvious.

“Take two,” he mutters, feeling a little delirious as he steps into the shower and lets the hot spray massage his aching muscles.

—

“—‘m fine,” Shiro slurs into his pillow, collapsing face-first on the bed beside Keith. He tucks his arm around Keith’s waist and buries his head in Keith’s stomach. “Jus’ need to sleep.”

“You’re a fucking horrible liar,” Keith scolds, but he’s already working his fingers through Shiro’s damp hair. “I heard you throwing up in the bathroom.”

“Something didn’t agree with me,” Shiro refutes sheepishly.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Shiro raises his head and blinks one eye up at Keith. “You stalking me, Kogane?” He smirks and manages to look innocent despite the fever flush resting high on his cheekbones.

“Babysitting, more like,” Keith retorts, unamused.

“Hmph,” Shiro gripes, nuzzling back into Keith’s stomach. Heat rolls off of him in waves, and Keith’s skin is already sticky with sweat. He doesn’t want to argue tonight.

“Get some sleep,” he orders, circling his thumb over Shiro’s temple.

Shiro doesn’t have to be told twice. Keith begins flipping through a pad to find something to watch, but Shiro’s snoring before they can decide on action or documentary. Keith yawns and settles back against the pillows, turning in to the warmth at his side. It’s not long before he’s drifting off right behind Shiro…

Keith jerks awake to the jarring sensation of something kicking him hard in his lower back. His bruises sting and he has to bite down on the pillow to keep from crying out. It happens again, weaker this time.

“Shiro?” Keith grunts, drowsy despite the pain lancing through his ribs. He feels blindly over the mattress, searching for Shiro’s leg, confused when he feels nothing but damp, wrinkled sheets. A pair of toes brush against his calf and he sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Jesus, cut it out,” he groans. “It’s too early.”

There’s a muffled groan from the far side of the bed. Keith reaches over to turn on a light, squinting as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Shiro’s somehow managed to roll all the way over, lying at an odd angle with his head nearly dangling off the side of the mattress, blankets tangled around his upper body like a cocoon. But his legs are free, writhing over the sheets in jerky little movements that make it look like he’s trying to run without traction.

Keith frowns, because it only takes his foggy brain a second to kick into gear and realize, that’s exactly what Shiro’s trying to do.

He’s trapped in a nightmare, limbs shaking from fear and fever, keening from phantom pain and goddammit, Keith fell asleep. He wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.

“Shiro,” Keith’s voice cracks. He’s already on his knees beside Shiro, reaching out to palm his face. He winces at the heat, mind blanking when Shiro flinches at his touch. “Fuck,” Keith breathes. “Oh, fuck…”

Shiro groans again, teeth grinding and jaw clenching against something Keith can’t protect him from. His eyes flit frantically back and forth behind their lids and his flesh hand breaks free to scrabble at the bedsheets.

“Shiro, wake up,” Keith tries, panic bubbling in his chest. He gives Shiro’s shoulders a gentle shake, trying not to startle him. “Please.”

Shiro opens his mouth, voice caught somewhere between a cough and a scream, then he arches and it’s all Keith can do to duck before Shiro’s lunging at him. But he stops himself just a breadth from Keith’s face, eyes wild and chest heaving as he scrambles back against the wall.

“Get away!” He’s manic, panting too hard and too fast.

“It’s all right,” Keith says, keeping his voice calm despite his racing heart. “It’s me, Shiro. It’s Keith. You’re all right.”

For a few terrifying seconds, Shiro doesn’t respond, eyes darting around the room as if expecting an enemy to spring from the shadows. For a few seconds, he doesn’t see Keith. But when a minute passes and nothing happens, his shoulders slump.

“K-Keith?” he asks. And Keith’s heart nearly breaks. He sounds so hopeful.

“Yeah, yeah I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Shiro covers his face with his hand and draws his knees to his chest, breaths growing wet and ragged. “I’m sorry,” he slurs into his knees. “Keith, I’m sorry…”

“Hey,” Keith shushes, carefully placing his hand on top of Shiro’s knee. When Shiro doesn’t react, Keith moves his hand further down his leg and Shiro lets him, opening his knees to let Keith crawl between. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just a bad dream.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, voice shaky with tears. He glances up into Keith’s eyes, reassuring himself. Then he drops his forehead onto Keith’s shoulder, nose nuzzling Keith’s neck. “Just a dream…”

He’s burning up. Keith reaches to cup the back of Shiro’s neck, thumb automatically rubbing circles against his nape. Shiro sniffs and jerks with a tremulous laugh, doing a poor job of disguising the fresh flood of tears Keith can feel dripping down his chest.

“I’m right here,” Keith tells him again, hoping the sound of his voice is helping a little. “Not going anywhere.”

Shiro nods, fist clenching in Keith’s t-shirt. “Good,” he whispers.

They sit like that for a while, Shiro listening to Keith’s heartbeat and Keith listening to Shiro breathe. Soon enough, Keith can feel him starting to fall asleep, he’s growing heavier and Keith’s feet are starting to tingle.

“Wanna lie down?” he asks, rubbing a hand over Shiro’s back a few times. Shiro just shrugs, bumping his nose against Keith’s chin when he tries to look up.

“Feel gross.” His voice is thick and he sounds terribly clogged up.

“Shower?” Keith asks. Shiro considers for a moment, then nods into Keith’s shoulder.

The Garrison put them up in an older section of the officer’s quarters. The living space is furnished and functional but a few of the appliances are relics. That includes the tiled bathtub that doubles as a shower. It might’ve been nostalgic if it wasn’t so frustratingly inconvenient trying to lug in a feverish, two-hundred pound man. Shiro’s dizzy and uncoordinated and it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to get him situated comfortably in the tub when it becomes evident that a shower is out of the question. Keith sits down on the edge and lets the water run for a few minutes.

“You getting in?” Shiro murmurs, eyes still closed.

Keith feels a smile tugging at his lips and he quickly swipes a hand over his mouth to hide it. “This thing is barely big enough for you.”

“I’ll make room,” Shiro promises. He looks a little dazed. But he shimmies forward and rests his head on his knees while he waits for Keith.

Keith snorts softly and begins removing his shirt. “Fine,” he concedes. “But I’m telling you, we’re not gonna fit.” He leaves his boxers on and climbs in behind Shiro, carefully lowering his legs and lower body into the warm water.

Shiro hums happily and presses up against him, leaning his head back on Keith’s shoulder. “See?” he smiles, letting his eyes fall shut once more. “We fit perfectly.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Keith says, but he’s smiling into Shiro’s hair.

Keith spends the next few minutes cupping water over Shiro’s shoulders and wiping away the worst of the sweat while Shiro dozes against him, pliant and sleepy. His skin still feels dangerously hot beneath Keith’s fingers.

“That okay?” Keith asks, cupping a few handfuls of water over Shiro’s hair. He’s been quiet for a long time, hasn’t so much as stirred against Keith’s shoulder.

Shiro nods slowly, eyes still closed and head lolling. His throat works with a few audible swallows and his breathing is picking up again.

“Shiro?” Keith pauses and angles his head in order to look.

Shiro’s face is dotted with little beads of sweat, he’s panting shallowly through his nose.

“Hey, look at me.”

His eyes crack open just a fraction, just enough to acknowledge the worry in Keith’s voice. “Kei—“ he slurs. Then there’s an odd gurgle and he jerks against Keith’s shoulder, head rolling forward just in time to spit up a mouthful of watery vomit. The mess dribbles down his front and spills into the bathwater. Shiro’s stomach contracts again and he retches helplessly, curling over his knees.

“Shit,” Keith curses, rushing to gather Shiro’s bangs out of his face and hold him steady. He pushes up into an awkward squat, trying to avoid as much of the soiled water as possible.

“S-sorry,” Shiro sputters miserably, struggling to inhale without choking.

“You’re okay,” Keith soothes, hating the way Shiro’s shaking like maybe he’s going to just break apart. “Take your time.”

Shiro coughs, shoulders trembling with the effort. “So much for getting clean,” he deadpans.

Keith surprises himself with a shaky laugh, relieved that Shiro seems a little more coherent after throwing up. “Come’ere.” He coaxes Shiro out of the water and balances him on the ledge before turning on the shower nozzle and spraying them both down. Shiro sighs gratefully when Keith wraps a towel around his shoulders. He nuzzles into the warmth and yawns while Keith peels off his soaked boxers and secures a fresh towel around his own waist.

There’s a small cup resting beside the sink. Keith fills it up with tap water and offers it to Shiro who begins gulping greedily.

“Easy,” Keith says, massaging his fingers through Shiro’s dripping hair while he drinks. “Go slow. You feeling a little better?”

Shiro nods and sips the last few mouthfuls before handing the cup back to Keith. “Thanks,” he pants, ducking his head to wipe his mouth on the towel. He still looks sick and tired, but his eyes are more alert now.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

Shiro closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Keith’s stomach, “Mm, okay…”

And when Shiro’s finally tucked back in against Keith’s side, stuffy breaths evening out and feverish skin already slicking against Keith’s, he says it again; softly, like he’s telling Keith a secret.

“Thank you.”

Keith just holds him a little tighter, presses a kiss to his too-warm cheek and lets Shiro sweat on him as he falls back into an exhausted sleep.

He’ll be fine. Because Keith’s here and he’s going to make sure of it.

Chapter 18: Prisoner 974

This human is formidable. That much Ulaz must admit.

He has yet to beg or bargain. He refuses to indulge in the weeping hysterics so many of the others tend to favor.

They have yet to break his spirit, quench the fire that Ulaz cannot help but admire. Especially under the circumstances. Though sometimes, when Haggar is being especially cruel, he wishes this human knew what was good for him. Sometimes, Ulaz wishes that he would stop struggling so hard.

The witch’s insatiable fascination with this particular specimen only serves to fuel her creativity. Ulaz knows she will use him for as long as his resilience lasts.

They’ve taken him apart more times than Ulaz cares to count. But every time, he has refused to make it easy for them. Haggar despises resorting to sedation - she prefers to observe her experiment’s reactions, whether physical or chemical, while they’re conscious - but most of the time, with this one, there is no other option.

Human anatomy is a curious thing. Their shells are soft and vulnerable, little to no fur, no scales or exoskeleton for protection. Most lack the speed or agility to compensate for their lack of armor. Their insides bleed and break so easily it’s a wonder any of them survive past their first deca-phoeb. The handful Ulaz has encountered last perhaps a few quintants before they are inevitably slaughtered in the ring, or perish from injuries or exposure.

One of the only merits is the human body’s ability to heal itself. No other species that Ulaz knows of possesses such incredible resilience. Ideal candidates for the Galra’s experiments.

Still, they are weak creatures; disgustingly emotional and unintelligent from what he’s seen. A pitiable race at best.

With the exception, it would seem, of prisoner 974. He grows stronger with every battle won, every injury sustained. His scars have begun forming an armor of their own. Torn flesh weaving pale vines over his muscular frame as it heals, rough and sinewed. It seems the more pieces they steal, the deeper they tear, the more determinedly his body knits itself back together.

And always he makes them pay for the blood they spill.

Ulaz cannot help but respect that.

His fascination gradually transforms into quiet admiration each time Haggar summons 974. His defiance is legendary, his hatred for them a palpable presence emanating from the very core of his being. To the surgeons who revel in such cruelty, he is a challenge. To everyone else, he is a dangerous enigma. A frightful anomaly.

There is only one instance where Ulaz witnesses the human’s fortitude falter, where his unyielding spirit flickers and Ulaz wonders if perhaps they’ve finally broken him.

974 seems to sense that something is different the moment they escort him inside the chamber and the doors slide shut with a resounding metallic thunk. Panic rolls off of him, resonating louder than his rage for once. Their struggle to drag and hoist him onto the operating table results in a cracked kneecap for the surgeon general and a fist that manages to connect with Ulaz’s nose. He wipes the blood on the back of his hand.

“Bastard,” the surgeon general hisses, and jams a flickering electric rod into the prisoner’s stomach with enthusiastic gusto. Mythox is a bully on his best day. A giant brute of a Galra, he must outweigh the prisoner by a solid ton. 974 crumples to his knees, jolting and wheezing as the pain seizes his muscles, steals his breath, effectively paralyzing him.

His gibberish words dissolve into feral snarls when they finally strap down his arms, legs, and torso. One strap cuts into a fresh wound criss-crossing his chest that has only just begun scabbing over. He bucks violently and the flesh ripples as the thin layer of new skin breaks, crimson pus seeping onto the metal table.

A split second before Ulaz secures the gas mask in place, the human stops struggling long enough to look up at him, really look at him. Wide, brown eyes marred by bruised circles and a terror so desperate that for a moment, Ulaz hesitates, his gut tightening with the knowledge of what they’re about to inflict upon him. The weight of irreversible finality.

His breath stutters in throat, chest heaving as he locks eyes with his captors, limbs still thrashing wildly against his restraints.

“Don’t,” he growls, flecks of spittle flying from parched lips. Then smaller, quieter, a cracked whisper of, “Please.”

It’s one of the few times Ulaz has heard him use the word. It certainly isn’t the first time Ulaz wishes he had the power to grant a prisoner’s plea. He allows the pad of his thumb to brush lightly over the prisoner’s forehead, careful not to catch the fragile skin with his claw. The man’s eyes flutter, startled by the gentleness of the touch; he was obviously expecting a new hurt.

Ulaz smoothes back the soft fur on top of his head so that the straps don’t catch, doing his best to ignore the man’s eyes. He doesn’t think he can face the depth of their accusation again. The human seems to realize that whatever is about to transpire will probably kill him. If every intricate stage of the surgery isn’t performed with absolute precision, it most likely will.

Ulaz slips the mask over 974’s nose and mouth, securing the straps around his jaw and underneath his chin. He flips a switch to begin the flow of gas. The tumultuous bucking slows and the frantic breaths dissolve into wet gasps.

Mythox revs up the bone blade before the human is fully sedated, brandishing it with a cruel gleam of ivory teeth. An act of revenge for his injured kneecap.

He does not mean to, but Ulaz catches the man’s eyes one last time before he passes out. Anger and an inexplicable sadness weigh heavy in his chest as he watches the prisoner go still, watches the struggle finally drain from his body and his eyes close. Ulaz is struck with how terribly young he looks. Probably not much older than his own son.

Ulaz suspects that he will retain that horrible moment of realization for the rest of his life.

The concentration of quintessence is too potent the first time they attempt to attach the new limb. Still, the man’s body does not reject the transfusion of energy as quickly as the others. His freshly severed stump oozes around the metalloid, the flow of quintessence writhing and pulsing in a chaotic rhythm of supernatural energy directly beneath his skin. It morphs from a bulbous mass into electric sprays of lightening as the energy invades his bloodstream.

Ulaz can see Haggar’s eyes practically glittering with triumphant anticipation. Her arms extend and the air hums with purple electricity. The man’s back arches up off the table as if trying to escape, only to slam back down, foam flecking the corners of his mouth as he begins seizing.

They’re going to kill him, Ulaz realizes.

But just as he thinks the human couldn’t possibly survive another high voltage surge, Haggar lowers her arms and the quintessence dissipates. His body immediately goes limp, crashing back onto the table with a slippery thud.

“Clean him up,” she points her chin at Ulaz. “Take him back to his cell. We will try again tomorrow.” She lowers her cowl in disgust, completely disregarding the human as she returns her attention to the failed appendage.

Mythox untethers the straps, roughly swiping a cloth over the man’s stump to clean up the worst of the mess. They seal the wound with a clinical hiss of electricity from the sputtering rod. He does not bother with a bandage. The prisoner probably won’t last through the night.

He rouses just as they finish sealing off the wound, moaning incoherently as his glazed eyes flit over the alien faces. He tilts his head back, neck arching at a painful angle before losing his resolve and letting his chin loll awkwardly onto his shoulder. A line of bloody drool slides from one corner of his slack mouth, tracking a shiny trail down the remains of his arm.

A choked noise that Ulaz can only interpret as a sob scrapes up from his throat as he registers the mutilated mess. He inhales wetly, slamming his eyes shut, as if willing himself back into oblivion, willing this new reality to be nothing more than a nightmare. He starts screaming.

“Get him out of my sight,” Haggar orders the surgeon general, thoroughly irritated that she’s already had to repeat herself.

Mythox grunts and roughly hoists the man up by the back of his neck, choking off his airway and silencing the horrible screaming. When he struggles, Mythox tosses him face-first onto the floor with a disgusted snarl, slamming his boot into the man’s back.

The prisoner groans, barely conscious. He does not rise. Ulaz glares at Mythox with a reproachful shake of his head. He kneels down next to the man, turning him onto his back, careful to support his neck. His eyes are bloodshot, wet and wild from pain. His throat works frantically, veins pumping as though trying to break free beneath the fragile shell of skin, agony etched in every line of his face.

“Where is it,” he begs, coughing through a mouthful of crimson tinged phlegm. “Where is it, where — no…“ he breaks off, convulsing with another fit, his grip on Ulaz’s arm wanes as his body goes limp.

Ulaz catches him, sliding an arm underneath the trembling shoulders. He helps the man sit up, then coaxes him to his feet, not minding that he’s holding most of his weight. The human is hot to the touch, as if he’s burning from the inside out. His body trembles with minute spasms as his nervous system sends frantic signals to his brain that something isn’t right, something is missing.

“He needs treatment if he is to survive another operation,” Ulaz glares at the other Galra watching them. Watching him take pity on this human. Without another word, he turns towards the door, urging his charge forward.

“Up, boy,” he hisses next to the prisoner’s ear. “Do not let them see.”

The man’s spine goes rigid beneath Ulaz’s hand and he makes a noticeable effort to steady his gait. A soldier, Ulaz thinks. Perhaps back on his own planet. It would make sense. He hadn’t made the connection before now.

They’re only a few steps outside when the man stumbles, head lolling back against Ulaz’s supporting shoulder. His legs falter and he gulps, swallowing down a thick, wet noise, the only warning Ulaz receives before the man begins to vomit. He sags towards the ground and Ulaz catches his shoulders, holding him steady while he brings up mostly bile. There isn’t much on his stomach, but that’s not surprising.

He allows the prisoner a few moments to empty himself, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. When the retching tapers off, Ulaz settles the man back against his chest as he doesn’t appear capable of holding himself upright.

“What do they call you?” he asks, not exactly expecting an answer. “On your planet? What is your name?” He does not know why he asked the question, why he feels the urge to protect this creature. Associating the human with a name will only make things more difficult. And yet, Ulaz feels he must know the answer.

The man looks up, dark eyes squinting with confusion. Then he seems to give up, obviously too exhausted to care why an alien suddenly wants to be on a first name basis. He gives a small shake of his head as his chin falls back to his chest. He sags back over his knees, struggling to hold himself up with his one arm.

“Shirogane,” he pants, spitting up a mouthful of bloody saliva. “Shiro.” Ulaz winces and inches his boot out of the line of fire.

“Shiro,” Ulaz repeats, rolling the strange name around his tongue. The man nods in a daze, nothing left to lose. “Are you finished, Shiro?”

Shiro doesn’t answer. Instead, he fixes his eyes on what remains of his stump. Then he tilts his head to look up at Ulaz, lids fluttering as though he might faint. But then his features contort, simmering with a despairing rage Ulaz must steel himself from bowing to.

“Why does that matter to you?” he slurs, voice ravaged and raw with pain. “You’ve taken everything,” his voice breaks, hitching on a bitter sob. “But you’re worried about a human puking on your boots? Fuck you.”

Ulaz doesn’t know exactly what most of those last words mean, but he thinks he understands the general idea. “Keep moving,” he says, ignoring what his translator registers as an insult.

Shiro only makes it another ten feet or so before his legs betray him and he collapses. Ulaz expected as much and catches him under his arms just before he face-plants and hoists him over his shoulder to carry him the rest of the way back to his holding cell. Somewhere along the way Shiro loses consciousness, head going limp against Ulaz’s shoulder.

Ulaz stands in the doorway of the prisoner’s cell, frowning at the unsanitary conditions and sparse options for bedding. Shiro fusses against his shoulder, whimpering softly as the pain begins to fester, burying its roots in his subconscious.

“This is deplorable,” Ulaz frowns at the two massive hulks guarding the man’s cell. “This human is in Haggar’s charge, now. Clean this place up and bring me some decent bedding. He will be no use to her if he dies from infection lying in his own filth.”

The two guards jump into action, hurrying to carry out the order. One of them returns a few moments later with clean bedding and lays it down over the poor excuse for a cot on the floor. The other returns with an armful of supplies, some medical, some to sanitize.

Ulaz lays the man down on the makeshift cot, careful not to jostle him. He sets to work, properly cleaning the cauterized flesh and massaging a numbing balm over the base of the stump. When he finally glances up, the man, Shiro, is awake, watching him with wary, fever-bright eyes.

His head fur is sticking haphazardly to his face, damp with sweat. Ulaz reaches to brush it back, it cannot be comfortable like that. Shiro flinches hard, shallow breaths stuttering with the surge of panic. Ulaz sighs, pulls his hand away and resumes bandaging. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he pulls out a small container and brings the opening to the man’s lips.

“Drink,” Ulaz says. Shiro’s eyes flick down to the container, then up at Ulaz, suspicion creased between his brows. “It will help you sleep.”

Slowly, Shiro tips his head back, accepting the liquid, never taking his eyes off of Ulaz. He grimaces as the liquid spills over his tongue, gagging on the small mouthful. He tries to pull back, shaking his head as he begins to cough. Ulaz holds the back of his neck firmly in place.

“A little more,” he urges gently. “To ward off infection. Try to keep it down.”

For some reason, this makes Shiro laugh. It’s not a pleasant sound. But he obeys and does his best to swallow a second mouthful.

“I will return soon,” Ulaz promises. “Rest. Tomorrow will be…difficult.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The question surprises Ulaz, he had not expected the man to engage him at all.

“It would be easier to let me die.”

There is a pleading note buried beneath the palpable fury that triggers a strange ache in Ulaz’s chest. He considers his answer. The truth would only lead to more questions that he cannot necessarily justify to a prisoner. He settles on the answer he’s certain Shiro is expecting.

“You are of no use to us dead.”

Shiro doesn’t respond, he fixes his gaze on the ceiling of the small cell. His throat works a few times before he gives up and closes his eyes. A few silent tears break loose before he can swallow them back.

“I am sorry this happened to you,” Ulaz says quietly. “Survive, Shiro. Perhaps one day you will have your justice.”

Shiro’s fist spasms, clenching furiously at the bedsheets as Ulaz turns his back to leave.