Author's Note: Might need a trigger warning up here (maybe?) I don't know how these things are supposed to work, but just so you're aware there will be some discussion in this chapter on how it looked very much like Lance was trying to kill himself when he went missing. He and Allura are going to talk about it for a minute. I think it needs to be addressed. Briefly. For the rest of the chapter – I'm liking it. It has some lightness to it, which is good as it's been dark for so long. There is peace in here. And healing. Questions get answered. Not all, but some. I found it satisfying to write. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter Forty-One: Lifeline
For the first day, it seemed as though Lance was always waking up, blinking in painful startlement, though he could never remember falling asleep. He woke to dark shapes of nurses standing at his bedside, switching out IV bags or checking stats. He woke to quiet voices of visitors who flowed in and out of his room like a long, multi-colored ribbon that rotated on an endless track. And sometimes he woke up in horror, clammy and panting.
He woke hurting, disoriented, and frantic, but fortunately, he never woke alone. Within seconds, a hand would appear to rest on his forehead or chest or shoulder. Gentle intonations of assurance settled over the fear, and refreshed doses of medication would subdue the pain. Someone would say his name, whoever happened to be standing guard over his bed. Allura. Angelique. Fritz. Sometimes a combination. Sometimes a nurse. Sometimes even Dr. Coran. Lance would reach out for their hands as if for a lifeline, trying to focus, trying to pull himself out of the confused haze of post-surgery that he had witnessed many times but had never experienced before.
And though he meant each time he woke to stay awake, it just didn't happen. And he'd find himself blurry and drifting, listening to conversations that he thought he was part of, until he wasn't anymore. Words and phrases swam through the fog in his head as he went in and out, darting around him like a school of quick-moving fish. He caught flashes here and there, out of order, without pattern or reference.
"No, I'll stay. He's never liked being alone. Actually, no, I don't know why, but it really seems to bother him."
"Have you heard back from the department chair?"
"I came down as soon as I heard; I couldn't believe it. How is he? They said he was attacked, is that really true? I can't even imagine – who would ever want to hurt him?"
"I've asked Dr. Bolton to come for an assessment; he'll be here sometime before he's discharged. I just don't know how else to help him."
"Where is his family again? Somewhere out of the country, aren't they? Has anyone told them?"
"Can you grab another blanket, please? He's just so cold."
"Hello Keith. Everything's quiet here - finally. He's still pretty out of it, but Dr. Delacroix and Dr. Coran say he's doing very well considering. Not at all. No, I'm certain he meant it. Is he what? A red . . oh, yes, he is. That sounds like a perfect idea; what did they say?"
The fish swam around the room as Lance floated underwater. He could turn his head toward the movements, the sounds and color, but most of the time, he was too late to actually catch them. He thought he spoke, but maybe he didn't. He sensed time passing, but not linearly, as though he were moving forward and backward inside the same few hours, trapped in a little whirlpool pocket that spun instead of flowed. So he clung to the hands that appeared in the depths, drowning in questions, struggling to breathe. Who was here? Was anyone here? Who was Dr. Bolton and how was he supposed to help? What did that mean assessment? Was something wrong? Why were they talking to the department chair? Was that a bad thing? What was going on? And though plenty of people talked to him and around him, no one answered anything.
"Easy, Lance," they said instead, smoothing his brow, rubbing his hand, putting gentle pressure on his chest. All of the administrations of comfort that he'd extended to countless patients. He'd never anticipated being on the receiving end.
"Just rest, Lance, it'll get better. Take your time."
"Here! Shh, I'm right here. Calm down. You're not alone."
He managed to open his eyes and keep them open, having no idea what time it was, day or night. The lights in the room were dim, but not so much that he couldn't make out Angelique sitting next to him in one of the larger reclining chairs reserved for the third-floor recovery rooms. She was writing in a notebook despite the darkness. The incisions in his sides burned like frostbite, and he thought that if he concentrated hard enough, he'd be able to make out each pinprick of every stitch holding him together, but this time the pain wasn't so blinding that he couldn't think past it. He wasn't quite so deep anymore. Faintly, he could hear music playing, though he couldn't tell where it came from. He did recognize the song – from one of Keith's CDs. Allura must have brought it in for him, but he wasn't sure when. Perhaps it had been playing all this time. It felt like he'd been here for years.
He held still, quiet, not thinking, content to watch Angelique in the chair next to him, listening to the soft scritch of her pen against the paper as she continued to write. She'd drawn her legs up underneath her, curled up into the corner of the chair, turned toward him. Some of the tiny braids of her hair slipped past her shoulders, but she didn't move to push them back. She wore a soft gold turtleneck sweater and corduroy slacks, and Lance marveled at the sight of her in regular clothes. He almost never saw her wear things like that; it reminded him that she was still a real person.
She must have sensed him staring because she closed the pen into the notebook, placing it on the rolling table next to her, and slowly returned his gaze, gauging him, assessing him. Calm. Quiet. Compassionate. Lance wanted to cry but didn't dare give in to the urge. Instead of talking, he reached out for her and she willingly reached back, supporting the weight of his arm by bringing it closer to her.
"Looks like you're more alert this time," she complimented him, though it was so weird to hear her talk to him like that. Strange for her to be still in this place. For either of them to be tucked into a third-floor room when they were both supposed to be at ground level in the rush and tumult of the ER. "How are you feeling?"
He wanted to say fine. So much. It was quick and required no follow through and it covered up everything he hadn't figured out yet or didn't want to touch. But that didn't seem fair. Allura cried somewhere in his memory. You're hurting other people, and I know you don't want that. We saw you, Lance. We saw everything, and we know you're lying.
"I don't know," he finally mustered, his voice raspy and clogged. That was true enough. And why should he know? He'd been disconnected from himself forever. He'd stopped even trying to figure it out. Some part of him was still hiding, locked in his apartment bedroom under his quilt, a piece of burnt-rice candy on his tongue. He wished he had some of that left, or no, not anything sweet like that, but at least something to take away the sticky, dry sensation in his mouth, a reminder that he'd spent several hours with a ventilator pushed down his throat. He tried to swallow.
"Here," Angelique called his attention, bringing forward a plastic cup with a blue lid and straw, measurements in blue all down the side. Lance allowed her to put the straw directly into his mouth for him, holding to her wrist to steady himself, taking cautious, experimental sips of the melted ice water. It tasted good, cleared some of the junk at the back of his throat, but the chill of it made him shudder, then tense. "Are you still cold?"
He nodded, wondering if he'd ever be warm again. Angelique stood up, moving to a part of the room that Lance couldn't see, then returning to spread the afghan over him. Lance smoothed his fingers over the stitches of it, pressing though the holes between them, puzzling at how foreign it appeared under the yellow-ish lights of the hospital room. How out of place it was now that it had been removed from the back of the couch at Stony Island. It struck him suddenly that he would probably never go back there. Never see that couch again. His bedroom. The place under the partial wall separating the kitchen from the living room. The coffee table. It filled him with relief and at the same time filled him with loss. That place had been his only home all the time he'd been in this country. So many things had happened there. Not all of them had been bad. So few of them had been bad.
"Lance, sweetheart, what is it?" Angelique asked him softly, leaning in close to the hospital bed as she sat down again. Because tears were dripping on the afghan, an incommunicable expression of complicated sorrow. Lance didn't even know how to put it into words.
"This is the ugliest blanket," he choked out, though his hands were fisted into it, pulling it close to his chest. Angelique raised an eyebrow and no wonder. How was she supposed to understand? The horrible mess of conflicting color in the afghan. How it wasn't really long enough. Didn't really match anything – belong anywhere. Except that one specific spot on the couch where someone had left it behind and where it would never rest again. Angelique's strong, dark hands rested on top of his, her thumbs stroking along his wrists through the blanket. She took a deep breath.
"Allura said you would want it," she noted, patiently. "Isn't it yours?"
"No," Lance repeated, sniffling and hating himself for it. "None of us knew where it came from or who it belonged to; it was just there on the couch. Someone left it, so we did too. Just always on the back of the couch. . . in its place. Allura wanted to donate it, but I wouldn't let her. I don't know why; it looks horrible."
"She said you kept it in your room," Angelique prompted. "That you used it often." Lance found himself nodding.
"All the time," he revealed. "Watching movies. I wrapped up in it to stand on the balcony when it . . when I saw it snow the first time. I would bunch it up and lean my textbooks against it on the coffee table. We all slept under it I don't know how often. Just . . . all the time."
"Then does it matter what it looks like?" Angelique queried, still gentle, as though she were guiding him to some sort of conclusion.
"It's just wrong," Lance insisted. "It looks wrong. It's supposed to go on the back of the couch, but . . . it won't ever be there again. I . . I won't ever -"
"Lance."
"I ruined it," Lance lamented, clinging to the afghan. "Because I couldn't stand his stupid drum set and the coffee cups and his God-awful music and his . . . his terrible haircut. And they took the gadget boxes with them, and she took the books and her shoes and her lotion. But we read together on that couch, and we . . . we talked to the space station and played Zelda and Keith slept in my arms. And now we can't go back. We don't belong anywhere."
"Oh, honey," Angelique sighed in pity, but Lance didn't want that.
"Please don't kick me out of the med program," Lance suddenly begged, needing that last tie to normalcy or else he really might drown. "I know – I know I screwed up, but please give me another chance. It's the only thing I have left."
Angelique took another deep breath, and Lance waited for the blow to come, tried to prep for it somehow. She moved her hands from his wrists to either side of his face, turning it up towards her. She smiled at him, though there was sadness in it.
"Lance, it's far from the only thing you have left, but we'll come back to that. Rest assured, no one wants to see you leave the program," she explained, her tone serious. "You're so skilled; we've never seen anyone like you before. Now that I have a better understanding of what you were going through at your apartment, I'm even more impressed with how you were able to perform so well. You are an amazing student. I said it before, and I'll remind you now – it would be a damn shame to lose you. The entire college agrees and has every intention of providing you with any assistance that you need. You do belong here if this is where you want to be."
"But I thought . . You sent me away," Lance reminded her, paralyzed against the pillow, his hands resting on his chest, the stitches of the afghan still snagged in his fingers. Angelique lowered her hands from his face, and they both looked at the afghan.
"I did," she said guiltily. "It was the same kind of mistake. I was treating you for hypothermia when you were actually bleeding out because you were so determined to hide how truly hurt you were. If you did anything wrong, Lance, that would be the only thing. Keeping all that to yourself. I sent you away because I thought a rest would help you; I honestly still do, but I see now that it would have been impossible for you to recover where I told you to stay. But this time we're going to arrange it differently, starting with more upfront and honest communication. So let me tell you what I've been doing. I've sent paperwork to the department chair and HR to initiate the process of putting you on medical leave. Which means you're withdrawn from all your current classes and you'll receive short-term disability pay. Depending on how things go, we'll look at re-enrolling you for winter semester next year."
Lance gripped tighter to the afghan; he was falling down the stairs again. Next semester? Depending on how things go? What was he supposed to do until then with no classes, no lectures, no shadowing and no home? She thought any of that was supposed to help?
"Meanwhile," Angelique emphasized, watching Lance closely, noting his distress. "I would like for you to take this time away from your studies to focus on healing, your body and your heart. I've asked for a colleague of mine, Gregory Bolton, to come visit with you sometime before you leave the hospital. He's a counselor here at the university. He specializes in trauma. I won't force you to speak with him, but I think he might be able to help you. I'd like for you to work with him."
"A therapist?" Lance asked, hearing Keith in his head talking about basket weaving. Which was fine for Keith – he really had been through trauma, practically his whole life, and he needed it, but Lance? She thought he was messed up enough that he needed to talk to a therapist? His hopes of being reinstated for winter semester dropped a little more. He kind of wanted to go back to sleep here and not think about it for another day. Or week. Maybe through Christmas.
On the other hand, the way she talked – like he had actual wounds besides the obvious – injuries in his soul, invisible and deadly. She talked about his pain like there was no difference between the intense isolation he'd felt and his internal hemorrhaging. As though they were equally serious and needed just as immediate attention. She was prescribing Dr. Bolton the same way she'd write out an order for antibiotic. It hurt to hear, but it was soothing too. Confusing.
"Yes, Lance, a therapist," Angelique confirmed, still sounding serious but somehow encouraging. Lance felt strange, and he wasn't sure if it was the lowered medication dosage, residual effects of all that had happened to him in the last couple days, or something else that he simply didn't understand yet. He reached his hand out again, because he was reeling and needed something to ground him. Angelique obliged him, taking his hand into both of hers, fingers underneath his wrist as though taking his pulse. "You've been trapped in a stressful situation for months and have just experienced a brutal physical attack. But more than that, I just want someone to talk to you about balance in your life. I obviously am no expert, but from what I've seen, it seems you have a hard time asking for help or even allowing yourself to believe that you might need it. And I sense that you wouldn't trust that it would be available if you were to bring yourself to ask. You think it's all up to you. That's a very isolated and painful way to experience life, and it simply isn't true. So will you please consider it? At least talk to him once?"
For Lance to seek out help for himself would have been impossible; he'd convinced himself that what he'd been going through hadn't been that serious, hadn't been that big of a deal. The way he couldn't handle it spoke more about his weakness than about the severity of the situation. But for Dr. Delacroix to ask him to start counseling - for her to validate the need. If he spoke to Dr. Bolton as a favor to her, that would be easy. He would do just about anything for Angelique. Especially right now. He nodded his assent to the plan and watched her breathe in relief. He felt the same – like they had climbed two different but equally exhausting paths up a mountain together and were now taking in the same view for the first time.
"Thank you," she told him. Then she gave him another drink, talked to him a little more about his physical injuries, a subject where they both felt more comfortable, and somewhere in there – he wasn't clear on where – he fell asleep.
Sleep this time didn't have the same feel. When Lance woke again, he could definitely tell he was awake. Could even guess as to how much time he'd been out and what had woken him. The pain had settled into a background sensation, definitely still there and would overtake him in an instant if he moved wrong, but unless that happened, it seemed manageable. Angelique still sat curled in the chair next to him. The CD still played in the background. Rich, autumn sunlight tried to warm the room for them, and a nurse checked his stats, rather nervously under the penetrating gaze of Dr. Delacroix, while another hospital worker brought in a covered tray that Lance recognized as breakfast. So they'd decided he could try to eat today. Which meant it was Tuesday morning? Probably? Time hadn't actually stopped after all.
Not wanting to disappoint Dr. Delacroix, Lance ate as much as he could of the scrambled eggs and applesauce provided to him as appropriate post-abdominal surgery food. He didn't really taste it though. A little after breakfast, when it looked as though Lance could keep everything down with no trouble, another set of nurses came in to remove the catheter that had been inserted before Lance's surgery. An unpleasant event, but at least they were quick and professional about it.
And not too long after that, Dr. Coran arrived.
"Here we are then," Coran greeted Lance enthusiastically upon seeing him awake. "You know, my boy, I did miss having you here on my floor, but this wasn't exactly the way I wanted you back."
"Surprise," Lance returned, noting how his attempt at lightness caused Angelique's mouth to twist. He didn't think she was quite ready to joke about this. He didn't think he could take it anymore if he didn't.
Coran smiled at him, characteristic twinkle in his blue eyes as he washed his hands and put fresh gloves on. "Let's check those incisions," he began. "Hopefully there will be no surprises there."
Lance did his best to shift on the hospital bed, moving with weak clumsiness – like he'd just been assigned his body and didn't know how to drive it. Angelique stood up to help him, but Coran shot her a look. It wasn't hostile or mean, but it obviously reminded Angelique that she was on the third floor, that Lance was not her patient or relative, and she sullenly stepped down.
A little bit more squirming allowed Lance to pull the hospital gown off his shoulders, bunching it up at his waist for modesty's sake. After that, he had no choice but to lay his head back, woozy and breathless from the activity while Coran gently pulled away the dressing from the sites. Lance couldn't turn his head enough to make out the one under his ribs, but the second place just above his pelvic bone was visible. He guessed they looked the same. Three inches long, the skin red but not infected along the incision site. Very neat and tiny sutures holding everything together, trademark work for Dr. Harkness. Inside, Lance knew the broken blood vessels had been cauterized to stop the bleeding, leaving only external stitches that would dissolve on their own in the next couple weeks. All in all, it looked very good. Hurt like hell, and Lance didn't want to think about how much it would itch later, but for right now, everything looked great. Especially when he thought about what sort of wound he could have faced if they hadn't had time for the MRI. If they would have been forced to just slit him open like a gutted fish to see where the bleeding was coming from and get it stopped in a rush. He'd seen it done; he'd assisted in the procedure. Seen what the scar looked like afterward. He was lucky – on so many accounts.
"Wonderful," Coran agreed to Lance's silent observations. "Everything looks perfect. How do you feel?"
Lance decided he hated this question. If everything looked perfect, wasn't that enough? And was he ever going to be able to answer anything ever again without hearing Allura mentally admonish him to be honest?
"We know you're in pain, Lance," Angelique assisted him. "Dr. Coran is asking how much and where."
Coran looked at Angelique as though she'd lost her mind, but he'd missed quite a bit. Lance knew exactly what Angelique was doing. She nodded to him encouragingly.
"It's not as bad as yesterday," Lance started, but he knew that wasn't really an answer. "Moving hurts. Mostly here." He indicated his ribs where Angelique said the cartilage was inflamed. He closed his eyes, unable to look at anyone in the room. When he had asked Keith this question, how had he wished he answered? What had Lance wanted him to say?
"I feel weak," Lance heard himself admit. Weak in more than one way. Then he had to wonder why was it so hard to say these things? Admit it out loud? He talked to patients all day, asked them this same question. There were a few like Lance, like Keith, who found it difficult to find words, but for the most part, they handed him their symptoms eagerly, hopefully. They were counting on him. Please take this information and fix it. He'd managed it once – to Angelique when the world had been crashing. When it had been an emergency. Now that it wasn't critical, it felt more like complaining than anything else. It wasn't that bad; he could take it from here. But they were asking him. Like they really wanted to know. "I'm cold," Lance gave in, his voice so small now, snuffing itself out like a candle. I'm confused and lonely. So guilty for dragging everyone into this with me. I miss something but I don't know what. I lost something but I don't know what, which means that I for sure won't ever be able to get it back. I want a shower and a toothbrush. I want to hug my mother and hold baby Rachel. I want to get up and run. I want to go home; I wish I knew where it was. I want Keith to come like he promised. I want him to . . .
When he opened his eyes, Coran and Angelique were staring at each other from opposite sides of his bed, having a silent, private conversation. It made Lance uncomfortable. Without thinking, Lance reached over to Angelique, unable to find her hand so he gingerly gripped the ribbed hem of her sweater at her hip, trying to break them from each other. And whatever they were thinking about him. Angelique put her hand over his without looking at him.
"Let's try a walk," Coran suggested, abrupt and jarring, just like always. He started tugging Lance's hospital gown back up over the wounds, retying the strings to hold it in place.
"Right now?" Angelique challenged.
"No time like the present," Coran responded, unphased, placing a sure hand around Lance's elbow. "Besides, too long in a bed puts us at risk for?" Coran tipped his head at Lance, like he used to do when Lance was a sophomore and he was quizzing him.
"Blood clots and pneumonia," Lance responded, glad to finally know the answer to something.
"Precisely," Coran praised, and Lance discovered that he still knew how to smile.
"Now, now, Doctor," Coran addressed Angelique, who stood very still in stunned amazement by the bedside, unused to Coran's mannerisms, definitely unaccustomed to not being the one in charge. "We're not going far, a quick lap around the floor, maybe pop in on a patient or two on the way for old time's sake. Go on and get yourself a coffee." Then he leaned in close to Lance, as though sharing a secret, speaking as though Angelique weren't still standing right there listening to them. "These ER doctors, Lance," he confided, as though Lance weren't training to be one of them. "Always so intense. We can't blame them; they really can't help it. But we know how it is, don't we? Down there it's all duct tape and drama, but up here is where the real healing happens."
Angelique exhaled in an exasperated little huff at all the theatrics, muttering to herself about drama, while Lance tried to remember how to use his own legs. Because despite all the teasing Coran was throwing at Angelique, Lance was more than willing to obey him about getting up and walking. It was so weird to think that he hadn't taken a single step since his ten-mile death march on Saturday night. When Coran pulled the afghan and hospital blanket down, Lance was actually surprised to see that he was wearing thick, gray bed socks. Who had even put them on for him?
"Watch him close," Angelique admonished Coran, realizing by Lance's motions that this was something he wanted to do. She fixed Lance hard with her gaze as he sat on the edge of the bed, orienting himself for movement. "Don't overdo it."
Lance could tell that she was having a hard time watching this, having a hard time with the idea that Dr. Coran was in charge of Lance's recovery from here. Their personalities had always clashed. Lance didn't want to know how often they had fought over him, though he suspected it had happened a lot, especially a few years ago when Lance was officially transitioning under Angelique's mentorship. Angelique had always thought Coran pushed Lance too fast, even though she herself drilled Lance pretty hard. Coran had always thought to let Lance go as fast as he wanted to, letting him pick the direction and the pace. Lance didn't know if he preferred one to the other, but right now, he was going to walk with Coran. Pick the direction and the pace. No matter her personal feelings, Angelique could see the sense in letting him do that. Which was exactly why she was allowing it to happen.
Angelique draped the afghan around his shoulders while Coran extracted the IV pole from behind the hospital bed, bringing it carefully over so Lance could push it alongside as they went.
"Nice and easy," Coran instructed, because he actually was a skilled practitioner who knew what he was doing. "In three, two, one." Lance held tight to the IV pole and allowed Coran to lift his arm on the other side. As expected, his head swam for a moment upon standing and he could feel the painful pressure on his incisions as his internal organs pressed up against them from the inside. But after the initial rush, things settled as his circulatory system adapted to the gravitational changes. He thought he'd be all right.
"It's ok," he told Coran and Angelique, who were both watching him hard for any sign that he might fall or faint. It hurt, but it also felt good to be taller than Angelique again. The world looked right from this angle.
"We'll be back soon," Coran said to Angelique, which was a reassurance as well as a dismissal. She wasn't supposed to follow them. Coran kept hold of Lance's elbow as they went, slowly, out of the room and onto the familiar halls of the third floor. If he hadn't been dressed in a gown and dragging an IV pole, Lance could have fallen into step beside Coran, the way he used to do as an undergrad.
They didn't go far, didn't even make it all the way around the floor before Lance ran out of energy. Coran's idea of checking in on a few patients along the way had been terribly ambitious. In the end, they went to the nurse's station where Lance had to sit down and rest for a few minutes, and then they were right back at his room. Still, Coran praised him as though he'd just crossed an entire continent.
"Well done!" Coran enthused, helping Lance back into the bed. "A few more laps like that and we'll have you out of here in no time. I'll bring my stopwatch next round."
Lance smiled, breathing heavily, sitting on the bed instead of lying on it. If he didn't think about what he'd actually done. If he focused only on what it felt that he had done, it was satisfying. It felt like he'd run a marathon, and he could be proud of that. No matter that his marathon had been maybe fifty yards out and back. He'd give himself an hour and do it again. Unless he fell asleep, which felt pretty likely.
He made it out on one more walk, through lunch, and a very short trip to the sink to finally brush his teeth before he drifted off without meaning to. Angelique was gone when he woke, but Allura was there, making her presence known immediately when she saw his eyes open. She wore a different sweater today, one he hadn't made; her thick hair put back into a messy bun. She asked him how he was.
"I walked to the nurse's station," he shared his triumph with her. She seemed surprised to hear that, but she smiled for him.
"It's nice to see you awake," she admitted. "You were so drugged yesterday." Lance barely remembered anything about yesterday. Though he thought there was something. Allura might have talked to Keith? Red. He didn't know; it was too hard to still those memories long enough for them to make sense.
"It's better today," Lance explained, because it was true. The bleeding stopped, the dizziness receding. The wounds were shrinking, closing. He'd eaten today and it hadn't made him sick. And even though he might not be able to tell, tomorrow there would be even more improvement. His body putting itself back together just like it was supposed to. All the cells knowing exactly what to do to make it happen. He wished he could get his life back in order with the same sort of efficient clarity. Wished he had even the start of an idea of what to do. Pushing that away, he looked at Allura, always amazed at her beauty, but now he was also overcome with gratitude for everything she'd been doing the last few days, for all the time he'd known her.
"Thank you," he told her, as sincerely as possible. He wanted her to understand just how much he meant it. "For coming all this way to be with me, for staying with me yesterday when I was so out of it. And everything else you've been doing – moving all my stuff out, having my favorite CD playing in here and making sure I'd have that ugly afghan when I woke up. You've been taking such good care of me." You know me so well.
"You're very welcome, but I can't take all the credit," Allura said. "First of all – you had all your things completely packed already when we arrived to take them, so that job was extremely easy. Officer Guist and I were shocked to see the kitchen cabinets stripped clean and everything already in boxes in your closet." She trailed off for a second, her expression crumpling into sorrow. "Like you knew someone else would be coming for them." She gave herself a little shake, as though unwilling to address those thoughts right now. Lance felt something cold hit him in the chest, unrelated to his injuries. What was that? Allura hurried forward. "And honestly, even though nothing could have kept me away, for the most part I've simply been acting as a proxy for Keith ever since I stepped off the plane."
"Proxy?" Lance repeated. "What do you mean? Keith?"
Allura smiled at him, one of her shoulders lifting and her head tilting, a posture and expression she adopted when it surprised her that he didn't understand something.
"Oh yes, Keith," she said sweetly. "He is understandably frantic that he can't just abandon the military to be here with you, so he's been calling practically nonstop to make sure we're taking care of you properly. Which is completely adorable, but he is so very specific about what is proper."
"What?" Lance asked, a hesitant smile trying to lift the corners of his mouth, helped considerably by the playfulness of Allura's tone. Keith was trying to take care of Lance via phone instruction? Really? Did she just say adorable?
"For example," Allura continued, obviously enjoying that Lance was well enough for her to reveal this information at last. "We couldn't just make you soup. It had to be that soup. And I couldn't just let soft music play in here; it had to be that CD. He recited the album title and told me what the case looked like and everything. And he's always checking." She cut herself off, her smile fading.
"Princess?" Lance asked her, wondering what had tarnished the mood all of a sudden.
"He's quite adamant that . . . that you're never alone."
Lance wasn't sure what his reaction to this news should be. He was so easily overwhelmed all the time anymore. Keith was checking on him; he wanted to be here with him. And since he couldn't yet, he wanted to be sure that at least someone was with Lance all the time. That meant something. The way Allura said it. But then why had she turned so serious all of a sudden?
"He cares about you so much, Lance," Allura emphasized, and Lance held onto her words as tightly as he had clung to the afghan earlier. "You really are so important to all of us. I hope you know that."
Lance held still and silent, because up until the second she said it, he didn't know that, and he wasn't even sure he could even trust what she was saying. They were all so busy, living their separate lives, chasing their respective dreams. Comets in different orbits that could only faintly see the light of the others far off on distant horizons. Lance had thought too little about it. Hadn't understood the depth and range. He wanted to believe.
"It's . . nice to hear," Lance admitted. As the one who had been left behind – the ugly afghan on the back of the couch.
"I suppose since we're already talking about it, I should probably give this back to you," Allura said solemnly as she dipped her hand into her bag and pulled out his phone and charger. For a second, it didn't even look like it belonged to Lance. The last time he'd used it had been to make that strange, desperate call to Angelique. He reached over to take it, but Allura hesitated.
"Lance, I know it's your phone, and I know I'm the one who brought it up, but," she paused, and Lance couldn't even guess what the problem was, why she was being so serious. She was right; it was his phone. It was her suggestion. What was the big deal about giving it back?
"But what?" Lance poked at her. She looked way too sad about something so simple, and he would need his phone back eventually.
"There are over two hundred calls and messages that went to this phone while you were missing," Allura told him, her voice quick and professional. "I've been over it a dozen different ways; I even thought about deleting them all before giving this back to you." Now she had his attention.
"You didn't?" He checked. She wouldn't have done that? Why would she even think to do that?
"No, it didn't feel right, but I don't know about letting you see them either. I'm going to recommend that you don't even bother looking, but since I know you're going to ignore that, please remember that we were scared. We didn't know what had happened to you. It really looked as though you . . . we thought you'd done something to yourself, and we didn't know if we were ever going to see you again. Part of me thinks you should see that if it will make you understand how much we care about you, but I don't want you to feel any guilt about it, especially because it is over, and obviously we misunderstood what was happening. I know if you read what we wrote you're going to feel like you did something wrong or you weren't where you should have been. Please don't blame yourself for any of our fear. I really think it might be best if you take my word for it and let me delete everything?" She had her fingers poised as if to start, assuming he'd agree with her.
"No, please don't," Lance said quickly, again holding out his hand for his phone. Allura sighed, biting her lip and closing her eyes, but she didn't have much choice about passing it over to him at this point.
"Just tell me that you weren't ever considering it," Allura requested suddenly just as Lance was starting to scroll through the missed calls. There were so many from Varadero, from Angelique and Fritz, then a tangled mess where it seemed Hunk, Pidge, Keith, and Allura all called in five-minute intervals. Plenty of numbers he didn't know. Several from the Chicago PD. Allura hadn't exaggerated. There really were more than two hundred. A surprising number from Keith. He'd called Lance so many times, and Lance hadn't answered him. That was never supposed to happen. He was always supposed to be there for Keith when he called. Lance paused before shame overwhelmed him, remembering that Allura had asked him something.
"Considering what?" Lance responded slowly, tearing his gaze away from his phone screen, though he thought he might know what she was talking about, where this conversation was going. She bravely met his eyes, hers bright, shining crystals.
"I had put it out of my head when we learned that you ran away after being attacked, but . . . when I saw the apartment. Saw how you had everything already packed up in boxes; I couldn't help but wonder if you hadn't been thinking . . . about committing suicide." She said it tightly, like she knew she'd have to say it as though it were a word in another language, and she didn't fully grasp the meaning of it. Could never apply it in any true sense to him.
"No," he assured her, hoping she wouldn't push him on this answer. "I never thought about doing that." It was more like he thought about what it would be like if it had already happened. If he just weren't there anymore. As though he wanted to be dead, but he didn't want to be responsible for making it happen. He lived the same tortured day over and over without any hope of it ever changing, and he wanted it to stop but couldn't actually do anything about it. But he'd forced himself to just keep going, and he thought, now that he was here and she was here, that he was glad about that.
"That's good," Allura said, sounding relieved. Lance went back to scrolling, into the texts now. They all had their theme. Fritz wanted Lance to call and alleviate Angelique's concerns about him. Angelique berated herself for missing Lance's call, and she begged Lance to not hurt himself, to call her back so they could work something out. Allura made guesses as to where he might be and what he could be doing. I'm sure you're just busy like always. I'm sure you forgot your phone somewhere. I'm sure your schedule has been unrelenting the last few weeks and that's why you haven't been in touch with anyone and we're all just being silly about this. I'm sure there's no reason to worry, but indulge us won't you; tell us you're safe.
Hunk immediately went fatalistic to the idea that he'd lost Lance forever while Pidge . . . well, she'd always expressed affection through insult. She swore at him, screamed at him in all caps, told him exactly what she was going to do to him if she found out that he'd done something unspeakable to himself. Though how she would have done that was completely unclear. She laid her worry and pain out in bold, harsh, endearing threats.
And Keith. Keith fell down the darkest hole of all the things he hadn't done. He should have been there. He should have never left. He'd known that Lance needed someone to take care of him, known he shouldn't have been left to himself. So many things Keith should have done but didn't. Lance couldn't actually keep going on Keith's texts. It reminded him too much of his own inner monologue.
"I'm so sorry," Lance apologized, even though several people were missing from the room who needed to hear him say it. His voice was hardly loud enough for even Allura to hear him.
He let Allura take the phone away, setting it down on the nearby table, and he knew that his reaction to the texts was confirming to her that she really should have deleted everything, but no. Even though it did hurt to read, he wasn't sorry to know those thoughts. What could have happened to his friends if he hadn't come back. He now had a responsibility for never initiating that scenario. He'd promised Angelique before, but now he silently promised them all. Never on purpose. He couldn't do that to them.
"I tried to tell you not to," Allura lamented, but he shook his head. He had needed to see that. Your lack of trust is hurting other people. You're pushing them away so they can't see you're suffering, and I know you don't want to do that. He reached out to Allura, but instead of holding her hand, he tugged her towards the hospital bed, wincing as he scooted to one side to make room for her. She seemed willing but again hesitant.
"I don't want to hurt you," she protested, but without much force. She was halfway onto the bed even as she said it. He didn't acknowledge her concern, only continued pulling her closer until he felt her stop resisting, felt her moving toward him on her own. Oh so delicately, Allura tucked herself against him, careful of his stitches and IV, resting her head against his chest, her warmth at one side emphasizing the chill on the other.
"Lance, you're shaking," she told him. "Is it because of what you read or . . is something wrong?"
"I'm sorry," he apologized to her again, though this time he wasn't sure what for, leaning his head in close to hers, letting her slip her arm across his chest, though he had to grab it at the last second to redirect it higher so she wouldn't hit his stitches on that side.
"No, you don't have to apologize. Like I told you, it's over, and you're. . . cold, actually. Lance, you really are cold. Let me go find a nurse; I'll get you another blanket."
"Please stay," Lance begged her, knowing there weren't enough blankets in the whole hospital that would really warm him. It was autumn in Chicago. The sun on its way down; the lake fading to black. Allura's warmth would have to do. She was the only one here. Acting as proxy for the others. He wished they were all here. He wanted to see everyone, have them all pile on top of him. Allura gently pushed a little closer, trying to share her body heat.
"Lance, are you all right?" Allura asked him again. "I knew I shouldn't have let you look at that. I should have just replaced the whole phone."
"No," Lance denied, forcing himself to talk for her sake. "I'm glad you showed me. For a little while, I was starting to feel like it wouldn't really matter if I did disappear. Like you'd all just moved on with your lives and no one would notice."
"For a while, it looked like you were trying to make yourself disappear," Allura responded. "And we noticed, Lance. We were actually planning what we were going to do about it when all this happened." Lance didn't know why, but this news surprised him. A memory tugged at him. Pidge, her arms around his neck. I'll be there to put you back together, she'd said. When the time comes. Maybe she meant now.
"Can we call them? Hunk and Pidge?" Lance requested, because having Allura pressed against him just wasn't enough right now. He wanted at least their voices in this room. "Is that ok?"
"Of course," Allura agreed, slowly twisting to reach for the phone again. "They'd like that, but what about Keith?"
"I'll call Keith after," Lance promised, unable to look at Allura as he said it. "I . . I want to talk to him, but –"
"Alone. I understand," Allura acknowledged.
She adjusted her position, sitting up and curling herself around Lance, one hand holding the phone for him while she slid the other arm around his shoulders as they reclined in the hospital bed. He leaned into her side, needing to be close. He breathed her in as deep as he could, wondering how long she could stay. Wondering how long it would be before Keith could come. Would he actually come? How would that work when Lance saw him again? Could he handle seeing him again?
"There he is! Lance, my man!" Came Hunk's jubilant greeting as he answered the call. Lance couldn't remember the last time Hunk had seen Lance's number show up on his phone screen. He was lucky Hunk was still accepting calls from him. No, stop, don't think like that. Allura said not to feel guilty. Move forward.
"Here I am," Lance answered, resigned, and Allura gave him a slight squeeze around the shoulders, just barely enough pressure that he knew she'd meant to. "I just got my phone back."
"Hey, Pidge, come here!" Hunk called. "It's Lance."
"Lance!" Pidge screeched, her voice sharp and clear even though she might have been across the room, or even the whole house.
"And Allura," Lance added. "She's here too."
"Good; that's good," Hunk said enthusiastically. "That's great that she's there looking after you. We all wanted to be but we weren't sure. . . Man, how are you doing?"
Allura kissed his temple, knowing how much he hated being asked that. Especially right now. Be honest. The message in Allura's kiss. But he didn't want to talk about stitches or walks to the nurse's station. That wasn't why he called. Honest.
"I miss you," Lance burst out. Every spring, gear, and wire of you.
"We miss you too, buddy," Hunk replied, a huskiness to his voice. Lance could picture them, sort of, hovering over the phone. The speaker on because that's how they always talked to him. He took a quick breath, willing himself not to break down. They'd all thought that he was trying to leave them. They all worried that he'd taken himself away from them forever. He didn't know how much longer he could have kept going before they might have been right.
It's over, Allura reminded him with the hand that she was rubbing, slowly and gently, up and down his arm. You're still here. You're important to us. We need you. Don't forget.
"I'm really sorry," Lance said. "For all I put you guys through. I –"
"Shut up, Lance," Pidge interrupted, and some of the cracks in the world fused themselves together. Allura's fingers tightened on Lance's arm at the sharpness of Pidge's words, but she didn't understand. Her time with them all as a group had been so limited. She didn't know how right that comment had been. How much Lance needed it.
"She means, thanks for calling; we're glad you're safe," Hunk translated, but Lance already knew. He'd been speaking Pidge for a long time now.
"Good to hear your voices," Lance acknowledged, allowing himself a small smile. No matter what you're saying to me. He'd almost forgotten why he'd pulled so far away from them in the first place. What had he been thinking? Why had he done that?
"I'll do you one better. When do you think you'll be able to fly?" Pidge asked him.
"Fly?" Lance checked, slightly confused now. This wasn't how he'd imagined their conversation.
"Yeah, like in an airplane? You miss us; we miss you – been too long, etcetera. We're booking you a flight to Burbank, so when do you think you'll be well enough to come?"
"You," Lance began, then realized he should probably stop repeating everything Pidge said and start answering her question. Even though he was shocked. Did she really mean it? They were really bringing him to California to see them? That sounded so wonderful.
"Would ten days be enough, maybe? So not this Sunday, but the one after that?" Pidge continued, giving Lance suggestions when she noticed that she'd overwhelmed him. "Lance? Is that enough time?"
"Um, yeah . . . yes," Lance tried to keep up. "It should be." He'd do everything he could so ten days would be enough time to get him on that flight. Something intense filled his chest suddenly, and for a second he wasn't sure what it was. It had been so long since he'd been excited about anything. Going to California. Seeing his friends again. If he had to withdraw from classes, then he couldn't think of a better way to spend the time.
"Great. So . . Midway to Burbank." He could hear her typing. Wait. She was booking it right now? "Southwest leaving at one twenty and getting here at three forty-five. Yeah, we can pick you up then. Perfect." More typing. Lance couldn't really believe this was happening. It was like he'd been held captive in a pressurized water tank, sealed in and chained, unable to call for help. That last night in his apartment had been violent enough to shatter the glass, messily spilling all the contents, and even though Lance was wet, cold, cut, and bleeding, at least he could breathe again. Talk again. He didn't feel quite so trapped anymore and even though he had made a mess and everyone could now see the damage – it was more a relief than the failure Lance had feared. No one seemed to blame him for putting himself into the tank or soaking them all when it burst. No one condemned him for his actions; they had all simply rushed to his side with towels, bandages, and support, willing and ready to bear him up. Lance didn't know if he could stand it.
"Hey guys?" Lance called into the flight booking prep, redirecting their attention, needing something to be normal. Wanted to be steady between the extremes of pain and thrill, see if he could even get a sense of that back before he thought about cleaning up the broken pieces all around him. "I've got something important I want to ask you."
"What's up, Lance?" Hunk asked, gentle and genuine. Lance felt his muscles relax. Felt himself smiling. That question was so familiar, like they weren't on separate sides of the continent. Like they'd never left the apartment.
"How's the symposium planning going?"
"Um," Hunk hesitated, like he wanted to ask Lance if he was sure that's what he wanted to talk about. Standing in the middle of all the broken glass. After all that had happened. After all their time apart and the prospect of being together in a little over a week. Pidge, on the other hand, jumped right in, closing wounds and distance, sweeping everything up in her words.
"It's sucking our souls!" She exclaimed, passionately. "Did you know that if you're planning an event in California where more than fifty people are going to come you need permission from the fire marshal?! You'd think someone would have mentioned that, like, six weeks ago, wouldn't you? Oh, and he won't even come talk to you unless you send in an agenda, one hundred and fifty dollars, and a map."
"I did make a pretty cool diagram of the venue," Hunk pointed out, mellow, falling into step with the conversation due to ease of habit.
"Yeah, you spent way too many hours on that. I mean, who cares if there's exactly six feet of space around every single vendor table? Is it that important, really? And what's he going to do? You think he's going to get out a yardstick and measure it before he'll sign off for us?"
"Well, actually, I think he might. The website seemed pretty insistent on these things."
They went on as though continuing a conversation that had been briefly paused, as if Lance's silence had never happened. And Lance listened to them gratefully, letting their voices cover him better than the blanket that Allura had wanted to fetch for him. They were still part of his life. He was still part of theirs. He listened fondly to Pidge's trials in obtaining a liquor license and why she was even bothering because they weren't even sure they were going to have enough sponsors to cover the food for the event let alone any alcohol. Plus, why did no one know where to rent thirty easels for poster presentations? An entire university of geniuses all printing their research on posters for events just like this one and no one knew where to get a damn easel? Come on!
The last thing Lance actually remembered from this surprisingly soothing rant was listening to how worried Pidge was about the bus coming up from San Diego. Apparently, the bus company had taken her payment but hadn't sent a confirmation. He thought he might have suggested something to her about it, but he was getting hazy again. In a pleasant way. He didn't feel Allura get up, but he did notice when she covered him with the afghan. She lowered the lights but didn't take the phone.
"Hey," Pidge verbally prodded Lance.
"Hmm," Lance hummed.
"You're not falling asleep, are you?" She asked, sounding amused. Comforted. The whole reason Lance had called. "Are you trying to tell me I'm boring?"
"Never," Lance assured her. "Keep talking." He wanted to listen to them chatter for eternity. They were anything but boring, but lying there listening, calm and peaceful, it was next to impossible for him not to drift off again.
It was Fritz's shift the next time Lance woke. He noted that his phone was still there, in easy reach on the rolling table. He had more ice water and dinner if he wanted it. Fritz himself was stretched out in the recliner, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Lance wasn't sure if he was asleep or not, so he spent the first few moments as he had with Angelique, simply studying the man. Like Angelique, Fritz looked different in his civilian clothes. Jeans. Flannel. Like some kind of trope actor in a sitcom. He hadn't shaved. Lance was happy to see him.
As soon as Lance began shifting on the bed, Fritz sat up, proving that either he hadn't really been sleeping at all or he slept lighter than a cat. He certainly stretched like one, keeping one eye on Lance.
"Hey kid," Fritz greeted him around a yawn, making Lance curious and more than a little guilty. What time was it? How long had Fritz been here and was it Lance's fault that he looked so tired?
"Sorry I woke you up," Lance replied, trying to get comfortable on the bed without hurting himself. He wanted to sit on the edge, facing Fritz. He didn't want to lie prone anymore.
"Just resting my eyes a minute," Fritz dismissed, and Lance smiled because he'd never actually heard anyone say that in real life. "Did you eat yet? Are you hungry?" Fritz took it upon himself to lift the cover from Lance's tray, revealing a small bowl of minestrone soup, a bedraggled piece of toast, some muted vegetables, and a tiny pat of butter. Fritz cocked his head at it, then looked at Lance, who was tugging on the hospital gown in order to situate it to his new position.
"Do you want me to get you some real food?" Fritz asked seriously.
"I better not," Lance declined, knowing he'd been given this menu for a reason. Besides, it couldn't be that bad. At least it wasn't another peanut butter sandwich that he ate sitting at his desk in the dark. He suppressed a shudder, hiding it by reaching for the rolling table to pull it closer to him. "This is fine."
"Yeah, I guess you'll be out of here tomorrow, and we can get you something decent," Fritz agreed, but his comment made Lance pause. He hadn't really thought much about what was going to happen once he was discharged. He knew all of his things were at Angelique and Fritz's place for the moment, but eventually he'd have to find something more permanent. He wondered if it would be all right to ask Fritz if he could stay with them for a little while. At least until after he got back from California. He'd have a better plan by then. Except he wasn't sure what he was going to do if he had to pay two housing contracts. The one he had at Stony Island didn't terminate until June. If he set up another one, how would he afford it? He wondered if the plasma donation center might give him his job back to help make up the difference.
"Lance?" Fritz called him, and he realized he'd completely spaced out staring at the bowl of soup, puzzling through his lodging problems. "I really don't mind getting you something else if it means you'll eat something."
"What?" Lance shook himself, then picked up his spoon. "No, I was thinking."
"About?" Fritz prompted, watching him, but not obtrusively, everything about his posture casual and friendly. Lance appreciated how he didn't hover. He took a bite of lukewarm minestrone before answering.
"What I'm going to do now," Lance confessed, staring at the broth again. "I've never lived anywhere except Stony Island. I started looking last month for something else, but I couldn't find anyone interested in taking over my contract mid-semester, and I can't afford two. But I'll have to figure it out; I'll get my stuff out of your way as soon as I can." Somehow. He'd put them out enough already. A whole lifetime of problems shoved into one weekend.
"Son," Fritz broke into his musings, his voice slightly exasperated. Lance lifted his head, blinking at him. "You know, it always shocks me to see someone as smart as you are be so dense. You don't have to look for an apartment. You're staying with us now."
"That's," Lance sputtered, overwhelmed again. It happened all the time anymore; you'd think he'd be used to shocks like this every five minutes by now. "That's really nice of you, but you don't have to do that. It's ok. I'll find something."
"Are you going to tell Angie that? Because I sure as hell won't," Fritz retorted. "We're both pretty set on keeping an eye on you. Besides, I just spent all day rearranging furniture and putting your stuff away in the guest room. It'd be a waste of effort to have you pack it all up again. And!" Fritz held up a hand as Lance was opening his mouth. "Allura got you out of your Stony Island contract. You don't have to pay rent there anymore."
"Wait," Lance said, again trying to keep up. "Allura did what?"
"I wish you could have seen it," Fritz relayed. "Watching her handle all that was just the most satisfying thing. She truly has a gift with words, you know?"
"Yeah," Lance agreed, acknowledging Allura's talent. But now he was curious. "So what did she do?"
"We'd decided that we should go and pick up your stuff not too long after she arrived, so we left you with Angie and headed over there in my truck. I wore my uniform but actually wasn't all that sure that your roommate was going to let us in to take anything. I had my badge but no warrant to enter, but she said not to worry because her name is still on your lease and she had her own key."
That's right, Lance remembered. He'd asked her to take the key with her. In case Columbia didn't work out. In case she needed to come back home.
"So we were already off to a good start, and when we got there, she didn't bother knocking. She just sailed right in like she owned the place. Which, legally, is true; she does. Your roommate, what's the idiot's name again? Spencer. Spencer was sitting on the couch in his underwear and even though it's not even ten in the morning, he's got an open beer in his hand." Lance was starting to really like this story, though it surprised him to hear that Spencer was awake before ten. Having Damien arrested must have shaken him a bit.
"He takes one look at Allura and spills beer all over himself. His jaw hits the coffee table and then his eyes get huge and he hasn't even seen me yet. He just stares at Allura, who cool as you please, introduces herself in that posh accent she has. Says she's your girlfriend and a resident of the apartment and would he please mind covering himself because the sight of him on the couch was so disturbing it was making her physically ill. Just like that she says it. And all of a sudden, he realizes he's mostly naked and that I'm standing there in uniform about to write him up for underage drinking, and he runs off swearing to his bedroom.
"But she's not even close to being done with him. Because he left his phone on the coffee table. Unlocked, no passcode on it. Allura picks it up and acts concerned that he left it behind in her living room. So she scrolls through his contacts and finds his mother."
"Oh my God," Lance whispered, remembering Mrs. Whitman standing with him in the apartment the day Spencer moved in. Talking about her daughters as all of Spencer's crap kept invading the space.
"Oh yeah. She calls the number with her own phone and explains everything that he's been doing and that what she'd really like best is to sue his sorry ass nine ways to Sunday for all the racist crap he's been pulling on you. Except, you know, she said it much better than that and extremely professional. Furious – but professional. But, she says, out of respect to the woman who gave birth to the sniveling little worm, she was prepared to make a deal. Since what Spencer wanted most was to have you out of the apartment, fine, wish granted, but he'd have to take over all the fees. She had the paperwork right there ready as well as an officer to witness. The woman hangs up."
"Of course," Lance said.
"Of course," Fritz repeated. "She hung up, so she could call her son. His phone starts ringing, so Allura very politely takes it to his room. Which, I guess, used to be her room. But he's not in his room; he's puking his guts out in the bathroom and he's still not dressed. And there's more empty beer cans in there! It's a mess, just truly revolting. Allura told me later that it was probably killing you to have it look like that. But at the time she acted like nothing in the world could phase her, and she just sets the phone down and tells him that his mother wanted to talk to him. Then she takes his picture while he's draped over the toilet, beer cans everywhere, and just sends that on over to his mom. Who wasn't very polite in her text back to Allura, by the way."
"By the time we were done, Spencer had been screamed at by his father, who said he was on his way right that second to deal with him personally, his mother was in denial and in tears, and he never did get a chance to put his clothes on. Allura had called in apartment management with the paperwork and forced it through on the spot. Mr. Whitman had to give his credit card number over the phone; he was fuming about it, but Allura made it clear that it was either take over your contract or she'd take everyone to court and it would be a whole lot worse. Then, seeing as your contract had been sold, she graciously said that she'd be moving you out immediately and she'd be picking up your deposit on the way out. The manager left and Allura lit into Spencer so hard I thought he was going to shit himself. Which is funny since I don't think he knew half the words she was throwing at him. He did understand the part where she promised that the picture she'd taken would be posted on every social media site she had access to, made into a meme, sent to the university paper, and that she'd likely print a thousand copies and paste them all over campus to make sure he'd never get a date as long as he was in Chicago. It was her civic duty, she said, to make sure everyone knew just how much of a dick he is. Then she might have told him that she could understand his need to act like a dick, considering that from the looks of things his actual manhood wasn't impressive in the least. He was practically crying by the time she was done, completely green. She sent him to his room like a dog, and we didn't see him again as we went back and forth with the boxes from your room."
"You're right," Lance agreed. "I wish I could have been there." Sort of. He actually wasn't sure he could stand seeing Spencer again. It made him a little sick just thinking about it. It got worse as he remembered putting Spencer against the wall. He put his spoon down, taking some deep breaths, thinking he should probably lie down again.
"Hey," Fritz said, watching the sudden change. "Let's get your head down; I think you've been sitting up too long." With sure hands, Fritz helped Lance get leaned back into the pillows on the bed, putting the cover back on the tray in case the unappetizing food had anything to do with Lance's sudden shift. "Just breathe for a second," he instructed, keeping his hand on Lance's shoulder for support. "Tell me what happened if you can."
"You know I hit him first, right?" Lance confessed. He'd done it once before, to Keith, but telling Officer Guist was different. Still, he knew it had to be done. He wanted to be the one to say it before Spencer told everyone.
"That's not what I heard," Fritz said gently, not as though he didn't believe Lance, but maybe he was doubting that Lance had a clear memory of the event. But no. The images were almost too clear. "The witnesses all agree that you acted purely in self-defense."
"Well, none of them were in the apartment when it started," Lance challenged. Everyone had seen what happened in the hallway with Damien. They'd missed the scene inside.
"That's not true either," Fritz corrected. "There was one witness who saw the whole thing start to finish. Remington Voss. And in his official statement that he gave to the prosecutor he said that without a doubt Spencer attacked you first."
"Remy?" Lance whispered, remembering him only vaguely in the apartment. They'd never spoken to each other. Remy never talked, didn't participate in any of the hostile or insulting things that Damien and Spencer threw at Lance on his way to his room. He played Spencer's guitar, but that night Lance remembered hearing him yelling at Damien to stop. "Remy said that?"
"Yes. He said that Spencer was verbally attacking you and that he did it often, snapping his fingers in your face and making demands. He said that you were just trying to escape into your room, that you would march straight through to get there as fast as possible every time you came home. But Spencer wasn't allowing you to get to your room, and when he grabbed your arm to shove you away from your door, you reacted and that's when you put him against the wall."
"And punched him in the stomach," Lance added, but Guist shook his head.
"There's not a mark on him to ever prove you did anything like that. Nothing to say you touched him at all. Remington said you pushed him back and then Damien grabbed you. He said that Damien had been looking for a reason ever since you refused to steal drugs from the ER for him. Remington's testimony is the most important on file seeing as he was the only uninvolved, credible witness to the incident in the apartment. Judge or jury are more likely to believe him over anyone else in that room, including you, son. He said you're completely innocent, and I agree."
Lance found his next breath a little easier. Maybe . . maybe he was remembering it wrong. He couldn't actually recall the seconds before he shoved Spencer. He just remembered that suddenly his eyes went huge, and Lance had his arm across his chest and his fist in his stomach. He couldn't remember if Spencer had touched him or not, grabbed his arm or not. But apparently it didn't matter what Lance remembered. It was what Remy had said. He wondered what had put Remy on Lance's side, what had made him testify against his friends. Maybe he'd realized that they weren't that great of friends. Or maybe that didn't matter either because Lance was exhausted.
"That's it, son," Fritz encouraged him, rubbing a soothing circle on Lance's chest, avoiding the tender place near his left-side lower ribs. "Take it easy. You didn't do anything wrong, and it's going to get better from here."
Lance wanted to believe that, going through all he'd learned that day. He wasn't kicked out of the med program. Keith was giving Allura instructions on how to take care of him. Pidge had booked him a flight to California – he'd finally see them again! Allura had humiliated Spencer and forced him to take over Lance's contract. Remy had actually shown some backbone and given an official statement in Lance's favor. Keith was trying to come visit him. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe he could hope for that.
"Get you under another blanket," Fritz was saying, and Lance could feel the weight of it as Fritz covered him. "You still look cold."
"Fritz?" Lance said to him, his eyes closed.
"Yeah, kid?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry? What do you think you need to be sorry for?" Fritz asked, tucking the blanket in around Lance's shivering frame.
"For thinking you were a jerk when we first met," Lance said wearily. "You're really not."
"Oh, I don't know," Fritz returned lightly. "I'd just quit smoking the week before I met you; I probably was a jerk. But thanks."
"I'm glad you married Dr. Delacroix," Lance went on, enjoying the pressure of the blankets, how his muscles were relaxing underneath it. Safe, he realized. He felt safe for the first time in forever. Fritz rested a hand on Lance's forehead.
"You and me both, son," Fritz agreed. "Now get some rest. Tomorrow we'll take you home."
Author's Note: AWWWW! Finally. (Right? Finally?) Let's get our poor boy into a real house with some adopted parents, get him healed and warm, fed and in therapy. And then let's get him to California! This is exciting guys – truly. Ends are wrapping up; Lance isn't in trouble. He'd headed to Cali. By the way – that stuff about the symposium? All true. I put one together at Caltech for 250 microbiologists and it was just like that. (I did eventually get the confirmation for the bus and found the easels. It was a smashing success – though I did not get a license to serve alcohol as I, indeed, did not have the funding.) Ok, I'm going to bed. I love you so much I stayed up way past my bedtime to finish this one for you. (and me, let's be honest; I'm mostly writing for me but I love you all too.)