Author's Note: Guys, you're great. I wish you all left signed reviews so I could message you about how great you are. But I can't, so I'll say it here. Thanks for being here with me. I've got some exciting news to share. I talked with a publisher last week about this story. Yeah, a real one. He gave me some good advice – we talked about timelines and scenes and markets and all sorts of frightening stuff. (I've published poems but never a novel before.) He hasn't committed to picking it up or anything yet. He said he wanted to read it first, go figure – I mean, I gave him the summary – but that's ok - he's given me several avenues I can go down. He even said that it would be "his honor" to help me prep it for self-publication. (I guess the traditionalist way of publishing isn't what it used to be.) Anyway, lots of work to still be done on it . . .including finishing it. What say we move a little farther in that direction, eh?
Since I think some of you are super worried about Keith. Again.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Copenhagen Interpretation
Lance wasn't surprised that Shiro didn't answer the first time he tried his number. It didn't deter him from dialing it again. And again. Come on, Shiro, wake up; it's an emergency. Keith's out there somewhere, maybe somewhere dangerous, and he needs help. We've got to find him, got to get to him. Lance hit redial a fourth time. A fifth. He'd continue pressing that button until dawn if he had to. As the phone rang incessantly, Lance paced, but discovered that his room was too small to do it properly, so he left it for the larger area of the living room. He needed to move; he was too amped up. He had to do something. He was too far away to do anything. He picked up a soda can from the coffee table, a burst of need and anger and desperation exploding in his chest. He crushed it in his hand and then paced down the hall and actually slammed it as hard as he could against Spencer's closed door, letting it fall to the floor. Oh yeah, that felt kind of good. Good enough to go get another one. Spencer had left a considerable supply.
It took about half a dozen cans, two sweatshirts, and an empty pizza box before Spencer appeared, looking disheveled and pissed, staring bewilderingly at the growing pile of trash and clothes in front of his door. Lance threw a can that wasn't completely empty through the opening. It soared past Spencer's head and landed on a bunch of papers on his floor, spilling the remainder of its contents.
"What the actual fuck?" Spencer demanded, but he was on his own right now and Lance had way more important things to do.
"Yeah, you are," Lance snapped at him, knowing that didn't make much sense but also knowing that Spencer would take it as an insult regardless of if he understood it or not. "Clean up your crap."
"It's four-thirty in the morning, asshole!"
"By all means, take your time; I'll just leave it all here for you," Lance said bitingly. A small flicker of sense told him that he'd better knock it off. That there would be serious repercussions from this, but he ignored it. He didn't care right now, and it was too late. He went to get something else that Spencer had left in the wrong spot – ah, perfect, an empty Starbucks cup. Spencer actually ducked, slamming his door closed as Lance drew his hand back to throw it. It tapped softly against the door, joining the pile. Lance found that he was panting. Also that someone was talking to him from the phone. Shiro. Finally.
"Lance, I'm sorry – I don't have time to talk right now. There's a situation."
"I know. Just tell me if you found Keith yet." Lance jumped right in. Don't you dare hang up on me, Shiro. Not without telling me something. "Is he ok?"
The urgency in Shiro's voice didn't diminish, but it did change. He seemed to pause, as though he had also been pacing with the phone.
"How did you -?" Shiro started to ask, but Lance didn't want to waste time on useless trivia like that.
"He called me," Lance explained quickly, eyeing the hallway. He'd moved away from Spencer's door, focused on Shiro. "Less than ten minutes ago. Where is he, Shiro? What happened?"
"He called you?" Shiro repeated, trying to catch up, sounding as though that were extremely surprising. Well, it kind of was. How often did Keith call? Oh, wait, let's think - Never.
"He could barely talk, but yes, he called me," Lance said firmly, as though asserting that it wasn't that weird, they were still friends, and Lance was entitled to some information. He glanced at the hallway again, though it seemed that Spencer was going to stay in his room. Just as well. "Someone's on their way to help him, right?"
"There's a med and extraction team en route right now. We have a general idea of where they might have . . ., but I can't tell you where he is, Lance. I can't really tell you much of anything."
"Fine, I get it." I hate it, but I get it. "How do I help?" Because Keith called me for help. He knows he can still count on me for that. Even though I have no idea what to do. Shiro breathed, a frustrated sound. As though he had been asking himself the same question.
"Are you a religious person, Lance?" Shiro asked him, and it brought Lance to a crushing halt. What sort of question was that? How bad was this "situation?"
"I . . I used to be," Lance said, deflated, all the energy falling from him. He hadn't thought about that since he was a kid. "My mom is."
"Pray for him, then."
"Shiro," Lance said, almost a whine. That's it? That's all you're going to tell me to do? There must be something. There must be something!
"I know," Shiro commiserated, though it didn't help Lance feel any better. "I promise, I will update you when I can. What are you doing today? Can you keep your phone close?"
"Yes," Lance affirmed, ready to do just about anything. Ready to book a flight to Afghanistan if that's what it took. He couldn't lose Keith. Not now. Not ever. What had his last words to Lance been? I could use you right now. How could he live with himself if those were the last words Keith ever said to him if he didn't try to be in any way useful?
"I'll be in touch," Shiro said, and if it had been anyone else but Shiro, Lance would have doubted the truth of it. But Lance trusted him. Knew he was good on his word. He wouldn't forget to call Lance if he found out anything that he could share with him. They had been through this before. They had an understanding. "I know it's hard but be patient. Keith. . . he's resilient. You know that. There's no reason to think he won't come back from this."
He didn't sound as though he were lying, but Lance wasn't sure. It was hard to reconcile the pain in Keith's voice with this partial assurance from Shiro. And coming back wasn't the same as coming back whole. What if he lost an arm, like Shiro had? What if something worse happened? What if recovery wasn't possible? There just wasn't enough information. There was no way to know what was going on yet. And it sounded as though it could be hours, maybe days, before they'd find out. What was Lance supposed to do?
"Lance, trust me, the best thing to do is whatever you were going to do before he called. Understand? It'll just drive you crazy if you don't. Now I've got to go. Tell me I don't have to worry about both of you?"
"I'll be here," Lance promised. "Just . . .help him."
"You know I will."
Lance didn't want to, but he let Shiro go. Let him go be part of whatever was going on. There's someone en route, Lance assured himself. A whole team. A trained team. He wanted to tell himself that it would be all right, but he wasn't there yet. The call from Keith was too fresh, too frightening. How was he supposed to just wait around for someone to update him?
The truth was he couldn't. He didn't even think that knitting would help calm him this time. So at four-thirty in the morning, even though he swore he would never do this again, Lance found himself deep cleaning his apartment. He continued his trend of throwing all Spencer's stuff into the pile at his door, but he'd stopped hurling soda cans at it. That rage had passed, and Lance honestly didn't want to disturb him again. Didn't know what he'd do if he had to see him or speak to him before he had a chance to learn more about Keith, had more time to calm down. So he didn't tempt fate and kept everything quiet, doing what he could to eliminate Spencer's presence and scent from the bathroom. He took his own hot shower, made coffee, and then decided to get ready to go.
He started packing. He packed his old suitcase – the one he'd brought with him from Cuba. The one that had been enough at the time to hold all his worldly possessions. He packed it now with the idea that he might be leaving the country this afternoon. He didn't know how that would be possible, but if Keith ended up somewhere overseas, some medical base in some mysterious location, and if he wanted Lance to sit at his side as he recovered, if he needed Lance for any reason at all – then Lance would be ready. He'd done it before, hadn't he? Helped Keith through his darkness. Nothing had changed about Lance's willingness either. He packed four sets of clothes, the Spanish books that Keith had given him and the CDs. He packed his toiletries and wished he had the space to bring the quilt but knew that was impractical. He'd have to leave without it. When he was finished, he placed the suitcase in the space between his door frame and his dresser, where his med bag usually sat. Ready for him to grab it and leave at a moment's notice.
Then he packed up the kitchen. The dishes he didn't want Spencer to use, the coffeemaker. Allura's fancy salt and pepper shakers that she'd left behind. He took the books from the partial wall, the afghan off the couch. Everything in the apartment that Lance considered his went carefully into his room. If he were leaving today, he wanted it safe from Spencer and Damien. Or at least as safe as he could make it.
At his accustomed time, Lance locked his bedroom door. He took just a moment to look around the vastly improved, though noticeably empty, apartment. This would be what it would look like if Lance didn't live here anymore. Well, no, Spencer would trash it in less than two days, but that too would be a testament of Lance's departure. This place – it held no warmth for him anymore. Lance no longer fit; there was nothing for him here. He zipped up his coat and grabbed his backpack, ready for the chilly pre-dawn walk to the ER, checking his phone the entire way.
The hours of anxiety from the moment Keith had called hung heavily off Lance by the time he reached the nurse's station. There is only so long a human can hold to that type of stress, and Lance was running out of energy before his day had even started. Yet he couldn't let go of it completely. The questions wouldn't stop. Had they found Keith? Was he ok? Where were they taking him? When would Shiro know more, know enough to merit calling Lance with an update? Would Lance ever see Keith again? How long had it been since that phone call? Did Lance have his ring tone volume up enough so he would hear if a call came in? He checked for the three hundredth time that morning. Yes, still up all the way. It's just that no one had called.
"Morning, Lance," Dr. Delacroix greeted him as usual, her voice and pace brisk as she joined him from her office, as if this were just another day, unaware of anything that was going on in Lance's life. Lance still held his phone, and he found himself unable to lift his eyes from it. He'd been thinking so hard about what could be happening where Keith was that he hadn't prepared for what he was going to tell Angelique. And now that she was standing in front of him, his throat cinched up so tight he wasn't sure he'd be able to say anything at all.
"M-morning," he managed, deliberately easing his phone into his scrubs pocket. The volume is all the way up, he told himself. You don't have to check that again. You will hear when Shiro calls. And he will call. Now it's time to focus on something else. Focus so you don't collapse.
"Lance." Angelique turned his name into a demand, suddenly on high alert. "What is it?" Caught. His posture and voice had given him away that he was not in a good place at the moment. He hadn't been able to keep it from her today. "What happened?"
He shook his head. Dr. Delacroix had better things to do than listen to him whine about his problems. Especially when there wasn't anything to be done for them. Keith was halfway across the world. Lance couldn't get there in time, maybe couldn't get there at all. He hadn't slept enough, and he was certain that he'd dramatically increased the hostility in his apartment by what he'd done this morning, but what else was new? None of these issues were hers. They had other things they needed to pay attention to. But he did need to ask her permission to keep his phone, which meant he'd have to tell her at least part of it. Which meant he'd have to say it out loud. Without breaking down. He could already feel exhausted tears stinging the corners of his eyes. This was going to be a challenge.
"Lance," Angelique repeated, unused to him not answering her. "Tell me what's wrong."
"K -," an extremely painful challenge. Keith's name felt tangled around Lance's heart, clamped around it like barbed wire. Trying to say it just clenched it down. "Keith called me early this morning," Lance got out in one rushed breath. Then he had to inhale and steady himself for the next awful sentences. "He's . . hurt, but I don't know how bad. His plane went down som – somewhere." God, this was so hard. One more breath should do it. Angelique stood patiently quiet, which was good. If she said anything, if she moved at all, it would break Lance's resolve. "I'm waiting to hear if he's ok. Can I keep my phone with me?"
Now it was Angelique's turn to take a breath, a very audible one as she considered how she wanted to proceed. Lance still couldn't look at her. He knew he'd just put her into a difficult position. He wasn't supposed to have his cell phone on him while he worked. Nothing should distract him from the intensity of the ER. But maybe he could do paperwork like he had yesterday morning. Maybe he could stock cabinets. Hell, he would gladly scrub every nook and cranny of this place with a toothbrush if that's what it took. But two things were certain. Lance needed his phone, and he needed something to do. He didn't want her to send him home to wait.
"Let me see your hands," Angelique insisted before she answered him. Obediently, Lance put them forward, and this time he didn't try to hide the tremor. His entire soul was shaking; he couldn't hide it today. He knew that even if he were to convince her in these first few minutes, the following hours would reveal his lie. Waiting for this call would be the worst kind of distraction, and Lance knew he wouldn't be able to pay attention to anything else. Not the way he would need to pay attention. He knew it, but he also knew he wanted to stay right here in the ER, stay in Angelique's sure and protective shadow. He wanted to be near her certainty, her strength. Needed to borrow it for a while.
Angelique sighed as she pressed her thumbs into the undersides of his wrists, a gentle and familiar touch. Lance waited for her judgment with his head bowed, wishing he could beg her for things she could not give him. Lance glanced at the triage room, the one he'd stayed in with Keith, the one that slowed his steps when he passed it even now, years later. Angelique noticed the shift of his gaze.
"Does he even know?" She asked him quietly. "That you've dedicated yourself to him so completely?"
"That doesn't matter," Lance responded, voice many times stronger than before, stronger than he even felt. That was a choice I made. It's not his fault that he can't respond. But I'm still his best friend; he said so himself. And when he's in pain, he knows I will fix it. I'll stand by him no matter what. Except this time. He went too far. Lance couldn't reach him. "He has to be ok," Lance whispered, the prayer that Shiro had asked for, all the energy and faith he had left going into the words. He just has to be.
"Come with me," Angelique invited, gentler than Lance expected, and still not answering the question of whether or not he could keep his phone. She tugged on the sleeve of his scrubs, but he'd learned a long time ago to follow her without question. She led him through the ER doors, giving a quick explanation to one of the nurses that she'd be back in a few minutes and to page her if necessary. The route she took through the hospital corridors was a new one to Lance, which surprised him. He thought he knew everything about this place.
Similar to the ER, a security guard manned the entrance to the wing where Angelique led them, but he accepted Angelique's credentials and allowed them both through the doors. Once on the other side, Lance knew where she'd taken him. The pastel murals painted on the hallway walls gave it away. Giraffes, pandas, lions – matching pairs of mothers and babies. Angelique had brought him to labor and delivery, which they marched past pretty quickly on their way to an even more secure part of the hospital with another set of locked and guarded doors. The NICU.
"Wait here," Angelique said firmly, physically placing Lance out of the way of the door but not fully into the room. He did as he was told, though he did gaze around at all the incubators and bassinettes. The massive amounts of equipment that it took to recreate the environment of a womb. There were clouds and rainbows painted on the ceiling. Why had Angelique brought him here? He watched carefully, trying to pin his attention on what was going on, as Angelique got the attention of the head nurse in charge of the unit at the moment. Lance didn't recognize her, but why should he? He'd never been here before.
She wore petal pink scrubs and also had a streak of bright pink in her otherwise dark brown hair. She had her glasses resting on top of her head, looking like an extremely capable, but also soft and warm person. The kind of matron who would cuff you on the ear one moment and then hug you too tight the next. She seemed to recognize Angelique, joining her easily in the center of the room. They stood close to each other, the NICU nurse with her hand around Angelique's waist as she leaned in so Angelique could explain what she was doing here. Angelique stood still, remarkably accommodating to the nurse's lack of respect for personal space. Lance wished Angelique had mentioned to him what was going on before their arrival so he wouldn't be standing to the side so awkwardly. But he'd been around Angelique long enough to know that wasn't how she worked.
After a minute, Angelique leaned back to beckon Lance over, and he wearily went to her side. He lacked the energy to even be truly curious as to what was going on. His thoughts were far away. On the sands where Keith might have lost his plane. Angelique took his wrist securely in one hand. She held hands with the NICU nurse with the other, as though physically bridging a gap between them.
"Lance, this is Connie Pierce," Angelique began the introduction. "She's been in charge of the NICU since I started working here." Lance blinked in surprise at that. Connie didn't look that much older than Angelique. It was possible that they could have been students together, which would explain the familiarity between them. But it didn't explain what Lance was doing here.
"Connie, this is my grad student, Lance McClain," Angelique continued. "He may have to leave unexpectedly today, so I don't want him to get trapped in the ER, but while he's here, I thought maybe you could use him for touch therapy."
"We'd be glad to have him," Connie responded, her voice and eyes full of kind understanding. Full of what Angelique had whispered to her before she'd called Lance over.
"Excellent," Angelique said, as though they'd just sealed some sort of agreement. She turned her attention to Lance, still holding his wrist. "If you do need to leave, please come see me before you go. I'd also like an update." She squeezed him gently, her tiger eyes as fierce as they always were, but as Lance looked into them, he could see all that she wasn't saying out loud. Which shocked him. He didn't think he could do that anymore.
This is the best I can do for you, she told him with the pressure of her fingertips, the gold of her eyes. She had taken him to a room full of new life, of the strongest survivalists that she knew. She'd brought him here, where he would need to be calm and restful, since babies pick up on emotions faster and stronger in the beginning than at any other time in their lives. She'd brought him to a place where he could be still and focus, where he could give and receive comfort. This is the only way I know of to help you through this.
"Thank you, Doña," Lance whispered.
She nodded, breaking eye contact, as though Lance had somehow overwhelmed her. She moved toward the door, lifting her hand and resting it momentarily on his shoulder on her way by. There was another message in the touch. She wanted Lance back. Because even though she didn't teach regular classes, even though she made students cry, even though there were so many rumors about how merciless and brutal Dr. Delacroix could be, she had chosen Lance. Invested into him and believed in him. And Lance heard what she had said to him a long time ago in her office, the day he'd come to the ER in the ambulance with Keith. It would be a shame to lose you. She looked as though she thought he might be gone already. He didn't want to be responsible for that. He'd . . .he'd have to try harder.
"Doña," he called after her. She looked over her shoulder, waiting, but he didn't know what to say. "It . . .it'll be fine," he forced out, more a wish than a reassurance. She gave him a sad, long-suffering smile. Like she was remembering something that pained her.
"That's right," she acknowledged, and then she was gone. Lance wanted to follow her almost as badly as he wished he were at Keith's side right now. But he knew he'd just be in her way today. That it would distract her to watch his suffering just as much as it was distracting Lance to worry about Keith. Her solution seemed the best. At least she hadn't sent him home.
Connie had Lance scrub up as though he were about to perform brain surgery. Scrub up and then gown up, which made sense. The neonates in the NICU may be some of the hardest fighters, but they were also the most fragile. Once he was clean, he was directed to a rocking chair and told what he could and couldn't do with a baby in his arms. It was quite basic, really. She would bring a baby to him, and he would sit there and cuddle it. That's it. Don't get up. He was told to alert one of the nurses if the infant became distressed or if Lance needed to leave. Then she brought over a three-pound baby girl. Born at twenty-nine weeks, doing well but still needing to gain quite a bit of weight and learn good feeding skills before she could go home. Her name was Elle.
Lance arranged her against his chest, careful of her feeding tube that was taped against her cheek. Connie draped a blanket over them and then left to take care of her numerous other duties. Lance tilted his chin down to look at Elle, at her cloudy, cross-eyed gaze and her inability to control the muscles of her mouth. It made him want to cry. And laugh.
At first, Lance didn't know if he could handle this, rocking slowly, allowing warmth to build between his and her bodies. He knew when he sat down that he would feel trapped, that it would drive him crazy to sit still as he waited for his phone to ring. And for the first little while, it was like that. Lance's imagination kept throwing dark and terrifying images at him of where Keith might be, what he might be going through right now. They were so strong that Lance's muscles would cramp up in the chair, and his sudden stiffness would disturb Elle. He had to relax for her comfort. So he closed his eyes and focused on her softness, the scent of her head that was biologically engineered to prompt him to hold her closer. It worked. He snuggled her securely, breathing her in, and she lowered his blood pressure. Angelique was a genius.
It'll be fine, he'd told Angelique, not really knowing why he even thought she needed to hear it. Or maybe he needed to tell it to himself. Hours went by. Lance held Elle, then Jason, Antonio, Amelia, and Simone. Four pounds. Two pounds, ten ounces. Feeding tubes. Breathing apparatus. Monitors for oxygen and pulse and temperature. Cannulas and crocheted lace blankets. Strong, hummingbird-fast hearts thumping against his chest. Life.
Lance stroked their heads, gently touched their tiny noses, let them grip his little finger, stared into their miniature faces, and he thought about Keith. Prayed for Keith. Wished for Keith. The stillness of the rocking chair, the flow of the nurses, promoted an environment of peace and logic. An atmosphere where Lance could think clearly. Lance remembered that no news was likely good news. If Shiro hadn't called, it meant that Keith was still alive. He may be in surgery. He may be in transport. But he was still alive. And suddenly the phone not ringing wasn't such a terrible thing. As long as it didn't make a sound, Lance could tell himself that somewhere on the earth, Keith was still breathing. His heart beating just like the ones against Lance's ribs. The heartbeat Lance had monitored the most. Fighting, certainly, but Keith had always been a good fighter.
Connie asked him if he needed a break, if he wanted to go eat something, but he shook his head. Before, he'd wanted to run, move as fast as possible. Now he didn't want to break the spell of quiet that this chair had granted him. He didn't want to ruin this. He almost didn't want the phone to ring.
"Let me know," Connie told him before leaving again. He watched her move around the room, taking vitals, administering formula and medications, taking notes on her clipboard. Parents came in with soft voices and whispers. They sat beside the bassinettes and gazed with worried adoration at their children. It was sweet to watch. Familiar to Lance to see how pain and love mingled in their gestures, how their eagerness to touch conflicted with the hesitation that something could break if they tried. He watched the practiced movements of the nurses stepping in to assist in those transitions, picking up babies with all their attached equipment and placing them into ready embraces.
Lance was holding a petite, blonde baby recovering from heart surgery named Madison when her mother came in. The woman arrived in a protective, guilty storm, and she eyed Lance suspiciously. He wanted to jump up and trade spots with her, but he'd been given strict orders to stay still. You do not stand up with an infant. We will come to you. Madison's mother washed her hands while Connie smiled through the explanation that Lance was here to volunteer, wasn't that wonderful, to give Madison the soft touch she needed while her mother was taking care of her older children. And even though the mother also smiled and thanked him, Lance could tell that she wasn't happy about it. That she didn't want to be separated from her girl, didn't like that she had to rely on others to take care of her. Lance understood completely. Even though he had done nothing wrong, he was still a stranger. He felt the same about whoever was with Keith right now. Others were taking care of Keith, but they couldn't do it the way Lance could. Even if it was Shiro, Lance still wanted to be there. Wished they weren't separated. That they had never been separated.
He gave up his rocking chair to Madison's mother, the stiffness in his legs and back as he stood letting him know that he probably should take a break. Take a quick walk. Get a drink. Maybe see what Angelique was doing. See if she was ok. Tell her thank you again for what she'd done for him. Not just this morning either.
"Headed out?" Connie asked when she saw Lance removing his protective gown and mask.
"I . . .think so," Lance said, slowly, as though he were waking up. Could he leave the protection of this place? Did he have the strength to go back outside? Back to his apartment? He must; he couldn't stay here forever, though it was a cozy temptation.
"Thanks for your time. You're on our volunteer list now, too, so feel free to come back whenever you like. We can always use a good cuddler in here."
"Thank you," Lance responded, grateful for this invitation. Did she even know what she was giving him there? Permission to escape under the guise of helpfulness. The way she smiled indicated that she might. Lance wondered what Angelique had told her.
He wandered through the hospital hallways, slowly at first but gaining speed and resolve as he went. The phone remained silent in his pocket. When he returned to the ER, Angelique was in the middle of treating a preschooler who had fallen from some playground equipment. From the looks of it, he'd made a mess of his face, but head wounds bled a lot, so it would take a good cleaning before the actual injuries and their true severity became apparent. He was also screaming in terror, so that didn't help. Lance hesitated briefly in the hall before inviting himself in to assist. He was ready now.
Angelique glanced at him, so he quickly showed her his steady hands. She nodded him forward to take her place so she could move on to the next thing. Lance quickly put on some gloves along with the biggest smile he could manage and soon had the little boy laughing as he finished cleaning his face. He hadn't knocked out any of his teeth, or broken any bones, and it seemed a couple of butterfly bandaids were going to do the trick on the worst cut on his forehead. Angelique checked Lance's work before she let the boy and his mother go home.
"Keith's ok then?" She asked him in the quiet moments that followed, placing the file for the boy on the desk at the nurse's station to deal with later.
"I haven't heard yet," Lance said, something inside him cracking slightly as he allowed himself to think about it. He's still alive, he told himself. Shiro would have called by now if he weren't. He's alive and he's going to stay alive and you're going to keep moving. As if those things were related somehow.
Angelique studied him, eyes scanning him up and down as though checking him for injury. Like she wanted to ask him if he were ok but knew better than to damage the control it had taken him six hours in the NICU to find. She didn't look as sure as she normally did, and Lance thought he understood her hesitancy. He'd shown her weakness two mornings in a row, shown her that he was breaking inside. If that continued, she could take away the only thing he had left, the only thing keeping him together. He knew she was thinking about it. Whether or not he was strong enough to handle her career.
And even though he knew he was a horrible person, Lance was grateful for the student who showed up to the ER at that moment presenting with symptoms of spontaneous pneumothorax. It broke past whatever Angelique might have wanted to say. They spent the remainder of Lance's strange shift repairing the collapsing lung and sending the patient to recover on the third floor, a line of stitches down the side of his chest. Of course, it had all just postponed the conversation. As soon as they were finished, they were once again standing at the nurse's station. Though Lance felt as though he'd just proved a point. He could be worried about Keith and be alert in a triage room at the same time.
"Well done, Lance," Angelique complimented him on his work with the lung. He'd taken records, monitored vitals closely, and done his best to anticipate which tools to put in her hands before she called for them. She hadn't had to ask for much of anything in there.
"Thanks," he said, sort of awkward now, the triumph of the successful treatment fading. It was time to go home. His least favorite part of the day. He wished she'd ask him to stay, wished something else urgent would walk through that door that would demand both of their attention. It made him uncomfortable to wish for someone else's suffering like that though. He shouldn't want to inflict pain on a stranger just so he could distract himself from his own.
"Lance," she started but then snapped her mouth shut. She breathed in a quick little huff of impatience and then went forward as if she'd just won a battle with herself. "You call me, understand? For anything. It doesn't matter what time it is; I want to hear from you. Will you do that?"
"Ok," Lance agreed, and even though he was used to her ferocity, she'd put him off balance with the intensity of her request. "I'll call as soon as I get some information."
"No, Lance," she shook her head. "Don't get me wrong; I do want to hear about Keith. I am concerned about him, but I'm more concerned about you. Call me for anything. All right?"
"Yeah," Lance said, though he couldn't see himself doing that. Not to Angelique. He needed her respect. Needed to make sure he lived up to the standard of being her first grad student in a decade. He got asked about it daily. Other grad students, undergrads, sometimes even staff or faculty. They always came at him with the same expression, the same questions. Hey, they say that you're Dr. Delacroix's student, is that true? No! Isn't she mean? Doesn't she scare you? How'd you do it? She never takes students. Did you hear what happened to the last one? He tried to ignore all of it. The crude suggestions of what he might have done to ingratiate himself in her favor. The praise of what his skills must be like in order to have gained her attention. Whether the comments were good or bad, none of what they said mattered. But Dr. Delacroix's opinion of him mattered more than anything. He didn't know what he'd do if he disappointed her enough that she reconsidered. Which meant that he would call with an update on Keith and keep his other problems to himself. Keep his home life at home and away from his studies.
He'd have to learn eventually anyway. Angelique was offering support now, but it wasn't like she would always be there. It wasn't like anyone would ever be there. He was on his own for this, so he'd better figure it out. Like a professional.
So he forced himself to stand straight after putting on his coat and backpack. He promised her again that he would call her, and then he walked out of the ER as though he had no dread at all in his heart.
But just because he couldn't stay at the ER didn't mean he had to go home yet. Lance didn't want to think about what might be waiting for him at home. Idiot, he chastised himself. You really thought you'd be leaving the country this morning, didn't you? Honestly thought you'd go pick up that suitcase and you'd be with Keith tonight. It had seemed the only natural thing to do; Lance had been so sure that's what would happen. The fact that the sun was on its way down and he still hadn't received a phone call only emphasized how stupid that hope had been.
Lance walked in the direction of Stony Island, but with no intention of going there yet. He passed Snell-Hitchcock where he'd first found Keith. He walked through the quad and past the turnoff that he'd normally take when he'd meet Allura at Hallowed Grounds. He hadn't been there once since she'd left. He walked past his own apartment building, glancing up to where he knew his bedroom window was, remembering a cold January night where Pidge had stood in this same spot, looking up at that same window. The light had been on then.
He continued walking east, past the closed Museum grounds, and all the way toward the lake. It wasn't too cold or dark yet that he was outside alone; there was still the occasional runner or dog-walker on the path that paralleled the shoreline. In the summer, this area was full of life. Bright green grass, well-tended trees, multitudes of people on the paths and on the water. But this was mid-September, and the evenings carried the promise of winter. The lake was no longer sparkling; it churned in grayscale, its very appearance chilling the shore. The grass was turning brown, patches of dead leaves everywhere. Despite the coming night, Lance sat down on a bench anyway, looking out into the darkening waves.
He thought about contacting Hunk and Pidge, letting them know what had happened. But wouldn't that be cruel to share the incomplete information he had? Or maybe they already knew. It always seemed Lance was the last to learn about things happening with Keith. He could call Allura, but he didn't want to bother her either. So he simply sat and stared at the lake, comparing it unfavorably to the beaches of his childhood. He sat with the phone in his hands, not calling anyone, not moving.
Hunger clawed at his insides with almost more intensity than the worry in his throat. He hadn't eaten anything today, just some coffee this morning. But the thought of a peanut butter sandwich wasn't all that enticing either. Nor was the idea of getting something while he was out. Lance wanted a very specific thing, craved it, yearned for it. That want deadened his desire for everything else. So he stayed where he was.
The sun went down, and it grew cold enough that Lance finally determined that he'd rather hide in his warm room than remain on this bench. He was in the process of standing, of sliding his arms through the familiar straps of his backpack, when his phone finally rang.
He stared at it for a second, confused, Shiro's name appeared bright against the new dark. Once it registered that Shiro was in fact calling him as he'd promised, Lance hesitated one more ring, debating on whether or not he could handle bad news right now. By the third ring, he'd reconciled that even if Shiro had the worst news, it wouldn't help to wait for it. He wouldn't be able to hide from it for long. He'd been impatient for this call all day, and now he had to accept it.
Resigned, Lance plopped back onto the bench sideways, drawing his knees up to his chest, taking a breath as though he were going to jump into the frigid lake.
"Shiro?" He asked, amazed at the hope and terror in his voice, especially since it had been so many hours since he'd last made a sound.
"He's ok, Lance," Shiro told him immediately, knowing exactly what Lance would need to hear. Except Lance could detect something in Shiro's tone. Something that made him unsure. Not a lie, just something that he wasn't saying.
"What does ok look like?" Lance returned, not demanding, but had Shiro forgotten that Lance had spoken with Keith this morning? He'd heard that he wasn't ok. What Shiro meant was that Keith was alive, and Lance would definitely take that, but ok was quite a stretch. "Where are you? Are you with him? Can I talk to him?"
"I'm with him, but he's sleeping. We're in Germany; it's a little after one in the morning here."
Germany. Lance wondered where Shiro had been the last time they'd been on the phone together. How many hours it had taken for him to get to Keith. Lance wished he could have gone with him. Wished he was there with him now. Wished Shiro would wake Keith up so Lance could talk to him anyway.
"What happened?" Lance pressed, wanting to get a clearer picture. Shiro didn't seem able to answer, emphasizing Lance's suspicions about what ok meant. "Shiro?"
"A lot of what Keith does is classified, Lance," Shiro gave the frustrating disclaimer. "I won't be able to answer many of the questions you probably have."
"Got it," Lance acknowledged, his voice trembling. His hand wiped at his eyes before he even knew there were tears there. Of course you can't tell me anything. I'm nothing to Keith. Except he called me. "Well, thanks so much for the update. Maybe we can chat again in a couple months if you think you can find the time." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it.
"Calm down," Shiro chastened him, sounding more like a soldier than anything else. Also tired. Lance knew he was being uncooperative and selfish, but he'd spent all day waiting for this call. Spent all day trying not to succumb to terror. Spent a lot of his nights wondering why Keith didn't talk to him. "I'm sorry you felt ignored, but this is the first chance I've had all day to contact you."
"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, knowing that Shiro didn't deserve anything he'd just said. He wrote Lance regular emails, gave him updates all the time when he could. Probably gave him more information than he was technically supposed to. Shiro and Allura were the best at maintaining contact. Keith was the worst. "I . . . it's been a long day."
"For all of us; I know," Shiro soothed while simultaneously reminding Lance that he'd also had an exhausting and worried day. Just on the other side of everything. The way Lance had been the first time they'd gone through something like this with Keith and Shiro had been the one in the background waiting for updates. He'd handled it much better than Lance.
"So," Lance gently inserted, trying to switch the topic back to Keith, make amends for his outburst. "What does ok look like?"
"I don't understand what you mean," Shiro responded, sounding edgy, frustrated.
"I mean I know he was hurt so what are his injuries?" Lance clarified, keeping his voice soft, undemanding. Or at least trying to; he could feel his words starting to catch flame as they left his mouth. "If you can't tell me what happened, can you at least tell me that?"
"Are you sure you want me to - "
"Yes," Lance said firmly before Shiro could finish. Yes, he wanted all of those details. Heart rate, blood pressure. He wanted Shiro to get Keith's chart and just read it all to Lance. If he had that information, he could put together for himself what had happened.
"Right – forgot who I was talking to," Shiro said, defeated, and Lance could hear how much he didn't want to repeat the damage to Keith's body. But how else would Lance even have an idea of what had happened? What sort of recovery Keith was looking at? How long and in what capacity he could return. Shiro took a preparatory breath. "They're being careful with his spine and neck, but nothing looks broken on the X-rays. They're worried since he carried . . ." Shiro paused, as if reconsidering giving Lance that information. Lance had to let it go as Shiro moved on. "They had to give him two units of blood and treat him for shock and heat exhaustion. And he has . . when they . . .he's just a mess, Lance. Nothing life threatening or anything, but they had to put in over sixty stitches." Shiro paused to recover, and Lance squinted, trying to imagine what all those stitches could be for.
"Explosion debris?" Lance guessed. If Keith's plane had been shot down, that was the most likely scenario. "Broken glass?"
"Yes," Shiro confirmed, sounding relieved that Lance had put that together on his own. "He's pretty torn up, some places deeper than others. He . . I think he'll have at least one scar on his face."
"Like yours?" Lance prompted, remembering the slash across the bridge of Shiro's nose, the small gash that dipped into his eyebrow.
"Worse than mine," Shiro responded. Lance nodded, accepting that. Not really caring about scars. So long as Keith was breathing, Lance would never care what he looked like. But if debris and broken glass had shot into Keith's face, that was a concern for other things.
"What about his eyes?" Lance pushed just a little more, assembling these facts into a picture of Keith sleeping on a military hospital bed in Germany.
"His eyes are fine; no injuries," Shiro answered quickly, as though happy to give at least a little good news. Though, really, it all sounded ok. Blood loss, stitches, probably swelling and bruising but no broken bones. Possible whiplash or exposure. Injuries that would take a few weeks to heal in a safe environment with ready access to antibiotics. Weeks. Not months. Not years. It made Lance wonder why Shiro sounded so gloomy. Unless there was something he was leaving out. Or maybe he was just tired. He likely hadn't planned on an emergency trip to Germany today.
"Are you all right?" Lance asked him, hearing the drooping heaviness on the other line, shame creeping in on him as he remembered lashing out earlier in their conversation. Now that he was secure about Keith, Lance could focus on other things, enlarge his capacity for sympathy. Shiro tried to laugh, but it came out too forced.
"I just wish Keith hadn't been so good at being a pilot," Shiro confessed, and Lance immediately understood what Shiro meant. The best pilots were rewarded with the most dangerous missions. Lousy pilots flew cargo carriers. Most members of the Air Force never flew a fighter jet at all. Lance suspected that Keith was part of the Air Force elite. And he hated that even as he was extremely proud of him. Because with Keith it was nothing but conflicting emotions all the time.
"Well," Lance replied, sad. "I don't know how it could have been any other way. He always wanted to be just like you."
"God save him," Shiro muttered, not accepting the attempted compliment, then made a shushing sound. Lance tuned in, immediately attentive. Because he could hear Keith now that Shiro had drawn attention to the background noise. Still sleeping, but not well. Not peacefully. His mind working through the trauma of what had happened to him during the only moments Keith was unguarded enough for it to process outside his will. Lance curled up on the bench as he listened to Keith cry, helpless and desperate.
"Lance," Shiro began, and Lance knew he was about to be cut off. Dismissed. Which would have been ok before he'd heard what Keith was doing. Now it would haunt him. He was a little too connected to that sound, to the feeling behind it, though it had been so long since he'd heard it last. At least, outside of his own mind.
"Let me talk to him, Shiro," Lance requested, fiercely.
"Another time," Shiro said, as though he were in a hurry to free his hands in order to soothe Keith.
"No, wait, Shiro," Lance begged quickly, rushing to get the words out before Shiro disconnected the call. "Please, let me help."
"I don't think," Shiro sighed, stopping again before completing some distressing truth or secret that Lance wasn't supposed to know. Lance stood from the bench in a frustrated jerk, gripping the edge of it hard, his back hunching over. Don't think what? That it will work? That it's a good idea? How would they know if he didn't let Lance try? Keith had called him. He'd reached out to him this morning first. Lance discovered he hadn't fully let go of his anger about this yet. How he was always the last to know, the p.s. on the email.
"Shiro, what's the big deal? Why are you protecting him from me?" Lance demanded, not even sure where that question had come from until it was past his lips. But it was a release to say it. Because he did feel that way. As though Lance were being deliberately separated from Keith, and not just right now. Lance had always blamed the military for this, for making Keith practically impossible to find and contact, but maybe that wasn't true. But then what was all that talk at the wedding? About how people end up where they are supposed to be, with the people they are supposed to be with? But that was all philosophy and conspiracy theories for another time. Keith needed him. Before Shiro hung up.
"Put me on speaker, Shiro," Lance said once more, as though he had any power over Shiro, as though he could prevent him from leaving Lance stranded by this bench with just the strength of his voice an entire ocean away. "He called me first." He had to repeat that. Had to remind himself that it was true – that phone call, those few words they'd exchanged this morning. It felt like it had happened to someone else. But it hadn't. Keith had called him.
"Lance," Shiro sounded as though he wanted to tell him something important but couldn't. Some inarticulatable secret. Some forbidden wish. Something else Lance would ponder during the nights that would follow, the nights he couldn't sleep. The nights he wished he could disappear into the waves that blacked out his vision if he looked out over them, hearing their motions but unable to see.
"You can hang up on me if it doesn't work," Lance told him coldly. "But at least let me try. I've done it before."
"All right," Shiro caved, and while he didn't sound angry, there was something defensive in the tone. Because he was protecting Keith, just like he'd been doing since Keith was twelve. Lance didn't understand it, but he knew that Shiro had devoted himself to sparing Keith any kind of pain. And somehow that included keeping him away from Lance. Which didn't make sense, but at least Lance had gotten past the barricade today. At least if it seemed that he could help Keith in any way with just his words, his voice. Maybe it wasn't enough anymore. Maybe Shiro was right. "Go ahead."
Lance changed his grip on the phone, loosening it, cradling it. He remained bowed over the bench, but this time more reverently. Everything in him softening as he prepared to comfort his friend. The way he'd done it a long time ago.
"Lobito," Lance addressed Keith with the name he'd given him the first time they'd met. He wasn't sure how accurate it still was – if Keith even remotely resembled the lost and lonely wolf cub that Lance had found in the apartment. Probably not; Keith was an elite fighter pilot now. The word may not fit Keith anymore, but Lance knew that Keith would associate that name with him. No one called him that except Lance. "Calm down, now; you're safe. I'm here with you. You're going to be fine. You can rest now."
Lance continued in Spanish, knowing that Keith had always liked hearing him speak his own language, knowing that neither Keith nor Shiro would understand a word of it but could drift on the lilt and tone. The waves. The truth. He could tell Keith the truth, in a language that was pure and clear to him but indecipherable to the sleeping Keith.
"God, I miss you," Lance told him. "I call you all the time, but never hit send because I know you're busy. I know you're really far away even if no one ever tells me where. I shouldn't have let you go. I should have told you everything. Pidge said I'd regret it. She's . . .she's always right, you know?" He continued, pouring his heart out to the boy he loved most in the world. The boy he could never tell any of this to if he were awake, never speak these words in a language he could understand. "I can't stand that this is the only way I can talk to you. That you had to get hurt and I had to convince Shiro to even let me try to calm you down. Why is that, Lobito? Why don't we ever talk? It's been years since we've talked. You asked me not to forget you when we said good-bye at the airport, and I can't. Can't forget how I feel about you, can't change it or replace it. I tried. Tried with the most beautiful, amazing girl in the world, and it wasn't enough. You're all I want, and you're the only thing I can't have. I should have told you that. Should have told you I loved you when I had the chance. But that's my problem, isn't it? That's nothing you have to worry about. Never for my sake."
But would Lance's life been different if he had said these things? If he'd said the words he was saying now? Or would Keith have shied away, fled from him faster and farther. Lance couldn't forget why he'd held back in the first place. That doubt. That fear. The risk. Better to have it this way, right? Where Keith sent him letters, however infrequent, considered them friends. Better this than nothing. Better indifference and distance than contempt.
"Sleep now," Lance told Keith, his heart emptied of all it had been holding. His hands were shaking, but this time Lance wasn't sure why. "Get better. Call me tomorrow so we can talk when you're awake, all right? I'd . . I'd really like that."
His voice was breaking, his body weak now that Lance had finally managed to give voice to all the emotions he'd been holding. It felt good to say them. It hurt to say them. Hurt enough that Lance didn't think he could continue. Fortunately, it seemed that he'd succeeded in his intentions. Shiro came back on the line, whispering, satisfied.
"Thanks, Lance," Shiro acknowledged quietly. "I don't know what you said, but he's still now."
"Call again if you need to," Lance prompted, his voice shaking along with his hands, tears on his face that he hadn't noticed before just this second. "Don't worry about the time or anything. Now that we know it works, I can talk him down again if he needs it." Whenever he needs it. Every time he needs it. I'm not going to hurt him, Shiro. I thought you knew that. He's safe with me.
"Get some rest, then," Shiro recommended. "Keep your phone close."
"You too," Lance returned. Because they both sounded ragged and worn, more than a little frayed at the edges.
"Copy," Shiro said in farewell, leaving Lance where he'd started. Alone on the edge of Lake Michigan, the night surrounding him. Lance took a deep breath, holding the phone close to his chest. Well, Pidge, he thought, I did it. Told Keith exactly how I feel about him. He tried to snicker as he imagined her rolling her eyes about the lie in that truth, but it came out much closer to crying. Lance looked west, where his apartment sat two miles away. He gave one last longing look toward the cold waves, wishing they were different, that everything was different, before finally gathering himself enough to begin the walk back.
He remembered halfway there that he'd promised to update Dr. Delacroix. He sent her a text instead of calling her, not trusting his voice anymore. His emotions were too unstable right now. The distance, the relief, the confession – everything inside him wobbly and strange, weighted and yet empty at the same time. The night pierced him with chill, which followed him all the way past his front door.
The apartment itself was warm, but the welcome Lance received was not. Normally, Lance and Spencer did their best to ignore each other. As few words as possible. No eye contact, even when they were practically on top of each other in the hall, tripping over each other in the kitchen. It was easiest to pretend that they were alone in the apartment, no matter how obvious the evidence to the contrary. But that had been before this morning when Lance had changed the dynamic. Had apparently given permission for open warfare instead of simmering hostility.
"Aw shit," Spencer whined the moment Lance was through the door. "The freak's here."
Spencer exchanged a gaping, arrogant smile with Damien, who was tuning his base without any real enthusiasm. They both glared at Lance, who was trying to keep his posture straight as he walked past them, trying to pretend he didn't hear them or see them – the way he'd done before.
"You're late," Spencer informed him, as if Lance didn't already know that. Though he was slightly surprised that Spencer took note of his presence enough that he could tell. "We were kind of hoping that you'd moved out and weren't coming back."
"Looks like neither of us is getting what we want today," Lance muttered, shaking his head, almost past the living room, one more step to the end of the couch. Something heavy smacked into him between his shoulders, and he felt a rush of something sticky and wet splatter against his coat and the back of his neck. An open soda can dropped to the floor, and Lance took just a second to glare behind him at Spencer and Damien. He wasn't sure which of them had thrown it; they looked equally vicious and pleased with themselves. Lance wanted to murder them both.
"What? You mad now? I thought you were into throwing stuff?" Spencer challenged, but it was Damien who had his hands tensing into fists. Lance turned away from them without comment.
"That's what I thought. Go on. Go hide in your room," Spencer dismissed him, since both of them knew that there wasn't anything Lance could do about what had just happened. Not with Damien here. "No one wants you out here anyway."
Lance swore at them in Spanish, tainting his voice darker than he ever had before. He wished Keith were here. Wished he had a fraction of Keith's courage. Spencer looked as though he wanted to retaliate but didn't know how. Lance disappeared into his room before anyone could say or do anything else. Though he'd have to sneak out later and clean the soda from his coat and backpack.
Spencer started drumming, the pace and violence of it a message to Lance more than an actual song or beat. Lance rested against his closed and locked bedroom door, insisting to his racing heart that he was safe and there was no way they were going to fight right now. Though he rather wanted to. He took off his backpack and coat, inspecting the damage. Just a splash, but the idea that Spencer was now brash enough to throw things at Lance's head was a problem. Lance probably should have given it more thought when he was slamming trash against Spencer's bedroom door this morning.
Dr. Delacroix texted him back, her words quick and efficient. She was glad to hear Keith was ok. She emphasized again that if Lance needed anything he should give her a call. She said that she would see him in the morning. She repeated Shiro's instruction to get some rest. Lance sat on his floor, braced against the side of his bed with his coat in his lap, staring at his phone. She'd said to call her . . . but what would he even say? What could he say that wouldn't make it seem like he was a whining child who couldn't figure out his own issues?
He didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke in the dark slumped to his side on the floor with his phone still loosely clasped in his hand. He was stiff, sticky, and starving. His phone helpfully supplied him with the time – four thirty in the morning again. His new natural waking point, but it helped to move around the apartment long before Spencer was awake. It gave Lance the opportunity to wash his coat and clean up his backpack, take a shower to get the soda out of his own hair and off the back of his neck. He set up the coffeemaker on his desk and started it brewing. He looked at the packed suitcase, thinking of putting things back where they should go, but he decided against it. There was no need to unpack; he was still leaving. He may not be flying to Germany or anything, but he had to shift the living arrangements. He wanted to be ready to go the second something became available. He had to find something.
The only bright spot of the morning arrived when Lance was on his way out. He'd left way earlier than he needed to, but he didn't want Spencer to catch him outside his room. He walked slowly down the hall, down the stairs, thinking about maybe ducking into the lounge for a while, maybe closing his eyes for a bit before heading to the ER. Because he needed to look fresh and ready, needed to look as though he had rested.
He did end up in the lounge, to give himself some privacy to answer his phone, which started ringing just as he hit the ground floor. It surprised him. So many calls in such a short amount of time. And he couldn't help but smile when he saw who it was, forgetting all the darkness of the previous night, the discomfort of the morning.
"Keith," Lance breathed, sounding a little too relieved but too happy to care. "Hey Lobito, how are you?"
"I'm good," Keith answered, automatically, and just like with Shiro, Lance could hear that there was more to what he said than his words. He did sound all right, properly dosed with pain medication, in a controlled environment. Lance allowed himself the amusing thought of how cagey Keith was going to get as he healed. When all those stitches itched like crazy and he wasn't allowed much movement or release. Lance so wished he could be there for that. "Is . . is this a bad time? I didn't wake you up or anything, did I?"
"No, but don't ever worry about that," Lance insisted. "Call me whenever you want." Really. Call me. Please.
"Sorry about yesterday," Keith apologized, his voice going low and soft. Lance didn't want to think about yesterday. "Or was it . . the day before yesterday? Anyway, sorry."
"Don't be," Lance assured. Two tiny words when he wanted to slam Keith with questions. Why did you pick me to call? Why did you only think to call when you thought you were going to die? Why don't we talk more? Why does Shiro think he has to keep me away from you? What would you do if you knew how much I love you? "I'm . . . glad I could be there for you."
"You always are," Keith admitted, and Lance sagged against the couch, part of him content that at least Keith knew that, even if he didn't always act on it. Even if he didn't know the reason why. The other part of him was fixed on Keith's tone. Something was wrong here, but Lance didn't understand it. All Keith's words made sense but the emotions behind them were skewed. Like they were having two extremely different conversations.
"Keith, what is it?" Lance asked directly, needing to figure out the disconnect. Keith coughed slightly, more as a way to stall than anything.
"Lance, can I ask you something?"
"Of course," Lance replied, wondering about Keith's hesitancy, ready to be whatever Keith needed, ready to answer any question, delighted that Keith had thought to call him twice in two days. Hoping this could become a new normal for them.
"It's about Acxa."
Lance closed his eyes, exhaling shame and hurt. He'd forgotten all about her. But she was important to Keith. Lance had to swallow his true feelings for her in order to keep his tone neutral. There was always something, wasn't here? Always something wedged between them. Distance. Scholarships. Shiro. Girlfriends.
"Yeah, where is she?" Lance asked, because that was a fair question. Keith had gotten hurt, and Shiro had flown immediately to Germany to be with him. But where was Acxa? Why was this the first time Lance had heard about her during all this crisis? Why wasn't she at Keith's side? The silence after his question grew uncomfortable, drawing out way too long. "Keith?" Lance checked, wondering what he'd done. Or maybe he hadn't done anything – maybe something else was wrong. "You all right, Lobito?"
"We went down together," Keith wheezed out, overcome with the kind of pain that morphine doesn't touch. Oh, no – she hadn't been killed, had she? Lance didn't like her, but he wouldn't wish anything like that onto anyone. "Her jet was the one they hit. She wasn't responding. I . . . well, basically I caught her plane with mine to try and control the descent a little bit. But there was a lot of smoke. I couldn't really see. We still – we came down hard."
"Keith," Lance said his name in a desperate, tiny breath. He should be over there. Should be with him right now. He needed someone to support him, physically hold him together. Where was Shiro? Lance didn't know if he should shush Keith or allow him the painful release of continuing. And what did he want to ask Lance about? Everything was over; there was nothing Lance could do. Except listen. Lance wanted to tell Keith how amazing that had been – because what kind of skill would it take to catch an out-of-control jet with another and bring them both blindly to the ground? He had no idea Keith could do anything like that. But he didn't think Keith wanted to be congratulated about anything at the moment, so he kept quiet, waiting.
"Her plane was on fire," Keith went on, telling Lance all the things that Shiro had kept from him last night. Giving him the first-hand account. Lance was no longer sure he wanted it. Even here, in the light of a new day where he knew that Keith was all right, that he'd been rescued with minimal damage, it made Lance shudder to hear all the ways that it might not have turned out so well. "I didn't have a choice. I had to move her. I had to get her out."
Oh – that's what Keith needed. He didn't want to ask Lance anything. He needed to hear that he'd made the only decision he could. Because something had happened. After the crash and the fire. Something that hadn't come out yet.
"I . . .carried her," Keith continued, and Lance remembered Shiro saying something about that. Almost saying something about that. They're being careful with his neck and spine. Because he carried Acxa. "I pulled her out and carried her to where they could get us. Two miles on my shoulders." Because what else could he have done?
"You saved her life, Keith," Lance explained, affirming the truth of it. He wondered how many times he would have to do this for Keith. Help him understand that he'd done the right thing. How many lives Keith would save that he would worry over. Why did he sound so beat up about it?
"I ruined her life," Keith lamented, his voice dark and empty, like the burned-out cockpit of Acxa's plane. "They said her back is broken – her hip crushed. And I carried her."
"Keith, listen," Lance started, wondering how much detail he should go into about it. He hadn't seen her injuries. He couldn't be sure.
"They won't tell me everything," Keith went on, not ready for Lance to offer an opinion on the events as he knew them. "They won't tell me what I did to her – how much I messed up moving her."
"Keith, you had to move her," Lance insisted, wanting to help him feel better about that, even though he hated how much Keith seemed to care about this girl. "That's how critical situations work. We train on the order of operations all the time. First, you ensure your own safety. Next, you remove the patient from immediate threat. When I come to the scene of a car accident, the first thing I do is get everyone out of traffic to prevent further injury. Then we look at the damage. You didn't do anything wrong, Keith."
Though there would be complications from what had happened. The jostling might have knocked loose bone fragments into Acxa's bloodstream, the potential for an embolism. She'd be watched close for blood clots or any kind of blockage. There may be swelling or even severing of the spinal cord. All injuries that could have happened before or after Keith moved her. There would be no way to determine for certain what extra damage Keith had inflicted – if any. But he seemed intent on blaming himself.
"She won't fly again," Keith said, as if that were the worst thing that could happen to a person. Maybe for Keith that was true. "Might not ever walk either."
"She's alive, Keith," Lance reiterated. That was the important thing. She's alive and you didn't kill yourself trying to help her stay that way. That was all Lance needed. Now if he could just get Keith to see it, though he knew he wouldn't. Not until she could absolve him herself. "She's probably not awake yet, is she?"
"No, they're keeping her sedated," Keith said, defeated. "She looks awful. Lance, what do I do? How do I help her?"
Don't ask me that! Lance wanted to yell at him. There's nothing you can do; she's already getting all the help possible to give. I'm not going to add anything.
"Guard her," he heard himself advise, knowing that Keith needed a job, understanding what that felt like. "Don't forget that you need to recover too, but you stay with her. Watch her vitals; talk to her. And when she wakes up, you make sure she remembers what you did for her."
"She's going to be so pissed," Keith lamented.
"Good," Lance said. Because anger motivates so much better than despair. "Use it to help her. Challenge her." Because Acxa seemed to be the sort of girl who thrived on challenge.
"All we do is fight now, Lance," Keith confessed, and Lance had no idea what to do with that. Fight about what? Did Keith mean that he fought with Acxa? That their relationship was already in trouble before this happened? Or did he mean he was fighting for the US? Lance didn't think he could trust himself to touch Keith's words. But then words of his own came to his head, and he found himself saying them before thinking too much about it.
"That didn't cause this, Keith," Lance emphasized, more passionately than he would have thought possible, wishing the answers to his own problems came to him as easily. "And yeah, she's going to be pissed. She's hurt and terrified and maybe a huge piece of her identity has suddenly been cut out of her. But you did not do that. And no matter what she says to you – because people in pain say all sorts of crazy things. I've heard all of it. You don't listen to that. No matter how many times she screams at you that you should have just let her die, that it would have been better – don't you ever believe it. Don't think on it, even if she says she never wants to see you again. Because someday she might not think that way. Someday she might seek you out to apologize for all that she's going to say when she wakes up. Or maybe she won't. It doesn't matter. You did the only thing you could. You saved her life. It's all on her now what to do with that."
"Lance, I –" Keith breathed unsteadily into the phone for a bit. Lance was almost panting too. Where had that even come from? Why was he encouraging a relationship he despised? Because it's what Keith wants. He carried her two miles on his shoulders even though he was bleeding too. Lance had to respect that. "Thank you."
"Anytime," Lance promised, eyes closed, his head hanging as he sat crushed into the corner of the couch. The same place he'd been when Pidge had told him that Keith was on trial for manslaughter. Anytime, Keith. I'll be here if you need me.
"And how are you doing?" Keith asked, almost as an afterthought, desperate to change subjects for a little while. "Feels like we haven't talked in forever." Lance almost broke. That's because it has been forever. He remembered the feel of Keith's hair in his fingers, his heat, the scent of him on Lance's pillow. All the memories that he carried with him like Keith's stitches. They held him together. They could prove fatal if they grew infected.
"Just staying busy," Lance forced himself to say, though not as lighthearted as he'd imagined he should sound. Keith was focused on so much right now. His own recovery. Acxa's much longer and harder recovery. Their relationship together. Lance didn't want to give him anything else that could weigh him down. That's not what his role was supposed to be.
"I had a dream about you last night," Keith told him, and Lance couldn't help but smile. "I couldn't see you, but you were there. Speaking Spanish."
"Sounds accurate," Lance acknowledged, wondering if he should tell Keith the truth. You were crying. I was there. Shiro didn't think I could, but I comforted you.
"You said," Keith began, and Lance held his breath. What did Keith mean – Lance had said what? Lance had said nothing that Keith had understood. Right? But Keith paused, reconsidering. "No, I don't remember. Dreams."
"Yeah," Lance agreed, though he didn't know what he was agreeing to. Imagine if Keith had somehow understood him? And though that filled Lance with fear, he wished it had been true.
"Anyway, I'll let you get back to your day. I know you've got a million things going," Keith went on.
"Call me later," Lance begged. "If you need anything. Or even if you don't – you know, just . . ." Lance, you are an idiot. "It was good to hear from you." Sort of. We talked about dark and depressing things, nothing that I really wanted to talk about. But it was good to hear your voice. Good to hear that you're ok. You have a lot of hard stuff ahead of you, but we've set this precedent now. You know I'll be here for you. Call me.
"Thanks, Lance," Keith said again. Then he left Lance alone in the lounge, and he had to scramble to get to the ER on time.
Author's Note: I know I'm taking my time getting where we all want to go. But I just can't rush it now. I promise I'm not drawing things out on purpose. I have a schedule of events (which, I admit is rare for me but I do have one for this). I want this story to flow like water – as though the path it's going is the only way it could have gone. Might go this way and that for a while, but like Lance, we are headed for the ocean. We'll get there. I'm going to quit promising how many chapters away that is since . . . emotional movement is glacial, isn't it? Just please keep trusting me. I've taken you this far. Brace yourselves – there is more pain coming. I've actually jumped ahead a little bit. I've got thirty pages written that picks up two months from where this chapter ends. I couldn't help myself, though isn't that weird that I'm all disciplined and writing scenes the way they are supposed to progress in time and all of a sudden over a year into it and I just inexplicably leap forward. Because it's exciting!
