Author's Note: Hey there guys, nice to be with you again. I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to see the word count on this go over my first novel on this site. I had kind of figured that this story would be shorter than that, but there's a LOT to go yet. How are you guys doing? Have a favorite scene? Have something you'd like to see more of? Have any questions you think I should have answered by now but I haven't touched on yet? Want to yell at me about something? (Like updating faster?) You know what I want? An illustrator. Chapter Fifteen: Convalescence
"What the hell are they putting in me?" Keith asked, sounding equally disgusted and horrified, drawing out from where he'd hidden his face from Lance and shoving his hand with the IV line taped to his wrist toward him.
"It's iron," Lance told him, not even checking the tubes, knowing exactly what Keith was talking about, and it was a welcome change to the heaviness of where they'd ended their last conversation. "And yes, that's how it's supposed to look."
"Like they dumped out an old toolbox and mixed it with chocolate syrup?" Keith checked, pivoting his gaze between the bag hanging on the IV pole and the place where the needle disappeared into his vein. Lance unexpectedly burst out laughing, his extreme reaction a combined effect of the relief of learning the truth, seeing Keith's physical improvement, his own exhaustion, and hearing Keith talk, at last, like a normal person.
"Never heard anyone say it that way, but you're right," Lance explained himself, smiling at Keith, who was watching him closely again, his face serious but not offended. "Why are you staring at me like that?" Lance couldn't help but ask.
"I didn't know you knew how to laugh," Keith said, still serious, though there was something else there too. Something unrestrained, almost teasing.
"And I didn't know you were funny," Lance returned.
"Yeah, well," Keith deflated a little, squinting again at the line. "And this is really supposed to help?" If only Keith could see how much the solutions in the IV bags were already helping. His fever was still high, and he was very weak, but no longer so breathless or dehydrated. His heart beat steadily ninety times a minute, keeping his blood pressure nice and normal. So much improvement from gagging on pickle juice in near cardiac arrest on Lance's living room floor.
"It'll definitely help with the anemia, which will strengthen your immune system so it can do what it's programmed to do and kick that flu virus for you. In a couple of days, I bet you'll feel brand new. We should have come here a long time ago." Lance finished with his voice lowering into regret. "It wouldn't have been so bad," he admitted, hanging his head.
Keith fidgeted with the tape on his hand, smoothing the edges. "Lance," he began, a little unsure. Lance raised his eyes to pay close attention. Because whenever Keith said his name, it was important. "What's the deal with you? I don't get it."
"What's not to get?" Lance sought out more information, not really understanding what Keith was talking about. "I'm a pretty simple guy." Especially compared to you.
"Then why are all the doctors fighting about you?"
"Oh. . . that." Lance had kind of hoped that Angelique's and Coran's spat on the phone had been long ago forgotten and swallowed by the huge revelation that Keith had just given him regarding the truth of the murder trial. "I actually don't know."
Keith's face closed immediately, all the tentative trust in it shut off so fast that Lance almost gasped. He thought Lance was lying to him, withholding information, and he was pulling back. It made sense, but Lance was going to have to act very quickly to convince Keith that he was telling the truth. That might get uncomfortable, but related to what Keith had just told him, what he'd just trusted him with, he figured it was only fair. Lance had said they were friends; that meant he should try to trust Keith a little too.
"I mean, I know what the fight is, but I don't know why they think they need to have one," Lance remedied what he'd just said, watching Keith relax again. "Especially Dr. Delacroix. I thought she'd written me off a long time ago."
Keith continued to look interested, and they had a lot of time to kill before morning, so Lance went ahead and told him how he'd met Angelique and how he'd just as quickly fallen from grace with her only to have perked her interest again with one carefully placed IV line in an unauthorized place in the back of a moving ambulance.
"Wait," Keith said, wrapping his head around Lance's description of her. "You sure you're talking about the same person? Because I've never been called so many pet names in my life."
"You're a patient; that's different," Lance explained. "But she makes almost all of her students cry or quit, and you heard her talk to Coran. She's got to the point where she's refused to teach regular classes anymore, and she only presents one or two lectures a year. Anything she does on a student basis is strictly one-on-one by invitation only."
"How come she's allowed to do that?"
"Because she's awesome at her job, so they let her have a lot of freedom when it comes to the teaching part. Having her name on a federal grant application means it's practically guaranteed to be funded. And any student who can claim her for a mentor or get a letter of recommendation from her can probably just pick whatever job they want anywhere."
"And she's going to be your mentor?" Keith asked, sounding surprised, or perhaps impressed.
"No way! Dr. Coran is my mentor. I wouldn't last five minutes with Dr. Delacroix. Like I said, she's tough on students, and she hasn't invited anyone to shadow her for a long time."
"Why?" Keith wondered out loud. "Something to prove or what?"
"I think it's just because being an ER doctor is really difficult," Lance said, actually enjoying himself. Liking that they were talking, just sitting here talking. He wished they were at home and that they didn't have frightening things like verdicts looming over them, but if he brought his attention in enough, just focused on the sound of Keith's voice and the safe-for-the-moment topic, he could pretend that they were just friends having a regular conversation. "She doesn't want to waste her time on people she knows would break under the pressure. Not everybody can handle it."
"You can," Keith encouraged, sounding completely convinced.
"No," Lance denied, almost shuddering when he remembered what it had taken for him to perform this afternoon and what it had done to him afterward. "That's not for me. That's not the kind of doctor I want to be anyway."
"Then what kind do you want to be?" Keith asked.
"I want to be a pediatrician," Lance disclosed. "Have my own practice with steady hours, you know? I want to help children."
Keith looked a little skeptical now, different than when he'd thought Lance was lying to him. This was more like he thought Lance didn't even know what was he was talking about. Lance was going to go a little more into it, to prove that he knew what he wanted, but before he could gather any evidence, Keith moved on.
"So if you aren't her student and you don't want to work in the ER, why does she care so much what you do?" Keith asked, as if Lance knew the answer to that.
"See, that's where we're both confused," Lance said. "I have no idea; I didn't even know she'd been paying any attention to me since she had me in her office months ago. It's weird."
"She wants you in the ER," Keith speculated. "She knows you can do it, and she doesn't want anyone to screw it up for you before she can get you in. That's why she's so pissed."
"That," Lance started to protest but then paused to consider. Could that be true? No, no way. But then again . . . she had come to him. There'd been something strange in how she questioned him, how she asked for his opinion on what should be done. Like she was testing him. Coran said that she'd been watching him; she'd kept that coffee cup on her desk. Maybe it was a possibility. But she hadn't mentored a student in years; there were all sorts of rumors about what had happened to the last one. "You think?"
"That's why I said it," Keith said, dryly. "You should think about it. You're pretty damn good at it."
Except you almost died because I'm not any good at it, Lance wanted to tell him. He decided to turn the conversation back to Keith instead.
"What about you?" Lance flipped. "What do you want to do?" But his question almost crippled Keith, making him wish he hadn't asked it. Keith opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head, seeming to shrink.
"I don't think it'll matter much what I want," he revealed, dark and sad again, and Lance also heard how it had never much mattered what Keith wanted. Most of his choices were forced onto him by others. He hadn't had a whole lot of freedom, even after he'd run away.
"You're not going to jail for this, Keith," Lance promised, though he knew there was no way he could know and definitely no way he could guarantee. He just couldn't imagine Keith being punished for trying to save someone. Keith obviously thought differently.
"I've already gone to jail for this," he shot back, bitter.
"What?" Lance sputtered, thrown off balance. "What do you mean?" Keith looked rather sorry that he'd said anything. "Keith?"
"I mean the first time this went to trial, I was sentenced to six months in juvie," Keith tossed out rather quickly, sounding mad and hopeless. "So yeah, pretty sure it'll be the same."
"Wait, back up," Lance scrambled, trying to make sense out of anything Keith was saying. Just when he thought he understood what was going on. It was like Keith specialized in shock value, and Lance had to think about what that word meant. He hadn't heard it before. "Juvie . . .Like a juvenile detention center?" Pidge had said that Keith had spent some time in a correctional facility. But that couldn't have been for this, could it? "And what do you mean the first time? You can't be put on trial twice for the same thing." He was almost one hundred percent certain about that, though he admitted he didn't know everything about the American legal system. "Was it the same guy?" Or did this mean that somehow Keith had killed more than one person accidentally? No. That was just . . too out there.
So what did Keith mean?
"It doesn't matter," Keith said, melting into the bed.
"No, Keith, it really does," Lance contradicted, forcing himself not to lean too close to Keith in his sudden intensity. How much more twisted could these facts be? "When did you beat this guy up anyway? How old were you?" Because juvenile meant younger than eighteen, which meant that this happened some time ago. But then why?
"Sixteen," Keith answered brusquely, looking at Lance the way that Lance suspected he looked at the prosecuting attorney. Cooperative, but only at the most minimum level required. A look that probably hadn't won him much trust in the courtroom. Now Lance was very confused. He knew that sometimes the judicial system took a while, but almost two years seemed extreme for something to come to trial. But Keith had just said it had already gone to trial when he was still a minor and this was the second time. But that was impossible. What the hell was Keith talking about?
"That was over a year ago – why is all of this coming up now? Or again?" Lance couldn't help but ask, needing Keith to explain it since every time Lance tried figuring out an explanation on his own it was wrong.
"Because he just died six weeks ago," Keith said, annoyed, as if it were obvious, sounding as though he'd like to change the subject. He didn't want to talk about these details anymore, but Lance wasn't quite finished. In fact, he'd pounced up from the chair, beginning to pace as he always did when he needed his brain to put details in order. When the world didn't seem to be working the way he thought it should, and he felt like he needed to do something about it even when he didn't know how or what or if there was anything he actually could do. "Lance, what the hell?"
"Exactly," Lance muttered in agreement, thinking, moving back and forth in the tight space of the triage room. "So if he just died recently, what did they send you to jail for the first time? Assault?" Because that could be it. Keith beat up this person, who was sent to the hospital but didn't die. Keith consequently was sentenced to six months in a correctional facility as a minor on assault charges, was released and thinking everything was over, but then was arrested again because the person he beat up over a year ago suddenly . . what? Just up and died six weeks ago? But how would that involve Keith at all?
"Lance, stop that," Keith commanded instead of answering. "I hate it when you . . Hold still."
Lance turned his head to look at Keith, and he tried to stop pacing, he really did, but this information had lit him up like a stick of dynamite. Something didn't add up; something was off about this and not in Keith's favor. And something needed to be done about it. Now.
"You're telling me," Lance clarified. "That they're trying to convict you for this guy dying even though you beat him up over a year ago? They can't do that – did you even see him?"
Because Keith had already said he hadn't. I never touched him. I didn't go near him. That's what he said last night. I didn't even know.
"Lance, come on, knock it off," Keith begged gruffly, reaching for him from where he lay pinned to the hospital bed. Lance forced himself over to the bedside, standing next to the chair with both hands on his hips, chewing on his lip in agitation. The situation had seemed unjust before, but now? It was even worse. There had to be someone they could talk to about this.
"How can they say it was you?" Lance almost barked the question, not necessarily at Keith, though he was conveniently the only one in the room. "So much time between. That makes no sense. That's not even fair. What did your lawyer say?"
"Can we quit talking about this?" Keith said, but Lance could hardly hear him.
"It couldn't have been your fault," Lance continued, overcome with how much he wanted that to be true and also how powerless he felt about convincing everyone else that he was right about it. "There's no way."
"But it was!" Keith shouted, and now Lance had to close up and start paying attention. Keith was panting, his outburst taking more energy than he had to spare. He'd put a hand against his chest, glaring at Lance even though his other hand was still outstretched, resting against the guardrail. He bowed his head, his back curling down. Keith gasped in some more oxygen so he could keep going now that he had Lance's focus. "He died of complications from the brain injury I gave him, ok? It is my fault. Because every time I try to do anything right, I fuck it up. It's always like that and it's always going to be like that, got it? Quit trying to pretend I'm -" he cut himself off, choking on the word for whatever he suspected Lance thought.
"Keith," Lance tried to pacify him, a little too late. The hand that had been reaching for him pulled back as Keith rested his palm against his forehead. He'd probably made himself dizzy yelling like that. "I'm just –"
"Just go away," Keith demanded, voice firm though quiet. "Go pace somewhere else. I'm tired."
"Keith, I'm sorry-" Lance began, amazed that he was being sent away over this. If Keith wanted to change the subject, they could change the subject. He wasn't convinced in the least, but they didn't have to talk about it anymore.
"Leave me alone," Keith commanded again.
"Keith, I'm on your side about this," Lance tried to explain, but Keith wouldn't look at him. He was fishing around all the various cords and tubes on the bed, searching for the remote with the nurse call button on it, as though he were going to flag down someone to physically remove Lance from the room. "I'm just trying to help you."
"I never asked you to!"
Lance felt his teeth click shut, shocked, remembering how he had indeed volunteered himself into Keith's life, into all of this, practically forced Keith to accept him. Keith's first words to him had been a request for Lance to stay away after a punch to the face. Anyone with common sense would have run in the other direction and never looked back.
"Get out," Keith said again, voice very quiet now, face turned away.
"Fine. I'll leave if that's what you want," Lance gave in, remorseful, hurt, and angry. He grabbed his coat and backpack, ashamed and suddenly lost. But maybe Keith was right; this was getting too strange. Lance was too invested. It was starting to be unhealthy, and maybe Lance was trying too hard to force a lie into the truth. At some point, he was going to have to accept facts, even if he didn't want to. He needed some time to sort through this, and he needed to do it somewhere that Keith wasn't yelling at him.
"Good luck," Lance said, already with his back toward Keith, headed out to the hallway. He hesitated, just slightly, at the door, listening intently for Keith to call him back. Kind of hoping that he would, but Keith didn't say anything else, and Lance had already committed to leaving, so without any invitation from Keith he didn't feel he could change his mind at this point. He shrugged himself out of the room and stalked off.
He marched past the triage rooms and out of the emergency wing entirely. He didn't even pause to wave to Reggie; he was so insulted and mad. And the anger didn't have a target, so that made it feel worse, all hot and furious inside his stomach with nowhere to go. Damn it, Keith; I'm just trying to help. That's all I've been doing since I found you in that apartment. Despite what everyone's been telling me about how I shouldn't. And this is how you react to that, huh? How ungrateful could a person get?
"Idiot," Lance murmured to himself as he wandered the darkened hospital, through the busy emergency waiting room, into the main part of the building. First, he walked unconsciously to the closed plasma donation center, just needing to move. Needing to put some distance between him and Keith. Why the hell was he so mad at Lance anyway? Why kick him out? All he wanted to do was clear Keith of this supposed crime that Lance still wasn't convinced he was responsible for. How was that a bad thing? He pivoted against the closed doors of the donation center and headed toward the hospital entrance, fuming.
Lance flopped onto one of the more comfortable chairs in the front reception area near the gift shop, where everything was dark and closed for the night. There wasn't a soul working in this portion of the hospital, not even a janitor. It was the perfect place for a pity party. What was Lance supposed to do now?
Go home, was the immediate answer from one part of his mind, and he had to admit that seemed a tempting choice. It was getting close to eleven; Coran had already offered him a ride if he wanted it. All he had to do was hop in the elevator across reception and take it to the third floor. Coran wouldn't even ask him why he'd changed his mind. It would be the easiest thing to do. His apartment would be warm and smell divinely like Hunk's baking. He could get some food – he hadn't eaten anything since the curry early this afternoon. If he tried hard enough, he could maybe cut this whole experience from his emotional database. Keith? Who's that? No one I know. The thought was meant to be sarcastic, but Lance found that it actually cut pretty deep. Just when he'd thought they could get to know each other a little better, maybe they could actually start being real friends instead of just strangers thrown into this random situation. But Keith didn't have friends, Shiro said. Well now Lance could see why if he pushed them away every time they tried to help him.
Lance swept his legs up and over the armrest of the chair, folding his arms and, being careful of the wound on his back, scrunching down until his neck nestled against the opposite armrest, crossing his ankles and swinging them a little as he sat there deliberating.
"I left my blanket," he whispered to himself. Ugh. How was he supposed to get that back? Maybe Abbie would do it. He could go ask her. She'd probably look at him funny, but what else was new? That's what everyone was doing to him lately. Officer Guist, Angelique, Shiro, Pidge – they all looked at him with the same damn question in their faces. What are you doing here with him?
Lance covered his face with his hands, exhausted both mentally and physically. His body sank deep into the chair, pinched between the armrests, his coat and backpack on the floor beside him. All his nervous energy quieted here in the dark silence of the reception area, shorted out like a burnt fuse and leaving him boneless, draped in the chair like an afghan. He'd have to get up in a minute, though, if he wanted to catch Coran.
He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, almost dropping it as it started to ring in his hands, breaking the atmosphere. The number appearing on the screen was one Lance didn't recognize.
"Hello?" Lance greeted, dragging himself upright in the chair.
"Hi, Lance, it's Takash . . it's Shiro," came the answer. "How are things going over there? Keith ok?" Lance rolled his eyes, glad Shiro couldn't see him.
"Don't know," he replied curtly. "He kicked me out of his room."
"Oh good!" Shiro exclaimed immediately, sounding oddly relieved, which made Lance's jaw drop. What? Good? He felt tears sting his eyes and he blinked them impatiently away, pushing his fingertips against the corners. He was not going to get upset about this; it shouldn't matter.
"Yeah, it was great," he said facetiously. It was one thing for Keith to have done it, but it hurt more than Lance expected to hear that Shiro sounded happy about it. Fine thing to say to the guy who saved Keith's stupid life!
"Sorry, Lance," Shiro apologized, his tone softened significantly. "That didn't come out right. He probably said some pretty cruel stuff to you, huh? But it does sound more like the Keith I know, which means he's feeling better. Are you ok?"
"It doesn't matter," Lance tried to say, but then he had to click the mute on his phone so Shiro wouldn't hear him sniffle. He rubbed his sleeve aggressively against his face, wincing.
"I know it's not the best way to show it, but that's actually how I know Keith likes you," Shiro defended him, and Lance shrugged even though Shiro couldn't see him. Not the best way to show it? Try the worst way to show it. He was so tired. "Where are you now? Still in the hospital? You're not with Keith?"
No! Lance wanted to yell. Weren't you listening? He kicked me out! I'm going home, like I should have done hours ago. I don't need this mess.
"I'm waiting for Dr. Coran," Lance said, his voice icy, looking toward the elevator as though he expected to see his ginger-haired mentor appearing out of it any second. "He said he'd give me a ride."
"Oh," Shiro vocalized his disappointment, but seriously, what did he expect? "Of course, but can I ask what happened? What did Keith say?"
"He told me why he's on trial," Lance practically snarled. Cool it, he admonished himself. It's not Shiro's fault that Keith is a jerk. "But it doesn't make any sense. When I tried to ask him some more questions, he got mad and wanted me to leave."
"He told you what happened?" Shiro repeated, incredulous. "Lance – you don't understand what it took for him to do that."
"Is it true?" Lance heard himself ask, glossing over how hard it might have been for Keith to say anything. He didn't want to give Keith any credit right now. At least, not where he was concerned. But if Keith wouldn't give him the details he was looking for, maybe Shiro would. "They're really blaming him for this guy dying more than a year after Keith attacked him?"
"It does look like the events are related," Shiro answered, sad. "Though I haven't had a chance to hear back from Ms. Krolia yet about how the trial went. I wish I'd been there, but I just didn't know it was happening. I thought that was all behind us after Keith was given the sentence for the assault charges."
"It's not fair," Lance unexpectedly blurted out, sounding whiny to himself despite his conviction. "Even if they are related, Keith saved that girl. It's not a crime to prevent a crime."
"It is according to the Hunts," Shiro corrected him, also sounding cold.
"What?" Lance asked, confused, feeling as though his brain had somehow slowed down after sunset. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.
"William Hunt," Shiro went on. "He works for Citadel - financial trading. He and his wife, Lisa, live out in Oak Brook, one of the wealthiest families in Chicago."
"And they matter because?" Lance prompted, realizing just at this moment that he had a headache.
"Because they believe Keith killed their son for no reason. They're the ones pressing the charges, and they can take it as far as they need it to go."
"But Shiro," Lance sputtered, curling over to lay his head on the armrest, closing his eyes. "That's wrong; they can't really do that, can they?" Another sentence that Keith had said in his fever dream. They can't. Can they really do that? Tell them.
"Unfortunately, they can, but in this case, they aren't going to have to try very hard. The report makes a convincing argument that David, that's his name, died as a result of his previous injuries."
"What exactly did Keith do to him?" Lance pondered out loud, thinking he was being quiet enough for Shiro not to hear.
"Think about it," Shiro answered, proving that Lance hadn't been as quiet as he thought. "Look what he did to you half asleep and with a fever with just one punch. Now imagine him healthy, angry, and actually trying to hurt you." Lance decided not to go too deep into a vision like that. Just thinking about how Keith looked at him after that first punch was bad enough.
"So what do we do?" Lance asked, then wanted to smack himself. He didn't need to do anything. He wasn't obligated in any way to defend or help Keith. In fact, Keith had basically told him that he didn't want Lance to help him at all.
"You've done plenty, Lance; I can't thank you enough," Shiro said, his voice warm, though still worried. "Though I wish you could . . . no, never mind. Go ahead and head home. You sound pretty tired."
"What do you need me to do, Shiro?" Lance requested, because even though he was tired, Shiro sounded worse. Not only that, they were kind of in the same situation. Shiro had more information and more history, but both of them had come into Keith's life here at this point, where most of the damage was already done. Lance felt nothing but respect for Shiro, which meant that he also wanted to help him.
"It's not fair to ask you, Lance," Shiro told him, though Lance could hear how desperately Shiro wanted to ask. He also thought he knew what it was.
"You want me to stay with him," Lance said it for him.
"I know he can be difficult," Shiro admitted. "But yes, I do want someone to stay with him. I can't stand thinking of him in that room all night alone. I've never seen him sick like this before, and I know he's scared, though he'll never admit it. And I don't think there is anyone better than you to watch over him while I'm trying to sort out this mess to see if there's anything we can do to get Keith out of it. But I get that he hurt you, and he probably will again even if he's trying hard not to, so I understand if you need to leave."
"I'd stay if I thought he'd let me anywhere near him," Lance gave the excuse, but it sounded pretty weak. Keith hadn't asked or really wanted Lance to come to his apartment, but that hadn't stopped him. What sort of person was he if a little argument would make him break his promise? And Keith wasn't the only one who got annoyed when Lance was fidgeting too much. Pidge had almost screamed at him about it. It even bothered Hunk, who was arguably the most laid-back guy in the world. Lance had pushed too far, despite Keith asking him to stop. He probably owed him an apology.
"I think you'd be surprised," Shiro encouraged. "Keith reacts on instinct most of the time, and he doesn't think too far ahead about consequences. I'll bet he's sitting in that room mad at himself and wondering why he said what he did. He'll act rough about it, but if you can be strong and walk back in there, I don't think he'll say anything to stop you. And if he does? You can ignore it – it's just defense for him to pretend he doesn't feel anything or doesn't want you to be there. And neither of those things are true."
Lance decided then that not only had Shiro been one hell of a fighter pilot, he'd been a leader. Who knew to how many, but whatever the situation, Shiro had been in charge. Lance felt the beginnings of loyalty swell inside his chest, and he knew that there probably wasn't much he wouldn't do in order to gain Shiro's approval. But in this case, Shiro was asking him to do something he secretly wanted to do anyway. He just needed an external reason. Somehow it made it easier thinking of it as a request. Lance could go back and sit with Keith as a favor to Shiro. It was like receiving permission.
"All right, fine," he gave in, putting more annoyance into his voice than he actually felt. He heard Shiro sigh in relief.
"Thank you, Lance," he said. "I know it's not obvious, but Keith trusts you. I'll check in again later."
"Great," Lance answered, hoping that when he did there would be some good news. Shiro hung up, leaving Lance alone in the dark again. He rested his arms against his knees, allowing his body to droop, giving himself just a few more minutes before he gathered his energy to head back to Keith. It was going to be a very long night. Although, probably not as long as last night. Nothing could be worse than last night.
"Let's hope not," Lance whispered, pushing himself upright and once again picking up his coat and backpack. Maybe it was time to see exactly what Hunk had put in there; it seemed unnaturally heavy now that he thought about it. He tossed it over his shoulders, sagging under the weight and beginning to plod through the hallways towards the emergency room entrance. He felt neither brave nor strong. Mostly he felt defeated.
Reggie noticed as Lance dragged himself to his desk to ask to be let in almost fifteen minutes after he said good-bye to Shiro. He'd walked considerably slower back than the angry march that had brought him away.
"Boy, what you still doin' here?" The security guard asked, his broad drawl bringing instantaneously the remembered taste of molasses to Lance's mouth, reminding him how hungry he was. "I figure you'd gone home a long time ago."
"My friend's still in there," Lance answered, tiredly lifting his eyes as if he could see past the locked double doors to the triage rooms. "I can't leave him."
"Oh, so it's your friend," Reggie repeated thoughtfully, as though something had just clicked into place for him. "I thought you was doin' something w'the ambulance and wondered why you wasn't in uniform."
It had taken Lance a couple weeks to get a grip on the way Reggie spoke English. When they'd met, he'd had to ask him to repeat himself three or four times, more slowly after each utterance, actually squinting at his mouth before he got it. Now he didn't need that kind of focus; he could enjoy the flow – warm and musical.
"He goin' be ok?" Reggie asked, studying Lance with a friendly, though concerned eye.
"Too soon to tell," Lance said quietly, though he knew Reggie was only asking about Keith's physical condition. On that point, Lance knew he'd be fine, but the other stuff seemed just as critical.
"You goin' be ok?" Reggie shifted, watching him. Lance nodded woodenly.
"Can I get back in, please?" He asked, trying to make it clear that he wasn't up for much chatting right now. No offence, Reggie, he thought, hoping the sentiment could be read in his posture and expression.
"Hang on a minute, son," Reggie paused him, leaving the entrance locked as he ducked behind the desk, opening a drawer. "Got something for you." Lance just barely had the energy to be curious about that. He heard the rustle of thin plastic, items being transferred. When Reggie straightened, he extended the handles of a grocery bag to Lance, who kept his hands secured to his backpack straps.
"I can't take that, Reggie; it's your lunch," Lance protested, glimpsing what could have been a wrapped sandwich inside.
"Now don't you worry. My girl packed me extra today because of the snow. You take that, then, go on."
"Thanks," Lance said, deeply touched, taking the bag now with both hands and holding it tenderly to his chest.
"Take it easy, boy," Reggie told him, pressing the button that would unlock the doors. "I'll be prayin' for you." Lance closed his eyes tight hearing that. Something his mother always said when they finished speaking. Rezaré por ti, mijo. He could sure use it.
Not trusting to be able to speak, he waved at Reggie, holding the bag close to his chest in appreciation, leaving him behind at his guard desk to head back into the emergency room. It was busier here than the main reception area, but there was a definite lull in the movement. Lance knew it would pick up again around two in the morning, but for right now, the entire city was transitioning into bed. The potential patients who suspected they may need help were still waiting it out at home, deciding to see how they felt in the morning, the roads were clearing of traffic, meaning less chance for accidents. The bars were still open, but it wasn't late enough for trouble there yet. Several nurses, including Abbie, chatted casually together at their station as they organized their charts and drank coffee or tea. Only one had a phone to her ear. Lance didn't count how many of the triage rooms were occupied as he made his way around the bend, didn't pay much attention as to which curtains were pulled closed. He wasn't here for that this time.
Keith's room looked abandoned from the outside, all the way at the end of the unit, door closed tight with the sign posted on it commanding all future entrants to stop for masks and gloves before going in. If Lance didn't know better, he would have wondered if Keith had been moved while he'd been gone. The lights remained as Abbie had left them, off but for the one behind the bed on the wall. As Lance stepped closer, he could see Keith through the open blinds of the hall window. He was turned away from the entrance, almost completely covered by Lance's quilt. Possibly asleep. Lance felt a little guilty about how easily he'd almost left him behind.
As quietly as he could, Lance let himself into the room without knocking. Since he wasn't interested in what Keith had to say about whether or not he was there, he figured he could skip the part where he pretended to ask permission. And if Keith were sleeping, he didn't want to disturb him.
But Keith wasn't asleep. He turned to look over his shoulder, hearing someone coming in. When he saw it was Lance, he almost pulled the quilt all the way over his head, turning his whole body away from him on the bed. Lance let that go, remembering what Shiro had said, returning to his seat and calmly putting down his stuff. The iron infusion was maybe a third of the way complete, judging from how much was still left in the IV bag.
"Hey," Lance called very softly, a gentle alert that he was back even though he knew Keith had seen him.
"You done freaking out?" Keith asked, the sound muffled from his position.
"Yep," Lance answered, as casually as possible, keeping his emotions carefully closed.
"I thought you went home," Keith accused, his body folded tight.
"I thought about it," Lance said, deciding to be honest.
"Is Shiro making you stay?" Keith asked, rather suddenly, and just like that Lance could hear the pain again. It made him pause, sad at how he'd almost hurt Keith by leaving him, especially after he'd been so mad at everyone else he'd learned about who had done that.
"He asked me to stay," Lance acknowledged. "But he can't make me do anything I didn't want to do in the first place."
Keith shifted slightly, rotating his torso backward so he could look at Lance properly. He kept his arms folded against his chest and his hips didn't move, leaving him looking rather uncomfortably twisted. He studied Lance carefully, gauging his mood and motives. Lance kept still and silent, feeling as though he were being assessed for danger by a wild animal. He tried to be as non-threatening as possible.
"He's pretty awesome, huh?" Lance allowed when he couldn't take the staring anymore, still speaking of Shiro.
"He's a military pilot," Keith volunteered. "He flies an F-35 Lightning fighter jet."
There was so much respect and admiration in Keith's voice, talking about Shiro as though he had never been injured, had never been put on medical leave, as if he still jumped in his plane every weekend to take out terrorists, and Lance remembered something Pidge had told him. Keith had tried to join the Air Force, but had been turned down. Shiro must have been so influential for Keith, such a positive role model. It was too bad that he wasn't being allowed to follow his example. Wasn't allowed to stay with Shiro. That Keith thought they had to be separated. It made Lance feel empty, but he didn't know why.
"That's really cool," Lance complimented, feeling as though Keith would accept these words as if Lance had said them about him.
"Yeah," Keith agreed, then the conversation sputtered into awkward silence again. Lance could tell that neither of them was going to bring up what had happened, for their own personal reasons, but now it seemed they didn't know what to do with each other. Lance almost asked Keith how he was feeling a couple of times, but thought it might not be the best way to start talking again. So he leaned back as far as he could without tipping the chair over, interlocking his fingers and pressing them against the top of his head. He wondered if Coran had remembered to ask for that cot.
"You think your table is really buried in cookies?" Keith asked, sounding innocent in his disbelief. Lance smiled.
"Pidge might have given them all away by now," he said, picturing it, almost smelling it. "But yeah, Hunk can do some serious baking when he's worried."
"Wish we had some," Keith muttered, forcing Lance to sit up.
"Are you actually hungry?" He checked.
"I can't tell – maybe," Keith said, noncommittedly. "Is that ok?" Lance leaned forward carefully, stretching out a hand.
"It's more than ok," Lance assured. "It's a good sign. Can I?" He began to ask for permission, but Keith cut him off.
"Whatever," he said, which was sort of agreement. Lance hesitated one more second before putting his palm against Keith's forehead. Keith shuddered, wincing, his expression tightening but then relaxing suddenly with an exhale as he got used to the pressure and temperature of Lance's hand, beginning to lean into it. Lance almost expected Keith's fever to have broken while he'd been gone, but no. He was still burning up. Lance frowned, disappointed, even though Keith expressing that he could be hungry was still an upgrade from before. If only Lance had something he might be able to eat.
"Well?" Keith asked, a little impatiently, and Lance withdrew his hand.
"Still high," he told him. Keith looked away, wilting, this illness wearing on him more than just physically. Lance decided to distract him by examining his backpack. He dipped down, pulling it up and plopping it on Keith's bed between them. "Should we see what's in here? Hunk might have packed something edible," he suggested. Keith shrugged, arms still folded, though he did turn his hips, lying on his back now, head resting but turned toward Lance again.
Lance undid the zipper, pulling apart the opening to peer inside. His chemistry book was still in there, and his notebook and the little bag of oddments he kept with him like an extra pen, a tiny stapler, and his calculator. He pulled out his Spanish / English dictionary that he hadn't used for months but was too paranoid not to carry around with him. He found his phone charger, resting it on his lap since he knew he would be plugging it in very soon. There was a small plastic bag with a spoon in it that Lance set out on the bed.
"This is promising," he said lightly, drawing out a travel thermos and unscrewing the cap. He had to turn it toward the light, sniffing it experimentally, recognizing the scent. "Oh, yes, thanks Hunk," he breathed.
"What is it?" Keith asked, maneuvering himself upright against the angled upper portion of the bed, interested in spite of himself.
"Proof that Hunk likes you more than me," Lance answered, handing over the thermos and reaching for the spoon. "That's the last of the rice pudding Hunk made a few days ago. He threatened my life if I touched it. Looks like he's willing to give it up for you, though."
"It's probably yours," Keith countered, though he took the container, looking almost wistfully inside it. "I don't think I can eat it."
"It's soft enough; it shouldn't hurt your mouth too much," Lance told him. "Trust me; he sent it for you." Lance dropped the spoon into the pudding, nodding reassuringly. "See if you can handle a bite or two."
"What are you going to do? If I'm hungry, I know you've got to be," Keith returned.
"I'm set," Lance assured, leaning over to snag the bag with half of Reggie's lunch in it. Keith tilted his head questioningly, asking without words where the bag had come from. "The security guard at the ER entrance shared his lunch with me. Guess I looked hungry and pathetic."
"You look tired," Keith pointed out, adding his opinion to Shiro's. Well, of course he looked tired. He'd only managed a couple hours sleep last night, it was after eleven now, and it had been one of the most stressful days in his life.
"So do you," Lance shot back, though gently. "Try and eat that so you can get some sleep."
Keith picked up the spoon, stirring the contents of the thermos slowly, his face a painful jumble of wanting to and being afraid to.
"Go on," Lance encouraged, steady, opening Reggie's bag as he did so. Keith took a deep breath, practically inhaling the spoon, keeping it in his mouth as he tested the bite, closing his eyes. Lance decided that he liked watching Keith eat. He did it with an appreciation of someone who hadn't always had ready access to food, who had to fight with himself between shoveling huge bites into his mouth as quickly as possible and savoring each bit to make it last longer. With the pudding, savoring won out, and Keith sort of moaned softly with his mouth full.
"Ok?" Lance checked. Just because he thought the pudding wouldn't bother the blisters in Keith's mouth didn't mean it was true.
"How does he do this?" Keith asked, releasing the spoon so he could plunge it back into the thermos. "I've never tasted anything like it."
"I have a couple theories," Lance responded. "I figure he's either an alchemist or he sold his soul to a crossroads demon." Keith raised an eyebrow at him, not bothering to give an answer to this because he was busy taking another bite.
Lance decided to see what Reggie had given him. He left Keith alone to consider the contents of the bag. There was an apple, what turned out to be half an enormous BLT sandwich, a brownie, and a baggie of pretzels. It all looked mouthwatering to Lance, though he felt bad about eating it in front of Keith. Hunk's rice pudding was one of Lance's favorite things, but it wasn't actual food. It didn't feel right to eat things that Keith couldn't.
"You gonna stare at it or eat it?" He heard Keith ask, breaking the hesitation. Lance plucked the apple from the bag and tore into it, the tangy sweetness filling his mouth.
For the next few minutes, both Lance and Keith were too busy to talk or even notice each other much. Though it wasn't too long before Lance started offering Keith pieces of what he had, just to test it. Keith shook his head at a pretzel, though Lance already knew the salt on them would burn. It was the same story with the bacon on the sandwich, but the way Keith was eyeing it made Lance tear off a bite for him regardless.
"That's a bad idea," Keith told him, meeting his eyes, which let Lance know that even though Keith knew it was a bad idea, he still wanted it.
"You're right," Lance agreed, hand still outstretched, thinking that Keith was going to do it anyway. He reached over, fingers almost touching the bread before he changed his mind and drew back, shaking his head.
"Not worth it," Keith muttered as Lance felt pity settle heavy into the bottom of his stomach, turning the taste of the food in his mouth and immediately eliminating any appetite Lance had. He swallowed hard.
"Want me to see if I can find you something else?" Lance offered, though he sort of hoped the answer would be no. The hospital kitchen had closed down a long time ago, and the options that Keith could tolerate were pretty few. Still, if Keith wanted him to, he would try.
"It's ok," Keith absolved him. "I'm done." The spoon rested in the empty thermos, which Keith now held a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. Lance reached for it helpfully, recapping it and returning it to his backpack.
"Is there anything you need?" Lance continued, wanting to be of service.
"No," Keith sighed, leaning against the bed, his hands resting loose in his lap. Lance moved everything to the side, giving himself the freedom to stand up to help tuck Keith in.
"How are you doing, Keith?" Lance felt it safe to ask. "How's your heart?"
"It hurts," Keith admitted, voice catching just slightly. Lance barely heard it. He pulled the quilt up to Keith's chin, letting go to rest his palm against his chest, worried. The pulse had been steady for a long time now; the pain medication should be taking all of Keith's discomfort. He shouldn't be feeling much of anything. Keith began to curl up; Lance could almost see the weight of his life crushing him against the bed. He wondered what Keith was thinking about right now, recognizing that the pain Keith felt was more an ache in his soul than anything physical.
"That's normal," Lance comforted him, grateful that Shiro had talked him into staying.
"How long?" Keith began, but couldn't finish the question. Lance understood why. There was usually a tipping point in an illness, especially a long intense one like Keith's, where it became too exhausting to hope and it just felt as though there would never be an end. That they would continue to feel awful forever. For Keith, as always, it was worse because even if he felt better, he was still convinced that his life would not return to normal. His future was as dark and cold as the storm on the lake had been last night.
"Not much longer," Lance said, knowing they both knew he had no idea what he was talking about. But he wanted to give Keith something. "Get some sleep, Keith; you'll feel better in the morning."
"What about you?" Keith asked. "Weren't they supposed to bring in a bed for you or something?"
Lance shrugged. That wasn't anything Keith had to worry about. "They're probably busy; I can go find out in a while. Close your eyes."
"You sure?"
"This ain't my first rodeo," Lance tossed off, which caused Keith to open one eye, half his mouth lifting in a bemused sort of smile. "What? Did I get it wrong?" Because he actually had never used that expression before; he'd heard it from Coran.
"No, it just . . .sounds weird when you say it."
"Noted," Lance said, standing straight, checking the stats monitor and the growing pile of EKG data printing on Keith's other side. "Now go to sleep."
Lance eased himself into the chair, which was stiff and cold and too small for him to adjust much in. He pulled one leg up to his chest so he could rest his forehead against his knee, curling his arms around and securing himself by gripping his ankle on either side.
"Lance, you can't sleep like that," Keith pointed out.
"Wanna bet?" Lance murmured. He was tired enough that he thought he could sleep standing up in the corner. He wished he had a blanket, though. The ER was kept pretty cool most of the time, but after ten it seemed they turned the heat way down. He uncoiled himself to pick up his coat from the floor, beginning to shrug it on.
"You cold?" Keith asked him.
"I'm Cuban; I'm always cold," Lance returned, wishing Keith would just quit watching him and go to sleep already.
"Why don't you come here," Keith invited, no emotion at all in his voice. Lance paused putting his arms through his sleeves to see Keith scooting as close to the side of his bed as he could get, pressing himself against the guardrail and opening the quilt and hospital blanket up for Lance to lie down beside him.
"Because I don't know what the weight limit is on that bed, and there's no point both of us being uncomfortable," Lance argued, not making any attempt to get closer.
"Don't be stupid; there's room."
Lance tried to translate Keith's tone. Was he just trying to be nice, or did he actually want Lance in bed with him? They'd done it before. For a few minutes at the apartment where Keith was under a blanket and Lance was on top. That position had been at Keith's request too.
"There's a chair in the waiting room I was using before," Lance offered, almost as a test. "I can crash out there for a few hours. You don't have to make space for me."
Keith's face fell slightly, making Lance sure. This was more than a gesture of politeness. This was how Keith said he was sorry. This was how Keith could ask for something he might want without having to actually ask.
"You sure you're ok with this?" Lance asked, one more time, slowly pulling off his coat again.
"Would you hurry up? My arm is getting tired," Keith said. Lance kicked out of his shoes, leaving them beside his backpack. Trying not to think too much about what he was doing, he slipped under the familiar weight of his mother's quilt. Keith lifted his arm more, drawing back as though he were going to toss the corner of the blanket farther over Lance, but Lance grabbed it away from him before he could.
"Watch that IV," Lance cautioned him. "I didn't risk my career on it for you to rip it out now."
"Shit," Keith whispered, horrified at what he'd almost done, because he apparently hadn't even thought of that. He also probably hadn't meant for Lance to hear him, but their heads were pretty close together now. Lance tried to relax, but found it difficult. He lay rather stiffly on his back. Now that he was under the covers, he could feel Keith's unnatural heat beside him. This probably wasn't the best idea. If they had a different relationship, Lance would have slipped his hand beneath Keith, allowing him to pillow his head in the crook of his shoulder. He wasn't even sure if he could chill out enough to fall asleep now that he felt he had to pay attention to make sure he didn't get too close.
"Hey, Keith," he began, trying to think of another sleeping situation that would be more comfortable. For both of them.
"Don't make it weird," Keith ordered. Lance shut his mouth.
Taking turns making tiny, hesitant adjustments, they began to settle in. Lance inched himself onto his side, facing the sink and the door while Keith turned the opposite way toward his IV pole until their backs braced against each other. Lance drew his arms close to his chest, feeling Keith's breathing against his spine and also the edge of the bed close to his hip.
He lay there a long time, eyes open, watching as shadows went back and forth outside in the hallway. Keith's breaths lengthened and slowed as he drifted off, and he twitched a few times as his brain transitioned into sleep. It made Lance smile, comparing their current situation to last night, how drastic the differences were. How much he had learned in the past twenty-four hours, not just about Keith but also about Shiro, Coran, Angelique, and even Pidge and Hunk. And everything that had seemed to be crashing in on top of them suddenly moved too far away to even think about. Even the dawn was an eternity from now, from this moment, confined in a too-small hospital bed next to a fevered, unpredictable partner. As if there would never be a morning.
Keith began to whimper as he slept, murmuring unintelligibly though he stayed completely motionless. Lance flipped around rather clumsily, listening with a heavy heart as Keith unconsciously wept. He raised himself onto his elbow so he could lean over him, not surprised to see actual tears shine on Keith's face.
"Shh," Lance whispered, wanting to help but not wanting to wake him, putting a careful hand on his upturned shoulder. "Keith, it's ok."
You were going to leave him, Lance berated himself. You were going to let him suffer here with this by himself.
Lance sat up a little, curling protectively over Keith, gently pulling at him. Keith didn't resist at all, submitting loosely to where ever Lance moved him, twisting himself up and against Lance, the hand with the IV strapped to the wrist raising to hold onto Lance's shirt near his collarbone. Lance did his best to keep Keith's hospital gown straightened and covering him, wrapping it over him and then wrapping his arms around him too.
"No llores," Lance begged Keith to stop crying, to be still, to rest. He lifted a hand to gently press Keith's head against his chest, propriety be damned.
"I just want," Keith cried, but it didn't seem he would allow himself to give a voice to what he wanted, even in sleep. Lance held him tighter. He knew what he wanted. He wanted his life back, his health. He wanted to go home with Shiro, to have a home at all. He wanted to be wanted.
"I know," Lance assured.
"Lance," Keith whispered, relaxing against him.
"I'm here," Lance promised.
Author's Note: Aww, Keith, darling, we're all here. Let us love you! Also, who's ready to meet Krolia and get this sentence hearing over with? I know I am!