After about an hour of trying, Keith finally gave up on falling asleep. Normally, when insomnia held his rest hostage, he'd head to the castle's training room to push his body past the point of exhaustion and fall blearily into oblivion. Unfortunately, the cramped space of their current hideout didn't offer much room for combat training, and he'd thought he was already long past the point of exhaustion anyway. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

He just couldn't get past the image of Allura, normally a vibrant force of nature in her own right, lying frail and pale at nature's mercy. There'd been plenty of moments up till now that he'd been sure she'd left them for death's dubious embrace, chest imploding under the weight of his guilt, only for her to pull through. She should've been dead well before the healer had shown up, really. But somehow, even lying at death's door, she'd clung stubbornly to life.

If it hadn't been for Keith, she never would've had to fight so hard to live in the first place.

Only in the harrowing stretch following Allura's fall had Keith been able to admit to himself that it was the stubbornness that he shared with Allura that had lead to this disaster. If he'd stopped to give Hunk's words the consideration they deserved, maybe pushed a little less, they wouldn't have gone to help the rebels. Maybe they would've scrutinized more, instead of rushing in at his emphatic plea for immediate action.

"This is exactly the sort of thing we're here for. How can we call ourselves Paladins if we don't help when people need it?" He'd asked. Those were the words that had finally persuaded Allura to acquiesce. To agree to the mission that had led straight to their ambush.

"Ah, Number Three," Coran said, startling Keith out of his own head. He blinked, only just now realizing his feet had carried him to back Allura's room. "You should be resting."

"I...guess I can't sleep. Not used to my bed." Keith said, throat tightening as his eyes fell again on Allura. My fault.

Keith managed not to flinch at Coran's gentle touch on his shoulder. He'd grown used to the man's small shows of affection the longer he'd been around him, but right now he felt less able to accept them than ever.

"I find the sofa to be quite comfortable," Coran said, gesturing to the unoccupied couch on the wall facing Allura's bed. Keith felt his eyes burn uncomfortably, gratitude an opposite, relieving force against the weight on his chest.

"I think I'll try that," he said, settling into the plush cushion that was permanently imprinted with his shape by now.

Coran gave him an understanding smile, settling in next to him. A few moments later, Keith was released into sweet oblivion.

Lance woke to knives slicing into his gut, immediately wishing he could fall back into the bliss of unconsciousness. Curling onto his side, he pulled the plush fabric cocooning him up to his chin and burrowed further into the mattress beneath him. Just a few more minutes, he told himself, he just needed a few more minutes to build up enough nerve to really wake up. He was surprised Mom hadn't come in to wake him. It had to be getting late, right? Maybe she'd decided to let him stay in bed sick and was already preparing some soup for him.

He felt like he was floating, the bed beneath him a ship riding ocean waves. He paused, an icy stab of fear flinging his eyes open as his reality came crashing down with sickening force.

What was he doing in a bed?

He couldn't really remember a whole lot after his disastrous healing last night. He did remember, however blearily, being coaxed into dry clothes and trying uselessly to comply with rubbery limbs before passing out. One thing he was sure of, though, was that he'd very specifically been told to take the floor by Iverson. He'd remembered it because he'd almost let out a complaint in his delirious state.

Just then, his master's snoring stopped abruptly and Lance froze heart hammering. It had been little more than a barely registered background noise until then, but it's sudden absence felt as loud as the knelling of an execution bell. His mind raced furiously to come up with excuses, any excuse, as to why he was on the bed. He could sometimes talk his way out of punishment given the right combination of a particularly generous spirit on Iverson's part and some extra ingenuity on his own.

Luckily, though, his master's snores started back up a few breathless moments later and Lance let out a sigh of relief. He still had time to save himself. He forced aching limbs into motion, ignoring the way his middle pulsed painfully in time with every nervous heartbeat. Something felt off somehow, beyond a mere backlash from healing poison. He'd have to examine his condition more closely later, but for now, hiding his discretion from his master took precedence.

Biting back a grunt, he belly crawled to the edge of the bed, leg creeping over to find the floor. It took a moment, but as soon as he felt his toe brush against the floor, he used it and his trembling arms to push himself up into a standing position. Or at least, he tried too. Instead, just as his eyes registered the sight of the guide from yesterday halfway through what looked like a push-up, his foot pushed down, and it was too late for his shock-addled brain to stop the action.

The man's eyes widened just before the force of Lance's foot on his back sent him downward with an oof of surprise. Amazingly, it didn't send him all the way to the ground, just far enough that his chest was less than a finger's width off the floor. Lance, however, wasn't so fortunate. When the "floor" suddenly dropped beneath his foot, he lost his already precarious balance and fell back against the edge of the bed. He bounced briefly on its thankfully forgiving surface before slipping down to land on the considerably less forgiving surface of the floor.

He lay in a daze, trying to reorient himself as the reality of what he'd just done set in.

He'd just stepped on a contractor. Arguably assaulted them. The same contractor that had been important enough for Iverson to take a half-recovered Lance to a cabin in the middle of the woods in one of the worst storms in ages. Lance hadn't meant to hurt him, of course. He hadn't even used magic in this case, but Lance had learned the hard way that intent was irrelevant when the outcome was negative. It would just be Lance's dubious word against this man's

"Hey," suddenly, Lance felt hands at his shoulders, coaxing him up from the fetal position he hadn't even realized he'd taken, "You okay? Is it your stomach? Does it still hurt?"

"I…" he stuttered, not sure what to say. The dark-haired man, Shiro, he thought he remembered him being called, seemed oblivious to the enormity of Lance's error. Lance was both terrified of pointing out just how grave it was, and convinced if this was some sort of test of his integrity. In the end, all he could choke out was, "Are you okay?"

Shiro's eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave Lance a relieved smile, "Me? I'm fine. No harm, no foul. I'm more worried about you." He stood, offering a hand to Lance, "Let me help you up."

Lance stared, open-mouthed at the proffered hand, glancing up at Shiro, then back down in surprise. With a start, he realized the arm wasn't human, made completely out of some sort of artificial composite. He saw Shiro's expression falter when he glanced up again, but the man quickly recovered with an even more inviting smile. Not willing to add offense to his list of wrongdoings against this man, Lance reached out slowly to accept his help. Every muscle in his body tense with the certainty that, at any second, the man would call him to task for his mistakes.

It didn't happen at that moment, though. Shiro simply pulled him up with an ease that made much more sense now, only for Lance to double over at the renewed feeling of blades renting his middle open. Apparently, the mere act of standing was too much strain for his abused muscles. It was quite literally all he could do to focus on breathing, willing the black edges of his vision to retreat. He dimly became aware that the only thing keeping him upright at this point was Shiro's help.

"...need to sit," he managed to say. Shiro moved to help him sit on the edge of his bed, and Lance shook his head more aggressively than he probably should have because his vision swam at the motion. "Not the bed," he pleaded. His eyes flickered over to his master who was, miracle of miracles, still sleeping. Shiro followed his line of sight, eyes lighting with realization. His expression clouded with something Lance wasn't sure he understood (or wanted to), but thankfully he complied.

He helped ease Lance down until he was sitting on the floor with his trembling back against the side of the bed, arm wrapped protectively around his middle. "Thank you," he said as he let out a shaky breath. His pain was slowly subsiding back to a more manageable throbbing sensation. He had no idea how he was going to manage the trek back to their transport from here. Iverson had to be waking up any minute now, and he'd be eager to move on from here, Lance was sure. In fact, Lance was surprised he hadn't woken up already. He was usually an early riser, a habit picked up from his Garrison days, Lance guessed. He must not have slept since before their last job.

Shiro still lingered, hovering over him like Lance was some kind of patient rather than the State's Healer.

"Can I get you anything? Some breakfast, maybe?" Shiro asked, the crease of concern on his brow hadn't softened. If anything, it had deepened.

Lance finally realized what was going on here. Most of the time, he wasn't allowed to linger after a healing, so he wasn't exactly used to the issue. Every so often, though, a misguided contractor would try to offer him something in return for healing themselves or their loved ones. They didn't realize how inverted the situation was. Every healing he did was barely a drop in the bucket of decency to balance his darkness.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," Lance said softly so as not to aggravate his tender middle.

"How about some water, then?" Shiro tried. Of course, now that Shiro mentioned it, Lance's throat did feel dry. Still, he knew better than to acknowledge it.

"No thanks, I just want to rest," Lance said, letting the weakness he felt creep into his voice. That did the trick. Shiro's face softened with understanding.

"Alright then," he said, "I'll give you a little breathing room. I need to take care a few things, but I'll be back." Lance nodded and Shiro went to put on his boots before he slipped out the door, tossing one last worried glance in Lance's direction.

It would probably be wiser for him to be straightforward and explain the nature of his sentencing to avoid further awkwardness. Unfortunately, a small, selfish part of Lance savored the illusion that Shiro's kindness created for him. For one, brief moment, he could pretend he was a person who deserved that kindness.

Lance had just let his eyes slip closed to turn his attention inward when he heard his master's snoring stop again. This time, instead of resuming a few moments later, his snores stayed silent. Soon enough, Lance heard the couch creaking as Iverson shifted.

"Hmmph, overslept," his master muttered to himself, sounding disgusted. Lance steeled himself for the unpleasantness that would inevitably come. He could tell Iverson was already in an especially foul mood.

"Boy," he said, more loudly, and Lance opened his eyes to see Iverson had sat up in the couch and was facing him.

"Yes, master Iverson?" Lance said, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his borrowed shirt.

"You still look damaged."

"It's the poison, it..messed me up pretty bad," Lance said, reluctant to go into details, but he knew what Iverson was really asking, so he added, "I don't think I'll be able to do another healing for at least a week."

"Damnit!" Iverson slammed his fist against the wall, and Lance flinched. "I should charge them extra for the losses this is going to cause." Lance was guiltily glad the brunt of Iverson's ire was directed away from him, however briefly.

"And you," Iverson said, jabbing a finger at Lance and leaning down toward him. He should've have been surprised. "You were careless. You didn't take the necessary precautions. If you had, you wouldn't be dealing with the backlash. Don't think you won't face disciplinary action just because you've put yourself in this sorry state."

"Of course not, Master" Lance said by rote, heart going numb as a cold dread settled in the hollows of his bones.

"It's my job to see that your magic is put to good, honest use for the benefit of the state. I can't do that if you insist on misusing your powers," Iverson's scowl deepened, "The way you've been pushing your limits lately, you'd think you were trying to prevent my good use of your magic."

Lance's eyes widened. "I would never-Please, Master, I didn't do it on purpose."

"It's a shame, really," Iverson continued without acknowledging him, shaking his head, "Sometimes, I'd swear you were trying, but your true nature never ceases to rear its ugly head. But we both know I didn't manage to reform you to this point by being lax."

Lance bowed his head, ostensibly in obeisance and acceptance, but he'd known from experience that he was no good at hiding his emotions. And right then, he was ashamed to admit, but his emotions reflected a distinct lack of the reformed humility his master had worked tirelessly to instill in him. Any outburst now would just be further evidence against him, but a hot flare of something dangerously close to indignation had lit in his chest at Iverson's condemnation. Lance had failed miserably, he couldn't deny that, but didn't it matter that he'd tried?

"Still," Iverson's voice sent his treasonous thoughts scattering, "I don't think this milktoast group of sorry diplomats are from around here. They clearly have some misguided notions about how you should be treated, and I don't need any more problems than you've already caused." His master reached unconcernedly into his coat to pull out one of his breath mints and Lance felt his stomach churn at the scent. "So I'll be merciful. I'll stay the implementation until you've recovered enough to heal yourself afterward. Ten lashes should be sufficient reminder."

Lance's heart slammed against his chest and he felt premonitory pinpricks of familiar pain down his back. Ten lashes?

It was only when Iverson's sledgehammer of a fist yanked him upward by his shirt collar that Lance realized he'd spoken out loud. He cried out, the forced motion stoking the embers of pain in his midsection to an inferno. For a moment, it was all he could do to grit his teeth, blind to anything but his pain and struggling for every shallow breath..

"Why do you always insist on trying my patience?" Iverson's minty breath on his face brought bile to Lance's already constricting throat, "I hope I don't need to remind you that the only reason you're still alive is because a State judge ruled I could make use of you for the good of the Coalition, so I took you on. Don't make me regret it, darkling." A long time ago, Lance would've cringed at Iverson's use of the derogatory term for the type of magic user he was. Now, though, he only cringed inwardly.

Iverson dropped him back to the floor then, and finally, mercifully, Lance fell into unconsciousness.

"Thank you, Hunk," Shiro said, accepting the steaming plate from the team's self-appointed cook and taking a seat in the cramped room they'd been using as a mess. He set to work cleaning his place as fast as he could manage. He could feel Hunk's magic hover around him as he cooked, the yellow Paladin's normally steady hum of power swirling restlessly. He chose to politely ignore it, not wanting to embarrass his teammate. He knew that he was more sensitive to the magic than the others and that Hunk likely didn't even realize Shiro could feel it. He paused, considering. "Do you have anything easy on the stomach I can take to my room?"

Hunk's brows knit with worry, "Why? Are you feeling okay?"

"Not for me," Shiro assured, "It's for our healer friend. He said he wasn't hungry, but I think he should have something."

"Oh man, is he still pretty bad?" Hunk asked, setting down the bowl of eggs he'd been mixing to give Shiro his full attention.

"Yeah," Shiro said, "He said something about the poison from Allura's wound getting its…'revenge' on him." Hunk gave Shiro a questioning look and Shiro shrugged. "I can't claim to understand it, but I can tell his stomach's giving him a lot of pain."

"Say no more," Hunk said, already rummaging through the emergency rations stored in the safehouse cupboard. "I have just the thing."

Shiro felt a small bit of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. "Thank you."

A few moments later, Keith stepped into the room, showered and dressed for the day, but Shiro didn't miss the deep shadows circling his eyes. He could feel Keith's own magic, sharp and electric, dancing just under his be honest, though, Keith's magic almost always felt this way. "Morning," the red Paladin said, perching himself on the edge of the seat next to Shiro, his whole body practically vibrating with tension. It was obvious he was anxious to get to business, but he waited until Hunk had set a plate in front of him too before turning to Shiro.

"Coran said to talk to you about our game plan," Keith said, and Shiro raised an eyebrow.

"Game plan for what?" Shiro asked. Hunk looked at them with an expression of mingled worry and guilt.

"About how we want to go about getting the healer to finish his job," Keith said tersely.

"What do you mean?"

"That healer left Allura only half healed," Keith said, and it was clear from his tone that he suspected ill intent. "She's still wounded."

"What?" Shiro asked, heart sinking.

"She's at least partially healed," Hunk intervened, "The poison's all gone, but the wound is still there."

"Oh," Shiro said, trying to sort his thoughts through a rush of fear and anxiety. "Is she doing well then?"

"Yeah, but-" Hunk started.

"But we paid more than the Coalition can afford for a full healing Shiro, and they only gave us a job half done. We can't risk it getting infected on the way back to the Castle of Lions and-"

"...And landing us back between the same rock and hard place as before," Shiro finished, already seeing where this was going.

"I-Exactly," Keith stumbled over his words. He'd apparently been prepared to argue his point and was thrown off by Shiro's easy agreement. He peered at Shiro, "So what I'm asking is: what's our game plan?"

Shiro frowned. He thought of the healer, eyes laced with pain and fear. He couldn't possibly ask him to subject himself to further risk. Not while he was still recovering. There was also the matter of his treatment under his guardian…or was it keeper? Shiro wasn't sure exactly what Iverson's role in the arrangement was, but it seemed disturbingly unconcerned with the healer's well-being.

Still, Allura had barely survived one sickness, even with all her reserves to start with. They'd exhausted their med supplies just keeping her a breath from death. He wasn't optimistic about her chances of survival if her condition regressed.

Not for the first time, he thought about how little he enjoyed the honor of being the leader of Voltron. As always in moments like these, he wished he could talk to Allura. She'd been raised to be the leader of her planet and was a source of wise counsel he depended on. He just didn't realize to what extent until she'd been taken out of commission. He'd have to show her his appreciation when - or if - they got out of this.

"I don't think the healer is capable of performing another healing," Shiro said, "At least not anytime soon."

"How is that our problem?" Keith asked, and Shiro finally looked at him directly. Did Keith really feel that way? Keith had the good grace to wince at Shiro's hard expression.

"It's our concern," Shiro said pointedly, "Because another healing attempt like the last one might kill him. I don't think Allura would appreciate us trading the life of a Coalition citizen for her own while she lay unconscious, do you?"

Hunk's eyes widened into saucers. Keith's darted away from Shiro's, then back. "Well, then what do you suggest?" he asked, voiceless hard now, but still taut.

"I...I'm not sure," Shiro said honestly, hating the way Keith's expression clouded at the words.

"I think the solution is simple," came a voice from the entryway, and they all looked up to see Coran had entered the room His eyes were unnaturally bright with determination, though the droop of his mustache and shoulders suggested he could do with some convalescing of his own at the moment."We take the fellows with us."

"Wouldn't that just make things riskier than they already are?" Hunk asked, genuinely perplexed.

"They might, but I've had the whole night to brood over our situation while I brooded over the princess, and I've come to the conclusion that the situation calls for some extra risk if we hope to make it back home with our bodies and integrity intact.."

"How do you figure?" Shiro asked, unsure of where Coran was going with this, but more than happy to cling to the possibility of a plan.

"Keith is right, we are due a complete healing," Coran nodded to Keith, "But I'm inclined to agree with your assessment of the situation with the young healer," Coran said, nodding in Shiro's direction, "So the only solution is to force them to accompany us until the boy is recovered enough to finish the job."

"That way we'll make sure he gets better, and we'll have a back-up if Allura needs it." Hunk said, enthusiasm slowly budding as he caught on to the direction Coran's plan was taking.

"Great idea, but how are we going to convince this guy to do that?" Keith asked. Shiro knew him well enough to see through his outer dubiousness to the same tentative hope Hunk felt.

Coran's expression hardened, "We could make him," he mused, but it was clear he didn't put much stock in this idea, "Or we could offer him more money."

"More money?" Keith and Hunk blurted out simultaneously, glancing at each other and looking supremely uncomfortable at the fact.

"Coran," Shiro said, glancing at the door to the mess and lowering his voice, "We don't have any more money."

"Not as far as that pin hidling burr swine knows," Coran hissed, and everyone in the room balked at the strength of Coran's invective.

There was a beat of heavy silence, then,

"Come again?"

Hunk was the first to speak up, "I'm not sure what half of that means, but the only time I've heard you sound that angry was when you were talking about Zarkon."

Coran sniffed. "I may be uneducated in the social customs of the planets in this system," he said, "but I find his treatment of that young healer to be horrendous. And frankly, all I need to know to judge the content of his character."

Shiro felt a pang of relief at Coran's blatant articulation of what'd he'd felt simmering under the surface but hadn't quite been able to express. "Agreed." Shiro said, "I'd argue it's criminal."

Coran nodded, understanding Shiro's implied question. "Possibly. We need to know more about the situation."

"Why do you think the healer's with him anyway?" Hunk asked, hands back to whipping up a batch of eggs with a little more force than was necessary. "They don't look related or anything."

"Hard to say," Coran said, "Either way, right now I'd say our primary goal is to persuade our guests to stick with us."

"Agreed," Shiro said, just as Hunk pulled the concoction he'd been preparing for the healer from the oven.

"Here's - uh - here's our new friend's breakfast." Hunk said, handing Shiro what looked like freshly baked bread. "It's pretty bland, but it's the easiest thing I've been able to stomach when I'm not feeling well."

"Right on time," Shiro said, "I'll take this with me to speak with Iverson."

"Brilliant idea," Coran said, smiling wearily, "I'll come with you."

"No, you need to sleep before we head out," Shiro said, "I can handle this."

Coran looked ready to protest, visibly bristling at Shiro's dismissal, then shook his head wearily. His whole body deflated. "You're right. I may be more hindrance than help in my current wake me when it's time to leave. Number Four is with the Princess if you need her."

"Thank you," Shiro said, gripping Coran's shoulder, then turning to the others, "Everyone else, make preparations to leave. We don't want to stick around any longer than we have to."

His fellow Paladins nodded in return, Hunk's muscles loosening while Keith's spine stiffened. Shiro squared his shoulders and let steel strengthen his resolve. He was not looking forward the conversation ahead of him.

When Shiro opened the door to his temporary bedroom, it was to find Iverson stooped over where the healer lay on the other side of the bed. The man was just straightening when Shiro entered the room, a dark expression sliding off his face when he spotted Shiro. His eyes flashed and his jaw set. "You owe me extra for this," he said, pointing down, "He'll be useless for over a week."

Shiro smothered the revulsion that flared at the man's words. Technically, Iverson's demand made his next steps simpler, if only tactically. He could make this work. He squared his own shoulders, mirroring the man's militaristic demeanor.

"That's actually what I came here to discuss, sir," he said, keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice and falling easily back on habits he'd thought rusty with disuse.

"Really," Iverson said, hard edges softening slightly, "That's...refreshing."

Shiro kept his face neutral, his words there to convey nothing but the facts. "We were hoping to keep your healer friend on retainer, in light of the fact that our companion is still injured."

Iverson's eyebrows narrowed, but Shiro continued, feigning obliviousness, "I don't need to bother you, if you'd prefer to leave. Actually, I was hoping to speak with him directly, but I can wait, seeing as he's resting." There, Shiro thought, might as well try to test this man's level of control when it comes to the healer.

"I negotiate all his contracts," he said sternly, confirming at least some of Shiro's suspicions, "And he goes where I go. It's a matter of safety for everyone involved."

"Because of his dark magic," Shiro said levelly, and Iverson's eyebrow twitched.

"Yes," he said, lifting his chin, "It has a way of lulling everyone, including its users, into a false sense of security before it finds a way to strike. I'm specifically trained to keep that from happening."

"He doesn't...seem evil," Shiro couldn't help but reply, thinking of how the magic had felt the night before. He realized he'd gone too far almost immediately.

"They never do," Iverson spat, lip curling, "But I've seen it for myself, the way it twists people until they think up is down and wrong is right. That boy has done evil and would do it again if given the chance. Just be grateful I won't let you find out the hard way like I did."

Shiro struggled to reign in a surge of indignation at the man's words, his artificial fist clenching unconsciously. This backward man from this backward planet had no idea what he and the other Paladins had seen and suffered. He knew darkness and dark magic, had felt its cruel touch first hand. He and his team weren't as clueless as this man seemed to think they were.

Belatedly, he noticed a strange touch on his magic, familiar only because he'd felt it the night before. It was the healer's magic, reaching out to his own. Shiro glanced down and saw that the young man was still out cold. Even in sleep, the magic sought the connection. That was...confusing, to say the least. He shook his head. He'd sort it out later. Right now, he had to deal with the situation at hand. He was already letting it veer too far off course.

"I'm sorry," Shiro said, regaining his calm control with difficulty, "As you've probably guessed, we're not from this galaxy, and we aren't familiar with its magic or its rules. I didn't realize this was a sore spot for you. You see," and here, Shiro paused. He knew he was taking a risk, but this man had been recommended to them by this region's contingent of the Coalition, so he had to be at least somewhat trustworthy, "We're the Paladin's of Voltron, and we need your help." He turned the inside of his flesh-and-bone wrist up to reveal the v-shaped mark that proved the truth of what he said. Any Coalition member would recognize it for what it was.

Iverson's eyes widened and his face paled. His jaw went slack and Shiro was hit with a whiff of minty breath. "You…" he said disbelievingly, "You're the Paladins of Voltron?"

"I mean-" Iverson sputtered, "You I could believe, but the others…I had no idea." Shiro had to fight to keep his own jaw from dropping when Iverson knelt in front of him bowing his head. "I have to apologize. I'm a loyal Coalitionist first and foremost. If I'd known…" he shook his head, "But yes, yes to whatever you need. And of course, I'll accept any punishment you deem necessary.."

Shiro stared, unable to believe the abrupt and complete turnaround. If he'd known telling Iverson would produce this reaction, he would've told him sooner. Then again, Shiro amended at the sight of the disturbing, prostrate posture the formidable man had assumed, maybe not. There was something decidedly off about this new planet they'd come across in their search for the missing Paladin. Or maybe - hopefully - it was just this man. "It's alright," he said uncomfortably, "I'll...I'll consider us even if you two will come as asked."

Iverson looked up at him then, mouth hardening with determination. "I will," he said, "Gladly."

"Great," Shiro said, suddenly sure he was going to regret this, "First things first, though, I need you to-"

Shiro stopped, as just then, a shrill screech of an alarm penetrated the air, making his blood ice in his veins. "What the-" Iverson stood up, eyes darting to Shiro's.

"Uh, guys, I think we need to move up those departure plans," Hunk's voice alerted them through the intercom system, "We've got incoming."

AN: Hi guys! Thank you again for giving my fic a shot and reading this! It's earlier than two weeks, even with hella overtime at work! (HUrray!)

Thank you to everyone who's left kudos/commented. They mean the world to me. I welcome any and all input, so please let me know what you think so far!

I struggled hardcore with this chapter. I wasn't sure how much of a complete jerk I was going to make Iverson, but ended up going all out I guess lol. I also struggled really hard to keep everyone IC, but I hope I managed halfway decently here. I still feel like it could use some work, but I've scrapped/rewritten so much that's it's practically Frankensteinian.

Again, thank you so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos. Happy reading/writing.