You Could Have Told Me

by Karin-Sama3

It's long, but worth your time. College AU where Lance is a driven pre-med student unfavorably partnered on a project with a raven-haired slacker who has been cutting class for two weeks. After an angry confrontation leading to Keith staying over at Lance's apartment, Lance learns that he shouldn't judge people too quickly.

40. Intervention

Author's Note: Hello there. I know I've been gone way longer than anyone wanted me to be. (You guys are all so wonderful, though. I haven't touched this story in over a month, and there were still over a thousand hits on it? That's . . that's really special to me. I appreciate that.)

So what happened? I'll tell you. First, I was sick. For almost three weeks straight. Not COVID – but still a hellish little virus that made it impossible to sit up for a good long while. Then just as I was getting better, my husband had a very real medical emergency – he had a corneal ulcer in one of his eyes and I had to be very dedicated putting drops in it every fifteen minutes, then every hour through the night, and then every two hours for a week straight to SAVE HIS EYESIGHT! (I can handle a lot of stuff, but my husband's suffering is a special kind of torture to me.) And then . . after all that . . . I just couldn't figure out this chapter.

I wrote a ton. It seems for a while I would write three thousand words on this chapter, reread it, then scrap them, then write another three thousand words and just kept repeating that in an endless loop. I just wasn't sure what sort of physical damage Lance was dealing with. Not sure how to explain all the stuff that had been happening while he was walking in the rain. Not even sure who should be with him when he woke up. I went back and forth and wrote scene after scene after scene and then dumped them all in the graveyard and started over and researched more and more. I looked at symptoms and scars and went back through my own memories and . . . I think I have it now. It's kind of more dramatic this way than I had originally intended, but I think I like it.

Chapter Forty: Intervention

Despite being multiple varieties of exhausted, Lance slept fitfully, waking what felt like every few minutes. He shivered under the heating blanket for longer than he thought could be possible when surrounded by so much warmth; the migraine medication working slowly through his sluggish bloodstream. Sometimes, it felt like someone was in the room with him. There seemed to be a weight on the bed near him that he thought could be Angelique, monitoring him. He didn't open his eyes to check, mostly because he didn't want to answer any questions she might ask if she knew he was awake. He tried not to think, or at least just focus on one problem at a time, but he couldn't help but worry about what would happen later, when the sun came up. What he was going to say. Where he was going to go. How he was going to apologize. He wrapped his arms around himself, lying on his side, tucking his entire head under the blanket, as if that would help him escape or disappear. But there was no running from this; he'd already tried.

So then what are you going to do?

The question was ice inside him, needling into his skin, crystalizing sharp into his circulatory system, freezing inside his chest to the point where he struggled to breathe. It physically hurt. What are you going to do now? You can't go home; you don't even have a home to go back to. And a much darker thought reminded him that he may not have to make a decision at all; he may not have any choices remaining to him. He'd punched his roommate, shoved him against a wall. There had to be consequences for that, and Lance imagined the worst as he lay there in the dark, trying to figure it out, trying to get warm, trying to think of how he would make it through this.

When he did sleep, those snippets and bursts of semi-rest, Lance dreamed of duffel bags and locks, broken glass with dirt and blood tracked everywhere throughout his apartment. Keys in his own shaking hands. He saw the courthouse, long lines of window and doorless buildings that continued into infinity as he walked past them in the dark, struggling for breath as though he were underwater. He dreamed of thunder and snow, a continuously ringing phone. Flames of ice across a desert, smoke billowing up threateningly from some nondescript location in the distance before being swallowed in black waves. He slept with his hand circled protectively around his wrist, pinning his bracelets hard against his pulse and both arms pulled against his chest as Damien punched him in the back over and over, harder and harder.

He didn't feel as though he'd slept for very long the next time he woke. The room was still dark; though Lance could tell that somewhere under the clouds outside, the sun was up now. He could hear the howling October wind, rain beating against the window. He could sense that the entire atmosphere of the house had changed, an energy that moved into the room and slipped into his pulse, quickening it. He felt as though he'd overslept, and now he was late for something important. He'd missed something. Things were going on beyond his vision; people were waiting for him, looking for him? Everything suddenly felt urgent; he couldn't stay in this bed anymore. He grabbed heavy fistfuls of the blanket that covered his head, intending on rushing out of the room to see what it was that nagged him beyond the doorway.

"Not so fast, son," Fritz's voice and hands covered him at the same time, preventing Lance from moving as he wanted to. At first, Lance felt irrationally afraid at being held down, but then his brain began receiving sharp signals from his body at an alarming rate as his consciousness synched with his nerves, and he changed his mind about holding still. Fritz might have a point on taking it slow.

Fritz let up on him a bit, apologizing for waking him and allowing Lance to shift more carefully from under the covers, attempting to sit up. It proved a much more difficult endeavor than he'd anticipated. At the very first twist of his torso, beginning to push himself upright, his ribs shocked him painfully, the deep ache of trauma, causing a little white starburst to explode across Lance's vision. Instead of sitting up, Lance curled around the injury, his hand automatically covering it in protection.

"Shit," Lance hissed, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden and intense pain, shallowing his breathing as he waited for it to die down. Fritz put his hand on Lance's shoulder again, though not in restraint this time.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Fritz said calmly, and Lance opened his eyes to look up at him, relieved to see that he didn't look angry or pitying. In fact, there was quite a bit of understanding in the officer's expression. "Do you want to sit up?" Fritz offered while he had Lance's eyes. Lance wanted to growl. He could sit up on his own. He'd just . . . have to do it differently, without any of his core muscles. But his face must have said something before he could get any words together, as Guist leaned down, expertly slipping one arm between Lance and the mattress. With Fritz's support, Lance was able to successfully brace himself against the headboard and pillows, though it made him dizzy and robbed him of breath. Another curse word rambled repeatedly through his head in tandem with his heartrate as he held motionless and panting, eyes closing again. God, was there any part of him that didn't hurt?

"I probably should have let the ambulance take you yesterday," Fritz informed him as Lance was still coming to terms on how he'd used almost all the strength he had just getting his head up. "I'm taking you in today to get checked out, just as soon as I get some food in you." Lance didn't know what to say, how to even start, so he leaned helplessly back on his pillow, weaker than he'd ever been after a migraine. And still cold. Very cold. He could almost feel the wind blowing through every tiny crack around the window across the room, even though that was impossible.

"What time is it?" Lance finally managed, changing the subject, wondering how long he'd been asleep, and why it felt like lightning was about to strike the bed. He wished he could get up. Maybe if he gave himself another minute, he could summon the strength to stand. Maybe if he started moving, time would start again too. He didn't want to go to the hospital. But he knew he couldn't stay here either. Was there anywhere he could go though?

"A little after noon," Fritz answered, gentle but straightforward. "We've been, um -"

"Noon?" Lance echoed, trying to reconcile the time with the gloom outside the window. Now he really had to get up. What had he missed? What was going on? Wait a second, noon on Sunday? Was it Sunday? "Shit!"

"Calm down," Fritz advised. "No one expected you to be up at dawn."

But Lance was anything but soothed. Knowing the time just increased that unsteady, rushing feeling inside Lance's soul that he shouldn't be here, couldn't stay in this bed any longer. He'd missed the call from his family two weeks in a row. He hadn't been there for them again. They were probably furious. His mother . . . God, what was she going to say when she found out about this? He ran a hand through his hair, noticing when he touched it that he was still dirty and disgusting from last night, or two nights ago, or who the hell knew, time didn't really mean a damn thing anymore, and a quick shudder of revulsion went through him for more than one reason. He really, really wanted to get up. It was starting to ripple under his skin. He had to fix this. Fix all of it. But he had no idea how. There were too many working parts. Roommates, past and present, and the ER, and Cuba . . . and Germany. Oh my God! What's been going on?

"Lance," Officer Guist cut into Lance's spiraling thoughts, his voice sure and steady, though Lance could hear how he was trying to mask just how concerned he was. Lance knew he probably looked unsettlingly off balanced, but why start to care about stuff like that at this point? He'd already wrecked pretty much everything. "You're safe. We're taking care of everything."

"No, I need to go," Lance said suddenly, renewing his efforts to get to his feet. "I really need to go." He wasn't sure what he was going to do, exactly, but he at least needed to get his phone. Had to get a message to his family. It didn't occur to him that he didn't even know where he was, didn't know where Angelique lived or how far away it was from Stony Island. He especially didn't know what he was going to do if he saw Spencer or Damien again, but he had to get his phone. Things were already bad enough.

"Cool it," Officer Guist commanded as he again physically prevented Lance from moving. "The only place you're going today is the hospital, all right? Take it easy."

"But," Lance protested. He didn't need to go to the hospital. Angelique said he wasn't supposed to. If he'd really needed it, she would have taken him already. "I . . . I need to get my phone. I have to . . . call my family." Shit, he wasn't going to cry, was he? "I was supposed to call them this morning. They're –"

"Lance, enough," Fritz entreated, obviously not understanding the severity of the situation. "We already talked to your family. They know where you are and that you're being taken care of."

"You . . .what?" Lance didn't understand, feeling his breathing teetering out of control, aggravating his ribs again. He forced himself not to wince. "How?" Veronica spoke some English, and his nephews were learning, but no one was fluent enough for Fritz to have a real conversation with them. And that wasn't the only obstacle. It wasn't like they were in the phone book. It wasn't like someone could just up and call them whenever they liked. There was a procedure. A window. And Lance had missed it. Twice! And worse – if Fritz really had spoken to Eva, what had he told her?

"Geeze, kid, you're shivering again. Stay here; I'll be right back."

Lance didn't want Fritz to leave. He had too many questions; he was so confused. But before he could get his thoughts together to even call to him, Fritz had disappeared into the hallway. Lance thought about another attempt at getting out of bed, but quickly decided against it. He was in enough trouble; he'd better cooperate for the time being. Plus he wasn't actually sure he could get out of bed on his own power. Just sitting up had been exhausting. He checked his hands, watched them tremble, trying to figure out if he were shivering because he was cold or shaking because . . . because he could never seem to stop.

He was still trying to organize himself when he was startled by the sudden appearance of a large cat leaping onto the bed out of nowhere. He jumped, then cringed, putting a hand on his ribs again and glaring at the animal walking up the bedspread toward him.

"Ow," Lance complained at the cat, who didn't seem at all concerned about scaring Lance and simply started the process of making itself comfortable, draping its head and front paws across Lance's lap as though Fritz had ordered it in to guard Lance or something while he was busy doing . . . whatever it was he'd left the room to do. Lance stared at the animal, who'd already closed its eyes and started purring loudly. A rather reassuring sound that subconsciously calmed Lance, smoothing the tenseness in his heart a bit. He let it happen, rationalizing with himself. One thing at a time. Fritz was coming back; he'd answer Lance's questions eventually. They would sort it out. He just had to be a little patient. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go. It wasn't like he had any strength to leave.

He ran an experimental hand along the cat's back, smoothing the silvery-white fur, tracing the tufts of hair at the top of each ear, staring at its content, sleepy face, feeling its warmth and weight spread over his thighs. He heard footsteps coming closer outside the room, Fritz's heavy tread on the stairs easily recognizable followed by someone else who walked much softer. Angelique must be coming to check on him too now that Fritz had told her Lance was awake. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes concentrated hard on the cat in his lap. He hoped she wouldn't be too mad at him still. He hoped she could help him stop shaking, that she would know how to get him warm.

"Ha," Fritz vocalized recognition as he stepped into the room and took in the scene, the cat lying on top of Lance. "Looks like you're Sam's new best friend." He spoke conversationally, as though he were also trying to ease the situation, make things less tense. Calm Lance down. "He's been in here with you almost the entire time."

"He's huge," Lance said simply, not looking up yet, not even knowing why he said that except that talking about the cat was a much easier topic than anything else Lance could think of. Besides, it was true. Sam was easily the biggest cat Lance had ever seen, bigger than any of the infants in the NICU or any of the scrawny feral cats in Varadero.

"Maine Coons are like that," Fritz said, as though expecting Lance to understand that explanation.

"Oh," Lance acknowledged, awkward, not knowing anything about what a Maine Coon was or what had happened yesterday or what was going to happen now, still so many questions clouding up his brain. He wanted to ask them but knew they'd all come out strange and trembling and fast, that he'd sound unhinged again. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to talk at all, so he stared determinedly at the cat, pinning his calm to the rhythm of petting him, rubbing his thumb repeatedly across his head, waiting for Angelique to say something. He knew she was in the room, could feel the extra presence near the door, the weight of a second gaze on him. Knew he was doomed as far as the med program was concerned, but as long as the silence lingered between them, he could pretend that he wasn't about to be kicked out.

"There's another friend here to see you too," Fritz told him, and Lance closed his eyes in denial, completely ashamed. He heard Angelique break into motion, as though Fritz had just given her permission to approach. Lance did his best not to cringe as he felt her shadow fall over him, though he knew he was helpless to whatever she wanted to do now. He'd screwed everything up.

The edge of the mattress dipped a little as Angelique sat silently on the bed. Lance waited, surprised that she hadn't said anything yet, that wasn't really her style to keep her thoughts to herself. He sensed a quick, efficient motion in front of him and then felt a blanket being thrown around his shoulders. A forehead pressed gently against his forehead, and he was suddenly overwhelmed in scent. His own aftershave and laundry detergent coming off the blanket. Coffee and . . . lavender? Wait a second.

"Lance, it's me," the lavender-scented presence on the bed said, the voice trimmed in a familiar accent, made raspy with tears. Lance pulled his hand off the cat and drew it up to place it gingerly on the hands holding the blanket closed at his chest, his mind filling with moonlight shining on white hair. He knew this voice, these hands, that scent. He meant to look up, verify that the person he thought was sitting on the bed with him really was sitting on the bed with him, but found that he couldn't move. Because how could that be true? How could she be here? She left.

"Allura?" He timidly said her name out loud, making her real in the space in front of him. "How?" But that was all he could manage before he was completely overtaken by sobs. She'd come all the way from New York? How many appointments had she canceled to do this for him? What had he forced her to reschedule or miss? He covered his face with his hands, though it was pointless trying to hide, overwhelmed by guilt and impossible relief. He didn't want to cry, for so many reasons, but apparently this was something he'd tried to hold back too long. He was so happy to see her, that she'd come to be with him. He was devastated that she was seeing him like this, that his mistakes had forced her to rearrange her life to come check on him. It was such a strange, conflicted feeling. He hadn't wanted to bother anyone. He'd desperately wanted someone to come find him in his darkness.

"Lance, I'm so sorry," Allura apologized to him, which was confusing. He was the one who should be apologizing for making her drop everything in her life because he'd been an idiot. "We didn't know. We had no idea you'd been suffering so long. You're so strong."

Lance curled up, completely overcome, trying to cushion his ribs somehow, trying to be quiet. He did not feel even the least bit strong. The force of crying cut deep into his side, down into his stomach, back, and pelvis making him gasp in pain, exhale another sob. He had to get control of himself, but Allura's words were making it hard. Her very presence had started tearing down the fortress he'd built up around his emotional wounds and insecurities. Allura's hands joined his against his injured side, her touch gentle, a small attempt at comfort. He struggled to hold his breath so nothing would disturb his bones or shift his organs while Allura wiped his face with her sleeve.

"Those monsters," Allura vented, her tears giving way to hostility, the anger in her voice actually helping Lance stop crying. Because it was unusual and surprising. He'd never heard Allura say anything so violently. "I can't believe what they did to you. If I ever see that sorry, stupid swine again, I'll -"

"Oh, I think you've done enough already," Fritz interrupted, still standing by the door and watching the proceedings. Lance chanced lifting his head, monitoring Fritz's expression, amusement and concern blended on his features. He leaned against the door, a large mug in his hands, patiently waiting.

Allura backed up from Lance slightly, her beautiful features frozen solid. "Not by a long shot," she muttered darkly. Lance didn't think he could be any more confused.

"What . . happened?" He asked, quiet and breathless, his lungs trying to take shuddering gasps after his crying fit that he fought to prevent. It hurt. Maybe his ribs really were cracked. Or maybe there was something else? That nagging feeling returned, a list of symptoms trying to organize themselves in Lance's head. Something he should be paying attention to, except he struggled to pay attention to anything. Cold. Anxiety. Pain. Weakness. Those were signs of . . . No, he didn't know. Angelique would know, but she wasn't here. Lance didn't know he had such a low pain tolerance; this whole thing was so humiliating. Here Allura had flown all the way from Columbia, and Lance could barely lift his head for her.

"Well," Allura began to answer the question Lance had almost forgotten he'd asked, but again she was interrupted by Fritz.

"Here," Fritz said to Lance, coming closer to the bed to hand over the mug. "Eat while we're talking so we can get those ribs X-rayed. I want to get going soon; you don't look good."

Lance didn't think he had much choice about accepting whatever was in the cup. At least it was comfortingly warm, though the unexpected heat in his hands caused him to shudder. Allura put her hand on his shoulder worriedly as he winced. He could tell this was going to get old in a hurry.

"Try it," Fritz demanded again, though that was another thing Lance wasn't sure he could do. Was he even hungry? He knew he probably should be, but it had been so long since he'd paid any attention to that. But then the salty, rich scent of broth seasoned with rice vinegar and ginger registered in his memory, causing him to stare at the soup he'd been given, noticing the fine strings of egg in it and green onions floating on top. He blinked at it, stunned for what felt like the sixth time already this morning. This was his own recipe – the one he'd developed with Hunk and Pidge. The last time he'd made or eaten this soup had been that day with Keith.

"T-this is," Lance tried to explain, but then realized that obviously they already knew what it was. He didn't have to tell them. "H-how did you make this?" Lance stuttered. He noticed at about the same time why the blanket that Allura had covered him with smelled like his bedroom. It was because it came from his bedroom – somehow Allura had the afghan from his apartment. Did that mean she'd seen Spencer? Damien? Had she talked to them? Lance didn't like to entertain the thought that she had been with them; that felt dangerous. What did Fritz mean, she'd done enough? He looked questioningly at Allura, hoping she would explain. Someone please explain what had been happening while he'd been asleep. It felt as though he'd been drifting in darkness for longer than just this morning. That he was waking up from more than sleep. Or maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he'd fallen unconscious under a tree somewhere. Perhaps he'd never made the call to Keith last night. Maybe he'd never even left the phone booth, and this was all just some Alice in Wonderland trauma concoction his brain had put together in order to soothe him into death. He wasn't sure if he liked it. And where was Angelique? He . . needed her; something was wrong. Maybe.

"Keith suggested it," Allura explained while Lance sat motionless, staring at the broth, trying to keep his breathing even. "He . . . well, he practically insisted that I make it for you." She paused to smile, shaking her head a little. "He dragged Hunk into a three-way call to make sure I got it right."

"Keith?" Lance repeated, staring at the soup again as though it would have changed with this knowledge. Keith had remembered that? Lance felt dizzy and strange, so weak. It was just . . . he felt more tears drip on his hands and held his breath again. Keep it together. It hurts to cry. But it also hurt not to. "You talked to Keith?"

"Several times," Allura revealed. "He called me last night, and he's been checking in all morning. I know he wants to talk to you when you're ready. He's the one who told me you were missing. He wanted to know if I'd heard from you; if I had any idea where you might be or where you would go." Her voice tightened as she spoke, and Lance wondered how much damage had been torn into the world the moment he'd thrown Spencer against that wall. But hang on.

"How did he know?" Lance wondered out loud. How had Keith known Lance was missing when it was Keith who had disappeared first? Keith had said it last night, though. He'd told Lance that there were people in three time zones looking for him. That didn't make sense. Who would have even thought to look for him? He'd pulled back so far how had anyone known?

"If you start drinking that," Fritz volunteered, standing behind Allura's shoulder with his arms folded, looking rather stern. "I'll explain."

With Allura's help, Lance was able to bring the cup to his lips and take a mouthful, the warmth of it discernible in his chest after he swallowed. He'd forgotten the taste of this; it'd been so long. He remembered sitting with Keith on his couch, helping him drink just like Allura was helping him now. He drank as much of the soup as he could, which turned out to be only a couple mouthfuls, letting it warm him a little while listening to Fritz talk about what yesterday looked like from his perspective.

His words, and sometimes Allura's, fell over Lance like a haze of emotion rather than a narrative. The explanation spun in his head, filling him sometimes with questions and sometimes with pain, or fear, or dread. Remorse stung him as sharply as the pain in his ribs because of all the trouble and worry he'd caused. They went through it at a ridiculous pace, but Lance thought that was probably due to his own problems pinning his concentration on what they were saying. He kept getting hung up on specific details.

Angelique had listened to his message, and it had frightened her. She worried Lance had done something to hurt himself, especially when he wouldn't answer the phone when she called him back.

Someone at Lance's apartment building had called the police when they saw Damien shove Lance against the wall and begin punching him in the back. Four officers were sent to Stony Island, but Lance was long gone by the time they arrived. No one who had seen what happened had any idea where Lance would go or even if he were hurt. No one had thought to follow him.

Fritz went to Lance's apartment to check on him since Angelique was so worried and couldn't get in touch with Lance by phone. Spencer wouldn't let Fritz past the hall and wouldn't say anything other than that Lance had left hours ago and he didn't know where he went. Fritz then went to the police himself to put out the alert that Lance was missing and possibly a danger to himself. That's when he learned that there was already an open case for Lance; the police were looking for him as a victim of and a witness to a crime.

All officers on duty were sent descriptions and photos of Lance and told to watch for him. They concentrated their efforts around campus and at bus and L stations, slowly widening their search area as more and more time went by without success. The sun went down. The rain started. Adding to the search complications. As Lance wandered the streets thinking he was alone in the world, Fritz was driving, off-duty in his squad car, making phone calls.

He called Takashi first to ask for help contacting all of Lance's friends and family, which alerted both Shiro and Keith that something had happened, and Lance was missing. Keith then called Allura, Hunk, and Pidge. And everyone talked about how they should have known something like this would happen, that Lance had been pulling away lately. Not answering texts or emails. No one seemed to remember who had been the last person to hear from him. They talked about the signs they had missed and what they would have done differently if they had a chance to do it again. They pleaded to have that chance and made decisions about what they should do now, choosing Allura as their best representative to go to Chicago and see first-hand what was going on and what could be done to help. As hours went by, Allura booked a four am flight to Chicago. Hunk stress-baked bread while Pidge hacked security footage, finding the moment Lance had shot through the front doors of Stony Island and spending the next hours squinting at those seconds repeatedly, searching for a hint of where Lance had gone after he fled out of sight. And even though Keith had agreed that Allura would be the best choice to go in person, he was so frenzied he threatened to steal a jet on the spot and come to search Chicago himself. Shiro kept him reined in, forcing him through the proper leave request protocol and assuring him that surely soon Lance would either be found safe or would make contact with someone.

Lance's hands trembled hard around the mug. Allura steadied him and thanked him for being brave enough to make the phone call to Keith that had allowed them to finally find him. She emphasized how much Lance meant to all of them, and how much it meant to Keith especially that Lance had reached out to him, that Lance had shown him that trust. Fritz continued.

While the Chicago PD kept their eyes peeled for any trace of Lance, they were also hunting Damien. They'd heard enough from the witnesses at Stony Island to issue a warrant for his arrest, and he was found at a club several hours before Lance crossed Cicero. Damien was taken into custody for assault as well as illegal drug possession with intent to sell, though he would likely be released on bail later today, and his trial had been set for early January. The hospital's documentation of Lance's injuries and Lance's own testimony as a witness at that trial would be key to convicting him.

Allura had to take the mug at this point.

"No," Lance whispered, barely keeping his teeth from chattering, shocked at how far this had gone, how much it had escalated. Spencer had said three careless words and a bomb had gone off at Stony Island and now all the ashes were falling onto Lance in the aftermath, chilling instead of burning him. "No trial. I . .. I'm not pressing charges."

"That's not how it works here, son," Fritz told him gently. "Whether your press charges or not, which you most certainly can, by the way, he still committed a crime when he attacked you. He will be prosecuted by the state, and you will be required to witness." Lance felt like he was falling down the stairs again, the sick, sudden sensation of it freezing his stomach. He wished he hadn't eaten any of the soup; he didn't know if he was going to keep it down now. Fritz unfolded his arms, kneeling by the bedside so he could force Lance to look at him.

"It's months away, and I'll be with you," Fritz promised, misunderstanding Lance's reaction. "You won't be alone. Judge Kolivan has already issued a restraining order, and Allura and I went to your apartment this morning and brought all your things here. You don't have to go back there. They can't hurt you anymore, Lance. You're safe now."

But Lance didn't feel safe. Because he had started all this. He'd hit Spencer first. What did that mean to the United States Judicial System? What happened to Cuban citizens with student visas when they shoved their roommates against a wall? What sort of crime was that? What would change when Damien told everyone that he'd pulled Lance off Spencer? That he'd been protecting him from Lance?

Dimly, Lance could hear Allura talking to him. Asking him if he were all right. He felt her hand on his face, and he knew he was supposed to be answering her. But he couldn't talk, couldn't even swallow. What had he done? He pulled his arm around his ribs, holding himself together, staring at the carpet. You can't get away from this.

"Boy," Fritz burst into his brain, harsh but almost welcoming. Lance blinked to find himself face to face with the officer, the man's hand cupped tight against the base of Lance's skull. "Come on; I can't watch you hurting like this anymore. You're getting paler every second. We'll talk more after the hospital."

"I'm coming with you," Allura said quickly, as though she expected to be left behind. She took Lance's arm, a solid, reassuring presence at his side. She'd come all the way to Chicago for him. He wished he deserved it.

"I figured," Fritz said, standing and positioning himself on Lance's other side, both of them understanding that Lance would probably need help to stand up. He was still several seconds behind them in processing. They were taking him to the hospital. Where Angelique probably was. Because she worked Sundays. That's right; she worked Sundays. That's why she hadn't come to see Lance yet. Fritz was supposed to bring him to her. For documentation. Evidence. Shit.

"Lance, are you cold? I think he should keep the afghan," Allura said to Guist, monitoring Lance, watching him shiver.

"We can take it," Fritz agreed, talking to Allura exactly like someone who had spent the morning with her moving boxes out of an apartment. Had they brought his quilt too? And the coffeemaker? Probably – Allura was familiar with all of Lance's belongings; she'd purchased almost all of his non-uniform clothes. She would have known to bring it all. His books and Keith's still unmailed birthday present. Did they know where his phone was?

"Did you get my phone?" Lance said out of nowhere, surprising himself. He wondered if he was ever going to catch up with what was going on around him. Seconds, minutes, whole events seemed to be shattered in pieces in his brain, swirling in some kind of whirlpool where they ground and broke against each other. Sometimes one of the pieces would catch the light and a scene or a sound would become discernible, but then it would fall back against the others without pattern or place. Lance remembered asking questions that hadn't been answered yet, but then he didn't remember if he'd asked them to himself or not. His mind was spinning, but his body was cemented in place – like they weren't connected at all.

"I did," Allura said, a trace of guilt on her face, a hesitation in her voice. "It . . . I'll get it for you after we get back."

"It was you," Lance realized suddenly. "You talked to my family this morning." In your clipped and perfect Spanish. What had they thought of that? Hearing from Allura again. Not hearing from Lance again.

"Yes," Allura confessed. "They're all doing fine, though they were understandably upset they couldn't speak to you."

"What . . . did you - ?"

"I told them you were sleeping and couldn't talk today. That I was here taking care of you. They're worried, but I just didn't feel it appropriate to say anything else." Nothing else. Not anything about yesterday, the stairs, the rain, the distance. The cold.

"Come on, son," Fritz encouraged, interrupting them yet again, pulling Lance a little. "Let's get going. Can you stand up?" Even if he couldn't, Allura's words made him more than willing to try. He knew he'd have to talk to his family, tell them everything. About Spencer and Damien, about everything falling apart. About how he probably wasn't coming home again. Or maybe that he was coming home again – a failure. Selling mangoes from a goat cart for the rest of his life. He pushed that thought away, focusing on leaving the bed. A task that seemed to need his entire concentration. His body did not want to move easily.

Lance had thought the physical damage to his system was concentrated in his ribs. Getting to his feet proved that theory completely wrong. He exhaled in sharp pain, doing his best not to sag between Fritz and Allura. Most of his muscles ached from his long trek in the rain yesterday. His back where Damien punched him made it almost impossible to put weight on his right leg, and he was immediately dizzy. Way too dizzy.

"Ah," he exhaled discomfort, waiting for the fuzzy black dots to stop blinding him, waiting for his heartbeat to even out his blood pressure now that he'd shifted positions. It was taking a long time to catch up. "Damn." He heard Allura take a quick breath near his ear, felt her hands on his arm tighten as though she expected to catch him. His knees shook, threatening to give out on him. He thought it might be a good idea to drop to the carpet.

"Lance," Fritz called to him, voice still firm and authoritative breaking through the static. "You're not going to pass out on us, are you?"

"Not sure," Lance answered, wondering how he was going to make it all the way to the hospital when just getting to the door seemed already way too far. He didn't dare lift a foot, knowing he'd topple over the instant he tried. He lifted a hand instead to push against his head, as if that would help it stop spinning. He wanted to sit down, lie down again. What the hell? This was all it took to render him so helpless? A couple of bruises, a chill, and a migraine hangover? Or was it something else . . . like. . . no, he couldn't really think past the buzzing in his head. He was going to have to -

"Sit down," Fritz ordered, and Lance fell more than sat on the edge of the bed, allowing himself to half-collapse into Allura, who accepted him against her readily, looking to Officer Guist for guidance on what to do next. "Lance, what happened? You look like you're going into shock. Is it your side?" Yes, and something else . . something very much like shock. But what? And why? Lance would explain if he knew, if he could talk. Lance stared at nothing, trembling with effort and cold and . . . fear. He blew out another breath. "Stay with him," Fritz instructed Allura before disappearing to the hall again.

"Breathe, Lance," Allura said, making it seem as though she just couldn't stand to sit next to him in silence. He could feel her rubbing his arm, a little too quickly. He wanted her to stop, but he didn't think he could move. "He's gone to get Dr. Delacroix."

"But she's . . .she's working," Lance countered. If this was Sunday, she was at the ER. Without him. It didn't make sense for Fritz to be gone for that.

"No, Lance," Allura corrected gently. "Officer Guist carried her to bed when we got back from your apartment because she was asleep on the floor. She wouldn't leave you."

Lance didn't know what to think about that, couldn't think past the tingling in his hands, the chill of the room. The blinding dizziness that wasn't going away even though he was rudely resting all the weight of his head against Allura's shoulder. Angelique is here, he repeated to himself, and for the first time felt a bit of mental relief. She'll know what's going on.

He heard her before she could be seen; heard her talking to Fritz in the hall. Apparently, she was not pleased about Fritz's gentlemanly gesture of carrying her to her own room to rest. She wasn't thrilled that Lance had woken and no one had thought to come get her. Lance was too weak and tired, but he wanted to smile at her familiar voice, the authoritative briskness of it.

She entered the room with a quick efficiency that belied how she'd just been woken, how she'd probably only had an hour or so of sleep in the past day and a half. She focused immediately on Lance, who was again fighting back tears at the sight of her. While he loved and appreciated Allura and respected Officer Guist, he absolutely trusted this woman. And even though he was still worried about what she was going to do regarding his position in the med program, right this second, he was hurting and afraid, and she was the only person in the world he wanted.

"Doña," he called to her, and this time he didn't try to hide the fear in his voice. He watched her mouth tighten, her eyes scanning him, analyzing his appearance as she approached. Lance laboriously sat up from Allura to reach for Angelique, something he had never done before, and he could tell that she recognized the effort. Though once he'd moved again, he regretted it. Everything hurt; he was getting dizzier. Her eyes widened, but she readily took his hand in both of hers, frowning as soon as they touched. "Doña, I'm so dizzy," he tried to help her by giving her a verbal description of the symptoms she couldn't see. "I can't get warm." I'm scared.

"Lie down," she said, and he was more than willing to obey her, even though all this had started because he was supposed to be standing up. Allura jumped to make room for him, and Lance just barely caught the expression on her face as she retreated backward to stand next to Fritz. He saw the officer put a supportive hand around her shoulders to comfort her. She looked terrified. Lance unwillingly closed his eyes, feeling as though the room were breaking apart in chunks and floating away, the bed rocking underneath him. He thought he heard Angelique asking him things, making observations, taking his pulse and trying to take his blood pressure. She asked him what hurt and how badly. She noted that his hands were cold. She kept saying his name, as though she felt she needed to keep bringing him back to attention. She put gentle pressure on his abdomen and the world exploded in blood and ice and then nothing at all.

"Angie," Fritz said to her at some point, but Lance thought he might be remembering things out of order. There was a phone ringing. There was always a phone ringing. Not his. Allura had his. She talked to his family. Everything was fine. Why do you always pretend that everything's fine when it's not? What was going on?

"Call them," Angelique responded. Then, "Lance?" Close to his ear now. "Lance, do you know your blood type?"

His what? His blood type? Why would she need . . . Wait a second. Oh, shit, wait a second. "Doña," he whimpered, weak and freezing. Am I bleeding? Am I bleeding to death? But how?

"Blood type, Lance," she repeated. "Before you black out again, please."

Black out? He wasn't going to . . . but she said he already had. She kept saying his name. She wanted him to answer a question. Oh, right. Blood type. They'd been all over that at the donation center once. Made a fuss about it. How anyone in the world could accept his plasma, except it wasn't legal for him to give it.

"AB," Lance responded, licking dry lips. He could barely hear himself. What happened? He'd just tried to stand up. Just been talking with Allura and Fritz. Drinking soup. The world breaking all around him. "AB-positive."

"Oh, good, that's good, thank you." She rubbed his hand between hers, the friction reviving him slightly. "I know it's hard but stay awake if you can." He felt her pull back and wanted to grab her tighter to make sure she didn't go too far. Don't leave me, he thought desperately, but couldn't say it. Didn't think he could say anything anymore.

She tucked herself in close to him again; she'd never let him go. She had a cell phone in her other hand now, giving directions. She wanted an MRI for Lance as she suspected internal hemorrhaging and wanted to see where it was coming from and the best way to stop it, told them to pull up Lance's file and have everything ready for when the ambulance arrived. She repeated his blood type. Said something about room three and Jason Harkness.

"Yes, Dr. Harkness, he's on call today, isn't he?" Angelique quipped into the phone, running the ER even from a distance, even on a day off. "Tell him to prep for a laparoscopy. No, I want him to do it. I'm unable. . . no, not even to assist. Because I can't, that's why. Because he might as well be my son, Pauline."

Was she crying? She sounded like she was crying. Did she actually say . . . she'd said a lot. Lance had trouble with all of it. He knew Jason was an experienced ER surgeon who held Angelique's coveted respect. He knew room three; it was for emergency surgery. Lance curled painfully around Angelique, and she allowed it, holding his hand tight and squeezing in time with his heartbeat.

"Hurry," she said to the phone before hanging up and handing it to Fritz. Lance caught a glimpse of the officer, standing strong in the middle of the room, ready to do whatever his wife told him to do. Allura stood next to him; he still had his arm around her because she had her face hidden in his chest. Lance wanted to tell her it would be ok. That if he really were bleeding, it had to be slowly. They . . they had time. If they were taking the time for an MRI then it couldn't be that bad. He wanted to explain . . . though he wasn't quite sure himself exactly what happened, and he kept forgetting why the room kept spinning, why he felt cold. Oh, yes, the rain.

"Lance," they all called his name repeatedly, but softer all the time. He had to stay awake. Angelique squeezed his hand. A chime resonated throughout the house from a doorbell, and Fritz let go of Allura to sprint out of the room. Stay awake. Yeah, but . . . why? The dark swarmed, the black wave swallowing the desert. Stay . . . but the dark was sweet and soft, quiet and pulling strong. He never saw the EMTs who came for him.

"Lance?"

Sunlight, or maybe something else. Warm weight in all his limbs. Something disconcerting about his entire torso, but not enough for him to think on. Steady beeping, the click of an IV dispenser. Curious, Lance made the monumental effort to turn his head and open his eyes, looking at his hand. Yes, there was an IV taped there, and now that he was focused on it, he could feel the pinch in his skin. Odd. He didn't remember putting it there.

"Lance?" He turned his head in slow motion, realizing that someone held his other IV-less hand. He looked up groggily until he focused on gold-flecked brown. Tiger eyes. He knew those eyes. Except they were shimmering. A shift and a piece of ice smeared across his lips, which he parted automatically, and his tongue expanded to accept the moisture. How long had it been since . . . since he'd ceased to exist?

"Baby, how's your pain?"

Pain? Was there any? No, just the weight. A blanket? His? His own body. Tiger eyes. An explosion in his apartment and an afghan and . . . a secret. Rain. Was it still raining? No. Sun. He wanted to shake his head, see if he could manipulate the kaleidoscope of thoughts to fall into something resembling a real image or memory or . . . something. Lips pressed against the back of his hand. "Go back to sleep, love."

The next time Lance opened his eyes not much had changed. There was still light, still an IV and beeping, still a weight and a blanket that wasn't his and Angelique still sat next to him holding his hand. But things were clearer this time, sharper. He remembered some things, and he had questions about others. Fortunately, they'd worked together long enough that Angelique picked up on that, could tell that he was more awake than he had been the last time. If that had even really happened.

"Welcome back, honey. You've been out about eighteen hours," she answered the question he hadn't asked. "It's Monday now, morning. Everything went as smoothly as it could possibly go. You broke major blood vessels on both sides of your torso, probably when you fell. Your spleen, liver, and kidneys all look just fine, and you were right, your ribs aren't cracked or fractured, but there is inflammation of the cartilage there and you did lose . . .you were bleeding internally. Slowly, thank God, but still Jason had to make two incisions, three inches long." Angelique put careful hands on the white, hospital blanket over the wounds, making Lance aware of them with the touch. One near his ribcage, the other on the opposite side, lower on his abdomen. "We had to give you a blood transfusion, which you seem to be handling well. Everyone expects you to make a full recovery, but you . . . you've got to quit scaring us like this, sweetheart."

"I didn't mean to," Lance meant to say, but it came out horribly slurred. Damn morphine.

"I missed it," Angelique was saying, berating herself. "Almost thirty percent blood loss and I was sitting right there watching it happen – treating you for a completely different problem. Just like how I . . . God, I should never take students."

"Doña, don't," he stopped her, letting his eyes close again. She should know better than anyone how internal bleeding could be, how there could be zero symptoms until it was suddenly critical. Especially when it was slowly leaking into the abdominal cavity, which had the space to hold almost the entirety of a person's blood volume without them even feeling it. He'd walked ten miles in the rain, completely unaware, fallen asleep. Dante had missed it in his assessment. Lance hadn't even known anything was wrong until he'd messed up his blood pressure trying to stand up. If Fritz hadn't insisted on getting his ribs X-rayed, if he hadn't woken him, Lance could have bled out in the bed without anyone even knowing what happened. "It's over."

And I don't want to stop being your student; don't even say it. It's all I have left.

"The bleeding's stopped, and you're physically stable," she corrected him, and he struggled to look at her, looking for clues in her words. "But you and I still have a lot to do before this is over."

Her words made him tired, more than a little worried, and he wanted to ask her what she meant, hoping that she wasn't going to stop working with him because of this, but Fritz arrived just then, hands full of disposable coffee cups, Allura following right behind him.

"Hey," he exclaimed good-naturedly when he saw Lance, obviously trying to set a positive mood. "Good to see you awake."

"Yeah, thanks," Lance responded, attempting to honor Fritz's attempt at lightness by adding a little energy into his voice. The man had saved his life, after all. A couple of times now. But even though he was talking to Guist, he watched Allura as she slipped past all the medical apparatus that surrounded his bed, maneuvering herself to the side by the IV pole, opposite Angelique. She was still here. She hadn't gone back to New York yet. She looked worn and sad, sparking guilt in Lance. He'd done that to her.

"How are you doing?" Fritz asked him, handing Angelique one of the coffees. Lance could smell it, suddenly strong in the room. It smelled good, though he didn't think he wanted any yet. Actually, after surgery like his, he probably wouldn't be allowed anything by mouth for at least another day. He took a minute to think about Fritz's question, noticing how Allura was watching him, waiting anxiously for the answer. One of his last memories was her stricken face, the terror in it as she stood helpless with Officer Guist while Lance tried to stay conscious as long as possible. He felt horrible for all he'd put her through.

"I'm fine," he said, encouragingly, but that apparently wasn't the right answer because shockingly Allura jumped in and bit his head off.

"Don't you dare," she raged at Lance, eyes sparking with fury and tears. "How can you even say that? We were there, Lance; we saw . . we saw everyth. . ." She couldn't finish; she hid her face in her hands, sobbing tiredly. Lance looked over to Fritz for help, but all he saw was pain. The light mood disintegrated in an instant, and Lance was on his own to try and fix whatever he'd just done to ruin it. Angelique looked conflicted, like she wanted to stay where she was, guarding Lance's bedside, but she also wanted to get up to put her arms around Allura.

"Allura," Lance started, though what he was supposed to say after this that might help was beyond him. He wasn't even sure which one of them had made this so uncomfortable.

"It's hard to believe you, Lance," Angelique said, like she was giving him something, a clue, a secret. "We've all heard you say that for so long when it wasn't true, and we all let you say it and it's led us here. You could at least try to answer the question properly."

What did that mean, properly? But then Lance remembered something, remembered when it had been Keith in the hospital bed. He remembered asking him, repeatedly, how he was feeling. If he were ok. He remembered how Keith would shrug or give the most basic of answers. He remembered how frustrated he was that Keith could not admit to his own pain, especially when it was so obvious. He remembered thinking that it shouldn't be so hard.

Except now he understood exactly why it was so hard.

"But I did," Lance started, slowly, quietly, unable to look at any of them. "I promise, nothing hurts right now." It was true, the medication was masking any pain, but were they going to accept it as the truth? He weakly reached over to Allura, tugging gently on her sleeve. He wanted to touch her, prove to her that he wasn't lying or keeping anything back. "Princess, don't cry. Not for me."

"You don't get to decide," she shot back, her hurt feelings putting her on the defensive. "If I cry for you or not. If I worry for you or not. What were you thinking?"

"I'm . . sorry . . . I didn't want to bother anyone," Lance began, apologizing even though he knew he was right about this. What would it change for him to complain about his suffering? Would it help? Improve things? No, it just meant that someone else had to share in his suffering. Pain was always an inconvenience – one that Lance had always wanted to spare for those he loved. A burden he carried so others wouldn't have to. He'd dedicated his life to that cause.

You can only carry so much, Lance, Angelique's memory whispered to him.

"So this is better?" Allura immediately challenged, gesturing toward the hospital room, the IV pole, to Lance lying prone on the bed. "You didn't want to bother anyone, so you kept all that suffering to yourself to the point where you were literally bleeding to death!?"

"Honey girl," Angelique interjected quietly, and Lance was so ready for her to stop this conversation. Protect him from Allura's emotional outbursts. He felt betrayed when Fritz wouldn't let her.

"Drugged might be the best way to have this conversation." Lance just barely heard Guist mutter to his wife, putting a hand on her shoulder. What did that even mean? That he agreed with Allura? That he thought she was right? But . . Lance looked around himself a second and suddenly the full consequences of all his silence came crashing down on him. Look at what he'd done. Angelique and Fritz were missing work. Allura had flown from Columbia, missing her classes or programs or the hundred other missions she probably had scheduled for now. People had lost sleep over him. He was taking up space in a hospital – he'd literally stolen blood from someone else. All because what? Because he couldn't handle being alone? Because he'd buckled under stress. Because he'd messed up.

"A professional is the best way to handle this conversation," Angelique quipped back, under her breath, but Lance was hyper focused to everyone in the room now. Allura was staring at the floor, her mouth a straight, tight line, as though she had plenty she still wanted to say but realized that maybe she shouldn't say it.

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized again, meaning it more this time. "It . . wasn't supposed to be like this." He met eyes with Angelique – the only person in the room he thought might come close to understanding his point. He was so tired.

"I know, sweetheart," she acknowledged, and he felt that she did actually understand. "But why don't you take some time while you're here and think hard about how you thought it was supposed to be? And perhaps most importantly, think about how you can get there."

Lance sighed, comforted but he didn't know why. It wasn't like he had any of those kinds of answers – that's what had driven him out into the rain in the first place. And yet – the way Angelique said it. He thought he might be able to figure it out this time. Allura sniffed at his bedside, still not looking at him, though it looked more like shame than anger to Lance now. But he couldn't tell. He was too sleepy, too heavy.

"Are you two going to be okay together while I take my wife home to get some sleep?" Fritz asked, his tone serious. Lance looked at Angelique again and saw something move across her eyes. Eighteen hours she said he'd been unconscious. She'd probably been here with him the entire time. And she'd been watching him before that too. Though she didn't wear her exhaustion in a visible way, at least not that Lance could see. She appeared as though she could jump from that chair and flow effortlessly into the ER triage room right this second if someone needed her to. He envied her ability and stamina.

Lance nodded wordlessly, having no intention of getting into any arguments with Allura. He'd never won against her on a good day and even he had to admit that this was far from a good day. Allura also nodded, as though she'd just been chastened.

"Come on," Fritz said to Angelique, coaxing her away from her self-assigned post. As though she'd decided that she was never going to let Lance out of her sight again. Fritz suddenly smiled playfully, "Set a good example for the boy. You know you need the rest, and he's in good hands here."

Angelique glared at her husband without any real heat, and she did stand up. She bent over Lance, kissing his forehead.

"You are not alone," she told him, as though she were revealing a universal truth. "And God as my witness, I'm going to prove it to you. Now let us take care of you."

"I will," Lance said, as though he had much of a choice. Though he didn't think he minded not having a choice about this. "I promise."

"Call if you need anything," Fritz said seriously to them both. "We'll be back later to check on you."

Angelique kept her eyes fixed on Lance as she walked backward out of the room. Lance could tell that she didn't want to leave, that somehow she felt that if she left, something else would happen simply because of her absence. That Lance might disappear. He smiled for her, and she shook her head as Fritz pulled her to the hallway.

After they left, Lance returned all his attention to Allura, though he couldn't really sort out what she'd said. He didn't understand, but he didn't want her to be upset, and especially not angry with him. He touched her sleeve again, noticing that she wore a sweater he'd knit for her, one of the first ones when he hadn't been all that good at it. He'd picked up stitches crookedly on the neckline and one of the sleeves was longer than the other. And yet, Allura still managed to make it look fabulous.

"I'll knit you a better sweater," Lance offered, hoping to start a less hostile conversation. He didn't have a ton of energy left, but he knew she needed something.

"I love this sweater," Allura countered, eyes concentrated on the tile, her tone not matching up with her words.

"Allura, you . . . you don't need to stick around if you have something more important to do," Lance offered, knowing exactly how uncomfortable the chairs in this room were. "I know you've got a hundred things on your schedule, and it's not going to be much fun just sitting here watching me sleep."

"Lance, you're ridiculous. I'm not going anywhere; I don't want to go anywhere. There is not a single thing I could be doing right now that's more important than being in this room with you, and I'm offended that you suggested it." She paused, then decided to go ahead and challenge him. "Unless you actually do want me to leave?"

"I-" Lance started, feeling as though he were circling some kind of trap. This was confusing.

"You look me in the eyes and tell me that you want to be alone," Allura pushed, and Lance gave up. It was selfish, and he knew it, but he didn't want to tell her to leave.

"No," he whispered. Never again.

"So tell me you want me to stay here with you." He looked at her, wondering where this was coming from, why she was forcing things out of him like this. "Just say it," she demanded when it looked like he wasn't going to.

"I . . . want you to stay," Lance repeated, surprised at how difficult it was. "I don't want to be alone." Even if I'm asleep. Allura tilted her head, softening, brushing away a tear from Lance's face with the back of her hand.

"Thank you," she said, soberly. "I admit I don't understand why, but I know that was hard for you. But we just can't continue like this. Look what it's done to you. And . . . it's starting to hurt other people besides yourself, and I know you don't want that."

"What?" Lance asked, now extremely confused. What did she mean, he was hurting other people? He'd been trying so hard not to do that. Allura sighed.

"Lance, are you really feeling all right?" She pressed him suddenly, wrenching their conversation a different direction, not understanding how fuzzy it was in Lance's head right now. "Honestly, you're not in pain at all?"

"Right this second, no," Lance assured her. "I can't feel anything." He knew it'd be a different story when the pain medication wore off in a while, when they started lowering the dose in preparation for Lance to leave the hospital. He knew he had a solid two weeks ahead of him where he was going to have to depend on the kindness of others to get him through most of his daily activities. He didn't want to think about it, though.

"That was the . . . the most awful thing I've ever seen," Allura confessed, allowing Lance to hold her hand. "I was watching them take you away and wondering what I was going to tell everyone. How I'd just been sitting with you and no one even knew you were . .you were dying." Lance squeezed her hand.

"Does it help that I didn't know either?" Lance volunteered.

"Not really," Allura told him, not coldly, but he could tell that she was trying very hard not to yell at him again. They fell into silence for a bit, not knowing how to proceed in a productive way. "I wish I could make you understand."

"Understand?" Lance asked again, blurred around the edges, wanting to acknowledge the weight she was trying to put into her words here.

"You put so much good into the world, Lance," Allura told him. "But for some reason you don't think you deserve any of it to come back to you. And it's hard to watch."

"Why are you telling me this?" Lance wondered. Why now? It wasn't like he could change what happened. He couldn't take any of it back. If only she knew that his entire goal in the world was to tread on it lightly, to not contribute to the burdens of others. So then why was she talking like this?

"Because I promised to call Keith when you woke up; he's been so worried, trapped on that base and waiting to talk to you. And I want you to be honest with him, please. You've kept him locked out of your life long enough, and it's killing both of you."

"Me?" Lance retorted, realizing that something did hurt inside him after all. He'd locked Keith out? No, it was Keith who was inaccessible. Keith who was missing, nine time zones away. Lance's petty problems were a distraction that Keith definitely didn't need. He was doing him a favor.

"Yes," Allura confirmed, though now Lance could tell that she was trying to be gentle about it. She didn't want to hurt him, but she wanted him to know. "You keep pushing him away, pretending to be strong, pretending that you've got everything figured out."

"No," Lance protested. What? "That's not . . ." That wasn't what he was doing. He was just trying not to impede Keith's success. Didn't want to hold him back. He wanted Keith to have every happiness and freedom and that meant not weighing him down. Not asking for any obligation from him.

"The way you try so hard not to bother him has just made it seem to him that you don't need or want him in your life. And that's why he stays away. As long as he can stand it. He doesn't want to disrupt all your plans. But then that makes you think that he doesn't need you either, and really, you're both being stupid, and it needs to stop. So we are going to call him now, like I promised, and you are going to tell him exactly how much you need him. Please."

She pulled out her phone before Lance had caught up to all that she'd said. Keith stayed away because he didn't want to bother Lance? What did that mean, as long as he could stand it? That didn't . . . it didn't make sense.

The phone was ringing, a time zone away, five time zones away, half a world away. Who knew? Keith doesn't tell you where he is because he doesn't think you care enough to want to know. He doesn't call because he knows you're busy and he doesn't want to interrupt anything important. But that was wrong. How had Lance misunderstood it so badly? Allura handed him the phone, but he didn't want to take it. She shouldn't trust him to say anything right – not now. He was broken and drugged and obviously shouldn't be in charge of anything delicate.

"Allura?" Oh, God, Keith's voice. "What's happening? Is . . .is he awake? Is he ok?"

Lance lay still on the hospital bed, mouth open. Keith sounded trapped and terrified. Because of him? Really? Allura broke Lance's trance by dabbing at his eyes with her sleeve again. He sent a quick look to her, and she mouthed the instruction that he should answer.

"Keith," Lance said his name and heard the surprised relief on the other end of the line, an audible exhale. "Lobito, it's me."

"Lance! How are you? Are you ok? What happened?"

"I …," Lance hesitated, the old "I'm fine" mantra right there on his lips despite the talk he'd just had with Allura. This was a habit that would be difficult to break. It felt wrong to put any of this on Keith. He was dealing with so much already. He'd just been in a plane crash a few weeks ago; his girlfriend was in worse shape than Lance was. This seemed too much to put on one person.

"Trust him," Allura encouraged. Like you did in the phone booth.

"I've been better," Lance confessed, and even that much was hard. Allura tilted her head. Yeah, he knew that sucked. Give him a break; he'd almost died yesterday. Giving voice to his pain was new to him.

"I'm going to kill the sons of bitches who did this to you," Keith threatened.

"No, Keith," Lance protested immediately. Because the way Keith talked, what Lance suspected about him, he didn't doubt that Keith could actually do it. He didn't want that. Besides – it was still all Lance's fault. And it was time that everyone knew it. "I started it," he confessed, and a small chain unlocked around his heart. "It's my fault; I hit Spencer first."

"Didn't happen," Keith responded, and Lance wished he could laugh without damaging anything. "That's impossible."

"It's true," Lance confessed again. Why didn't anyone believe him anymore? He wasn't a liar, not really. So why did no one trust his words? Especially now when it was important.

"So, what, you think you deserved this?" Keith shot back. "Your roommate was an ass to you for months and finally provoked you far enough that you pushed him a little to get him to back off and you think you deserved to be beat to death for it? Lance, you've got to see that's messed up."

"I didn't push him; I punched him."

"Yeah, fine, and you know what he did? Nothing. He didn't call the police. He didn't need medical attention; there's not a scratch on him to prove you touched him at all. You did nothing to justify that guy going after you like that."

"Keith," Lance begged him to stop, and he heard him take a deep breath, calming his intensity. Lance was starting to feel his incisions now; the price of being alert and conscious. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going.

"Why didn't you say something?" Keith demanded, quietly, and for the first time Lance could hear the hurt in it.

"Why would I say something?" Lance challenged, because damn it, Allura, it wasn't like Keith could have stopped it. Hearing about it was just causing him frustration and pushing him into making actual death threats and what good was that to anybody? "You're heaven knows where dealing with the aftermath of a plane crash and your girlfriend is already making your life miserable. You've got more important things to deal with without having to listen to me whine about my issues with my idiot roommate."

"My . . my girlfriend?" Keith repeated, sounding slightly stunned. "You don't mean Acxa?"

"Uh, yeah," Lance felt his momentum failing. Why had Keith said it like that?

"She's not my girlfriend. Lance, she's my partner – my wingman. She was assigned to me."

"What?" Lance checked. He'd just said what? And wasn't that what Acxa said too? I'm his partner, and Lance had just assumed.

"Look, you're going off point," Keith backtracked, even though Lance thought that this was an extremely important detail. "I just . . .I don't know. I thought we were friends, Lance. I thought you knew you could trust me."

"Keith," Lance said, too stunned to talk. What did he want to even say here? Be honest with him, Allura said. "We. ..we are friends." Keith had to know that. Had to believe that. Lance winced, that spot under his ribs beginning to burn distractedly, the numbness almost worn off. Everything hurt again.

"You ok, Lance?" Keith asked, picking up on the change in his voice. Allura was looking at him now too, worry in her features.

"No," Lance breathed, and a much larger chain let go of his spirit for saying such a tiny word. "Lance, I know there's a pain button somewhere next to you. Push it."

"Not yet. I won't be able to talk to you if I do that. . . and I don't . . I don't want you to disappear this time. Not if you think I don't trust you. Not if you don't believe that we're friends. You have no idea. I miss you, Keith. So much. I never wanted you to leave."

"You . . really?"

"Really, but I didn't want to stop you. I know how much being a pilot means to you. I couldn't hold you back from that. It wasn't fair to do that to you." He paused; he needed a minute to breathe. "Shit."

"Lance, push the damn button," Keith ordered, and Lance finally gave in. It was stupid to think he'd be able to handle this kind of pain without medication. "I . . I'm not going to disappear if you don't want me to."

"I don't want you to," Lance admitted, each new confession breaking another link. I never wanted you to, and I'm so sorry if you ever thought I was trying to push you away. "I just . . . I wish I could see you again."

"You really want that?" Keith checked.

"More than anything," Lance confessed, feeling the new dose of morphine spreading into his system. Feeling it pulling him under. He wondered if he would wake up and remember anything he was saying right now. He wondered if he'd regret it.

"Then I'll make it happen," Keith promised, and Lance closed his eyes.

Author's Note: So what do we think? I like the symbolism of internal bleeding (you're dying and NO ONE CAN TELL. . not even you.) This was so delicate, and I'm not sure I have it right. But I think I have it right enough that we can move forward with it. Because damn, we've got to get these boys together. In a bit – Lance has a good two weeks before he can go anywhere.

Thanks so much, guys, I can't tell you how much you all mean to me. Thanks for all of you who reached out to make sure I was ok and to make sure I hadn't abandoned this story. I haven't. I won't. Not when we're this close.