A/N: Second chapter in 12 hours! Success!
Enjoy, my dear readers.


Chapter 7: The Meaning of Real

There wasn't much openness to pace in Lance's kitchen-dining room, and he needed to take a circuitous route to alleviate even a touch of his agitation. Because that was all it was. The barest hint of relief. Lance couldn't stand still and there was nothing he could do about it. His house was a riot of noise as his younger siblings objected to going to bed – even Mika was kicking up a fuss, which was entirely unreasonable for a nearly twelve year old – but Lance hardly noticed. He was preoccupied.

Shifting Harper on his hip and pointedly ignoring her increasing heaviness for she wasn't a short four year old, he took another turn of the kitchen. Harper was actually one of the quietest of his siblings, which was ridiculous given she was the third youngest. Upstairs, he could hear Ditz loose a sharp cry of protest to his mamá's attempts to subdue him. Of course it was Ditz because Ditz was always the one who kicked up the greatest fuss about everything. Lance hardly heard that either.

Another turn of the kitchen.

Slapping his phone against his thigh, Lance paused in step to glance down to the screen and click it open. Voltron's lion lit it up for a moment but it showed no incoming messages. That was the worst part of all. Lance knew nothing.

He'd been talking to Red earlier that evening. Red was simply the one that Lance spoke to on the most frequent basis, the times they spent on Voltron aligning most often. It had been fun, because it was always fun to talk with Red. Unexpectedly so, too, because he was unlike any other friend that Lance had ever had. But he liked it. He liked Red.

And then Red had signed out. Lance had been sure that he was just avoiding the questioning he intended to fire at him. It had been funny in a frustrating kind of way. Red was always so resistant to talking about himself and yet he'd dropped that curiosity about himself as though it was entirely normal. Lance hoped it meant something. He hoped it meant that Red was growing more comfortable with the paladins, or even just with Lance himself.

Except that Red hadn't come back. He'd promised, but he hadn't signed back in. And then BlackLion's message had appeared and that had changed everything.

It's kind of desperate. Red and I – we have a bit of a situation.

He hadn't expanded on what was wrong. He hadn't explained further when Lance had asked exactly what was going on. Lance could only piece together what little information he'd been afforded. Emergency and someone who can drive. That meant they needed help, didn't it? That they maybe needed to be picked up? Dropped somewhere? Lance hadn't even known that Red and BlackLion knew one another offline.

For the briefest of moments Lance had been annoyed at that, but his annoyance vanished almost before it had birthed. It hardly seemed relevant. Not at the moment anyway, because there were more important things to think about. Like the fact that Lance was the only one on Voltron that could offer the requested assistance. His family car was a bit of a beaten mess just like everything his family shared, and was kept only out of necessity for emergencies they might experience themselves, but it would do. Lance would use it. He had to use it, but…

PrincessOfAltea: I'm so sorry, but I cannot help you. I'm unable to drive myself anywhere at the moment and the one person I could call to offer assistance isn't available at this hour.

DiffWizard: I'm underage. It's a b*tch but reality. What's wrong?

Butterfingers: I'm sorry, BlackLion, but I don't have a car :( Is something wrong? Can we call for some help?

Lance desperately wanted to reply, but what could he say? He had Harper on his hip and his mamá was upstairs madly struggling to suppress the overloud twins and push them into bed. Janey had likely tucked herself in a nook somewhere that would make it nearly impossible to find her when her own time for bed came and Mika was charging around the house and singing at the top of her lungs because apparently she was in one of her moods that required loosing a surplus of energy before crashing into sleep. Lance didn't even know where Isabel was. At that moment he didn't care.

Another turn around the kitchen, jiggling a rapidly fading Harper on his hip, and he spared the thousandth glance down to his phone. It had been silent for minutes, and Lance didn't know what to make of that. Had BlackLion gotten the help he needed? Were he and Red alright? What was wrong with them both? If Lance asked, would they –?

"What are you doing?"

Pausing in step, Lance glanced towards the doorway into the kitchen-dining room. Isabel watched him with an expression of curiosity upon her face, head cocked to one side. He hadn't heard her arrive but then that was hardly unusual for Isabel. She was always quiet.

Shaking his head, Lance glanced with a frown back down at his phone. Irrational frustration niggled at him. "What are you talking about?"

"That," Isabel said, gesturing towards him indicatively. "I've been standing here for three minutes already and you haven't noticed me. You've been glancing down at your phone every few seconds and it doesn't seem to be calming you down any so I guess whatever's bothering you isn't getting any better." She took a step into the kitchen, folding her arms across her chest. "So what are you doing? What's wrong?"

Jiggling Harper in place and only detachedly noticing that she'd closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder in a doze, Lance shook his head once more. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. Tell me, Lance."

For only sixteen years old, Isabel could be remarkably mature at times. Most of the time, even. Lance had often thought her more mature than himself, and that had been a reality since she'd been born. The two years between them hardly seemed to matter. It was times like these, when she pinned him with her stare and pointedly raised her eyebrows, that Lance was reminded of his mamá and he couldn't help but toe the line.

Sighing, he readjusting his arm holding Harper aloft. Lance had all but lost feeling in his fingers some time ago for her heaviness. "It's just some friends online. Something's happened and I think they might need some help."

Isabel frowned. "Friends online?"

"It's not as sketchy as it sounds. I've been talking to them heaps –"

"That's who you're always messaging every other second?"

Lance nodded a little sheepishly. Red or Butterfingers were those he spoke the most to, but Isabel's collective assumption was accurate enough. "Yeah."

"And there's something wrong with them?"

The dubiousness of Isabel's tone told Lance exactly what she thought of the situation. At another time he might have smirked and teased his sister for her overprotectiveness, but today was different. Today he was worried and dammit, would it kill Red or BlackLion to keep him updated? It had been nearly twenty minutes since BlackLion had last spoken. "They need help – or at least two in particular – and they asked for –"

"They asked for help?" Isabel interrupted him in her quiet yet silencing voice. "Lance, that doesn't exactly sound safe."

"I know how it sounds," Lance muttered, and began pacing once more. The slap of his phone against his thigh didn't relieve his agitation any more than his pacing. "I know that, but I actually trust them, and they haven't demanded, just asked, and I haven't heard anything from them in a while now and I'm worried something's happened. I mean, I'd go in a heartbeat but I don't know where they are, and –"

"Have you asked them?"

Lance paused in step once more, glancing towards his sister. "What?"

Isabel shrugged and they both waited for a beat as the ear splitting screech from upstairs bespoke Ditz being pulled from the bath. He always kicked up a fuss about it, as much getting in as getting out. Lance's mamá always sighed for the fact that he seemed to deteriorate into a one year old once more when it came to bath time.

After another echoing wail from Mika resounded through the house – what was she even singing now? – Isabel continued. "If you asked where they were then you could work out if their request for help was dodgy."

"It's not dodgy," Lance protested.

"Why don't you just ask?"

Jiggling Harper more in an attempt to soothe himself than to comfort her, Lance spared a moment to stare at Isabel before clicking his phone alive. He typed out a quick message before returning to slapping his phone into his thigh once more. Isabel simply watched him expectantly.

A reply buzzed with remarkable promptness and Lance snapped his phone alive in an instant.

BlackLion007: You know Carla Fey Hospital? We're just around the corner. It's about three blocks from the Estate Mall.

BlackLion007: I'm sorry, Sharpshooter. If you can't help we'll work something out. I was going to call a taxi but it looks like we'll just be sitting here for a bit.

BlackLion007: I don't know if Red's really inclined to going anywhere just yet. I don't know if he could even move right now.

Lance heard a groan and only when he finished reading BlackLion's words did he realise it had come from himself. Squeezing his eyes closed for a second, he all but slammed his phone into his forehead in frustration.

"What is it?" Isabel asked.

Lance shook his head. His feet picked up their pacing of their own accord once more. "Something's really wrong. They're not far from Carla Fey Hospital –"

"Carla Fey? That's, like, nearly an hour away, isn't it?"

"- and apparently my friend's not doing too hot." Lance spoke over the top of Isabel, barely hearing her words. Red wasn't inclined to go anywhere? He couldn't even move? Lance didn't know what that meant but it didn't sound good. He wished Red would just pick up his fucking phone and talk to him. He practically lived on Voltron most of the time, even if he didn't feel obliged to contribute to conversation sometimes. "I don't know what to do. I really want to go and help, but –"

"So go and help," Isabel said.

Lance glanced towards her around the phone still pressed to his forehead. "What?"

"Go."

"Izzy, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Lance all but growled. "Because it's an hour away and I'm not leaving Mamá by herself with the twins and the girls is why."

Isabel shrugged. "She's not going to be alone. I'm here. And Papá should be home in a bit. His bus swings by at nine."

Shaking his head, Lance took another turn of the kitchen. "I'm not going to just abandon you –"

"You're not abandoning us, Lance," Isabel interrupted him once more. She'd definitely gotten that skill of seamlessly inserting her words from their mamá. "You're allowed to go and help your friends when they need you more than we do."

That was Isabel's maturity speaking. It was a little awe-inspiring to hear sometimes. She could sound so contemplatively logical about a situation in a way that Lance had never been able to attain. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had gotten the order wrong and that she was actually their eldest.

Lance couldn't see it. In times like these, he couldn't rationalise it. His family was everything to him, and despite caring so ridiculously about a bunch of people he'd met online, most of whom he hadn't even seen in person, he couldn't leave them. Just like he couldn't request that his parents fund his passion for soccer, or request an allowance, or ask if he could work a part-time job at anywhere besides his papá's shop to rake in a little extra cash. He simply couldn't do that. If Isabel was in his situation she probably would have managed it somehow but not Lance.

"I can't just do that," he said, and even to his own ears it sounded something of a desperate whine.

Isabel, however, appeared to be having none of it. Raising an eyebrow again with perfect precision – they'd always had expressive eyebrows in Lance's family – she strode towards him. Without pre-emption, she plucked Harper from his arms, propped her on her own hip, and turned back towards the doorway leading into the narrow hallway beyond. For that moment the house was actually silent, or at least it was until Isabel raised her voice as she rarely did. "Mamá, is it alright is Lance uses the car for a bit?"

There was a pause in which Lance hastened after her from the dining room, muttering in a request to have the limply snoozing Harper back that Isabel promptly ignored. She peered expectantly in the direction of the stairwell where the twins were being blessedly quiet for a moment. Even Mika had temporarily ceased her singing. Lance couldn't even hear her footsteps.

Less than a minute later Lance's mamá appeared at the head of the stairs, poking her head around the corner with a weary quirk of her own eyebrow. She always looked tired. Always. No matter how much coffee she drank in place of rest, Lance's mamá could never seem to shake it.

"The car?" She asked, her tone deliberately hushed as though struggling not to wake a sleeping baby. Which, given Harper was out to the world and the twins were too being suspiciously quiet, she likely was. She ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the already frazzled mess. "Why? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Lance began, but Izzy overrode him. Again.

"His friend needs some help getting picked up from Carla Fey Hospital," she explained, which wasn't expressly true from the information Lance had been provided but for all he knew could be close to accurate. The thought scared him just a little.

His mamá blinked, eyebrows rising further. "From hospital? Lance, is one of your friends unwell?" Lance could only offer a slightly imploring gaze. He didn't know if he was asking for his mamá's help of simply hoping her words weren't prophetic. "Then of course. Of course, take it. Just be careful driving at night and make sure you keep your phone on you."

Then his mamá disappeared up the stairs once more, only the soft, hurried steps of her passing overhead indicating her passage.

"Go," Izzy said, turning and drawing his attention once more. "Why are you so slow?"

"I'm not slow," Lance said, fingers squeezing his phone almost painfully tightly. "I just… I can't just leave you –"

"It's not like you're disappearing forever Lance," Isabel said with an almost-sigh. "Right?"

"Right," Lance agreed, though he couldn't withhold the guilt that flooded through him. He was supposed to stand by his family first and foremost, even when it hurt to drop everyone and everything else to do so. Even when he desperately needed to.

Family first. Except that in this instance…

"Then go," Isabel said once more with a jerk of her chin in the direction the front door. "And hurry up already."

Lance paused for all of a moment longer. Then, already clicking his phone open to send a reply to BlackLion, he turned and hastened to the doorway. "Thanks, Izzy."


Sharpshooter18: I'm on my way.

Sharpshooter18: I'm kind of a little while away, but I'm definitely coming.

Sharpshooter18: Sorry for the wait.

BlackLion007: Sharpshooter, you're a lifesaver.

Sharpshooter18: Too right I am. I'll be there asap.


The chortle of another car passing illuminated the curb, but only briefly. In the little side street Shiro had managed to urge Keith into, there wasn't much traffic. Strange, considering that the main road was barely half a block away.

Shiro was thankful for that, however. At his side, huddled alongside him on the edge of the gutter, Keith was bowed over himself with forehead resting on his knees. He hadn't moved even to twitch for nearly half and hour. That, Shiro suspected, was not a good thing. It wasn't a good thing at all.

Glancing at him sidelong, Shiro thinned his lips as he spoke into his phone. "I'm terribly sorry. I know this isn't really appropriate but it's something of an emergency."

At the other end of the line, his nurse Maya hummed to herself. "Is it possible for you to come in and sign yourself out for leave? You're more than welcome to it, Shiro, given your circumstances, but we really do have to follow protocol at least a little ways. It's something of an issue that it hasn't been done already given how late it is."

Shiro knew that. He knew and felt guilty enough for pushing his luck. He was supposed to be back in the ward by nine o'clock and it was approaching ten. The nurse was right in that he was permitted leave, however. As a rehab patient, and a mobile one at that, Shiro was afforded more freedom than most. He was technically only still at Carla Fey's rehabilitation centre until he could 'work out what he was doing with himself'. His psychologists were openly reluctant to approve his discharge until then, physical stability notwithstanding.

Shiro couldn't really blame them. He didn't know what he was doing with himself either.

Sighing into his phone, Shiro bowed his own head slightly. This was the second time he'd called already and he felt the weight of guilt for the inconvenience he was creating settle upon him too. His poor nurse. "My friend is somewhat incapable of coming to the hospital right now," he said, and winced slightly at how he knew it sounded. "Is there any way I could possibly do this over the phone?"

"I'm really sorry, Shiro," Maya replied, "but I just can't do that. It sounds silly, I know, but if anything were to happen –"

"I understand," Shiro said. "I wouldn't want to compromise you."

"Is it possible to leave your friend for a moment? Just briefly, while you come back to the hospital?"

Shiro glanced once more towards Keith. He still hadn't moved but at least he was still breathing. Was he still breathing? A moment of scrutiny eased Shiro's immediate concern. Yes. That was a blessing at least. Shiro didn't know exactly what was wrong with him, Keith being adamant that he was 'left alone', but at least he was breathing. At least he was breathing and hadn't ordered Shiro to leave him to his self-imposed isolation.

It was bad. Shiro was teetering on the cusp of simply calling an ambulance to come and pick him up regardless of his desires. Betrayal of trust though it may be, Keith clearly needed help, and Shiro wasn't sure how much he could provide for him. Would Keith run away again if Shiro called for help?

"I don't think I can," Shiro said, shaking his head in regretful frustration. "That… might not be feasible."

"Shiro, if your friend needs help – medical help – he needs to see a doctor."

"I don't know how feasible that is either," Shiro said delicately. He wondered if he spoke too bluntly whether Keith would simply get up and leave. But then, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure if Keith was even listening to him at all. Was he still conscious?

Shiro needed to check if he was conscious. That necessity was abruptly paramount.

"Maya, would it be possible to call you back in a moment," he said quickly, straightening. "I'm sorry, I won't be long."

"Shiro, I don't mean to make things difficult but this really needs to be dealt with," Maya replied, her words tightening.

"I know. I do know, and I'm really sorry to make this difficult for you. I won't be a moment." Then, disregarding his rudeness and shunting aside the natural discomfort that arose from doing so, Shiro abruptly hung up. Slipping his phone into his pocket once more, he shuffled along the curb slightly and leaned towards Keith. "Hey, Keith."

The lack of response was concerning. Even more concerning perhaps than the bruise darkening further still on Keith's cheek. Shiro didn't know what had happened but it was apparent that something was wrong. If the way Keith still cradled his arm to his belly as though pressing his ribs was any indication, the bruising didn't stop at his face.

It was wrong. It was so wrong, and not only the fact that it had happened but that Keith refused to seek help. This wasn't how they were supposed to have met. No, more correctly, it shouldn't have happened at all. It shouldn't have been that something had happened to his friend and Shiro hadn't known about it. He'd thought that he and Keith had begun to trust one another a little bit. They'd shared their real names, and Shiro had been making an effort to talk more directly to Keith, to ask him questions. It had felt different.

But maybe it wasn't really. When Shiro thought about it, really thought, he didn't know much about Keith at all. He knew he was at school and had deduced from what little he'd said that he did well with his grades, but there was little else. He didn't know anything about his family, what things he enjoyed, whether he even liked school. Keith, he realised when he really considered, was very good at deflecting the conversation.

At another tentative word and no further response, Shiro reached his hand towards him and briefly touched Keith's shoulder. That at least elicited a flinch and after a moment Keith shifted to turn his head and crack an eyelid open to peer at Shiro sidelong. He didn't look well at all and hardly seemed able to lift his head.

"Hey," Shiro said, squeezing his shoulder slightly. "You still with me?"

"Are you asking if I'm still conscious?" Keith mumbled in a voice that would have been sarcastic if it had a little more force to it.

Shiro forced a smile onto his lips. "You could say that, yes."

"Then yes, I am." Keith blinked slowly then uttered a faint snort. "You don't have to look so worried. I'm not going to die or anything."

"I hope not," Shiro said with more solemnity than Keith's half-hearted jest warranted. It was a struggle to keep his smile affixed. "I know it's a lot to ask but could you do me a solid and keep your eyes open? Just so I know."

Keith stared at him for a moment through his bangs, eyes blank. It was a little disconcerting just how blank he could make his expression. "Are you always like that?" He asked finally.

"Like what?"

"So polite. And nice. And caring about offending other people."

"You mean being courteous?" Shiro said, his smile growing just a little more genuine. "I try to be."

Keith nodded, turning his head to gaze back down at his knees. He did allow Shiro the benefit of keeping his eyes open, however. "You're one of those innately good people then, huh?" He said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "I kind of guessed that from Voltron."

"I don't think anyone's just innately good. I think it takes work for everyone."

"Polite and philosophical," Keith replied. "Everyone must really love you."

Shiro opened his mouth to respond but found he didn't know what to say. The words could have been construed as sarcastic once except that from Keith they didn't seem like it. They sounded entirely sincere.

"I try," Shiro finally said. "Sometimes not quite so successfully, though."

"Mm," Keith hummed. He didn't seem capable of speaking more.

Shiro was just contemplating calling Maya back, even though he didn't know what else he could possibly say to her, when another car turned into the street. Shiro glanced up instinctively and was on his feet in an instant when he saw it draw to a stop a house's distance away. He didn't even need to wait to see who it was; somehow he simply knew and an upwelling of relief flooded through him.

"Just wait here a second," he said. Keith didn't reply as, backing away for a few steps, Shiro turned and hastened towards the car.

It was an old model that had definitely seen better days. One of the side mirrors was held on by duct tape and the back right window was a quarter open to allow the coolness of the October weather as though it couldn't close. But it was a car, and for that Shiro didn't think he'd seen a more incredible vehicle in his life. He was even more grateful to see a tall, lanky figure all but flung himself from the driver's side and started towards him with barely a moment slowed to slam the door behind him.

By the light of the street lamp, Shiro got his first real look at Sharpshooter. He was a young man, possibly eighteen or nineteen, dark haired and thin with the bounciness to his step of incessant energy. Or maybe that was simply his worry, apparent in the tightness of his expression as he drew to a stop before Shiro.

"You're Sharpshooter," Shiro said more than asked as he stopped before him. "Thank you so much for getting back to me as you did. I didn't know who else to contact."

"No, I –" The kid, for he really was little more than a teenager, shook his head. He spared a glance over Shiro's shoulder. "It's no trouble. Seriously. You're BlackLion, then?"

Any ridiculousness that might have accompanied the use of their Voltron names was lost in the seriousness of the situation. Sharpshooter, who was incessantly loud and good-natured even when complaining online, couldn't have seemed further from happy and light-hearted. His leg was jiggling as he stood in stillness as though twitching in his agitation.

Shiro nodded. "Yeah. Or Shiro, actually."

"Shiro," Sharpshooter echoed, gaze meeting Shiro's intently. He seemed to really study Shiro for the first time before, after a moment of pause, he held out his hand. "I'm Lance."

The dilemma arose when Sharpshooter – when Lance reached to clasp his hand. His right hand, which made shaking with Shiro's left somewhat awkward. There was a pause in which Lance glanced towards the empty sleeve of Shiro's right arm. An extended pause in which he only stared blankly. Then, without comment, he abruptly switched hands and grasped Shiro's with his own left. "Nice to officially meet you," he said, and that was the end of it.

Shiro didn't know what he'd been expecting. Maybe something more. Maybe something worse, some flicker of horror or even unease at the evidence of Shiro's amputation. He found that, even in the midst of his worry, he was relieved by how Lance had taken it. Very relieved. He couldn't have hoped it had gone otherwise, because of all things Lance didn't appear to care.

The situation was wrong. All of it was wrong, from how Shiro had stumbled upon Red to how he was meeting Sharpshooter in person. But they didn't have the time or the capability to change it. There were more important matters at hand.

Lance clearly felt so too. Peering over Shiro's shoulder, he tipped his head in a nod towards Keith. "That's Red."

Shiro nodded, following his gaze to where Keith still sat folded upon himself, unmoved from how he'd been moments before. "That's Keith."

"Keith," Lance echoed in much the same tone he'd voiced Shiro's name. The rising wonder faded beneath his concern almost as soon as it arose, however, as a frown wrinkled his brow. "What happened to him? Is he alright?"

"I'm not sure," Shiro said. "He won't tell me."

"But?"

"But…" Shiro turned back to Lance, unconsciously lowering his voice. "I think it might have been a fight of some sorts. I don't know what happened but maybe his friend was beaten up? I was at Emergency when the ambulance pulled in and saw him go in with another kid on a gurney. I saw him come running out as though hellhounds were nipping his heels barely minutes later too."

Lance shifted his attention back to Shiro, alarm widening his eyes. "Wait, what? You were at – wait, so what happened? Why were you at the ER? Why were you -? I'm so confused, are you -?"

"It's not important," Shiro said, because it really wasn't. He hadn't admitted to his friends exactly where he was staying, simply that he'd been in a place that would help him recover from his injury. "The problem is that I saw it happen, managed to follow Keith because it wasn't particularly hard after he all but collapsed a few blocks from Carla Fey, and we've been here since."

"Why isn't he at the hospital?" Lance said, voice rising slightly in his growing alarm. His gaze flicked back and forth between Shiro and Keith over his shoulder. "Is he beaten up too? Why doesn't he go -?"

"He doesn't want to," Shiro interrupted him, lowering his voice as he spared a glance for Keith over his shoulder once more. He was unsure if any mention of hospital might send Keith into flight once more. He didn't appear to have heard them, however, or perhaps he simply lacked the energy to attempt to move. Shiro wouldn't have ben surprised; he looked barely conscious. "He said he doesn't want to."

"Well, he's an idiot, then," Lance said, and before Shiro could say another word he started around him with a long-legged stride that quickly turned into a jog. He'd dropped onto his haunches in front of Keith by the time Shiro, following after him, drew alongside them. "Hey, Red? Red. Hey, Red, can you hear me?"

Shiro didn't think that talking to Keith would do all that much good, nor that physically poking Keith on the crown of his bowed head as Lance was doing was the best way to go about getting his attention, but he didn't interrupt. Biding his time because really, Shiro had no better idea than Lance did about how to handle the situation, he silently watched.

"Could you stop," Keith finally mumbled into his legs.

"No," Lance said, giving him another series of pokes. "Not until you stop ignoring me."

"Go away. 'M tired."

"Aren't you going to introduce yourself? Or am I just going to call you Red for the rest of our acquaintance?"

"Call me whatever you like, I don't care. Just please stop."

Lance glanced up at Shiro, and for all of his blasé attitude there was very definite mounting concern in the thinness of his lips and lowered eyebrows. Shiro accepted the silent request and dropped down to a crouch at Keith's side alongside him. "Keith?" He said quietly, raising his hand to rest on Keith's shoulder once more. Keith didn't flinch this time, or at least not noticeably. "We've got to get you up and take you somewhere. You can't just sit here all night."

"Try me," Keith murmured.

"Don't be a dick about this," Lance said, though the insult was lost in the concern in his tone. "Come on, man, we'll carry you if we have to. I'm sure between us me and Shiro we could manage. You're not exactly Goliath."

Keith didn't respond and Lance glanced towards Shiro once more. Feeling his own lips thin, holding back on the words that longed to spill forth and centred primarily around hospital and getting professional help, Shiro twisted to sit on the curb beside Keith once more. "Listen, Keith," he said quietly. "If nothing else, we need to go somewhere else. Lance shouldn't be out here in the middle of the night either."

He spoke in an approach that had always worked on Shiro himself and he had a hope might work to persuade Keith too – that was, to turn his efforts from helping himself to benefitting someone else. Whether for that reason or otherwise, Keith actually managed to lift his head and glance blearily at Shiro. That definitely wasn't good. He looked worse than he had barely minutes before.

"Lance?" He asked, weariness more than curiosity touching in his question.

"That's me," Lance said, and Shiro was surprised at how easily he seemed to adopt a smile. Keith glanced his way waveringly. "Nice of you to actually notice there's another stranger sitting right in front of you, even if you – holy shit, man, that looks… that looks bad."

Lance's words abruptly grew horrified as Keith turned his attention directly towards him. Shiro couldn't blame him. The bruise was coming up deeply and spanned his entire cheekbone. Keith was lucky it had missed his eye.

""S not as bad as it looks," Keith mumbled before closing his eyes and dropping his chin again.

"Hey." Shiro immediately squeezed his shoulder once more, shaking him slightly. "Keith? Hey, what did I say, yeah? Keep your eyes open for me."

"This is bad," Lance said, markedly more subdued than before. "He looks like he's going to pass out. Keith, you really need to get to the hospital or something."

"No," Keith said, shaking his forehead into his knees as his head lowered further. "No hospital. I don't need –"

"Yeah, you kind of do," Lance overrode him, his voice rising slightly. He sounded almost annoyed. "You really kind of do, because no offence but you look like shit."

They weren't the words that Shiro would have used but he couldn't deny that they were the truth. Keith looked far too pale beneath the bruising. He only shook his head, however, as stubborn as a mule. "No. No hospital."

"Why not?" Lance asked. Definitely annoyed this time.

"Fuck off. I don't want to go."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't want to."

Lance snorted through a scowl. "Oh yeah, that's a really good reason. Give me a better one or I'm just going to drag you there. It's only around the corner, so –"

He was forced to cut himself short as Keith lurched to his feet. Shiro sprung to his own alongside him, making an immediate grab for him as Keith took a wobbling step in the opposite direction of Lance's car. He only just caught him before Keith actually started away; it was something of a miracle that he was able to stay on his feet at all.

Keith was scowling himself now, though. At Lance, or Shiro, or simply the idea of hospital. Shiro didn't know what his problem was with it but it was clearly a sore spot. "No," he said curtly, eyes blinking rapidly as though struggling to stay open. "Fuck. Off. I said I don't want to."

"Why not?" Lance said, edging forwards slightly. He looked like a shepherd edging towards a flighty sheep. "It's obviously the place you need to be, so why -?"

"It's okay," Shiro said, quickly overriding him. He focused his attention solely on Keith as he made to lurch away from him in a step that was almost the beginning of a run. Shiro couldn't allow that. He'd likely manage a few steps out of sheer stubbornness but would just as likely fall on his face after that. "You don't have to if you don't want to. Look, we just want to help and you need to go somewhere, alright?" A pause, then, "Keith?"

Whether for his hand on his arm or otherwise, Keith stopped his wobbling inclination to retreat and blinked at Shiro. Disconcerting blankness settled upon his previously tight expression. "Can you please just leave me alone?"

Shiro shook his head. "No. We've been through this, remember."

"Not really."

"Then I'll just say it again. You're my friend. I'm not leaving you when you're hurt."

"I'm fine –"

"No you're not," Shiro said. "You're not." Then, glancing towards Lance who watched with wide eyes and frown lowered, he tipped his head to the car waiting behind them, headlights still blinking. "Lance has brought his car. Can we at least take you home or something?"

Keith shook his head, though it seemed more an attempt to clear it than in denial. "No."

Shiro didn't let the shortness of his reply deter him. "Then maybe if your parents could –"

"No," Keith said once more.

"Could we even call them? Just to let them know you're okay? Do they have a home phone or –?"

"No."

"You're not giving us much to work with here," Lance said lowly. "Come on, man."

"I didn't ask for help," Keith said, dropping his gaze to his feet. To Shiro's eyes it looked to be as much to keep an eye on his balance as in defiance. "Why can't people just leave me alone?"

"Shiro said it," Lance said, planting his hands on his hips. "'Cause we're friends. Now come on, don't be a dick about this. Can you at least tell me where you live? Or even a phone number? Your family would have to be worried about you, right?"

"I very much doubt that," Keith said. His voice had grown slightly less defiant and Shiro wasn't altogether sure that was such a good thing. Neither was the slight inching stagger he stepped away from Shiro. "The Tulson's have never really worried all that much, even if they pretend to."

Then nothing.

Shiro glanced towards Lance, meeting his gaze frown for frown. There was a lot in those simple words, and though Shiro didn't want to make assumption, it sounded like… it probably meant that…

"So no hospital," Lance said quietly, turning towards Keith. Though his hands still rested on his hips, it appeared more as though he'd forgotten they were there than in any real indignation. "And we're not taking you home so… Keith, you need to be looked at by someone. I mean –"

He cut himself off as Keith abruptly sunk to the ground once more, arm curling back around his belly. Shiro followed him down, dropping his hand from Keith's shoulder to loop around his back instead. He shared another glance with Lance. "We definitely need to get him somewhere."

"Hospital would be –"

"Maybe not such a good idea if he's going to protest it so much," Shiro said, though the very notion of doing otherwise tightened his gut nauseously. "Somewhere else. Somewhere that someone could help, which I… I can't really…"

Trailing off, Shiro drew his gaze to Keith. Where exactly could he take him? Shiro hadn't been to his own apartment in months, let alone that of his parents, and his knowledge of first aid was barely the basics that every soldier knew. The rehab centre was part of Carla Fey Hospital, so Shiro was drawing blanks.

"Lance," he asked, biting back on his fierce regret for having to ask someone who was practically a stranger for help. Or – no, they weren't strangers, but even so... "You don't know anyone who could help, do you? Anyone who could offer more than rudimentary first aid, or a place where we could –"

"My place," Lance cut in promptly. There was a hint of urgency to his words and he didn't seem able to draw his downturned gaze from Keith as he stood before him. "My mamá can – I mean, if she had to she could…" He trailed off, pursing his lips. When he continued it seemed more to himself than Shiro or Keith. "He could sleep in my bed, but with everyone else overflowing from everywhere I don't know how great an idea that would be. Mamá and Papá wouldn't care, but the girls…"

Another pause, a further pursing of his lips, and Lance started with a snapped his fingers. "Hunk."

Shiro blinked up at him, dragging his gaze from Keith. He'd closed his eyes again and didn't look nearly as conscious as he had been moments before. "I'm sorry?"

"We could take him to Hunk's," Lance said. Then, with another series of finger snaps, he corrected himself. "I mean Butterfingers. If he's okay with it, that is, which I'm sure he will be. He's got a room his gran stays in when she sleeps the night at his place."

"Would he really be alright with that?" Shiro asked. He didn't feel comfortable with loading the responsibility onto someone else, but he didn't have much of a choice.

"We'll find out," Lance said, pulling a battered phone from the back pocket of his jeans. In an instant he was pressing it to his ear and Shiro watched as, shifting his frowning attention back to Keith, Lance spoke almost immediately. "Hey, Hunk? Yeah, yeah I know. I didn't – Yeah, that's where I am. You read the chat?"

A pause and then Lance was speaking at a rapid-fire rate. "Right, so we have a bit of a problem. Red needs some place to crash that isn't a hospital because – yeah, a hospital, 'cause he's beaten up and looks like crap and he's kind of – yeah, he looks like he's just about passed out." Pause. "No, he won't go. Shiro and me – I mean BlackLion – we tried. No, he's not having it. Pretty beat up, yeah. Do you think you could -?"

Lance was silent for another extended pause, and in that silence of staring and waiting Shiro could only wonder. He had his arm around Red's shoulders, holding him up so he didn't fall back and slam his head on the sidewalk. Sharpshooter was standing right in front of him and talking on the phone to Butterfingers, and they were potentially going to meet him. In spite of it all, in spite of the severity of the situation, Shiro was grateful for that.

Voltron had all but saved his sanity over the past months, but Shiro hadn't realised how much he'd wanted to simply meet the people who had become so important to him until it was actually happening. His arm tightened unconsciously around Keith's shoulder. Even with this and how utterly, confusingly stupid it is, I'm grateful for that at least.

"Yeah," Lance said, breaking his silence with a nod. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You said you sort of knew how so, I thought – Yeah, probably. Would you mind?" A heartbeat of silence and Lance was smiling a little tightly. "Thanks, buddy," he murmured, then he was lowering his phone.

"Alright," he said, and though he turned his attention towards Shiro it seemed something of a struggle to draw his gaze from Keith. "So Hunk – Butterfingers, I mean, he said we can go to his place. He starts work at two, but if we can get there before then he said he could try and patch Red up a little bit. I mean Keith."

Like a lodestone, Lance's eyes drew towards Keith once more. He seemed almost afraid to blink away from him.

Shiro adjusted his hold slightly. "Hunk can patch him up?" He asked.

Lance nodded. "Yeah, he knows that kind of thing. Or he taught himself that stuff or something. His mom is… well, she's kind of been through the wars. He made sure he knew that kind of stuff after it… happened."

Lance's obtuseness didn't really make sense to Shiro, but he let is slide. There were more important matters to deal with. "And he's okay with this."

The grim smile Lance had worn flashed in Shiro's direction once more. "He said he'd be upset if we thought to take him anywhere else – unless it was the hospital, he said. Which," once more drawing his attention back towards Keith, Lance frowned and muttered, "I would like to ask some questions about. I mean, I knew Red was a little weird just like the rest of us, but that's not right. Not when he's hurt like this."

Shiro nodded. It was a testament to Keith's falling into oblivion that he didn't respond. "You and me both," he said. Then, firming his hold and testing his balance that was still at times dubious, Shiro slung Keith's arm around his neck and hauled them both to their feet. Lance sprung to his aid in an instant.

"Thanks," Shiro said. "And not just for that. Thanks for coming, Lance."

"Don't mention it," Lance said, expression sombre once more. "I mean it. Same as Hunk, I'd have been kind of pissed if you hadn't asked me for help."

"Well, thank you," Shiro said, marvelling at the sincerity of Lance's words. Friends… he'd almost forgotten what it was like to rely on people like that. "I'm coming with you, if that's alright."

"Yeah, I've got space," Lance said as they started towards the car. It was slow work; Keith really did seem to have all but passed out, which was only even concerning. "We're probably going to have to squish Keith into the back, though."

"I'll sit with him," Shiro said. "But, um… Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is bad timing, but could we stop by the hospital?" Shiro couldn't bring himself to look at Lance as he spoke, focusing on the car before them. "I've got to check myself out for the night."

Lance didn't reply for a long moment, and it was only when they drew alongside the car that he spoke in barely audible words. "Yeah, sure. No problems, Shiro."

A question lay was in Lance's tone, but it remained unvoiced. Shiro was grateful for that; he didn't feel inclined to explain his situation right then and there. There were more pressing matters to consider. In less than half an hour, he was climbing into the back of Lance's car for the second time, paperwork complete and handed to a visibly concerned Maya, and they were starting for Butterfingers' house.

Shiro was left to marvel at how much had changed in half a night.


DiffWitch: I mean, it's cool and everything, but I don't really understand where the name comes from.

DiffWitch: Sounds cool, but yeah.

PrincessOfAltea: Thank you.

PrincessOfAltea: Yes, I quite like it, although perhaps more for the connotations and the memories than the actual word. Altea was the name of the farm I grew up on.

DiffWitch: You grew up on a farm?

DiffWitch: Wouldn't have picked it.

PrincessOfAltea: Maybe not it's quite the type of farm the word itself insinuates. Altea is more of a country estate. A manor.

DiffWitch: Ah. That seems a little more suitable.

DiffWitch: No offense intended, but you seem kind of… upstanding?

PrincessOfAltea: No offence taken.

DiffWitch: So.

DiffWitch: What are you doing right now?

PrincessOfAltea: DiffWitch, you don't have to keep asking me that. I've done nothing of worth in the past three hours, just as you appear to have abandoned pursuing of particular interest. You don't need to try to make strained conversation with me.

DiffWitch: I guess you're right.

DiffWitch: Sorry.

DiffWitch: I really am just trying to make conversation.

PrincessOfAltea: You're worried.

DiffWitch: Aren't you?

PrincessOfAltea: Of course. I'm merely offering you an explanation for why you feel as you do. There's nothing wrong with that. We're both worried.

DiffWitch: I just want to know what's happening.

DiffWitch: I feel so out of the loop.

DiffWitch: Is something wrong?

DiffWitch: Has something happened to BlackLion and Red?

DiffWitch: He said emergency, didn't he? What kind of emergency?

DiffWitch: What if they're really in trouble.

PrincessOfAltea: DiffWitch, calm down. We can't do anything by growing frantic.

DiffWitch: Wow, thank you for that insight.

DiffWitch: I feel so much calmer now.

PrincessOfAltea: I'm sorry?

DiffWitch: No, I'm sorry.

DiffWitch: That was uncalled for.

DiffWitch: I'm just… worried.

DiffWitch: I wish I had some other way to contact everyone but I only have Butterfingers' number and he hasn't said anything to me since I sent him a message an hour ago.

PrincessOfAltea: No private messages for you either?

DiffWitch: None.

Butterfingers has entered the chatroom.

Butterfingers: I'm sorry.

Butterfingers: Really sorry guys. We were just working things out.

PrincessOfAltea: We?

DiffWitch: Are you with Red and BlackLion, Butterfingers?

Butterfingers: Yeah. And Lance.

Butterfingers: Sorry, I meant Sharpshooter.

Butterfingers: Yeah, we're altogether.

DiffWitch: All of you?

DiffWitch: How do you even know each other?

DiffWitch: No. Later. What happened?

PrincessOfAltea: Yes, please tell us. Is something wrong?

Butterfingers: It's alright.

Butterfingers: It's alright now.

Butterfingers: Red just got into a bit of a fix but he refused to go to hospital. Shiro stumbled upon him and made sure he got to some help that he'd actually accept. Although I don't know how much acceptance there is in the matter. He's pretty out of it.

Butterfingers: But Sharpshooter came to the rescue, went and picked them up, and he brought them here. Red's sleeping and we're just making sure he's okay.

DiffWitch: F*cking hell, what?

PrincessOfAltea: Hospital? He's injured?

PrincessOfAltea: God, what happened? Did something happen? Was he in an accident?

DiffWitch: What the hell is going on?!

Butterfingers: It's fine. Guys, it's fine.

Butterfingers: He's stable enough now, and I think he's more asleep than unconscious.

DiffWitch: Stable NOW?!

DiffWitch: What the f*ck was he before?!

PrincessOfAltea: Oh god.

PrincessOfAltea: Oh god, what happened?

Butterfingers: Guys, it's okay.

Butterfingers: I can't really explain it now because I've got to run, but it's fine now. It's fine.

Butterfingers: Rest assured, everything is all fine.

Butterfingers: :)

DiffWitch: Don't you dare f*cking smiley at me.

DiffWitch: And don't just run off.

DiffWitch: Tell me what happened.

PrincessOfAltea: Butterfingers, please. We're both so worried.

Butterfingers: I

Butterfingers: I've got to go to work. I'm really sorry, guys.

Butterfingers: But I'll ask Shiro to jump onto Voltron to explain it further.

DiffWitch: Shiro?

Butterfingers: My bad. BlackLion.

DiffWitch: Wait.

PrincessOfAltea: Can you just answer one more thing?

Butterfingers: He'll be here in a second.

Butterfingers has left the chatroom.


Lowering his phone as he signed out and ignoring the immediate buzzing it erupted with as messages chased his leave, Hunk raised his gaze to where Shiro stood at his side. Or BlackLion, he though to himself. It's so weird seeing him in real life. I almost can't think of him as being the same person. Though I guess… he kind of looks like how I'd imagine.

He did. Shiro truly did. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he carried the physique of one Hunk could clearly perceive as being a soldier. Physically dependable, he seemed to emanate a feeling of supportiveness. Of protectiveness, even. It didn't matter that he was missing an arm. It didn't matter that a scar split his face across the bridge of his nose and a crop of whiteness streaked his fringe as though it had been bleached of any colouration right down to the roots. Even in stillness, Shiro looked like he knew how to handle himself.

Why he didn't consider re-enlisting the army as the soldier he had been was something that Hunk couldn't understand, even if it would take some effort to work around his handicap. Or enlisting as an officer, as seemed even more appropriate. As soon as he'd entered Hunk's house, even respectful as he was for Hunk taking over the situation as best he could, Shiro's supervision and direction of the situation was apparent. He couldn't have been much more than six or seven years older than Hunk himself, but he was composed. Or perhaps he had composed himself. Hunk was more than happy to follow any direction he might point him towards.

"I just talked to DiffWitch and the Princess," Hunk said, his voice hushed. "I let them know what happened just to keep them updated. They've been in the chatroom pretty much all night."

Shiro nodded but didn't draw his gaze away from the room they stood alongside. Hunk couldn't blame him and found his own attention drawn into the little guest room. Keith – or Red – lay asleep and utterly limp beneath the blankets, an unmoving shape that hardly even seemed to be breathing. He was, Hunk knew, because he'd checked countless times. He'd checked when Shiro and Lance had first brought Keith through the door, a dead weight between them. He'd checked again when they managed to disentangle him of his jacket and shirt so he could get a look at him, when Hunk had fixed him up as best he could strapping sprains and bandaging ribs over patches that covered the wounds on his belly. Hunk had checked when he'd finally settled him into the bed, too.

That had been nearly an hour ago. An hour and Hunk was still a little shaken by everything – by what he'd seen of Keith in his mess of bruises and scrapes and sprains, by meeting not one but another two members of Voltron, at the fact that he had them in his house. Hunk had relied more on instinct than thought to jump to the response when Lance knocked on his front door. He didn't like seeing his friends injured. Simply the sight of such wounds made him sick to his stomach.

Lance himself sat in the room in the only chair available. He hadn't moved for the past half an hour, as though worried that in doing so he might miss something integral. The moment Keith woke up, perhaps, or something less positive that Hunk didn't really want to think about. He was worried about Keith's head injury, and not just the one that had left a fist-sized bruise on Keith's cheek. The bump to the back of his head didn't look healthy either.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Hunk whispered, turning back to Shiro. "I mean, not taking him to hospital when he's so beaten up?"

Shiro shook his head, and the way he tucked his arm across his chest was reminiscent of folded arms. "No. No, I don't think it's a good idea. I think it's dangerous even not to take him to hospital."

"But he kicked up a fuss," Hunk said.

"You could say that. I'm pretty sure he would have made certain he got away from me if I'd insisted."

"Why? What's wrong with hospitals?"

Shiro slowly shook his head once more. "I suppose we all have our demons. I can't question Keith's." His sigh suggested he wasn't satisfied with his own words, however. "But, if anything does happen to exacerbate the situation, we'll take him to hospital. I swear it, Hunk."

Hunk attempted a smile that likely fell just a little short. "I trust you."

"Strange," Shiro murmured, gaze still turned into the room. "That you would after barely knowing me."

"I know you, Shiro. I do know you."

Shiro nodded slowly. "I know. It feels like that to me too, actually." Then, with a glance towards Hunk, he gestured with a tilt of his head down the hallway and away from the guest room. Hunk spared a final glance for Keith and Lance before following after him towards the living room.

Shiro didn't take a seat on the couch as Hunk might have expected. Instead, he simply planted himself against the wall and turned back towards Hunk, arm crossing his chest in what would have been a fold had he two of them. Strangely enough it didn't appear strange in the slightest. "I have to thank you for all of your help. You really saved us, Hunk."

Feeling his face flush, Hunk raised a hand to the back of his head in an awkward scratch. "Hey, don't get all sincere on me."

"I'm serious," Shiro said, though through the gloom broken only by the standing lamp in the corner of the room Hunk could perceive his small smile. "We would have been at a loss if not for you."

"I still can't believe this happened. It seems kind of impossible that you just happened to stumble across him."

"I know. Impossible."

"But lucky."

"Very lucky." Shiro shook his head, gaze dropping briefly to the floor. "I don't like to think what would happen if I hadn't managed to catch up with him."

Hunk didn't want to think about that either so, in the way he'd taught himself out of necessity, he thrust the pessimism aside smiled more fully. "But you did, and that's all that matters. And we patched him up, so he should be fine. Shouldn't he?"

Shiro glanced towards him, small smile drawing across his lips once more. "Yes. He should be. Hopefully. And that's thanks to you too. You and your first aid."

Shrugging, Hunk scratched awkwardly at the back of his head once more. "Yeah, well, it's good that it came in handy."

"Where did you learn that?"

"The first time my mom, ah… when she had her first stroke, she kind of collapsed and hurt herself." For a moment Hunk struggled to look at Shiro – it had always hurt to talk directly of what had happened to his mom – but when he managed it was to have his discomfort eased. Shiro had a way about him that Hunk had realised even in just the short time of actually meeting him. It was that supportiveness. That dependability. It made it easier to simply speak. "I went and did a course just so that I could know what to do if it ever happened again."

"That's incredible of you, Hunk," Shiro said, and Hunk felt himself blush once more. "I mean it. It takes a lot to make that extra effort."

"She might have needed me," Hunk said. "It was the only thing I could do."

"It's still incredible."

Hunk glanced unconsciously towards the hallway in the direction of his mom's room. He hoped they hadn't woken her with their late-night antics, though when he considered it Hunk knew that his mom wouldn't mind. She'd always been a compassionate person.

"We'll look after her," Shiro said, speaking into Hunk's thoughts. "While you're at work, we'll keep an eye on everything."

Hunk knew his mom didn't need the extra eye; she'd been forced to spend the night alone until his gran got there for so long it was commonplace. But he appreciated Shiro's words nonetheless. "Thanks."

"You hardly need to thank us. You're the one doing us the favour of lending your spare room."

Hunk smiled. "You'd think that I'd be worried about leaving a bunch of people I've only just met in my house without me here, but I'm not." He paused, then, "Well, except for Lance. We've known each other for a while."

"Small world," Shiro murmured as he had almost every time the subject of Hunk and Lance's – or Hunk and Pidge's – meeting arose. "What are the odds?"

"I guess our chatroom is restricted to New York City, so it's not as impossible as it could have been if it was the whole world."

"New York City has more than eight million people in it."

"Point. It really is a small world."

"That it is."

There was a beat of silence in which Hunk knew he should leave to head to work, but he found himself glancing in the direction of the guest room once more. "I hope he'll be okay," he muttered to himself.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Shiro said. "Lance the most closely, I'd say."

"Yeah." Hunk turned back to Shiro. "Weird, that."

"What's weird?"

Hunk shrugged. "Just that I knew they talked to each other a lot – probably more than anyone else does – but…"

"I know. I said as much to Red and he said it was simply that they happened to frequently be on Voltron at the same time."

"You mean all the time?"

Shiro cracked another smile. It seemed just a little weary. "Yes. That."

Hunk nodded, glancing back towards the hallway. "Lance seems really… I mean, he's really…"

"Maybe they're closer than we realised?" Shiro suggested.

"Maybe," Hunk conceded, though he couldn't imagine it. From what little he'd seen of him, Red – or Keith, more correctly – didn't seem the type to get close to people. Hunk had spoke to Lance about that on several occasions, and mostly because Lance was disgruntled for the fact. Hunk wasn't the only one who realised that Keith was very good at deflecting the conversation from himself.

A buzzing from his phone, a different kind of buzzing to the sporadic yet incessant beeps from DiffWitch and the Princess on Voltron, drew Hunk's attention to his pocket. He switched off the alarm before turning back to Shiro. "I've got to go to work."

"Go," Shiro said immediately. "Sorry to keep you."

"It's not your – don't be sorry," Hunk said. "It's about an hour away and my shift's for eight hours, so…"

"We'll see you later, Hunk. Don't worry, I'll make sure no one blows up the house."

Hunk grinned, the sobriety of the mood lightening just slightly. Shiro seemed like a straight-laced kind of guy, so it was nice to hear him joke a little. "Thanks, That would be appreciated. Oh yeah, and you should probably log onto Voltron. I might have told DiffWitch and the Princess that you'd fill them in."

Shiro nodded without complaint. "I will."

Swinging by his room, Hunk grabbed his bag of apron and hat before heading towards the front door. He glanced once more into the guest room as he passed, then couldn't help himself and had to poke his head into his mom's room, too. It was dark within, and he could barely make out the shape of her in her bed.

With a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the living room, catching sight of Shiro heading in the direction of the guest room with phone already in hand, he turned back to his mom. He didn't even know if she was awake but he spoke anyway. "Hey, Mom. Sorry if we woke you. I just wanted to let you know that I've got a few friends staying in the house so don't freak out. They just needed a bed for the night but they're good guys. And Shiro's promised he won't let anything drastic happen."

Hunk paused and, at the ring of his own words and the unspoken meaning behind them, he felt himself smile once more. A small, incredulous kind of smile, for who'd have thought? Resting his head on the doorframe, he briefly closed his eyes. "I've got friends over, Mom. How long has it been, huh? And they're really… they're really great."

So long. It had been so long since Hunk had seen any of his old school friends, since he'd gone out with anyone from work, let alone had anyone over. His mom had spoken of it when she could still speak, expressing her regret for that fact. That and her guilt for causing Hunk grief in the first place, that she'd become such a burden.

Grief? A burden? Hunk had never seen it as such. He couldn't, because his mom was the most important person to him in the world. Even if she was different now, even if she couldn't walk to talk or take care of herself, she was still precious to him. Hunk would give up any of his friends for that, would give up his everything. He had done just that, and though he regretted losing his friends he didn't regret acting as he had.

But Voltron and the paladins as they called themselves – they were different. For whatever reason, Hunk hadn't needed to see them to know their friendship was strong. He hadn't needed to put his care for his mom or his work on the line to maintain that friendship. Even before he'd met them in person – and act which Hunk would admit was utterly fantastic – he'd somehow known they were different. They were important. They were real.

"They're really great, Mom," Hunk said once more, and he felt like he spoke more to himself than to his mom. He didn't even know if she could hear him. "They're… I don't know, but for some reason they feel like they're special."

His mom didn't reply. Of course she didn't because she never did anymore. In the darkness of the room, however, Hunk could pretend that it was simply because she was asleep, and he backed out silently, tugging the door closed behind him. As he left for the front door, however, the sound of Lance or perhaps Shiro murmuring quietly in the guest room followed after him. For once, as Hunk maintained his smile, it didn't feel all that feigned.