'I'm not leaving you!'

The words crash through his skull, burn like acid in his throat as they fire from his tongue. He's not leaving her. He doesn't care what it takes or what more the Galra will take from him if he fails; if he fails her, it'll all be worse.

'You have to!'

He's thrown. He falls. He scrambles to his feet as metal doors slide shut and he watches. It's all he can do, hold her gaze. The dash of panels and buttons glows. The spacecraft shudders as it prepares for warp speed. He only watches—

Iridescent blue gives away nothing; there's not a trace of fear in them. She's so strong.

He's not. He should've stayed. It should be him in her place.

The ship makes the jump. He screams.

Grey eyes snap open, but they're wide and unseeing. His fingers tear into his hair, flesh pulling, metal joints snagging on the white and black locks. His hands drag down his neck, his chest, over the rapid stutter of the heartbeat behind his ribcage. He makes fists in the blanket, glaring at the Galra tech as it grips the fabric, hating it all the more thanks to the memories of what's been done to him—

What did they do to her?

To the curtain of panic, the shroud of a tortured past: he's lost. He's trapped in the spiral, unable to pull free of the images conjured up by his mind's betrayal.

"I shouldn't have left," he mumbles, coming undone within the terror. "I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have left you. Allura. I shouldn't have— I should've—"

He can't breathe. There's no air in the room. His shoulders shake with a strangled sob. His lungs ache with the fight for oxygen. His body thrashes, curls over his lap as he struggles through the darkness in his head. His pupils are pinpoints. He feels the cut of his fingernails in the heel of his human palm.

"A-Allura—"

"Shiro."

She's there. Looking sleepy and confused, but she's there. He can't believe it. He doesn't. It's another Galra trick to make him give away his family. He chokes, "I'll never- I'm— I shouldn't have left you."

"Takashi."

Finally. He can breathe. His ribs expand with a gasp, collapse with a sob. She moves closer, right to his side, touches his hands until he lets the comforter go and skims her fingers up his arms until her thumbs trace his jaw. He watches her while his pulse slows, allows himself to become lost again, but this time in something good, someone good.

God, he loves her. She loves him. It becomes the mantra dancing through his head, pushing out the nightmares, letting simplicity and peace sink in.

She caresses him tenderly, gingerly. Her knuckles brush his face, wiping tears away. She cords her fingers through his hair, gently massaging away the start of a migraine. Her palms settle on either side of his neck, and he holds her wrists, keeping himself grounded, reminding himself that she's real, not the nightmares.

"Tell me what you need, Takashi," she whispers.

He shudders. "You, Allura. Just you."

She smiles briefly, nods, then her knee slips over his hips and she settles in his lap.

Her hands cup the back of his head and her lips crush his, but as soon as they part, her tongue is gentle, her breath soft. He chases the sanity she brings, the sanctity of her embrace. He holds her tight, refusing to let go; fingers twist in long, cloud-colored locks, metal digits flatten on her back.

Somewhere, at some point, she decides they're not close enough, the taste of his mouth isn't enough. She wants him, wants to save him, if that's possible through bared skin and light-as-air kisses down his neck. He needs her, needs to be saved; and despite all the trauma, all the pain, all the horrendous things he's seen, he knows it's possible. She's the only one to ever bring him back from the brink.

Her nightgown is pulled up and over her head; her wavy locks fall around them like a shroud against the world's horrors. He follows the column of her throat to her collarbones, nuzzles the shallow groove and traces the faint pink Altean markings with his tongue. He finds her breasts, and the steady thump of her heart beneath them.

They fall back, landing softly on the feather-stuffed pillows; then, he rolls her under him.

It's his way of protecting her, but also feeling protected, defended. Her body is like his shelter, his quiet place, his home. As his lips trace her skin and his fingers slip between her thighs— and god, is she wet and ready and begging for him— her arms cage him in. Her legs wrap around his waist and her fingers drag across his skin. He sinks into her with a sigh, then a groan; she's all around him.

And it's there he finds solace— in the delicate moans pulling from her throat, in the sweat beading on his forehead. She meets every thrust, repeating Takashi, Takashi, Takashi, and he buries his face in her neck. He kisses and nips, whimpers into her throat with the meeting of their hips, whines his praises as the pleasure builds deep in his stomach and his body tightens with his release.

She joins him in it, in that sweet, desperate bliss. Her lips center him. Her touch soothes him. Her love reclaims him. He revels in her presence, in the faint blush that spreads across her skin. He's astounded that she's his, that she's here with him.

As if she can read his mind, her eyes open, half-lidded and hazy.

"I'm here," she whispers, combing his hair. "I'm right here."

"I know," he says. He lays his head down on her chest, listens to her heartbeat just for him. "You're right here."

And, it's there he finds rest.