Complete and utter darkness. Shiro's flooded by it, drowning in it, overwhelmed by it. His searches have yielded no source of light. Feeling his way blindly around the small mental box he's contained in – terrifying with the frightening unknown of what he might discover with every movement. So he's curled himself into the corner and squeezes his eyes closed, deluding himself into believing that the darkness is by his own design.
His panicky, jolting heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears, even as he attempts to calm himself. Focus himself. Centre himself.
Patience yields focus.
Gradually, he steadies his breathing, soothes his heart. Concentrates, thinks. But there is no information, no data to collect in attempt to devise an escape plan. There is simply nothing. Shiro is in nothingness. Shiro is nothing.
A door slides open abruptly, flooding his cell with light, drowning his vision with it, overwhelming his mind with it. Shiro blanches, winces, squeezes his eyes closed against the bombardment. The severity becomes physical when rough hands pull at him, dragging him out of the cell and into the light.
By the time he's aware enough, eyes adjusted to the light and head no longer floating, Shiro is dumped by a group of strange looking creatures and surrounded by strange sounds. Grunts and screeches of alien languages and cheers ringing in a nearby stadium. The alien creatures stare at him with bulbous eyes and multiple eyes and eyes on random limbs. Like he's the oddity.
"Shiro…?"
He falls into darkness once more, surrounded by the coldness of his cell. Time warps, moves, jumps. That was Matt's voice, he recognised it immediately. Did he see him? Shiro can't remember. Frowns into the nothingness and finally feels the pain in his face. Across his nose.
With a trembling hand touches at the bridge of his nose and hisses and groans with the sharp flare of pain. Breathing heavily and clenching his teeth, Shiro more cautiously touches around the wound, over his nose from cheek to cheek. It's deep, painful and whatever numbing agent his captors used to stitch his face back together is starting to wear off. It hurts. It aches.
"Shiro," Lance's voice breathes into the darkness.
Heedless of the pain, Shiro's head snaps up. "Lance, Lance," he whispers, dread coursing through his veins, thick and heavy.
Lance can't be here, he can't suffer this. Shiro won't allow it. He remembers the weight of Lance's unconscious body, the softness of his lax face, the wounds and bruises and scars on warm brown skin. Shiro frantically searches his way around the cell but there's no one else here.
It's empty. Only his darkness, his nothingness.
…Who was he looking for?
Cheers erupt around him and light floods down on him. Shiro's in the arena once more, hiding behind a pillar from a vicious beast that screams for his blood, for his death. But Shiro is focussed, intent.
Kill or be killed. He'll get the kill first. He'll survive. He has to. He has someone waiting for him. He's someone's hero. I have to survive this.
Shiro dives out from behind the pillar, dodging a prompt lash of razor sharp tail. The phantom feeling in his mechanical arm burns with anticipation, with bloodlust. It glows and casts blaring purple brightness against his drab monotonous prison clothes. Shiro charges, expertly evading until he's close enough to attack and counter attack.
"Shiro!"
The crowd is loud, deafening, chanting his name. He's winning. He'll always win. Because he has someone he needs to get back to.
He will survive this for Lance.
"Shiro! Wake up!"
A jostle of movement wakes Lance, he frowns and slowly blinks his eyes open. The room is dark but not completely so, the familiar dim blue glow lights the room. Lance likes it because it makes him feel as though he's underwater, still and calm and quiet. But Shiro chose it, said it reminded him of Lance's eyes.
"Flooding the room with the colour of your eyes, drowning myself in it, overwhelming myself with it," Shiro had explained, smiling that dopey grin at Lance. "Sounds like heaven to me."
Another spasm of movement shakes Lance from the bone-heavy sleepiness that had him drifting off with the happiness of the memory. More awake now, he blinks rapidly and turns his head to see Shiro twitching, tense and frowning in his sleep. He's panting heavily, but not in the good way if the pained expression on his face is anything to go by. On second thought, it's not too far from his pleasured expression.
"No, no," Shiro mumbles, voice wavering with distress.
Lance curses under his breath, definitely not a happy dream. No, this is one of Shiro's nightmares. Lance gets woken by them often enough that he's not surprised, each time hurts a little more though. He hates seeing Shiro suffering like this, eternally running from the ghosts of his past, no matter how many years pass.
Propping himself up on his elbow, Lance angles himself over Shiro and places his palm on the clammy wetness of the fair skin of his shoulder.
"Shiro, babe, wake up," Lance says, shaking him gently as to not startle him. "Shiro, you're having a nightmare, please wake up."
Shiro thrashes bodily and whimpers in pain. Protectiveness sparks and burns through Lance's body, heating him more than the unnatural warmth radiating off Shiro.
"Shiro! Wake up!"
Suddenly everything twists and flips as Shiro lashes out. Lance feels as though the air has been punched out of his lungs by the time his mind catches up with what's happened. Shiro's body is hot and heavy on top of him, pinning him to the bed and definitely not in the good way because Shiro looks murderous.
The cold metal of Shiro's mechanical hand practically burns his skin in stark contrast to the all-encompassing heat. Lance can feel every hard, metallic edge of it at his throat, slowly gripping tighter and tighter and tighter. Lance has never felt anything but safe and comfortable in Shiro's presence, but now… now…
"Shiro! Please wake the fuck up!" Lance cries, clutching and clawing at his metal arm, panic setting it as breathing becomes difficult. Shiro's expression becomes more pained, more desperate, more aggressive. He bares his teeth, clenching them together and breathing through them harshly.
"Shiro! Sh—!" Lance gasps.
He thrashes, muscles twitching and straining, attempting to push Shiro off him. Lance punches, kicks, flails. But even at the best of times, even without that cheating mechanical arm, Shiro is a better fighter than Lance. He's too heavy, too strong. The pressure is immense, he can feel it crushing.
An image of Shiro waking up to discover Lance's dead body, killed by his own hand, flashes through his mind. The pain it would cause Shiro, the misery, Lance can't allow it. Won't let him suffer that torment, that guilt.
"Shiro!" Lance shouts, with every last ounce of strength and voice and breath he has.
Shiro's eyes blink open, dark lashes fluttering – jarringly beautiful in the ugliness of the situation – as surprise washes away the violence of his expression. The pressure fades and Lance gasps deep, ragged breaths into his burning lungs, watching as Shiro's grey eyes widen and widen. Apprehension, horror, devastation. Shiro trembles so viciously is shakes the mattress and his breath comes out in short, sharp puffs.
All the pressure and weight abruptly disappears as Shiro scurries backwards, utterly terrified. Lance has never seen him so scared before. Lance follows him without hesitation, kneeling between his sprawled legs, touching his ashen face and his hair and his shoulders and his chest. Making Shiro feel his presence, drowning his senses with it.
"You're okay, Shiro. I'm here," Lance says, voice soft and reassuring. "You're okay."
"Lance, Lance," Shiro repeats endlessly between panicked pants, as if using his name as an anchor to remind himself that this is real. Shiro tentatively reaches out but his eyes flicker down to the waning purple glow of his mechanical hand and he winces. Disgust creases his face as he looks at his hands, the human one trembling violently. "I… I… I h-hurt you, Lance. I… Oh God…"
"No, no! Shiro," Lance denies, shaking his head firmly. "I'm right here, I'm fine. Look at me."
Lance grips his face fiercely, forcing Shiro to meet his gaze. Tears leave shimmering wet lines down Shiro's face and the agony in his eyes kicks Lance so hard in the gut he would almost prefer to be strangled than see Shiro in this much emotional pain.
"Breathe, just breathe, Shiro. I need you to breathe. I'm right here, I'm with you, Shiro. Just breathe with me."
Shiro melts into his touch, nuzzling into his hands and closing his eyes. Lance rubs the pads of his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against Shiro's cheeks. The warmth of Shiro's broad palm presses flat against his sternum, feeling for the exaggerated rise and fall of Lance's breathing. Lance watches him gradually, muscle by muscle, relax and does so himself. Relief sinking into his aching body.
Without the surge of adrenaline Lance hurts. The muscles in his legs and stomach and arms feel strained from his resistance, and then there's his throat. He feels like he's been crushed by Blue's giant paw. The thought hurting almost as much as the knowledge that Shiro has done this. But it's not his fault. Lance doesn't blame him. Lance could never blame him.
When Shiro's finally calm, Lance pushes his fingers through Shiro's hair, smoothing back the messy white length. He rises onto his knees and presses his lips to Shiro's forehead before resting his own forehead there, closing his eyes and steadying himself on Shiro's solid shoulders. He breathes in the warm, familiar scent of Shiro, grounding himself with it and easily ignoring the pain in the comforting knowledge that Shiro is okay.
"We're okay, Shiro," Lance says quietly.
"No, we're not," Shiro says, voice tight with despair.
Lance's eyes fly open to see Shiro staring at his neck, at the likely angry redness and bruising, at the evidence of his unconscious mistake. Shiro shifts, moving away from him and rising from the bed on wobbly legs like a newborn foal. He steadies himself against the foot of the bed for a moment before straightening and pulling his hoodie on. Anxiety tumbles through Lance as he watches in the blue glow of their room.
"What do you mean?" Lance questions, frowning.
"I almost killed you, Lance," Shiro says, using his Condescending Leader Voice to put the distance of rigid formality between them. "This is too far, too much. Too dangerous. It's not getting better, just… worse. It's irresponsible of me to be here."
Lance hates when he does this, when he pulls rank and tries to pretend they're not partners and that they haven't been in love for two whole years. It's never worked on Lance, even before they were together, even when they first met. Lance has never been afraid to confront Shiro when he's wrong.
"So, what? You're just going to leave?"
Shiro avoids looking anywhere in Lance's vicinity and pads towards the door. "At least I know you'll be safe."
"Let me rephrase that. You're going to leave me here alone," Lance says, not even attempting hold back the waver in his voice as his bottom lip quivers and tears burn in his eyes. Shiro freezes, tenses and bows his head. "You're leaving me here hurting and in pain and worrying. Worrying if you'll ever look at me again, worrying if you'll ever touch me again, worrying if you'll ever kiss me or hold me or love me—"
Shiro whirls, eyes dark and burning, and he growls, "I will never stop loving you."
Lance smiles, a tear rolling silently down his cheek. "Good. So please just stay, Shiro."
For a long, nerve-wracking moment, Shiro simply stands there, staring at Lance and considering. Lance lets out a relieved sigh when Shiro finally approaches, sitting himself down cautiously on the side of the bed and swiping a hand down his face. Knowing that Shiro needs a little time to collect himself, Lance settles into a more comfortable cross-legged position behind him.
"If you could see your neck you wouldn't want me to stay," Shiro insists, his voice low and quiet, dropping his head into his hands. "If you could see what I did…"
"I can feel it," Lance admits and feels Shiro stiffen. He moves forward, rests his forehead between Shiro's shoulder blades and wraps his arms around his waist. "It hurts. But I'm not delicate, I'm not some fragile person that breaks so easily. Over the last four years I've been shot at, punched, kicked, crushed, knocked-out… and most of that is just by Keith in training," he jokes lightly.
Shiro snorts a laugh, easing into the embrace. "I don't want to hurt you, I never want to hurt you."
"I know. All I could think was that if you woke up having killed me it would destroy you and I couldn't let that happen."
"That's because you're absurdly selfless beyond any sense of reason," Shiro says, sighing and gripping Lance's arm where is wrapped around his stomach. "I don't deserve this… I don't deserve you."
Most people wouldn't see it, don't see it, but they're so similar. All these crippling doubts they secret behind masks of confidence. Lance hiding his uncertainty and worry that he doesn't belong behind his humour and charisma, painting on a smile and internalising the fear. Shiro hiding his pain and self-loathing behind his stoic austerity, leading and fighting and ignoring his inner turmoil. These four years of being 'heroes' and their personal demons continue to haunt them every step of the way.
At this point, Lance highly doubts Shiro will ever overcome his demons, his trauma, but hell if he's going to be anywhere but here, holding his hand every painful step of the way.
Lance straightens and moves around, tugging at Shiro until he acquiesces and turns to face him. Resting a leg across Shiro's lap, Lance silently touches his chest, tracing the lines of scar tissue and swell of muscle. Up to his shoulders, broad set bones wrapped in heavy muscling and to his neck, pulse steady and throat bobbing under Lance's fingertips. To the strong line of his jaw, rough with thick, black stubble. Lance cups Shiro's face, appreciating their contrasting skin tones before meeting those smoky grey eyes, so full of affection.
"There are lots of things you don't deserve, Shiro. You don't deserve what was done to you, being captured by the Galra, tortured and fighting for your life. You don't deserve the scar it's left on your mind and soul, the lingering pain and suffering," Lance says resolutely. "You're the strongest, most competent person I've ever known and you do deserve to be happy and cared for and loved."
"I'm broken, Lance."
"You're amazing, Shiro," he counters without pause, meaning it with every fibre of his being and willing Shiro to understand.
Heartache and fondness chase each other across Shiro's face before a warm smile melts the pain away. Instead of responding, Shiro leans forward and angles his head to kiss Lance. Softly, languidly. Lance loses himself in the heat of Shiro's mouth, the gentle press of his tongue and the careful pull of his lips. Kissing Shiro, being held by him and touched by him has always been comforting, it's always felt so right. Lance just knows it's where he's supposed to be, always, with Shiro.
"Can I see?" Shiro whispers against his mouth.
After what just happened, Lance should be nervous, wary, but he tilts his head back and offers his throat to Shiro immediately. He trusts Shiro more than anyone, knows he would never intentionally hurt him.
Tentatively, Shiro's fingers ghost over his collar bones and carefully up the tender muscles and skin of his neck. Lance tenses, inhaling sharply with the ache.
"Sorry," Shiro says and continues his examination even more carefully. "Shit… I'm so sorry, Lance."
"I'm okay."
"It's really bad, you should go see Coran."
Lance shakes his head. "Not now, I'll see him in the morning. I think it probably looks worse than it is. I can breathe, I can talk, I can swallow. Mostly the pain is in my muscles and the bruising."
"Okay…" Shiro reluctantly allows. "But if it gets any worse—"
"If there is anything you can rely on, it's my ability to complain," Lance jokes, lowering his chin to grin at Shiro.
"Even so, it's surpassed by your need to internalise anything in order to protect me."
Unable to deny it and with no need to confirm it, they both know it's true, Lance simply remains quiet. Shiro gingerly rests his head on Lance's shoulder and lets the issue go, likely relying on Lance's ability to look after himself.
Lance pushes his fingers through the back of Shiro's hair, scraping his blunt nails against his scalp, massaging his head and the back of his neck. Shiro hums appreciatively and slowly snuggles closer, wrapping his arms tightly around Lance's waist. With overenthusiastic nuzzling against Lance's chest, Shiro manages to push him backwards and lie them down. Shiro cuddles into his body, half lying on top of him and pushing his muscular thigh between Lance's legs.
"You really are a giant puppy dog," Lance says, smoothing his hands down Shiro's back.
"I think you should sleep with a Taser," Shiro suggests, fingertips gently caressing Lance's chest.
"Shit, babe, kinky much?"
Shiro sighs. "For protection, in case this happens… just—just in case."
Lance hums thoughtfully, pressing his face into Shiro's soft hair. It's probably a good idea, even if he never wants to think about anything like this happening ever again, even if he wishes Shiro wouldn't have to suffer another horrifying nightmare ever again, burying his head in the sand won't help. And if it makes Shiro feel better, more comfortable, it's worth it.
"Maybe we should get you one of those shock collars for naughty dogs," Lances teases, grinning broadly. "Now that would be kinky."
He feels Shiro huff an exasperated but fond laugh. Lance squeaks when Shiro pinches him in retaliation and then he kisses the spot better because he's the sweetest human being in existence, even when his boyfriend is being annoying.
"Sleepy," Lance mumbles.
"I don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep," Shiro admits but starts pulling Lance up the right way in the bed anyway.
"Watch me sleep?" Lance offers with a lethargic grin.
Shiro settles the covers over them and curls into Lance's side once more, their heads on the same pillow. Lance closes his eyes and revels in the weight and warmth and feeling of Shiro's body, and somehow just knows he's smiling.
"I was trying to get back to you, in my dream," Shiro says softly, his nose nudging into Lance's jaw, forehead resting against Lance's head. "All I wanted and all I could think about was getting back to you, Lance."
Lance finds Shiro's hand, wedged between them, and laces their fingers together, squeezing firmly, reassuringly. "I'm not going anywhere, Shiro. I'll always be here; for you, with you."