Author's Note: Now hang on – don't get all excited. I wrote this chapter at Christmas, ok? I just couldn't stand how sad Lance was, and I wanted to write a little farther ahead in the timeline, and I can't believe I wrote seven hundred pages in chronological order and then just split off months into the future like that, but I did. And then I kept writing even though what I should have been doing was bridging the gap. So I'd write at both places and all of that means you get two chapters this week (though this one is a little shorter).
I do want to say, before you get down there, that hypothermia is a strange thing. My husband, the Search and Rescue guy, would go get hypothermic hikers off the mountain all the time. Even though it NEVER freezes in California where we were. But they'd be dressed in Tshirts and shorts and the sun would go down in the desert and they'd be sweaty and the wet would suck all their heat away from them and dying of hypothermia in the springtime in California was a very real danger.
So even though it is October in Illinois, and not freezing – the cold is still dangerous. And hypothermic people are Really Bad At Making Good Choices, so if you're reading this and wondering what the hell Lance has going on his head, just bear that in mind. His mind is not working all that great.
And please stay patient. Because I'm out of stuff that I wrote months ago and it's back to forging ahead one chapter at a time. Enjoy!
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Missing Man Formation
Lance spent the long hours of the night falling deeper into uncertainty. He didn't know where to go, but he continued to move. He wasn't sure what started first, the headache or the rain, but by the time both were pounding hard enough to blind him, he had walked so far that he actually no longer knew where he was. Some part of Chicago that was nothing but concrete and steel, tall office buildings lining all the sidewalks, temporary fences blocking off construction zones. Hundreds of windows and doors, but not a single one open this late on a Saturday night. No homes hidden behind the office fronts, no corner restaurants or bars. Just streetlamps and traffic lights and miles and miles of darkness. He knew he'd gone through Washington Park a long time ago, and he thought he'd found it again, but the new park's sign read Sherman, which Lance had never heard of. He'd passed a Catholic school and a Remax and a tire repair store. Phone stores and beauty salons and a China tea shop that closed at five. Hardly any cars drove on the street next to him, but he knew better than to expect anyone to risk pulling over to ask after a lone Latino after midnight. If it was after midnight. He noticed that more than one vehicle actually sped up as they passed him. Like he was some kind of threat. He'd never felt so alone.
Lance tried leaning against one of the doorways, under a small canopy, just to get out of the rain and gather his thoughts but noticed two things about holding still almost immediately. It increased the pain of the migraine and it was far too cold tonight for him to safely stay still outside. He would have to keep moving to keep his body temperature up and hope the rain stopped on its own soon.
You need to go back, Lance told himself, often. Go back and sleep in the lounge or something. Figure it out in the morning somehow. Wait for Spencer to leave and then lock yourself in your room. But then he'd remind himself that he was actually trying to get back. He just didn't know the way. All the buildings looked the same. He'd never been this far from campus, at least not without Allura driving him somewhere, and he hadn't been looking at any of the street names, though he kept meandering down them searching for one of those long, main stretches that he knew would take him back to the university. 57th or 55th Ave. Garfield maybe? He had no idea where the lake was. The Museum. He had no idea that Chicago closed up this tight in the center. Except he knew he couldn't be in the center, not with everything around him so dark and lonely, but he did feel as though he were being sucked down into the city, swallowed whole, vanished without a trace.
He reached up to hold his head between his hands, give the muscles of his neck a break, something nagging at him. Little jangling alarm bells that told him it should not be this hard to get back. He must be doing something wrong. The blocks of Chicago were mostly straight and neat since they didn't have to compete much with hills, valleys, or rivers. If only it weren't so dark. If there weren't so many buildings in the way. If it weren't pouring ice-cold rain that had long ago saturated Lance's clothes to the point where they weighed him down and stuck to him uncomfortably. It would probably be easier if he could see straight, think straight.
Think.
I just want to go home.
But maybe that's why you're so lost. How can you find your way home when you don't have one?
Lance slowed, paused and leaned on the side of a building, the rain hitting him as hard as his last thought. He really didn't belong here. There was nowhere he could go.
Keep walking, the small, nagging voice commanded. Focus.
Except he didn't want to. He was cold and wet, tired, sad, and sick to his stomach. He wanted to lie down and rest. He'd been walking forever, and he saw no point in continuing. He didn't have a destination. He noticed himself curling over against a building, slumping downward as if he were just going to lie down right here on the sidewalk.
Don't you dare, his training snarled at him. You know better than that; it won't take long for you to freeze to death if you lie down. Keep going.
He groaned at himself, pushed against his knees to straighten up, and started walking again, no longer even bothering to look at the street signs. He felt like he was sleepwalking. Sometimes it seemed he had stopped moving, and he would pause just so he could tell the difference between feeling as though he'd stopped and actually stopping. And in those moments, he felt gravity increase, threatening the strength of his knees, persuading him downward.
Move, his subconscious insisted. But Lance was struggling to see the urgency of it. Move where? Do what? Why?
Why?
Disjointed words came to him at random intervals, passages of text across his mind's eye. The normal duration of a migraine. Barometric pressure readings. His calendar with Keith's birthday circled in red. Confession. Regret. Andale your ass. The law of three. Cold. Wet. Shivering. Hypothermia. A table of body temperatures and symptoms. Case study manilla folders. The victim walked past five houses with lights on without seeing them. In the end, he'd removed most of his clothes, leaving them behind in a trail.
Lance jerked awake slightly, moving his hands over himself, trying to look around. Still dressed, still wet. Still raining. Still dark. Still hurting. What had he just been . . . what was that?
Don't stop.
Call us back. Lance, call us.
I can't.
He walked, one hand on his head, the other arm wrapped around his ribs. Keith used to stand with his arms wrapped around his ribs. One of them had been cracked once. Lance pushed gently against the place where Damien kicked him and winced, trying not to gag.
The buildings gave way to large stretches of grass as Lance crossed Cicero. Cicero? The airport was on Cicero, right? Midway? He hadn't actually walked all the way to the airport? He could hear cars, fast-moving cars, and figured he must be close to Stephenson. The expressway. Which meant there was a train station nearby. He didn't have any money or ID to get on it, but there was probably a map so he could at least figure out where he was, get some orientation. A bench in a shelter where he could rest his head a minute, settle his stomach. Probably just on the other side of the grass, toward the cars.
He sort of staggered on the suddenly not-smooth, not-pavement terrain of the soft and soggy lawn. It sort of felt like he were trying to walk on a jostling ship, and he finally had to stop and give in to the urge to throw up, bracing himself against a tree, his head throbbing hard. He needed to rest somewhere. Get out of the rain. This was getting dangerous. Maybe . . . maybe he could find someone who could help him. Loan him the shuttle fare back to campus. Except he hadn't seen anyone outside. Not this late. Not in this weather.
No one is going to help you.
You did this to yourself.
The grass became a baseball diamond with an oval path surrounding it leading to another large building. The cars were getting louder. Lance struggled to swallow, both his arms folded across his abdomen, holding himself together as he hunched forward, shoulders as close to his ears as he could get. He still couldn't see the expressway, even though he could hear it. He walked toward the building, knowing it would be closed and locked for the night, but there was something that had caught his eye near it. Beyond the baseball diamond, past a drinking fountain, past the ornamental line of oak trees, there was a small, plexiglass booth. Shelter. And a public phone.
Something inside Lance tried to get excited about that, but he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he had a quarter or any idea of who he could call. His body made a beeline for the phonebooth anyway without much conscious direction from him. It wasn't locked; though it wasn't easy to pull open the door between the seal of disuse in the hinges and Lance's own lack of coordination. Lance shut himself inside it and for some ridiculous reason, he felt suddenly safe. He leaned against the box holding the phone, resting his head, taking just a few minutes to process how it felt to not have rain cannoning into him. It took a while to convince himself since he could still feel the sharp, ice-needle pings on his face, the exposed skin of his hands, feel the rainwater dripping down him as though he were actively melting.
Lance reached for the phone receiver, surprised to find something as old-fashioned as this still around. Did anyone even use pay phones anymore? Well, anyone besides him, but he'd already figured out that he'd left the realm of normal quite a long time ago. He picked it up, an old, creaking bit of plastic, and experimentally held it to his ear.
His hand started shaking as he registered the dial tone. It still worked. Not that it did him much good. Who could he even call? His hands trembled so hard, he almost dropped the receiver. He wasn't sure what he was trying to do; there wasn't anyone who could really help him. The phone might dial 9-1-1 for him. Who was on duty tonight? Dante? He wasn't sure anymore. He had lost track of the time, the date. All he knew was that it had been dark for ages. Cold for years. Raining ice forever. He just wanted it all to stop. The phone began beeping, a pulse that snagged painfully in his throat and over his eye. He cradled it for silence.
The rain battered the small glass coffin where he stood propped up, an incessant drilling that made Lance shiver with chill and agony. This wasn't actually going to work for shelter. Maybe he should find somewhere else to hide. If there was anyplace left in Chicago where he could hide from this. He involuntarily cringed, though all that threatened him were memories and longing. Maybe he should just stay lost.
But no. Lance pushed his throbbing head more tightly against his arm, ashamed, taking a very quick breath against the sob that threatened to tear his chest apart. Now he was going to start crying? He couldn't do that; it would hurt way too much. He'd lose whatever little control he had over his gag reflex. Another bad choice. The only reason Lance knew a tear dripped down his face was because it was slightly warmer than the frigid rainwater that drenched him. Despite it all – the shaking, the migraines, the loneliness, the pain, he still wanted to belong somewhere, and he wished someone would tell him that this particular failing was ok. He wanted someone to find him. Someone to save him. Wanted to matter to someone despite everything he'd done wrong.
He knew he couldn't expect it, though. No one even knew where he was. He had stopped talking to just about everyone. The last time he'd made a phone call it was to beg Angelique to let him return to the ER sooner than her mandate. Before that? He didn't even remember. He thought back to the altercation at his apartment, how he'd been thrown out of his own apartment. Remembered just running, needing to get away from the prison of the University. The place he'd pinned all his dreams to that had turned on him. Left him friendless and alone. And now he was lost and friendless and alone and he knew it was all his fault but he still had the audacity to want someone to come find him. Find him before he became too cold to think straight anymore. But then he'd have to admit to screwing everything up. Attacking Spencer. Avoiding everyone. Running away. He'd have to call someone and confess and hope that person would still be willing to come help him even after knowing about all these crimes. But who could he turn to? Not the emergency dispatch. Not for something stupid like this. Hey, I got lost and need a ride, but I don't know where yet. Home? I don't know if I have one of those. Maybe I can just sleep in that office by the ambulance entrance for a while? Yeah, I know Angelique said I couldn't but considering the circumstances. Nonsense. They had more important things to do on a night like this. He knew; he'd been one of them for years. But who then? God, he really didn't want to bother anyone. It was pouring. It was . . .who knew what time it was. The strange, closed hours of the night where nothing was open except places no one should probably be. No one should have to come out in this for him; he was the one who messed up.
But he still desperately wished someone would. He couldn't stay out here. Couldn't stay soaked like this or there really would be an emergency. He knew his temperature was dropping. Knew beneath the pain and the touch-and-go lucidity what that meant. Knew that if someone didn't come for him that none of this would matter in the morning. If he didn't want to die, and obviously some masochistic part of him didn't, he would have to make some kind of call. Think of someone who would help him.
He lifted his hand to the phone receiver again, still lacking a quarter and any idea of who he could contact. He didn't even want anyone to see him this way, a soaking wet, shaking, crying failure. Not like this. Besides that, he didn't have numbers memorized anymore. They were all preprogramed into his phone. Hunk, Pidge, Allura – all buttons in his contacts and too far away anyway. 9-1-1- might be the only option for him. Damn, he didn't want that. Didn't want to go to the ER and have people he knew treat him for conditions he already knew how to avoid. He could already imagine how they'd look at him. He didn't want to waste anyone's time that way, didn't want them to know how far he'd fallen. Didn't want Angelique to find out or she may extend his banishment even more. Didn't want any of this. Maybe he shouldn't call. Maybe he should stay here. Make it stop. He bowed his head further in wounded shame and a glint of bright red on his wrist caught his attention.
His shaking intensified as he noticed the bracelet that Keith had sent him, the woven red twin to the blue one Mateo had made for him when he left Cuba, its crisp newness emphasizing just how worn and faded the other had become. Each one representing a different tie, a commitment, braided around his pulse. Memories. Oh, Keith. Why did you send me this? Did you know what it meant to send me this? Lance groaned. Of all the people he cared for, Keith's was the only phone number he knew by heart. He'd dialed it so often, even when he didn't press send. If he didn't want to dial emergency services, then trying to reach Keith was the only other option.
But maybe that was ok. It was rather poetic, in a way, wasn't it? Keith had called Lance in what he thought were his last few moments on this Earth. Wouldn't it only be fair for Lance to call for the same reason? And if no one answered, like every other time Lance had called Keith, then he would know for sure. And maybe that would make it easier to disappear. Leave this phone booth, walk out into the night, absolutely alone.
Lance dialed a number, one he'd learned from Pidge's movies, or maybe it had been a commercial, he didn't know where it came from, but he did remember the jingle that would allow him to call someone without having anything on him to pay for it. And after that number, he dialed another. A number he dialed all the time even when he knew it wouldn't connect. Last time. A robot version of a woman's voice came on, asking him to state his name, and he stuttered it as loudly as he was able. She then promised to connect the call, which actually raised a small amount of bitter humor in Lance's psyche. You think it's that easy, huh?
Because it had never worked. This particular number. But that's why Lance dialed it. Because maybe what he truly wanted was permission to give up and knew that it would be easiest if he used this number. The most important number. The least effective number. Or maybe there was another reason. One Lance was hurting too much right now to figure out. Even if Keith answered, it wasn't like he could help him, not as far as he was. Whether he answered or not, Lance would still be alone in this box with nowhere to go. Maybe he was just calling to say good-bye, finally get that closure. The first ring jangled his brain, shaking all the tendrils of misery that were clamped through his jaw, neck, and shoulder, coiled menacingly around his ribs. He automatically pulled away from it even though he needed to stay close enough to hear. Four times, he decided. He'd let this phone ring four times. That would be all he could take.
He braced himself into the corner, face hidden in his arm, hand shaking hard around the phone. It was so cold. It was always so cold. Had he ever been warm here? He closed his eyes, though it made him dizzy. There came a click on the line that he didn't understand. The woman's voice back again, bridging a gap.
"Hello. You have a collect call from," the voice paused, and Lance heard the recording of himself saying his own name, surprised at how horrible he sounded. Was that really how he sounded or was it a distortion of the playback? The woman's voice continued. "Will you accept the charges?"
"Yes!" Keith shouted his consent at her. "Yes, I accept!" Another click as the automated system removed itself from the call. "Lance! Lance, what the hell? You scared us all to death!"
Lance winced at the sudden volume; his own name being thrown like a javelin into his head. What? Keith slammed forward without waiting for a response, a tidal wave of pain.
"Where the fuck are you?! There are people in three time zones looking for you! What the hell happened? Where's your phone?"
The questions, and the intensity of how they were asked, broke through the fragile control Lance was trying to cling to, especially as images and sensations returned to him on exactly why he didn't have his phone with him. He coughed up a sob and bit onto it hard before it got away from him, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw tight. Now it wasn't only his hands shaking, his knees joined in as well, to the point where he sank down against the glass, sitting in the dirty puddle he'd tracked in here, his whole system shocked to the core.
"You . . .you actually answered," Lance heard himself say in an awed sort of voice. A sad voice, too quiet. Surprised. It didn't even really register what Keith had said – just that he was present. The robot woman hadn't lied; she'd made a connection. Lance heard a confusing growling on the other end of the line, a soft vibration of violence, and tried to refocus. It was surprisingly difficult to pay attention. But this was so unexpected. Such a painful relief.
"Shit, Lance," Keith went on, and Lance could hear him pacing. He could actually hear him making a fist. "Yeah, he called. I'm talking to him right now," Keith said, speaking to someone unseen close by, relief and worry mingled in his tone. "I don't know yet. He's . . .," Keith's tone continued to soften for his next words, directed again toward Lance as though Keith had rearranged how he wanted this to go. "Lance, why aren't you saying anything? Are you ok?"
"Keith," Lance broke on the name. Don't ask me that. Don't make me say it. You weren't supposed to even answer. He sobbed unexpectedly, doing his very best to hold it in, stop it, quiet it. But the attempt just morphed the sob into a gag and the next thing Lance knew he was scrambling, trying to rearrange his knees underneath him, moving clumsily against the whirling disaster of his equilibrium, pushing the booth door open, dragging the phone with him to the extent of its cord.
"Lance," Keith pleaded repeatedly as he listened on the other end of the line, who knew how many miles away? Lance never knew exactly where Keith was. "What's going on?" Lance pitched forward on his hands and knees, fingers still curled around the receiver, his head throbbing mercilessly. Tears, rain, and dark obscured his vision, the phone hard and cold in one hand, and he could not open his mouth to answer Keith until he'd first opened it to release the churning pressure in his stomach, a force that shoved through all his words, tainting them with acid and horror. Lance heaved up practically nothing; he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything, but his body paid no attention to the lack of substance. If anything, it fought harder to find something left to expel. Stop, Lance begged his body, through round after round of dizzying pain and heaving nausea. Stop it, please. All of it. Keith!
"Shiro, something's wrong; he can't even talk," Keith said helplessly, his words hardly audible from under Lance's hand, especially as they sped up. "How do we get to him?"
Lance panted, for the first time thankful for the rain as it flowed down his face, cleaning the strings of bile and slime away from his mouth for him, dropping them in heavy ropes onto the pavement and then washing them downhill toward the dead grass, toward the gutter. He was so disgusting right now. Wet, disheveled, and freezing. His eyes stung. His ribs ached, and his throat felt slit to pieces. Lance didn't want to swallow, so he knelt there with his mouth open, drooling pathetically onto the sidewalk, half in and half out of a phone booth. Gross.
"Calm down, Keith," Shiro's voice in the background, soft, mild, and logical. "Let's think a minute." He said something else that Lance couldn't make out, his heart pounding too hard against his ears.
"It sounds like it's raining where he is," Keith reasoned, uncertain, almost frantic. "Heavy rain – Lance, why does it sound like you're outside? You're not, are you?" Swallow, Lance, pull it together. You could at least help them out a little; they're trying to figure out where you are. Except he didn't really know where he was either. He'd walked for hours. He wasn't paying attention as to where. Cicero? "Stay on the line, Lance; you're safe enough that you can do that, right? Don't hang up, just . . . stay with me. I'll figure it out. I'll find you." Some inaudible mumbling as Keith addressed an instruction to Shiro. Lance tried to say something, but only a moan came out. His head. What he wouldn't give for the bottle of Excedrin he'd left on his desk. And he hadn't been able to get to it. That's supposed to be your place. That's your apartment. You're supposed to be safe there. God.
"He called me collect," Keith continued with his deductions. "So . . pay phone. He's using a pay phone. Probably one outside since it's three in the morning where he is and the rain is so loud. Lance, can you give us anything? Can you tell us where you are?"
But Lance was still trying to breathe through his tender ribs, his cramping stomach, his broken skull. It was three in the morning? He staggered out a "nuh" sound that hopefully Keith could understand as a no. He wished he could be of more assistance in his own rescue, but it had been dark for so long. He hadn't thought Keith would answer, didn't think anyone would be looking for him. That it would be possible for Keith to find him. Not as far as they'd strayed from each other. All the buildings were made of slick, identical concrete. There were no landmarks visible from where his whole world comprised of this glass box. He curled up on his side on the floor of the tiny phone booth until he realized that compressing his ribs and organs was a horrible idea, so he clambered upright, leaning his head against the cold side, the rain pelting hard against that ear, shivering, taking shallow breaths. Would this ever stop? What had he even called for? Hadn't he wanted everything to stop? He couldn't remember.
"Can he ask them?" Keith was saying now, not talking to Lance anymore but to Shiro, who seemed to also be on the phone to someone else, but Lance couldn't really tell. He was having a hard time focusing. He just wanted to sleep. "He's done it before, right? And they've been looking too so . . . He's already doing it? Ok." A pause the length of an hour, a lifetime. Lance wondered if it were worth all this trouble. Maybe he shouldn't have called. What time was it where Keith was? Did he even know where Keith was?
"Lance?" Keith was back with him, his voice agitated. "Hang on. We're asking for the call to be traced; we'll have the address of whatever pay phone you're using in just a minute, so just stay where you are." There came a frustrated pause, a hesitancy as Keith debated what he'd say next. "Lance, are you still there? Can you please try to make a noise? I need to know you're still awake, all right? Anything will work - a word, a sound, tap the phone on something, whatever – just acknowledge that you can still hear me talking." Keith sounded strange to Lance, a cadence he hadn't heard from him in years. Why did he sound so afraid?
Not good. That's not what Lance wanted. He hadn't meant to be such a burden to anyone. He tried to take a deep breath, which was difficult. Harder still was gathering the muscle to turn that breath into a word as Keith had asked.
"I'm here," Lance managed to croak out, his voice cracked, bloody and burned. It hurt to talk. His head, his throat. His heart. He just wanted to sit here, curled up and broken, leaning listlessly into the corner, content to just listen to Keith. He'd always liked listening to Keith's voice. He could spend the rest of his life, however long he had left before he really did fall asleep, sitting here in the cold and wet, provided that Keith stayed here with him. Stayed here and talked to him. This was probably the best way to go, actually. Go? Tears welled up in Lance's eyes again. He'd actually answered. He'd answered.
"Shiro – he's hurt; I can hear it," Keith spoke slightly away from the mouthpiece, voice desperate and pleading, having multiple conversations at once. Well, no, just one. Lance didn't think his two-word-responses counted as conversation. "His voice is so messed up. Did they tell you where he's calling from yet? Where? LeClaire-Hearst Park – where the hell is that? What?"
Lance winced, lacking enough energy to really wonder what words were being exchanged in person where Keith was. He heard himself whimper at the sharpness of Keith's tone, but he didn't know if Keith could hear it. Or if he did, if he could interpret what it meant.
"Lance," Keith addressed him, sorrowful and confused, exasperated. "What the hell are you doing ten miles away from your apartment?" Oh. Well that explained a lot then. How he had no idea where he was. How he felt so tired, so drained and weak. So chilled. Lance shivered just thinking over the long path again, the haze he slogged through, hardly glancing at the traffic or the buildings he passed. All of them fortresses built up against him. None of them welcoming. How he couldn't find the lake anymore. "Lance, hang on, ok? Shiro – I can hear him shivering. We're losing him to shock or something. Lance! Come on. Just a little longer, Lance; they're coming for you. They'll be there soon."
Who? Who was coming to get him? Not Keith or he would have said we. He was probably still in D.C. Or Germany. Or Iraq. Or Japan. Who knew – because Lance certainly didn't. The last time Lance knew for sure, he had been saying good-bye to Keith at Midway airport. Then Lance had lost him. And he didn't think he'd ever get him back. Except he was here, on the phone. Last time. One night only.
Keith quieted for a long moment, each of them still with a phone in their hands, thinking their separate thoughts. Lance did his best to summon the energy to say something, say anything, but it wasn't working very well. He was so tired, so cold. His head hurt so much. He didn't think he could move anything, including his jaw or tongue. They seemed fused in place, everything stiff and shuddering. But there was a lot he wanted to say. Keith, I'm sorry. Don't worry about me; I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm going to sleep now. I love you.
"Lance, I'm sorry," Keith murmured, sending another jolting spasm through him. What was he apologizing for? "I knew I should have reached out to you sooner. I let every excuse hold me back, and now you're . . .." There was a huskiness to Keith's voice now, and Lance wasn't sure what he was actually saying. So hard to think. So cold. Or maybe he wasn't? He couldn't tell anymore. "It won't happen again, understand? Just please . . . please, stay with me. I won't let you down again."
What? What did Keith even mean, that made no sense. When had he ever let Lance down? Lance was the failure here.
"You didn't," Lance whispered the assurance, his voice ruined.
"Shit, Lance, don't," Keith begged. "It's hard enough to admit it in the first place without you killing yourself trying to make it better for me."
Lance tried to format what he wanted to say next that might not piss Keith off. Somehow, he thought an apology for wasting his time might not go over so well while Lance was still in the process of wasting Keith's time. Before he could figure it out, an intense screeching stabbed him above the eye, causing him to push his palm over the place as though it would help keep his brains from just squirting out through the crack that surely must be in his skull at that exact point. He heard himself make a strange keening noise as the agonizing sound grew louder, accompanied by flashing lights. Keith had sent an ambulance?
"Lance, what is it? What's wro . . . Shiro, tell them to cut the sirens. I don't know, but they're freaking him out. Lance, it's ok." Keith continued to gently encourage him via phone, and Shiro was able to successfully relay the message to whomever was responsible for the sirens as they shut off shortly after Keith had requested it. But the damage was done; Lance sat pushed as hard as he could get against the corner of the phone booth, rattled, sick, and panting, making horrible, moaning whines that he didn't seem able to stop. Everything hurt.
The sirens were quiet, and Lance couldn't hear Keith anymore either, but the lights were still on, swirling sickeningly round and round, red, blue, red, blue, red, white, blue, shit, Lance was going to puke again. Closing his eyes didn't help much either. And not only that, now there were flashlights swaying this way and that through the raindrops, scattering their light, splitting his consciousness. Lance wished no one had come. He wished it had just been him and Keith, alone in the dark. And Lance would have happily succumbed to hypothermia in this phone booth; Keith's smooth voice in his ear one last time. He would have liked that. Preferred it to this.
He sat still as the lights came closer, taking small breaths and concentrating very hard on not throwing up. He didn't move as the flashlights danced over him, shone briefly on his face. He didn't have the strength to do anything but tremble as the phone booth door was opened from the outside. Remember when you wanted this? Something sarcastic inside him complained. Too late to change your mind about it now.
There were hands on him, gentle ones. Strong. He knew he should probably do something, say something, to let them know that he was awake. But it just seemed like so much effort. He'd used the last of his strength on making that noise, on disturbing Keith again.
"McClain? Hey Lance, it's me. We're here to help you." I think you're too late.
Someone took the phone from Lance's frozen fingers while he sat boneless and unresponsive to the semi-familiar voice that knew his name. It sounded warm and safe, like a father. A father with five boys. Dante Medina. So he was working tonight after all. Another voice began speaking to Keith and Shiro on the phone, but Lance couldn't hear any of that. Whatever they said concluded quickly, and a shadowed weight passed over top of Lance to replace the receiver, ending the call. Casually breaking that connection. Obviously not understanding just how miraculous it had been.
"Hypothermic," Dante diagnosed right away, speaking to whoever was with him, the person with the clipboard taking down the diagnostics for when or if Lance was brought to the emergency room. God, the emergency room. More bright lights. Movement. Questions that had no good answers. Angelique's tiger eyes. Something pressed against his ear and he flinched. "Looks like he's been out in the rain for a long time; he's completely drenched. Lips blue, shivering, temperature reading at 90.3 degrees. Lance, you with us? Where's your coat? Can you tell me if anything hurts? Your friend said you were hurt."
Lance made a general motion with his hand indicating his head, throat, and chest. He wished he could be a little more cooperative. But then again, if he had the strength to be more cooperative, he probably wouldn't need any help. Dante began investigating Lance's vague gestures, inspecting him thoroughly by kneading his hands carefully all over Lance's body, checking for pain points, wounds, swelling. The protocol for patients who aren't communicating well, analyzing how safe it would be to move them. Because Dante was good like that, experienced. A father with five sons. Lance wasn't one of them. Mijo.
Lance couldn't help but wince as Dante put pressure against his ribcage, swallowing back against his gag reflex at the fresh wave of deep pain. Exhaling in a whimpering hiss afterward. "What's going on with your side, McClain? You get hit by a car or something? Stabbed? Shot?" Dante asked the questions like someone who has seen all the ugly the night has to offer as he pulled Lance's rain-stuck sweater up to uncover the area. "Ah ok – some bruising here, no broken skin. Lance, can you tell me what caused this? Do you think any of your ribs could be cracked or fractured?" No, he hadn't been hit that hard. Not by that moron. He was surprised there was a visible bruise.
"The witnesses at the apartment said he fell down a flight of stairs," supplied the second voice, the one who had talked on the phone. You should probably open your eyes a minute, Lance. At least see who's here. Because the other voice sounded familiar too. But Lance knew it wasn't Connor or Grayson. Who else would be with Dante tonight? Just open your eyes; figure it out, let them see you're not that bad. Maybe they'll let you sleep. Yeah, but the lights are still twirling. If I move, move anything at all, I'm going to throw up.
But what did that mean, witnesses? Who were they talking about? Witnesses to what? To Spencer and his idiot friend barreling Lance out of the apartment and into the opposite hallway wall? That's what they were calling the random tenants who had been there watching. Witnesses. That seemed appropriate. Because no one had tried to stop it. Well, except Remy, which had been a surprise. That was so long ago; Lance couldn't even remember seeing anyone else. Couldn't see anything at all except for Spencer's ridiculous haircut and furious, smug, and spoiled face. Disgust and fury joined the already complicated, writhing knot in Lance's stomach. Better stop thinking about it.
"That might do it," Dante allowed, voice full of curiosity, like he had many more questions about that, but he kept them to himself, his hands still moving over Lance, testing his limbs, hitting a few more tender places at Lance's shoulder and wrist, but nothing strong enough to force a reaction out of him. "Ok, McClain, I don't see any reason we can't move you, so let's get you someplace warm. Think you can help us with that? Can you open your eyes at least?"
"No," Lance strained to say. Not with those lights going. Not a good idea. He lifted his trembling hand to rest his fingers gently against the supernova of pain above his left eye. "Migraine," he explained, hoping that would be all Dante needed.
"Migraine?" Dante repeated softly, perplexed, like Lance had been keeping secrets from him. "You get migraines?" Yes, he got them. Way too often. But when your triggers are changes in barometric pressure, sleep deprivation, and stress and you work as a grad student in the ER in Chicago where it rains practically every single day until it snows, what are you going to do? Keep Excedrin on you at all times, that's what you do. Until your roommate and his cronies kick you out of your own apartment into a rainstorm on one of the worst days of your life and you don't have your bag, coat, wallet, medicine, or phone with you. Lance whimpered involuntarily. Where was Keith? He wanted Keith back. Who had taken the phone away from him?
"McClain, stay with me a while, all right? You can keep your eyes closed if that's helping you, but stay awake for me, remember? You're too cold to go to sleep. Do you get migraines a lot? Have you taken any medication today for it?"
"Yes and no," Lance murmured, feeling as though he needed a deeper breath but couldn't quite get one. Yes, it feels like I get them all the damn time. No, I couldn't take anything for it because my roommate is a douchebag. God, I hate him. I didn't know I could hate anyone like that . . . He heard himself moan again, a catch to it, beginning to pant as his mouth overfilled with saliva. Ugh, not again. But what did he expect would happen with so many words all together? With so much anger and hurt boiling up whatever could possibly be left. Shit.
"Move," Lance warned, twisting to the side in the cramped space, opening his eyes to speed up what was inevitable now. So many whirling lights.
"McClain? Oh, ok. Ok, that's ok."
What the hell, Dante, this is so not ok. Lance coughed, feeling the connective tissues of his esophagus shudder and then ripple upward, a force equal to Damien's hands shoving him against the wall. He was on his hands and knees again, retching, half in the rain like last time, Dante experienced enough to know how to get out of the way in time. Not that anything was coming up. There was nothing left. Though this time Lance wondered if his eyeballs might actually pop from their sockets from the strain. He felt his arms shaking and hoped they wouldn't falter, face-planting him into the ground.
"I've got you, son," the second voice that wasn't Dante's pitched low, soft, and comforting near his ear, combining with a supportive grip on Lance's shoulder and against his chest, holding him up. Lance resisted the urge to sag into that voice completely. Who was it? "I'm sorry it took us so long to find you."
"Looks like extreme light sensitivity and apparently nausea," Dante said to that invisible clipboard guy. Another stranger? A newbie like Lance had been once? It couldn't be the person holding him or Dante wouldn't be listing symptoms like that. Like someone was writing everything down. "McClain, you done for a second? Let's get moving. Get you in the bay where there's less rain and more room. I'll call ahead to get some blankets warmed up for you."
"Does he have to go in the ambulance?" The voice asked, still holding Lance securely. It felt kind of nice. It had been a long time since Lance had been touched with anything resembling affection. "Or could I take him with me instead?"
"He doesn't have to go, if he says he doesn't want to, but he's got friends in the ER and he does need some help. They have everything there to get his pain levels under control and raise his body temperature – he's way too cold. Looks like he's been vomiting often enough that he needs fluids, and they should probably X-ray those ribs too."
"I get all that, but my wife is his doctor, and she's not at the ER tonight. She's at home tearing her hair out about him. We have everything there except the X-ray, so can I take him to her?"
Lance squinted toward the side at the words "wife" and "doctor," finally recognizing Officer Frederick Guist on his knees in the rain next to him, supporting him. The second voice. Lance felt ashamed. He should have been able to identify Fritz by his voice. Lance gave in to the childish desire of leaning into Guist, letting all his muscles go slack against him. Fritz accommodated him by holding him tighter.
"Fritz," Lance whimpered, pleading for something, maybe apologizing for something. Was Angelique really that worried about him? But why? Fritz maneuvered out of his police jacket, throwing it over Lance's back before putting his arms around him again. The coat was so warm. Lance shuddered.
"I can't recommend that," Dante answered Fritz's question. "There's only one way to tell if his ribs are cracked, and that's with an X-ray at the hospital. If she's that worried, she could meet us there instead."
"No, please," Lance begged, overwhelmed by pain, cold, and powerful emotions. "I want to go home." Not his apartment – that no longer felt like anything, all the warmth and comfort of it destroyed. Going home with Fritz, even going home to Angelique, sounded so much better than spending the night under those stiff hospital blankets, no matter how warm they were. He wanted to stay where Fritz could touch him. It had been so long since Lance had been anywhere that felt like a home. More tears made their way down his face, and he hoped that no one could see them. He'd never felt so pathetic in his life. Is this what Keith had felt like all those years ago when he said the exact same thing? I want to go home. Back when he didn't really have a home to go to either. Lance felt longing for Keith twist hard around his heart. He hadn't been ready to stop talking to him.
"I think, for now, the ribs are the least of our worries," Fritz emphasized to Dante. "She knows what to do, and she'll know right away if we need to bring him in." Lance tried to focus on the conversation, hear what was being decided on where he was going to go, but he felt completely worn out. Dante sighed, as though giving up.
"McClain, it's your call, but I need an official statement if you aren't coming with me. Are you refusing treatment and are you willing to go home with this officer here?"
"Yes," Lance whispered, hoping Dante wouldn't be offended that Lance had chosen Guist over him. But it didn't seem that way.
"All right, McClain. Let's get you out of the cold – can you walk?"
Dante and Fritz helped lift Lance to his feet together without much help from him. He immediately sagged again against Officer Guist, resting his head against his chest to keep himself from puking while Fritz obligingly put an arm around Lance's waist to help keep him up. Dante held him by familiar EMT guide holds. And they walked that way, in a shaky tangle, the shortest distance through the wet grass to Guist's squad car.
Fritz opened the back for him so he could lie down across the seat, which he did immediately, though it still wasn't very comfortable. Dante wordlessly handed over an emesis bag for him, and Fritz covered him with a wool blanket that smelled like it was normally kept in the trunk. Lance wasn't sure if his body were capable of producing enough heat on its own right now for the blanket to even work, but the gesture was appreciated, and Fritz let him also keep his coat. Lance wondered where Keith was. What happened to him after Fritz had hung up the phone.
"You know to get warm first, right?" Dante said to Lance in parting. "Don't fall asleep."
"I know," Lance stuttered, curling up on the seat.
"When you can talk again, I would really like to hear what the hell you're doing so far from campus with no coat or phone. I bet it's some story. For later. Now go take care of yourself, McClain. You're one of us, you know." Dante put one of his large, warm hands on Lance's head momentarily, and Lance grunted a partial response. He didn't think he could ever bring himself to answer the question of what he'd been doing out here. That was something he didn't want to think about. Didn't want anyone to know. Dante closed the door gently, shutting Lance inside.
Fritz didn't say anything as he positioned himself in the driver's seat. Lance noticed that he left the flashing lights on as he drove, a warning to anyone who might still be on the road this late at night that he was demanding the right of way. He didn't speak to Lance, but he made some other calls. The first was to dispatch to give an official report on the situation, and Lance had to wonder about that too. Fritz wasn't typically a beat cop; he worked at the court house. And he especially didn't do night shifts. Or maybe things were different now that he and Angelique were married. Maybe he tried to make his schedule match hers. Except Angelique didn't do night shift either. So what was he doing out at three in the morning?
After giving his report, Fritz called Shiro to give him a partial update. He let both Shiro and Keith know that he was taking Lance home with him. That he didn't think anything was seriously wrong, but that Lance wasn't in great shape either. Lance resented that, even though it was stupid not to admit that he had a point. Lance knew he was a mess even without EMT training. At one point, Fritz turned down a request for someone to talk to Lance, indicating Lance wasn't up for it. But he promised to be in touch with them with any other news and asked if they'd mind updating the others. Others? What others? Then Fritz told them to go get some rest. Lance wished he'd been allowed to talk to Keith again. It had been weeks since he'd heard his voice, and years since he'd seen him last. Lance wondered what would happen if he were to dial his number later. If he'd answer a second time.
Lance thought that Guist would then call his wife, Angelique herself, and it seemed he were in the process of contacting her a couple of times but kept changing his mind. It took a while, but Lance slowly guessed the reason. He wasn't going to ask, but Fritz decided on his own that he should probably warn him before they got there.
"Kid," Guist called gently over his shoulder. "You still with me?"
Lance meant to say yes, but it came out all garbled from underneath the wool blanket and coat. His tongue was too thick in his mouth and not cooperating. His whole body felt weighted, stinging.
"We're almost there," Guist promised, then sighed. "And I don't know what Angie's going to say to you when we walk through the door, but just try to remember that whatever comes out of her mouth is because she's scared, all right?" Lance curled up on the seat, knowing furious was probably a better description for her emotions. He'd been keeping things from her, and she hated that. Whatever she decided to say, no matter how bad it was, he would very much deserve it.
The car pulled to a stop in front of a brick home and the flashing lights at last went dark. The house had a front porch with a tall, decorative half wall around its perimeter. Lance did his best to sit up when the car stopped moving, squinting at the dark structure, trying to imagine Angelique living there. The windchime hanging from the porch was the only thing that seemed to fit. Maybe it looked more welcoming in the light. Maybe everything just looked black and cold right now.
Lance waited for Fritz to come around the car and open the door for him since the backseat of patrol cars don't have handles on the insides. Also he didn't trust himself to stand on his own power anymore. Even with Fritz's steady arm guiding him forward, Lance almost tripped on the stairs leading up the porch, and he swayed hard for the few moments he had to stand still for Fritz to get the door open, his ears buzzing and his vision blurred.
"Fritz?" Dr. Delacroix's resonating, powerful voice immediately flooded the moment they stepped through the entry. Lance let his head hang. A floor lamp glowed softly from a corner of the room, but the rest of the space was pleasantly dark. And it was warm. "Fritz, did you find him?" Angelique actually did sound scared. Lance had never heard her sound like that. "Please tell me he's ok. Tell me he didn't-"
"He's with me, Ang," Fritz called as quietly as possible as Lance registered movement on the second floor. Angelique flying down the stairs that ended a few feet away from them, close to the front door. Lance did his best to stand up, but needed Fritz too much to manage it. He had absolutely zero balance control. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his eyes open either. He wanted to sit down, lie down. He couldn't do this anymore. He shivered uncontrollably, the ripples through all his muscles making him clench his jaw, intensifying the headache.
Angelique almost tripped on her way down the steps, dressed in jeans and a university sweatshirt, as though she were ready to go out looking for Lance herself but had been forced to stay where she was, waiting for news. She launched herself at Lance immediately, an overwhelming wave.
"Good Lord, Lance, look at you; you're soaking wet. What were you thinking, leaving me a message like that and then vanishing? Where have you been?" She shoved her face into his, locking eyes with him for a painful moment before falling into a rapid body survey without missing a beat. "What did you do? Did you hurt yourself? Take something? How could you?" Here, she frantically pulled back the sleeves of his sweater, turning his wrists toward her as she'd done repeatedly in the ER room. Lance gasped back a sob as it finally dawned on him why she did that. She was checking for wounds. For scars. She was making sure he wasn't actively engaged in self-harm. And tonight . . tonight she sounded like she thought he was going to do something even worse. That's what she'd thought? But then Lance realized that he'd probably been pretty close, however unintentional. He felt dizzy, like he was going to fall. The edges of his vision went black, and he couldn't feel Fritz's hands on him anymore.
"Angie," Fritz tried to calm her. "Help him first. We'll sort all that out later."
"Doña, I'm sorry," Lance stuttered, swallowing knives down his throat. He needed to get his head down; his heartbeat rushed disorientingly across his ears. "I didn't mean to." Was he actually standing there telling her that he hadn't intended to kill himself as if it weren't glaringly obvious? Maybe it was something he was reminding himself about. Because if Keith hadn't answered the phone. If Keith hadn't traced the call and sent the ambulance over. "I didn't," Lance repeated, this time certainly to himself. "I promised." He'd almost forgotten that, but it was true. He had promised her that he would never. She'd been angry at him then too. Now he knew why.
"You did," she confirmed, her eyes filling with tears that she blinked away proudly. Lance could barely see. "You promised me." The warmth of the house somehow swirled all around him without actually touching him, making it hard to breathe even though Lance was still so cold, his skin pricking painfully as it began to warm up.
"Can . .. can I please sit down?" Lance croaked out, though his knees buckled on him, making it less a question and more a demand. Fritz and Angelique both caught him, his weight bringing them all to the patch of slippery, wet tile at the entryway. Don't puke, Lance thought frantically against the distress of the unexpected drop. Hold still and don't . . . don't, please don't.
"Child, you're freezing," Angelique lamented, unaware of his struggle, her normal doctor's manner apparently abandoned right now as she gathered him up in her arms. He gagged against his best efforts not to, but luckily just the once. "Lance, what? Are you sick?" She sounded more like a mother than a professional. Lance was ok with that. It was better than having her freaking out at him, reminding him that he'd almost done what he promised he'd never do. Though she almost sounded like she didn't know what to do now. Lance kind of knew what to do, but he didn't want to move to do any of it. Just be still.
"He said his head hurts, migraine, bad enough that he's been throwing up," Fritz volunteered Lance's symptoms for him when it appeared that no one else was going to ask or tell, stuffing the emesis bag from the car back into Lance's hand just in case. "And there's a possibility that one or more of his ribs are cracked."
"They're not," Lance panted, swallowing, not wanting anyone to think twice about taking him to the ER. Though hearing Fritz list all his symptoms like that brought into sharp focus that he probably should have gone with Dante. But he didn't want to go anywhere, couldn't take any more movement. Not now.
"One thing at a time, son," Fritz told him, which Lance figured meant that they would be returning to the subject of his ribs, but later, thank goodness.
Guist's words did the trick of pulling Angelique back into herself, reminding her that she was a doctor. Lance felt her take a deep breath and allowed himself to close his eyes. He'd be ok now. Dr. Delacroix was going to fix it like always.
"All right; we'll start by getting your temperature back up. Fritz, will you go put the extra heating blanket on the guest bed and turn it up all the way," Angelique instructed her husband briskly. She sounded herself again, to the point where Lance felt a knee-jerk reaction to jump up and do what she said even though she wasn't talking to him. But he was so conditioned to respond. "And we'll need something warm for him to wear, please; he can't stay in these wet clothes. Lance, sweetheart, did you take anything for your head in the last four hours? Any medications at all already?"
"No," Lance sighed, too cold and sick to worry too much about how he was practically lying on his boss, how she'd started talking to him like a patient. He was just too grateful to be here, to have her holding him so gently, speaking to him like he mattered. Fritz was already up the stairs.
"If I give you something orally, will you be able to keep it down?"
"If I hold still," Lance told her. She took another calming breath, and he realized she'd just determined that he'd been keeping this from her for a while. Her next question confirmed it.
"Baby, how often does this happen?" Oh, he wanted to tease her. Wanted to joke with her that he never fell down stairs, didn't make it a point to get into outnumbered fistfights, that he had never once decided to walk ten miles in the rain to the point where he thought he was going to actually freeze to death. He didn't make these things a habit. But he couldn't say any of that. It was too hard to speak in the first place, and he was already trying not to cry because of the tone of her voice. The kind worry in it.
"Once a week? Sometimes more," Lance guessed. He'd have to look at his stat book to tell her for sure, but that felt right. And they had better stick to facts right now. Lance already knew he was in a fragile place, and she felt that way to him too.
"And when did they start? Can you remember?" Oh yes, he remembered. Exact date, time, and place.
"At your wedding," he murmured, hoping this truth wouldn't hurt her all. It hadn't happened because of her wedding. He didn't think. No, her wedding had been one of the highlights of that day. It . . .it had been a good day.. . . and a painfully sad day. Another heavy sigh from his mentor.
"Tu seras ma mort," Angelique breathed her exasperation out in French, which testified how far Lance had pushed her tonight. "If you can manage, let's wait until we get you upstairs, changed, and under that blanket before I give you anything. You'll have a better chance of it working if we get all the motion finished first. Do you agree?"
Lance absolutely did not want to crawl up the stairs, or change. The heating blanket sounded nice, but so much trouble to get to it. He wanted to just stay here, resting his head on her lap, even though that wouldn't be fair or comfortable to her. He'd already kept her up all night.
"Sí, Doña," Lance whispered, as though they were standing side by side discussing treatment options for a patient. The words he said to her most often. Except he was the patient this time. He felt her breath catch and suddenly guilt covered him even more than the soaking rain. He hadn't anticipated her to be so distressed over him.
"Lance, why," Angelique said in a quiet, hurt voice. But he didn't know what she was asking. And maybe that was ok. Maybe now wasn't the time for it. Fritz returned after another minute of silence and practically lifted Lance off Angelique. The stairs were too narrow for two people side-by-side, so Angelique led him with one hand while he clung to the railing with the other, and Fritz followed carefully behind in case anyone fell. Guist tried to make a quick joke about how Lance had already met his quota for the day for falling downstairs. Lance knew he was just trying to lighten the situation, but he also saw what it did to Angelique to hear that. She didn't know about the stairs, or all the problems with his roommate. More secrets she was going to be mad about. Great.
When they reached the guest bedroom on the second floor, Guist pondered the merits of warming Lance in a hot bath instead of under some blankets, thinking it might be faster. Lance understood the logic but begged to just go to bed. He didn't want to move anymore, and he honestly didn't want to keep them up anymore. He figured it was practically dawn by now; he'd stolen their night. Angelique agreed with Lance, citing that she didn't want him to lose any more heat by being wet.
"I'm a little concerned about letting you sleep," Angelique voiced her fear after Lance was finally dry, changed, medicated, and relaxing in their guest bed after drinking a cup of hot chocolate. Angelique had taken his temperature about thirteen times. It was rising, but slowly. "Did you really fall down a flight of stairs, love? Do you remember if you hit your head? Are you certain this is a migraine and not something else?"
Like a tumor, an aneurysm, a stroke, concussion. Stealthy things that could kill him during the unguarded moments of sleep. Angelique had no good data to determine the reason for his headache, no CAT-scan or MRI. But Lance was certain enough. This felt like all the others, maybe a little more exaggerated by the cold and the rain, but the pattern remained. Or maybe he just didn't care.
"I'll wake up," he murmured the promise, the warmth of the heating blanket emphasizing the chill on his skin. Something else that hurt. It would probably take a long time yet before he really felt warm again. Hopefully he'd sleep through that process. "Thanks for letting me stay here."
"I just wish you'd come to me sooner," she scolded him. "It's about time you let someone help you." She rested her hand on his head, a soft pressure that was gone almost before Lance registered it was there. "You promised." The last came as such a soft whisper that Lance wasn't sure he'd really heard it.
Even though he'd assured her he would be fine, Angelique didn't seem convinced. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand covering Lance's upturned shoulder. As though she were positioning herself to monitor him while he slept. He wanted to send her off to her own bed. She'd been awake too long as it was. But a selfish part of him liked that she was there, felt soothed by her presence, by her hand. He knew he should tell her to get some rest; he even tried to open his mouth to do it. But he never remembered if he actually said anything to her or not.
Author's Note: There we go. Now we can start fixing all the things! Thanks so much, everyone, for walking the dark with Lance. It's time to show him how many people love him, right? It won't be instant – there needs to be some healing here (ribs, chill, depression) and I'm planning on taking my time with it. I think Angelique and Fritz are the best options to start it off.
Which means that Keith is not going to be in Chicago when Lance wakes up. I have a VERY SPECIFIC scene in mind for them and darn it, I'm going to enjoy it. Though I'm pondering on having Allura come home to check on him.
Mostly because I want her to go to Lance's apartment and make Spencer piss himself. I think she could do it. Your thoughts?